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Chapter Text

Chapter One
Prelude “In Case”

The once-pristine tower had stood for generations. Almost three years ago it had withstood an assault by dragon fire, just barely. The archway atop the entrance had collapsed along with many of the windows and balconies high up on the precipice of the tower. The heat of the dragon’s fiery breath had left scorched patterns, winding like serpents up the white stone of its outer walls.

The White Sword Tower, quarters to the Kingsguard, looked more like an ancient ruin from a forgotten age, instead of the residence of that most honored order of knights.

The inside of the tower was a scatter of broken stone, decaying tapestries and puddles of putrid water. No one had entered the tower since shortly after the Dragon Queen had laid waste to King’s Landing; no one had come to clean up the mess war had left behind. In one corner lay the decaying remains of a member of Cersei’s Queensguard, his once-shining black armor dulled and covered in a thick layer of dust and ash.

With his boot, Lord Bronn of Highgarden flipped the man over; the knight’s helmet rang against the stone floor and his visor slid open. An eyeless skull stared into empty space. Wisps of brown hair still clung stubbornly to the knight’s decaying flesh.

“Who was he?” Brienne coughed, covering her nose with her hand, not sure whether the stench was coming from the decaying tower or the dead knight.

Bronn snorted loudly, “Some fucking idiot, too stupid to pick the right side.”

Tyrion leaned over and studied the corpse like a weighty tome. “I think it was Ser Preston, not really sure though.”

Already bored, Bronn left the dead knight behind and wandered over to examine what remained of the walls. Taking out his long knife, Bronn prodded the thick white-washed stone of the tower’s walls. “The foundation still looks good.”

“You know this because?” Tyrion drawled sarcastically, as he walked up to Bronn. “You’re a maester now?”

Bronn returned his knife to its sheath and aimed a scathing look down at Tyrion. “Do you want my help or not?”

Since the destruction of King’s Landing, neither the Red Keep nor the White Sword Tower nor the Tower of the Hand had yet to be rebuilt or repaired. The small council, the royal court, as well as all the other government bureaucrats that used to be spread throughout the Red Keep were forced to rub elbows in the confinement of Maegor’s Holdfast, one of the few buildings in the castle to survive the devastation of the Dragon Queen relatively intact.

The first order the new king had issued was for the rebuilding of the city to take precedence over the comfort of the men and women who served in the royal court.

Finally, two and a half years later, the king had finally approved repairs could begin on the Red Keep, starting with the White Sword Tower. Anxious to assess the damage and begin planning the tower’s reconstruction, Tyrion had implored Bronn and Brienne’s help inspecting the historic tower.

“There is a lot of history inside these walls,” Tyrion hummed, looking around the discarded relics of the past reign, which lay scattered around the common room on the first floor. “We should see if there is anything we can salvage before the workmen begin their repairs.”

“Armory was that way,” Bronn said, pointing down a long partially collapsed passage. “Bedchambers of the Kingsguard and the Lord Commander’s solar are farther up.”

“Start at the top and work our way down?” Brienne suggested, looking up at the chaos of cobwebs hanging overhead.

“Have you been back here?” Tyrion asked Brienne as she and Bronn forced the door leading to the stairwell open. “Since it was destroyed, I mean.”

“Only once, to recover the Lord Commander’s White Book of Brothers,” Brienne replied, crinkling her nose as the smell of mold and ash drifted down the stairwell to assail her senses.

More cobwebs laced the passageway leading upstairs, clutching at their hair and faces as they stepped into the stairwell. Brienne ran her hand along the rough stone walls for balance as the loose stones of the stairs stirred slightly underfoot as they climbed.

On the third floor the stairs had fallen away, leaving behind a large chasm. Loose stones at the precipice cracked and crumbled down the shaft as they approached. Brienne edged forward and looked down into the chevice, revealing a three-story drop to the main floor of the tower.

Looking up across the chasm, Brienne knew she could easily make the jump. Bronn shouldn’t have a problem crossing either.

However.

“I’m afraid this is as far as I go,” Tyrion said forlornly, his hopes of further exploration falling over the edge of the broken stairs.

“Maybe we could find a board,” Brienne suggested, looking down at Tyrion in sympathy, “or a ladder.”

Tyrion nodded and started to turn away from the drop when he felt a hand grip the back of his doublet.

“You wouldn’t,” he gasped in horror, as he tried to swat Bronn’s hand away.

“Oh, I would,” Bronn smirked and picked Tyrion up only to unceremoniously toss him across the abyss.

“I can’t believe you just did that!” Tyrion growled like an angry cat as he staggered to his feet on the far side of the chasm.

“What? I’ve picked you up before.” Bronn laughed as he effortlessly made the jump across the abyss.

Brienne followed, her long legs making it across the gap easily, joining Bronn and Tyrion on the far side of the broken stairs.

“When?” Tyrion hissed at Bronn as he brushed ash and dust from his garments. “When have you ever picked me up?”

Bronn shrugged, and answered dryly, “When you were unconscious.”

Tyrion grumbled about never drinking in Bronn’s presence ever again as they continued to climb up the slowly crumbling stairs.

On the fourth floor they reached a suite of rooms, and attached to each door stood a placard marked with a house sigil: two Porcupines, for House Blount; one black and one white swan, for House Swann; a large black kettle for house Kettleblack. These were the bedchambers of the knights of Cersei’s Queensguard.

The farthest chamber on the left caught Brienne’s eye. She paused briefly before wiping away a thick layer of dust and ash, and a roaring lion emerged from beneath the ash and grime.

“He kept a chamber in the White Sword Tower, even after he was forced to resign.” Bronn said as he walked up behind her. “So he could have a quiet place, where he could escape all the court intrigue.”

“They let Jaime keep a room in the White Sword Tower?” Tyrion asked, looking up at the golden lion sigil. “I would have assumed his quarters would have gone to Gregor Clegane.”

Bronn shook his head and scoffed, “The Mountain had no need of a bedchamber. I heard he never even slept. When he wasn’t guarding the queen, he roamed the back alleys of flea bottom looking for victims.”

“This was Jaime’s room?” Brienne shuddered, trying to chase away the ghosts.

The door offered little resistance; the wood scraped loudly against the floor as Brienne and Bronn forced it open.

The chamber was small and sparse; an armor rack, desk, chair, and at the end of the single bed lay a locked trunk. A beam of light from the single small window filtered through the dust churned up by their entrance into the chamber.

Followed by Tyrion and Bronn, Brienne stepped tentatively into the small space; she could almost feel Jaime’s presence lingering in the dusty air.

“Tyrion, we need to talk,” Bronn said, tapping Tyrion on the shoulder and motioning for him to follow him out into the hall.

Once out in the passageway Tyrion looked up at Bronn questioningly.

“I’m leaving King’s Landing,” Bronn said, after they had walked far enough away to give Brienne and themselves some privacy, “and going back to Highgarden.”

“What? For a vacation?” Tyrion asked. Even though Bronn was the Lord of Highgarden, in the last two years he had spent most of his time in the capital.

Bronn shook his head. “I’m stepping down from the small council.”

“Why? I'm surprised to even be saying this, and if you tell anyone I will deny it,” Tyrion smirked and looked up at the Lord of Highgarden. “For an old, up-jumped sellsword, you’re actually a really good master of coin. The realm has never been so solvent.”

“Aye, I am an old up-jumped sellsword,” Bronn grinned down at his old friend. “That is how I know it’s time to make myself scarce. There is a storm brewing, and I intend to be long gone before the thunder and lightning starts.”

Brienne could hear the low rumble of Bronn and Tyrion talking. She couldn’t make out their words; she wasn’t really interested. She assumed Bronn had just made up an excuse to give her a few minutes alone with her memories.

Running her fingers through the thick layer of dust on the desk, Brienne could almost imagine Jaime sitting there, struggling to write with his left hand.

Glancing around the room, her eyes fell on the bed, actually a little more than a cot; it was only large enough for one person to sleep comfortably. The blankets were left in disarray, like its former occupant had left in a hurry. Had he taken Cersei to that bed? Brienne shivered. That was one image she didn’t want in her head.

Kneeling down next to the trunk, Brienne brushed the dirt and grime away. She could easily force the lock open with her knife. However, that felt wrong, like an invasion of Jaime’s privacy even though he was dead and had no further need of whatever the trunk contained.

Then Brienne remembered the locket Jaime had given her the night before the Long Night, after the little impromptu gathering in one of Winterfell’s smaller halls had run out of wine and song.

“What’s this for?” Brienne had asked as Jaime pressed the rather plain locket and chain into her hand.

“In case,” he had said solemnly. “In case Tyrion is wrong.”

“Ser Jaime, no,” Brienne gasped as she realized Jaime believed he was going to die and wanted her to have some token to remember him. He had already knighted her, which was enough.

“I know you’re not the type of lady…knight who wears jewelry,” Jaime said, almost pleading her with his eyes to accept the locket. “I’m not asking you to wear it. Just keep it in your saddlebag or something.”

Brienne nodded, accepting the gift and tucking the locket away inside her armor. When she looked back up he was staring at her, his emerald eyes glowing in the faint light from the hall. His left hand twitched, almost like he wanted to reach out and caress her face. Then the sound of horns broke through their interlude, announcing the arrival of the Night King’s army.

Against the odds they had both survived the Long Night. The next evening, after a rowdy celebration and an even rowdier guessing game, and after circling around each other for years, they had finally fallen into each other’s arms.

Their short affair had only lasted a month, before Jaime’s demons called him back to King’s Landing. He left her, alone and crying in Winterfell’s courtyard, to return to his sister.

When Brienne finally made it back to the bedchamber they had shared, the locket was sitting on the table. Picking it up, Brienne turned the locket over in her hands, before throwing the cursed thing across the room. The locket broke when it hit the wall, falling to the floor to lay next to the hearth.

For over two weeks, Brienne had left the locket where it had fallen. Finally, she had picked it up and noticed it hadn’t broken at all; it was cleverly designed to open and convert into a hidden key.

Brienne had worn the locket ever since.

“It couldn’t be,” Brienne whispered, removing the locket and tuning it slightly, transforming it once again into the mysterious key.

When she pushed the key into the lock and gently turned, the mechanism clicked and popped open. It no longer felt like a violation; apparently Jaime had wanted her to open his trunk, in case. Dust billowed up and aggravated Brienne’s nose as the lid complained loudly, creaking open on its fallow hinges.

Jaime’s white Kingsguard cloak lay on top. Brienne pulled it out, running her hand along the soft fabric before setting it aside. Underneath, Brienne found several other articles of clothing: a few shirts, trousers and small clothes. Next she pulled out the soft-brown leather long coat she remembered Jaime often wore during their time in King’s Landing, before she’d left to rescue Sansa Stark.

Tears beaded in her eyes as Brienne buried her face in the fine leather. She wasn’t sure if she only imagined the smell, woodsmoke and horses, Jaime’s scent still lingering on the garment.

Under the garments Brienne found a wooden box containing hundreds of letters. Not short messages flown by raven. These were long correspondences that would have required a courier to deliver. Most were from Tyrion, and many of the letters were decades old.

Opening one, a smile crossed her lips; the penmanship and spelling was terrible. Tyrion must have been no more than five years old when he had written to his beloved brother, who was a squire for Lord Sumner Crakehall at the time. It was obvious Tyrion had loved Jaime dearly and missed his big brother and protector.

The letter mostly contained details of life at Casterly Rock, which servants were sneaking off together. The books Tyrion had recently read. Details of Tyrion’s explorations into the mines under the keep.

Young Tyrion had also written that Cersei had pulled his hair and had even gone so far as to tie him up in a sack. When Tywin had found out, he punished Cersei, and then derided his young son for letting a girl get the better of him. It wasn’t long afterwards that Tywin took Cersei with him to King’s Landing.

Brienne put the letters back into the box and set it aside; they should go to Tyrion.

Laying under the box were two pictures, which were obviously drawn by a child. Brienne smiled at the drawing of a half-cat knight in white and gold Kingsguard armor, the cat-knight’s long golden tail brushing against the floor. The drawing was labeled, Uncle Jaime, Knight of the Kittenguard, in a child’s uneven hand. On the second drawing, Uncle Jaime and his friend, the same cat knight stood stiffly, holding hands with a tall cat-woman with yellow hair and a long blue tunic. Both drawings were signed, Prince Tommen.

Brienne continued to unpack the trunk. Each object apparently contained a memory Jaime had deemed meaningful. A folded paper rose from Princess Rhaenys, its petals yellowing with age. A small enamel miniature of a golden-haired woman who looked like Cersei, but had gentler eyes and a generous smile, with the name Joanna etched on the back.

Stuffed in the bottom of the trunk, hidden in a corner, a folded piece of parchment seemed to call out to her. Brienne was surprised to find her name written across the front in Jaime’s ragged penmanship. This must be what Jaime wanted her to find when he had given her the key.

She carefully unfolded the parchment, and a tear rolled down her cheek as she read the only letter Jaime had ever written to her, before he had even left for the North.

It was only one sentence, written hastily.

My soul has always been yours.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two
The Farmer in the Vale

Six Months Later

The sun tinted the sky a particular shade of gold, the color of pages in old forgotten book withered with age, the stain of a thousand fingerprints smeared across its pages.

Braeden stopped his work long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow. Surveying the fence he and his oldest son Arik had spent the better part of the day repairing. Two years of a warm spring had made the land thrive, enough that Braeden and Arik could spare a day to mend the long-disregarded fence.

Life hadn’t always been so tranquil; almost a decade of wars had devastated the Six Kingdoms and the North. Most smallfolk were unprepared for a harsh and lengthy winter. Luckily, winter had slipped away like a shadow on a cloudless afternoon. Ending earlier than even the grand maesters at the Citadel had expected, the unusually harsh winter had lasted only a single year before abdicating for a new spring to reign.

Gradually, life had returned to the Vale of Arryn. The world bloomed with color; a feast of wildflowers spread across the valleys and foothills of the Mountains of the Moon. With new life came new hope as Bran the Broken began his reign. Only in the North did periodic spring snows continue to fall and disrupt the long growing season.

It had been three years since the fall of King’s Landing. The reign of King Bran had supposedly broken the wheel, ushering in an age of peace and prosperity. Braeden knew nothing of broken wheels, politics or the machinations of the highborn. He knew the Hill Tribes still came down from the high passes to harass the farms and villages of the Vale. Not that the Hill Tribes were much of a problem; they were easily bribed with Braeden’s wife’s apple brandy, made from the fruit of the family’s apple orchard.

The real plague to the smallfolk were former soldiers. Like a disease, they infected the Six Kingdoms and the North. The roughest of men were those who had once fought for the Starks, the Lannisters or the Tullys, as well as Dothraki horsemen who still roved the land years after the death of their queen. These forgotten warriors hadn’t accepted the wars that scoured the realm were finally over. A band of outlaws had recently moved into the Vale of Arryn, a blight to the farms in the shadow of the Mountains of the Moon.

“Papa, Papa!” a small voice exclaimed. Braeden’s youngest son, Kaylan, just eight years old, weaved through the tall grass toward his father and older brother. “Riders!”

Braeden’s eyes followed his son’s outstretched finger, down the hill to the main road that ran along the border of his property. A line of riders sauntered along the road. Two knights in long white cloaks, Kingsguard, rode in front, followed by a covered carriage. More knights in colorful raiment followed behind, and tailing them all was a long line of crimson-clad foot soldiers.

“Who are they?” Kaylan breathed between his two missing front teeth, excitedly tugging on his older brother’s arm.

“Knights,” Arik sneered, shaking his brother’s hand away, “here for the tournament in celebration of Lord Arryn’s wedding.” Arik had always been a sullen youth, not disposed to suffer fools, and at fourteen he placed his father and little brother on top of his list of fools.

“Ooooh.” Undeterred by his older brother’s scorn, Kaylan chirped happily and climbed up the newly repaired fence to get a better look at the passing knights. “Can we go? I wanna see the knights!”

“I don’t think so.” Braeden shook his head, messing up his youngest son’s shaggy brown hair. “Your mother doesn’t trust the highborn.”

It wasn’t surprising that Braeden’s wife Pia mistrusted the noble families of the realm. She had almost lost everything during their endless conflicts of the last decade. Braeden had thought he was doing the right thing, leaving his wife and two young sons at Pia’s parent’s home in a small village on the Green Fork, after Braeden had followed the Blackfish into war.

He hadn’t known the Riverlands would become a battlefield for the Starks and Lannisters, and the smallfolk the war’s unwilling victims. Then The Mountain, Gregor Clegane, had descended, grinding the Riverlands under his boots. Where The Mountain tread, death and destruction followed in his wake. Pia saw her parents murdered, their home burned to the ground. In order to save her children, Pia was forced to serve the very men who had murdered her parents.

The last golden glow of the sun devoured the green from the trees as the sky darkened to black. The sun had already descended below the tall cliffs of the Mountains of the Moon when the caravan staggered to a stop in front of a three-story inn. The Bloody Gate rose in the distance, the imposing structure built into the cliff face and blocking the trail leading to the Moon Gate and the Eyrie. The impregnable castle sleeping on the highest peak of the Giant’s Lance was still visible in the fading light.

A young soldier held a torch while Ser Brienne of Tarth’s gauntleted fist hammered on the side of the carriage. “My Lord Hand,” she announced to the closed door, “we have arrived.”

An irritated response emanated from inside the carriage. A second later the door swung open and a sleepy and very grumpy dwarf climbed out. Squinting up at Brienne, Tyrion rubbed his emerald eyes. The glow of the torch highlighted the color of his hair; silver had begun to weave through his sleep-messed golden locks.

A smile crossed Brienne’s lips as she remembered the uproar when Tyrion had discovered the first grey strand knitting through his golden lion’s mane. Who would have known Tyrion was the vain brother?

Brienne’s mind turned back to another time, to another Lannister brother with silver lacing through his golden hair. Jaime. They shared a bond so unbreakable it didn’t matter that they fought for different sides. That bond had called Jaime to Winterfell, and for just that one time they had fought on the same side.

She hadn’t wanted to fall in love, and neither had he. But they had fallen in love. Brienne knew he had loved her, at least for a short while, but it wasn’t enough. He still left, leaving Brienne alone and crying in Winterfell’s snow-covered courtyard. Once that memory would have tormented her, but the years had dulled the pain.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay in the Eyrie? Or the Moon Gate?” Brienne asked, forcing her mind back to the present day. “Is an inn really proper lodging for the Hand of the King?”

“The last time I was a guest at the Eyrie,” Tyrion’s voice grumbled like a far away thunderstorm as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, “Robyn Arryn wanted to see me fly though the Moon Door. He’s lucky I am attending his wedding at all.”

“The King ordered you to attend,” Brienne said matter-of-factly, an unassailable tower reminding Tyrion of his duty as Hand of the King.

“Ah yes, there is that,” Tyrion scoffed, making his way toward the ornate double doors of the inn. Pausing, Tyrion turned back to look at Brienne’s face. “I wonder though, the King did not want you to attend these festivities. Why are you here? The honorable Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, keeper of oaths and protector of fair maidens. You usually don’t disobey a direct order from the King.”

“The King did not expressly order me not to attend,” Brienne replied dryly, joining Tyrion at the door, “and there have been disturbing reports of outlaw activity in the Vale. Lord Arryn’s wedding will give me the opportunity to talk with the lords of the Vale and investigate the rumors.”

“And give you a chance to compete in the tournament,” Tyrion laughed.

“That is not—” Brienne said in indignation as she stared daggers down at Tyrion.

“I’m kidding, Ser Brienne,” Tyrion chuckled, reaching up and patting her hand warmly. “I know you would never place your own glory before the good of the realm.”

Brienne snorted in a most unfeminine way and rolled her eyes as she followed Tyrion inside the inn. Finding a table in the back of the common room near the hearth, they sat down and Tyrion waved the serving girl over.

Meanwhile, Ser Podrick sought out the innkeeper, insuring all was in place for their extended stay. The retinue of the Hand of the King would take up the entire top floor of the inn and required copious amounts of wine, meat and cheese.

It wasn’t long before the serving girl hurried over, curtsying awkwardly and carrying wine and two heaping plates of lamb.

“You are going to compete in the tournament?” Tyrion asked after their meal had been served.

Brienne smiled slyly. “Of course.”

“Good,” Tyrion replied wickedly. “I plan on placing several large bets.”

The apple branches whispered with forgotten tales as the cool spring breeze conversed across their delicate white blossoms. Somewhere in the distance, in the Mountains of the Moon, a lone mountain lion roared, welcoming the night.

Braeden and his sons followed the well-worn path, which led through their grove of apple trees to the family’s meager homestead. By the time their small cottage came into view, Braeden and his sons had a plan in place.

Pia was not happy. She frowned, shaking her head and angrily tossing her russet brown hair, braided in a long pleat that fell down her back.

“No,” Pia hissed a broken-toothed grimace, a constant reminder of the suffering she had endured during the wars. While being held prisoner at Harrenhal, Gregor Clegane had broken her nose, knocking out several teeth in the process. “Those highborn lords, all they do is take and take. You want to leave me again, fight in another of their wars?”

“The realm is at peace, Pia, and I don’t think any lord will want a broken-down, one-handed old soldier,” Braeden said, and for emphasis he held up his right arm, where an iron hook was attached with leather straps in place of his missing right hand.

When Braeden had finally returned home after years of war, he was a broken man, both mentally and physically. He had lost his right hand in one battle or another. A blow to his head had caused him to lose his memory. He remembered nothing before three years ago. All Braeden knew of his life growing up in the Riverlands was what Pia told him.

“Please Momma!” both of the boys pleaded in unison.

“Look,” Braeden said, as a grin danced on the corners of his eyes, “our boys are actually in agreement. How can you say no to that?”

“I can, and I will,” she hissed. “The answer is still no!”

“We could load the wagon with casks of apple brandy,” Braeden said, gently caressing circles on his wife’s arms, “and sell enough to make a decent profit.”

Pia shook her head, her hands placed firmly on her hips. She still refused to budge.

“We could use the gold dragons to pay the bribes to the Citadel,” Braeden added. “Think of Kaylan’s future.”

It was unusual for the Citadel to accept smallfolk into their ranks. However, it wasn’t unheard of, if the child could prove he could read and write. Which was rare. And if the family had enough gold dragons for a decent bribe. Which was even rarer.

Kaylan could read, but his family didn’t have enough gold dragons. The profit they could make from selling their overstock of apple brandy at the tournament could change that.

After he had finally returned home from the wars, Braeden had taught both his sons to read and write. Kaylan had taken to it right away; there was nothing the boy loved more than writing down the stories he heard from the old men in the village on the backs of old handbills.

Arik, eleven when Braeden finally returned home from war, wasn’t interested in book learning. The older boy wasn’t stupid or lazy; he loved being on the land and working with his hands.

With a sigh, Pia nodded her head. “We stay only until the apple brandy has been sold. This is not a holiday.”

“Of course,” Braeden smiled, as his sons burst out in cheers.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three
The Tournament in the Vale

The sun blushed in shades of pink and violet, rising above the horizon to cast the rocky cliffs that scattered the Vale of Arryn in a shimmering light. Like young lovers, the Giant’s Lance flushed in rosy hues as the sun caressed its high precipice.

After Pia had finally acquiesced to her children’s pleas and agreed to attend the tournament, Arik and Kaylan, their eyes dancing with excitement, loaded the family’s old wagon with casks of apple brandy and supplies for the journey to the Bloody Gate. Too excited to sleep or even wait until morning, the family began their journey as the sun set below the horizon.

Braeden had driven all night, and the fertile foothills had gradually giving way to rocky cliffs sometime during the course of the night’s ride. After several hours of excited chatter, the boys had finally calmed enough to go to sleep. Braeden’s family slept in the back of the wagon for most of the journey to the Bloody Gate. Braeden looked back at Pia and the children, huddled together and fast asleep. Pia’s arms were wrapped protectively around their sons.

Pia’s face looked peaceful; approaching middle-age she was still a handsome woman. Braeden wished he could remember Pia when she was young. What had she looked like? What were her dreams, when they had first met all those years ago in the Riverlands? What was their life together like, before Braeden had followed the Blackfish to war, before the Mountain had broken her nose and her spirit?

It bothered Braeden that sometimes he didn’t recognize Pia; she seemed more of a stranger than his wife. Sometimes he didn’t even recognize himself. It was torture, the overwhelming feeling that his entire life was a lie. Rationally, he knew the troubling feelings were caused by the head injury he suffered during the war.

Braeden knew he cared for Pia and their children. However, he didn’t love her, not like he knew he should love his wife. He had to remind himself that he must have loved Pia once. Although, his soul told him otherwise. He wished he could remember and put these troubling feelings to rest.

The first thing Braeden did remember was waking up, hazily as if from a dream. Something heavy and hard was pushing him down into the dark abyss. He was surrounded by walls that wrapped around him, like a baby bird trapped inside an egg, destined never to be born.

The pounding of a thousand hammers battered his brain. The hammers were followed by anguished cries, the sounds piercing the stale air penetrating his tomb of chalky red stone. He tried to choke out the word, brother, strange only because he didn’t have a brother. At least he didn’t think he had a brother; Pia would have told him if he had. Before he could utter a sound, he slipped back into unconsciousness.

When Braeden awoke for a second time, something was tugging on his right arm. As he opened his eyes, dust and a blinding light caused his vision to blur. A shadowy shape stood over him. The Stranger, come to claim his soul, This is it; this is where I die.

“Alive are ye? Not for long,” the Stranger said gruffly, pressing a rusted dagger against Braeden’s throat. Yellow teeth, foul breath, steel blue eyes, the dirt-smeared face of a man loomed close enough for Braeden to see clearly through the gloom.

Not the Stranger, just a man come to rob him as he lay dying. Braeden pushed his assailant back; the man fell and knocked over an oil lamp, the source of the blinding light. The thief swore as hot oil splattered on his clothing. In the dry, stale air of the crypt, the fire from the lamp quickly ignited the thief's oil-soaked garments.

Braeden staggered backward, away from the blaze and the screams as the thief swatted at his burning clothes, which only succeeded in feeding the flames.

Trapped underground in a stone cavern, somehow Braeden’s mind reasoned if the thief had gotten in, there must also be a way out. The caress of a cool salty breeze against his skin lured Braeden down a long partially collapsed tunnel, where the thief had dug out a passage just large enough for a man to crawl through.

Braeden emerged into the night air, on the banks of a large bay. He followed the shoreline, leaving behind a smoldering city, smoke billowing from its broken towers. In his confusion, Braeden wondered how the oil from a single lamp could have ignited an entire city.

Pia found him a day later. Wandering alone, confused and barely alive, on the banks of Blackwater Bay.

Braeden’s mind jumped ahead to the present. The closer they got to the Bloody Gate, the more the road swarmed with people making their way to the tournament grounds. The small village that had grown up in the shadow of the Giant’s Lance would more than double in size over the next week. Even though it was still early morning, the village bustled with activity.

Braeden steered his wagon past the village’s only inn, a large three-story structure with ornate double doors. His family wouldn’t be staying in the inn; the proprietor had most likely raised his prices for the duration of the tournament. Pia had packed several thick blankets, so at night the family would sleep under their wagon.

The activity and bustle finally woke Pia. She moaned and stretched before climbing to the front of the wagon. “Are we there?” she yawned sleepily.

“Just finding a place to set up shop,” Braeden replied, flicking the reins and urging their tired old horse forward. “Near the joust will have the most foot traffic.”

Pia said dryly, “More drunken fools.”

“Drunken fools buy more brandy,” Braeden laughed. He was answered by a dark scowl from his wife.

“How about over there?” Pia pointed to a spot under a large oak tree near the melee list. “It’s not too crowded and the shade will be nice in the heat of the day.”

Pia crawled into the back of the wagon and shook Arik and Kaylan awake; soon they were hard at work setting up their shop in the shade of the large tree. Meanwhile, Braeden climbed into the back of the wagon for a few hours of sleep.

The woman swayed back and forth, her body perfectly in tune with the movement of her horse as she slowly rode away from him. Her unusually short blond hair drifted slightly in the cool breeze. Braeden took a step forward; somehow he knew she would turn around. However, as her head began to turn, a pain, sharp and pointed, lanced though his ribs.

Opening his eyes, Braeden saw the leaves of a large oak tree, then the excited faces of both his sons burst into view.

“Papa, wake up!” Kaylan exclaimed, poking Braeden’s side with a stick. “Momma said we could go see the knights if you take us.”

It felt like he had only slept a few minutes; however, from the position of the sun peeking out from behind the clouds, he knew he had slept for several hours.

“As soon as the fight is over, you all come right back!” Pia called after them, as she poured a mug of apple brandy and handed it to a man in rough homespun garments with the most unusual looking goat tied on a long leash.

Not as fashionable as the joust, the melee was far less crowded. The stands, reserved for rich merchants, the clergy and highborn lords and ladies, were not even full. Braeden and his sons found a spot near the front of the list, standing with the other smallfolk behind a wooden fence that separated the combatants from the spectators.

Ten knights entered the list and bowed to Lord Arryn and his bride-to-be seated on cushions, high up on a platform above the rest of the audience. Braeden tried to listen as the young lord raised a chalice and saluted the combatants. His youngest son was making it difficult; the boy was excitedly chatting in his father’s ear. Kaylan had already chosen a favorite: a knight carrying a grey shield with an owl emblazoned in white. Kaylan liked owls.

“Who is he Papa?” Kaylan asked, pulling his father’s hair as he sat perched on Braeden’s shoulders.

“House Mertyns,” Braeden replied without thinking, “from the Stormlands.”

Arik looked up at his father and scoffed, “How do you know? Did you fight with him during the war?”

“I…I don’t remember,” Braeden shuddered. Looking at the knights, he realized that somehow he knew the names of all of the houses, silently denoting each one by the sigils painted on their shields: House Mertyn, House Waynwood, House Hunter, House Tarth, House Blanetree, and House Chambers. There were also a scattering of hedge knights, some of whose sigils he recognized and only a few he didn’t.

Kaylan hooted every time the owl knight struck a blow.

“You should cheer for a knight of the Vale,” Arik sneered up at his brother.

“No,” the eight-year-old pouted, “the owl knight!”

Braeden ignored his sons squabbling, nothing unusual there. The sound of steel scraping steel and the dull pounding of swords battering against the hard wooden shields drew his attention, the Melee being intently more interesting than his sons’ current disagreement.

Braeden noticed every mistake, every missed opportunity. Waynwood’s footwork was sloppy. Hunter was impulsive, and it wasn’t long before he was disarmed by a hedge knight with a trussed-up stag on his shield. A tall knight wearing golden Kingsguard’s armor and carrying a shield with the crescent moon and starburst sigil of House Tarth was cautious, not wasting his strength on the rabble. The knight was doing the exact same thing as Braeden, studying the strengths and weaknesses of his foes.

Kaylan cried, covering his eyes with his hands, when the Kingsguard knight disarmed his favorite owl knight, kicking the man onto his back and forcing him to yield. It was a good move; many of the less skillful knights fought with only their weapon, hacking and slashing at their opponent’s shield. The knight of the Kingsguard fought with his entire body: a well-placed kick in the ribs was often more effective then hammering away with a sword.

Meanwhile the remaining hedge knight, the one with the trussed stag on his shield, defeated his final opponent and turned to face the tall knight from Tarth.

Down to just the pair, the two knights circled each other cautiously, gradually moving close enough to Braeden and his sons that he could hear the hedge knight taunt his taller opponent.

“Oh my beauty,” the hedge knight snorted, bowing slightly like he was courting a maiden at a grand ball. “Would you care to dance with me?”

The taller knight seemed to hesitate, seemingly unsettled by the strange taunt. His opponent didn’t miss the opportunity and rushed forward. The knight from Tarth quickly stepped aside, turning as the hedge knight staggered past, and cracked the hilt of his sword against the back of his opponent’s cuirass. The hedge knight faltered and fell face down into the dirt. The crowd gasped as the man ground across the list, skidding to a stop in front of Braeden and his sons.

Flipping over, the hedge knight found a long sword hovering just inches from his nose. “I’m afraid my dance card is full Ser Hyle,” the tall knight snarled in a voice that sounded strangely feminine and yet strangely familiar. “Do you yield?”

Ser Hyle threw his hands up and moaned, “I yield!”

The crowd erupted with cheers as the knight of the Kingsguard raised his sword into the sky. Turning, he saluted the roaring crowd. With his other hand the knight reached up and yanked off his helmet. Pale blond hair cascaded down past the broad shoulders of his golden armor.

Braeden inhaled sharply as the knight turned. He, or rather she, was a woman. Although the knight’s gender wasn’t the reason for his astonishment. It might have been her astonishing blue eyes. She had lovely eyes. Or her height: she was extremely tall. That wasn’t it. The real reason he was captivated was because he knew her. He didn’t know from where or when, but his soul knew the truth. He knew her.

Look this way, Braeden silently pleaded with the lady knight, recognize me and tell me who I am.

“Ser Brienne!” Lord Arryn’s aristocratic voice carried over the roaring of the crowd.

The lady knight turned suddenly, her astonishing blue eyes rising to look up at Lord Arryn, who raised his chalice in toast to her victory.

Braeden’s heart dropped; she hadn't seen him. She wouldn’t recognize him in the crowd. Braeden shook his head as he looked down at the hard-packed dirt on the ground. Who was he kidding? How could a golden knight of the Kingsguard possible know a lowborn former soldier from the Vale?

“Hey...Hey you!” Arik shouted and tugged on his arm, drawing Braeden’s attention away from the knight. “Momma told us to come back as soon as the melee was over.”

When Brienne turned back to look into the crowd, she didn’t see the former soldier and his sons. They had already gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four
The Blue Wedding

The last thing Brienne wanted to do was attend a wedding feast. She had already stood through the long and tedious ceremony. Jumping down from her horse, Brienne straightened her golden Kingsguard platemail and long white cloak. She knew her duty as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was to represent the King. She would attend the feast, paste on a smile for the lords and ladies of the Vale, and pretend she was having a good time.

Following Tyrion inside the keep, Brienne stood next to the Hand of the King as he congratulated the young lord and his new bride and presented them with gifts from the King.

“Always a pleasure to see you again, Lord Tyrion,” Robyn Arryn hummed, nodding at the Hand of the King with not a hint of recognition.

After accepting the gift, the young lord’s gaze fell behind Tyrion and Brienne to a minor lord from the Vale who was patiently waiting to present his own gift to his liege lord.

“That little twat of a lord better be serving some good Arbor Gold,” Tyrion rumbled under his breath as they walked away from the bride and groom. “Fine wine will certainly dull the hard feelings.”

It wasn’t long before Tyrion found a squire tasked with serving wine, and he was soon deep in his drink. The noise in the great hall of the Moon Gate was suffocating. Finally, Brienne stood and excused herself, claiming she needed some air. Pushing through the revelers, she made her way to the courtyard of the castle. The music and merriment drifted quietly into the background as she breathed in the cool night air.

“The Maid of Tarth,” a deep voice from her past cooed. “It has been too long since I had the pleasure of seeing your lovely face.”

Brienne turned around and nodded a polite greeting. “Ser Hyle.”

Other than earlier that day in the list, she hadn’t seen Hyle Hunt for many years. Not since Renly’s camp at Storm’s End, where he and several other young knights had engaged in a cruel jest, betting on who could claim her maidenhood.

She was so young then, unused to the manipulations of men. They had taken advantage of her naivety and pretended to court her. Ser Hyle had been one of her most persistent suitors. Unaware of the bet, Brienne had enjoyed the attention of the handsome young knight; his betrayal had hurt the most.

There was a time when Brienne had almost hoped someone, somewhere might have marred the knight’s good looks, broken a few teeth, maybe cut off an ear or his nose. No such luck; although he had aged, Ser Hyle was still quite handsome.

A smile crossed Ser Hyle’s lips as he bowed. “I am honored you remember me.”

“You fought well today Ser,” Brienne replied formally.

“Not as well as you,” Ser Hyle purred and sauntered up to stand next to her. Too close for Brienne’s comfort, she took a step backwards.

“Ah,” he hummed and smiled up at her, “still the shy maid.”

“What do you want, Ser Hyle?” Brienne sneered, already tired of his nonsense.

“Lady Brienne,” Ser Hyle pouted and clutched his heart. “You wound me. I thought we were friends.”

“Friends?” Brienne sneered at the audacity of the other knight. “Lord Tarly told me of your little bet.”

“I was…it was a cruel jest and I am truly sorry.” Ser Hyle said sincerely, and at least he had the decency to look halfway ashamed. “I want you to know, if I had won that infamous bet, I would have married you.”

“You would have married Tarth,” Brienne scoffed, not so naïve as she had once been.

“Highborn ladies marry for lesser reasons,” Ser Hyle replied arrogantly. Reaching up, he ran his knuckles along her hairline.

Brienne pushed his hand away, glaring down at him. “You are too familiar, Ser.”

“My offer still stands,” Ser Hyle droned, staring into her eyes. “I would still marry you.”

“I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Brienne replied curtly.

“The Kingsguard no longer serve for life,” Ser Hyle replied, waving her excuse away. “I’m sure if you asked, the King would release you from your duties.”

It was true, and Brienne had promised her father after the reconstruction of King’s Landing was complete, she would resign from the Kingsguard and return to Tarth and marry. Brienne had put off the inevitable for three years, and she planned on continuing to put it off for as long as possible. After knowing real love, she didn’t want to consent to a loveless marriage.

“I do not love you.”

“And I don’t love you,” Ser Hyle replied with a generous smile, like a cat with a mouse, “but I could make you happy. I have considerable skills. Come to my room tonight and let me show you.”

“Oh, Ser Hyle,” Brienne lay a delicate hand on his arm, leaning in close and whispered in his ear, “that won’t be happening, not in this lifetime nor any other.”

Brienne laughed, sharp as a dagger’s edge. “Now please pardon me, I must attend to the Hand of the King.” Brienne walked away, her laughter drifting back to wash over the rejected knight.

Ser Hyle squared his shoulders before following Brienne into the Great Hall, swearing an oath to himself, I will win her hand.

Neither of the knights noticed the shadow lurking near the gatehouse.

The tournament would continue for another week. When not competing, Brienne met with the sheriffs and Lords of the Vale. One deputy sheriff, Ser Hugh Beringar, a knight with blond hair trimmed in a shaggy bowl cut, offered to ride out to the countryside with her and investigate recent attacks on a nearby farmsteads.

Brienne was glad to have some task to occupy her thoughts and to get away from the tournament crowds and Ser Hyle. Even though Brienne had turned him down repeatedly, the hedge knight persisted in trying to court her. Wherever she went, there he was, trying to engage her in conversation. When she competed in an event, Ser Hyle was either entered on the list or cheering from the crowd. It was actually a little endearing.

“Are the Hill Tribes much of a problem?” Brienne asked, turning her mind back to Ser Hugh as they rode side by side away from the Bloody Gate.

“Not as much as they used to be,” Ser Hugh shook his head and replied. “Most of the farmers in the region bribe one tribe or another for protection.”

“Is that wise?” Brienne frowned, her eyebrows knitting together.

“It’s not ideal, but the smallfolk feel they have little choice in the matter.”

“Reports have reached the capital of raiders.”

Ser Hugh drew in a deep breath and replied, “Former soldiers, with no lord or home to return to. They rove the land and kill without reason.”

Leaving the road, the knight led Brienne to a small farm, its buildings burned and blackened. Flies buzzed around the bloated corpse of a cow lying next to the burned shell of the barn.

“They were attacked just last night,” Ser Hugh explained, motioning to the still-smoldering cottage and barn. “The parents are dead. We still haven’t found the children.”

“So close to the Bloody Gate,” Brienne gasped in disbelief. “With the tournament, this area is crawling with knights. Are they really so bold?”

“Indeed, last week they attacked a small Stone Crow encampment, killing all of the adults and taking the male children.”

“They will even attack the Hill Tribes?” Brienne was surprised; the Hill Tribes were rumored to be ferocious warriors.

Ser Hugh blew out a long breath. “Even the mountain rabble didn’t deserve that.”

“Do they always take the boys?”

Huge nodded and replied in a heavy voice, “There are many places in Essos where slavery is still legal. We think they are selling them, but we haven’t been able to find their buyer.”

Brienne slid off her horse and looked around. The house and barn were ransacked. Hoof prints were still visible in the dirt, leading into the woods.

“No more than five men,” Brienne said, crouching down to look at the mess of hoof prints in the dirt.

“Five men, no matter how good with a blade they were, couldn’t destroy a Stone Crow village,” Ser Hugh stated matter-of-factly. “Even their women are fierce. We estimate at least fifty men, if not more.”

Standing to look over at the knight, Brienne asked, “More than one band?”

Ser Hugh shook his head, “We think it’s all the same outlaw band. They might split into smaller raiding parties to attack easier targets, farmers and travelers and such.”

“An outlaw band of at least fifty men will be hard to miss,” Brienne said, tapping her finger to her chin. “Any ideas where they are hiding?”

“They always come down from the high passes. It’s a maze up there. Only the Hill Tribes know the area well enough not to get lost,” Ser Hugh replied, motioning toward the Mountains of the Moon rising in the distance, “and I’m afraid the Hill Tribes are quite unwilling to cooperate in the search.”

“I know someone who might be able to reason with them and enlist their aid,” Brienne smiled. She remembered hearing Tyrion say during the War of the Five Kings, he had formed an alliance with several of the Hill Tribes’ leaders. “We best get back the Bloody Gate, so I can confer with the Hand of the King.”

After returning to the inn, Brienne sought out Tyrion. The Hand promised to send word to the leaders of the three largest Hill Tribes, the same fierce warriors who had helped save King’s Landing from the forces of Stannis Baratheon. With luck they would agree to aid in the search for the notorious band of outlaws hiding in their hills.

“They’ll probably want something,” Tyrion moaned, rubbing his temple with his hand. “Most likely weapons. They seem to like battle axes.”

“Their own people were slaughtered,” Brienne huffed. She had assumed the Hill Tribes would help without the use of bribery. “Wouldn’t revenge be reward enough?”

“You don’t know them,” Tyrion laughed in reply. “At least with the tournament, there isn’t a shortage of blacksmiths in the Vale.”

With that settled, Brienne stood up; all she wanted was a bath, a good meal and sleep. However, she soon found her plans changed without her consent.

“I have something to show you,” Tyrion said, a sly smile crossing his lips as he stood up and motioned her to follow him upstairs.

The innkeeper’s daughter, Lizbeth, was waiting outside Brienne’s door, holding up a gown made of dark blue silk, trimmed with rosy pink embroidery.

“Grand ball tonight. A magnificent affair, apparently,” Tyrion said caustically, his wit, as ever, sharp as a razor’s edge.

“I would rather not attend yet another social event,” Brienne sighed in annoyance, “and I’m not wearing that!”

“Come on,” Tyrion moaned, looking up at her with pleading eyes. “You can’t leave me alone with these people. Have I told you Lord Robyn once tried to—?”

“Make you fly through the Moon Door,” Brienne finished his sentence mockingly. “Yes, you did, repeatedly.”

“Well, he did,” Tyrion huffed, crossing his arms over his chest,. “I’m not lying. You can ask him yourself this evening.”

“Why do I have to wear…that?” Brienne sneered, pointing to gown.

“It’s a gift,” Tyrion said, taking the gown from Lizbeth’s hands and holding it up to Brienne.

“From who?”

Tyrion shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. It was hanging on your door when I got here. It is your color,” Tyrion added, wiggling his eyebrows up at her.

“Fine,” Brienne groused, snatching the gown from Tyrion’s hands. “I need a bath.”

“Lizbeth will help you prepare,” Tyrion said.

“That is hardly necessar—” Brienne called after him, but Tyrion was already moving down the hall. He waved his hand in the air in a dismissive gesture, letting her know he wouldn’t be listening to any excuses.

Lizbeth, looked from Tyrion’s retreating back to Brienne, wasn’t sure how to proceed. It was obvious the lady knight didn’t want her help. But the Hand of the King had made a direct request. No, an order. Lizbeth hated being caught between two stubborn and unmovable forces.

Brienne finally huffed and turned to the young woman. “Can I get a bath drawn up?”

“Yes, mi’lady,” Lizbeth curtsied, and hurried away to fulfill the request.

Several minutes later, Lizbeth returned, followed by several squires carrying a large tub. The young men set the tub next to the hearth and filled it with warm water. Lizbeth knelt down, checking the temperature of the water before pouring scented oil into the large tub.

“I don’t need help bathing or putting on a dress,” Brienne grumbled. She wasn’t a helpless maiden who couldn’t dress herself.

“I could braid your hair,” Lizbeth offered nervously.

Brienne sighed; she could use help with her hair. Being so busy with her duties as Lord Commander, she had let it grow far too long. She usually just tied it up in a loose knot. That wouldn’t do for a grand ball. Between Tyrion, Lizbeth and the mysterious gift-giver, someone wanted her to dress the part of a lady tonight.

Sliding into the tub, Brienne sighed as she felt the ache from today’s ride seeping from her body.

When it came time to get dressed, Brienne was actually thankful for Lizbeth’s help. The gown had ties that laced up her back, which she wouldn’t have been able to reach on her own.

After Lizbeth tied the laces snugly, Brienne was surprised how well the gown fit; dresses were usually too short, and often too small in some places while being too large in others. The dark blue gown fit perfectly and was even long enough that the hem wisped against the floor.

When Brienne turned around Lizbeth was staring at her, wide eyed,.“Mi’lady, you look beautiful.”

Brienne looked in the mirror and was surprised by the reflection looking back at her. She took a step back in disbelief. She hadn’t worn a gown since she was six and ten, other than the hideous dress she was forced to wear at Harrenhal, which made her look like an ox in pink frills.

At sixteen, Brienne had been all elbows, knees, and big feet. In the ensuing years, she had apparently grown out of most of that awkwardness; if not delicate or softly curved, at least she was a little more feminine, although her body was often hidden behind layers of leather and armor. The gown helped accentuate her slight curves, fitting snugly around her waist with long flowing sleeves and a plunging neckline.

Sitting down in front of the mirror, Brienne waited while Lizbeth braided and curled her hair, pushing in a small comb in the shape of a crescent moon between the braids.

“Where did these come from?” Brienne asked, picking up a second comb, a starburst. Turning it over in her hands, she noticed it wasn’t as fancy as the gown: no gaudy gems to mar the fine metal work.

“Another gift, mi’lady,” Lizbeth answered, taking the comb from Brienne’s hands and gently placing it in her hair. With a sigh the young girl said, “You have an admirer, or maybe two. It’s so romantic.”

A half-hour later Brienne descended to the common room to find Tyrion standing by the hearth, talking with Ser Hyle. Dread ran down her spine as she realized the identity of at least one of her admirers; the gown was another ploy to win her hand. Brienne was about to turn around and change into her long blue tunic when Tyrion noticed her.

“Ser Brienne?” Tyrion asked in shock as he turned around. “You look —.”

“Beautiful,” Ser Hyle flashed a handsome smile, finishing Tyrion’s thought.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five
The Courting of Brienne of Tarth

The carriage rocked slightly as it trudged up the road to the Moon Gate. Brienne felt trapped in the small space with Tyrion and Ser Hyle. Having nothing to do, Brienne fidgeted with the embroidery on the long sleeves of her gown.

She would have preferred to ride a horse to the castle; however, that would be impractical in the long flowing gown.

Brienne silently watched as Ser Hyle chatted with Tyrion. The man apparently thought the best way to win her heart was to endear himself to her friends.

The carriage came to a stop in the courtyard of the Moon Gate, and Ser Hyle jumped down and hurried around to the other side of the carriage.

Before Brienne could open the door, Tyrion reached out and grabbed her hand. “I approve of this knight, and he seems quite taken with you.”

“We have history,” Brienne huffed, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “A not very pleasant history.”

“People change Brienne,” Tyrion said knowingly. “You should know this better than most. Give him a chance.”

Before Brienne could respond, the door on her side of the carriage flew open. Ser Hyle held out to his hand, gallantly offering to help her down.

“I’ve ridden into battle, I don’t think I need help getting out of—ow.” Brienne was cut short by a sudden pain to her ankle.

Tyrion had actually kicked her! She turned to glare at him. Tyrion was smiling slyly and motioning toward Ser Hyle with his eyes. Play nice, the expression seemed to say.

Brienne rolled her eyes at Tyrion and took Ser Hyle’s offered hand. Turning back to Tyrion she whispered, “I’ll get you for this.”

“You can thank me later,” Tyrion replied and jumped down from the carriage, following the couple into the Moon Gate.

“The gown is lovely, thank you,” Brienne turned to look at the knight, before smiling wickedly and adding, “but don’t think this changes anything.”

“Of course not,” Ser Hyle beamed up at her. He actually looked sincere in his admiration. “A lady such as yourself could never be so easily won. I have my work cut out for me, and I assure you I am both ready and able.”

It was like a dream, walking into the ballroom of the Moon Gate on the arm of a handsome knight. Brienne felt like she was in a trance. Chandeliers hung majestically from the rafters, glowing brightly and illuminating the hall in fantasy. Ladies in beautiful gowns danced with knights in fine raiment. On the balcony above the dancers a troupe of musicians was playing Jenny Oldstones.

A single tear rolled down Brienne’s face as she remembered the last time she had heard that melody. The night before the battle of Winterfell: Podrick singing, everyone telling stories, and finally Jaime knighting her.

Jaime.

“Hey,” Ser Hyle said, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “What’s wrong?”

“A memory,” Brienne replied, pushing his hand away.

Turning away from Ser Hyle, she saw Tyrion rubbing his eyes. Making her way over to him, Brienne knelt down so they were at eye level. She took Tyrion’s hands in hers and stared into his emerald eyes.

“That night, before the battle,” Tyrion sniffed clutching her hands. “…Jaime.”

“I know,” Brienne whispered softly. “I miss him, too.”

“You made him happy, for a time” Tyrion sniffed, looking at Brienne and trying to smile. “I will always be grateful for that.”

“Me too,” Brienne said, pulling Tyrion into a tight embrace, not caring who saw them.

When the song ended, the musicians switched to a livelier tune. Brienne stood up and smoothed down the front of her gown, squaring her shoulders in an attempt to compose herself.

Sensing the delicate moment was over, Ser Hyle sauntered over and offered his arm to Brienne.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Ser Hyle asked sympathetically after she had taken his arm.

Brienne shook her head and said only, “Winterfell.”

Ser Hyle nodded knowingly; he hadn’t fought in the Long Night, but he had heard the stories and he had fought in his own fair share of horrific battles. As he led Brienne onto the dance floor, Hyle whispered softly, “Someday I would hear that story.”

“Maybe someday,” Brienne mumbled, but not today. No, not ever. That particular memory was reserved for a select group, the people who were there and their ghosts.

After two songs, Brienne begged for a reprieve. She found Tyrion and sat down to listen as he entertained a group of ladies with his wit and charm.

Hyle Hunt had gone off to dance with the daughter of a minor lord he had served a few years ago. “The life of a hedge knight,” he said by way of apology, as if she really cared who he danced with.

The night brought back memories of the ball her father had held on her sixteenth nameday. Only this time, no boys pretended to fight for her affection. Only Ser Hyle had asked her to dance, and she knew what his motives were. He wasn’t interested in humiliating her, nor did he feel sorry for the ugly maid. He wanted Tarth. There was an odd comfort in that.

Tyrion and his following of giggling ladies had moved off, leaving Brienne alone with her thoughts. Closing her eyes, she let the music wash over her. Taking her away from the Moon Gate, away from this time and place, this life. Returning her to Winterfell after the battle, and the time she spent with Jaime. They had never danced; she wished she had danced with Jaime, just once.

“Ser Brienne,” a kind voice said. Opening her eyes, Brienne looked up into the face of Ser Hugh Beringar.

“Ser Hugh,” Brienne replied standing up, embarrassed he had caught her daydreaming.

The knight bowed politely and offered her his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

Men didn’t just ask her to dance, so she wondered about his motives. Brienne nodded and took his offered hand, figuring she would find out soon enough.

“Have you had a chance to talk with the Hand of the King?” Ser Hugh asked somewhat urgently, as they wove through the other dancers.

So he did have a motive. Ser Hugh didn’t see her as a joke, nor did he feel sorry for her. He saw her as a means to an end. He saw the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, someone who could help him catch a dangerous band of outlaws.

Brienne realized with a shiver that she actually liked Ser Hugh and his honesty. He represented all she had once thought a true knight should be: handsome, brave, honorable, and devoted to the safety of the smallfolk of the Vale.

“Briefly,” Brienne answered formally. “Lord Tyrion has sent Ser Podrick Payne along with a contingent of Lannister soldiers in search of the leaders of the three largest Hill Tribes in hopes of enlisting their aid.”

The knight’s face changed, visibly relieved by the news. “That is good to hear. Thank you for your help, Ser Brienne.”

Brienne hadn’t failed to notice he referred to her by her knightly title, not Lady Brienne or my lady, just Ser Brienne. He saw her as an equal, a fellow knight.

When the song ended, he escorted Brienne back to her seat and sat down next to her. “You look different tonight,” Ser Hugh said and looked up into her eyes. “Pretty.”

Brienne felt the heat rise to her face; the compliment seemed sincere. He didn’t say she was beautiful, which she knew to be a lie. Just pretty.

They sat silently for a while, watching the dancers move around the floor.

“So, you live in the Vale?” Brienne asked awkwardly, cringing at the stupidity of the question. Of course he lived in the Vale.

Ser Hugh didn’t seem to notice her awkwardness. “Yes, in Shrewsbury, a village west of here.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s not a large village, although there is a castle owned by Lord Royce. It’s unoccupied by the lord’s family, but he does keep it well garrisoned,” Ser Hugh explained. “And on the outskirts of the village, there is a monastery to the Faith of the Seven, governed by the Sparrows.”

“The Sparrows?” Brienne gasped in surprise. She had thought the order completely destroyed. “Aren’t they part of the Faith Militant, who caused so much trouble in King’s Landing?”

“The High Sparrow and the Faith Militant in King’s Landing were seduced by power,” Ser Hugh replied indignantly. “I assure you the monks in Shrewsbury are nothing like that. They are simple men of faith.”

“Do you follow their teachings?” Brienne asked, suddenly afraid she might have offended him.

Ser Hugh shook his head. “No, but I respect them and call at least one of their number a true friend.”

“Queen Cersei could be quite manipulative,” Brienne said with a shudder. “She could have corrupted even the most faithful of men.”

“You’ve met her?”

“Once, years ago,” Brienne replied. A chill ran down her spine as she remembered Cersei cornering her at King Joffrey’s wedding feast.

“But you love him” the queen said, contempt in her voice, her hounding words chasing Brienne away from the feast.

Shaking away the queen’s cruel jest, Brienne finally said, “I knew her twin brother. We fought with and against each other on many occasions.”

“You were knighted by Ser Jaime Lannister,” Ser Hugh said candidly.

“Yes.” Brienne felt her body flinch like a knife had struck her heart, fearing that a snide remark at Jaime’s expense was forthcoming. Before he could say anything, Brienne blurted out, “He was an honorable man.”

“I believe you,” Ser Hugh replied unpretentiously. “I always thought there was more to his story than we were told.”

“You…you did?” Brienne asked. Not many people cared to question the Kingslayer myth. Even Brienne had once believed all the foul rumors.

When they had first met all those years ago in the Riverlands, she hated Jaime, as he had hated her. That contempt had gradually changed to trust, admiration, and finally love. When had that happened? Harrenhal, King’s Landing, Riverrun, or Winterfell, when they had finally acted on those feelings?

“I am a sheriff,” Ser Hugh laughed lightly. “It is my job to know when there is more to a story than I am being told.”

Brienne nodded and smiled at the knight. “Indeed, I see how that would be a useful skill in your line of work.”

“You’re wearing the hair combs,” Ser Hugh suddenly said, changing the subject and motioning at her hair.

“They’re from you?” Brienne asked. Heat crept up her face as her hand reached up to lightly touch the starburst comb.

“I saw them at the fair today and thought of you,” Ser Hugh said. Suddenly fearing the gesture too forward, he quickly added, “In gratitude for your help today.”

“They’re very pretty,” Brienne smiled, unable to help the blush that seemed to rise from her chest. “Thank you.”

“Tonight,” Ser Hugh smiled almost shyly, “you are very pret—”

“Lady Brienne,” a voice said. Brienne looked up; Ser Hyle stood towering over them, holding out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Brienne sighed. She was enjoying the conversation with Ser Hugh, but she didn’t want to appear rude. She glanced over at Ser Hugh, who, in true knightly fashion, merely nodded. “Enjoy the dance. Afterwards we will talk more.”

Taking Ser Hyle’s offered hand, Brienne stood up, following him onto the floor.

“It would seem I have competition,” Hyle growled in her ear, his breath dusting across her neck. “I intend to win.”

Annoyance suddenly welled up inside her. Shoving Ser Hyle, Brienne snarled, “My affection is not a game!”

Grabbing the edges of her long gown, Brienne ran from the keep, finding her way to the stables even as her eyes grew blurry, clouding over with tears that drizzled down her face.

Bursting into the stables, Brienne startled the stable boy napping on a pile of loose hay and ordered him to bring her a horse immediately.

The boy returned a short while later with an unsaddled white palfrey. “I’m sorry, mi’lady I couldna’ find a ladies saddle and—”

Brienne snorted as she grabbed the reins, Hoisting herself up onto the horse’s back, she heard a sharp tear as her gown ripped along the seam.

Why was she upset? Two handsome knights had sought her attention. It was any young girl’s dream. The type of thing that only happened in song. Both men were handsome. Both honorable, Ser Hugh maybe a little more so. Ser Hyle had his faults, but Brienne knew he was sincere in his wish to marry her.

The truth was, she was upset because she had enjoyed both of their attentions and felt guilty for betraying a memory.

A memory of Jaime.

Crossing under the gatehouse of the Bloody Gate, Brienne turned the palfrey toward the inn, taking a shortcut across the tournament grounds.

The horse’s hooves thundered on the hard-packed dirt, beaten down by the feet of hundreds of people crossing the grounds over the course of the week. Suddenly a shape appeared in her path: a man with a goat tied on a long leash. Both man and goat stood frozen in place, their eyes wide as the horse bore down on them.

Brienne yanked on the reins. The horse shrieked, rearing up and knocking her off its back, depositing her on her rump in the dirt.

“Mi’lady!” a voice floated to her ears as if from a dream. Strong arms wrapped around her, lifting Brienne off the ground before depositing her back on her feet.

The strangely familiar voice asked, “Are you well, mi’lady?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Brienne replied, dusting the dirt from her gown.

Turning to face the man who had helped her to her feet, Brienne’s breath departed her lungs. Her body couldn’t move, even as her heart thundered, threatening to rip out of her chest.

“You’re…you’re alive?” Brienne croaked, her voice catching in her throat.

“My lady,” the man said in a hushed voice, his green eyes studying her face for any sign of recognition. “Please, tell me, do I...I know you?”

Jaime.

Alive.

Brienne trembled as she reached up slowly, afraid he was an illusion and if she moved too quickly he might disappear in a wisp of smoke. Timidly, she placed her hands on either side of his face. His coarse stubble scratched at her palms, letting her know he was very real.

Tears filled her vision and her voice splintered with harsh sobs, “You’re alive.”

“You know me?” he asked, placing his good hand over hers and leaning forward until their faces were only inches apart. She could feel his breath on her lips. “Please, tell me, who am I?”

“Braeden!” a woman shouted, grabbing his arm and yanking him away from Brienne. “Leave her, you know what the highborn are like.”

Brienne stood frozen, watching as Jaime was pulled away from her once again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six
The Farmer’s Wife

Brienne trembled. Standing alone in her room in the inn, a chill rippled her through her body with the force of a thunderstorm. She wrapped her arms around her waist; she couldn’t stop shaking.

Jaime?

Alive?

Tyrion told her how he had found Jaime and Cersei after the fall of Kings Landing. However, it wasn’t until weeks later, after his imprisonment, trial, and Bran Stark was named king, that Tyrion could return to the tunnels under the Red Keep to recover their bodies.

He found the twins burned, blackened, their eyes and faces partially eaten by the cats that roamed the tunnels under the Red Keep.

He had assumed one of Daenerys’s Unsullied warriors must have found their bodies and lit them ablaze, taking revenge for their assassinated queen on Jaime and Cersei’s helpless corpses.

Tyrion had the bodies wrapped by the Silent Sisters and sent back to Casterly Rock to be entombed in the Lannister family crypt.

How could he be alive?

“Lady Brienne, you have a visitor.” A light knock rattled the door, and Lizbeth’s voice drifted through the closed barrier. “She is quite insistent.”

The door swung open, and Lizbeth quickly stepped aside as an angry woman, hands clenched in tight fists at her sides, stormed into Brienne’s room.

Brienne dismissed Lizbeth with a nod and turned to the woman.

“I was at the tournament at Harrenhal when he was first named to the Kingsguard,” the woman blurted out, her face red and blotchy from dried tears. “He was just seventeen and I was only a child, but I loved him and I knew we were destined to be together.”

Brienne nodded quietly; she didn’t need to ask of whom the woman spoke.

“I remember you, too. I was… it was years later, I was a…prisoner at Harrenhal.” The woman grimaced at the memory. “I was there when the Boltons dragged him, helpless and handless into the castle.”

The woman looked down at her hands, twisting them together as if for the first time realizing she had just barged into the room of a highborn lady. “He came back for you, to save your honor. I was forced to serve the Boltons, and he didn’t even know I existed. It was always you. Always you!” the woman burst into tears.

Any anger Brienne might have felt evaporated. Taking the woman by the arm, Brienne led her to a chair, crouching down so she could look into her face.

“What’s your name?” Brienne asked softly.

“Pia, mi’lady,” the woman answered, sniffing and wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Please Pia, tell me how… how is Ser Jaime alive?” Brienne said calmly, patting Pia’s hand, not wanting to frighten the distraught woman.

“I found him wandering along the Blackwater after the destruction of King’s Landing. He couldn’t remember his name, who he was, what he had done. So I told him he was my husband.”

“Why?”

“Because we were destined to be together,” Pia replied, looking up at Brienne as if the answer should have been obvious.

“You robbed him of his identity!” Brienne inhaled sharply, standing up to tower over the woman.

“I heard what they called him. Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, man without honor,” Pia huffed angrily, and stood up to glare up into Brienne’s face. “That isn’t who he is anymore. My husband, my Braeden, is a good man.”

Taking a deep breath, Pia’s tone changed, softening as she said, “He’s at peace, happy, truly happy, and no longer haunted by his past.” Pausing for a moment, Pia looked up directly into Brienne’s eyes. “If you ever loved him, you would let him go.”

Brienne pressed her lips together. She knew Jaime had struggled with his past. For weeks after he rode away from Winterfell, she blamed herself. She wasn’t pretty enough, wasn’t brave enough, wasn’t strong enough to fight his demons. But it was his past he couldn’t live with, not her. She knew before Jaime could be at peace, he had to slay his own demons.

Instead he had just forgotten them.

“Please mi’lady,” the woman begged, grabbing Brienne’s hands tightly. “Please, tell no one. Promise me you will tell no one.”

The sun crawled through the window, casting bright rays of light across the darkened room. Brienne moaned and turned over as the morning sun pulsated against her eyelids. She hadn’t slept well; for the first time in three years, it wasn’t only in her dreams that she saw Jaime’s face.

Brienne struggled against the urge to stay curled up in her bed, hidden under the covers like she had as a child after her brother Galladon had died.

She couldn’t, though; her duty as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was to represent the king. She would be expected to attend the festivities. With a stubbornness born from a life of adversity, Brienne rose and composed herself, donning her golden Kingsguard plate and pulling her shoulders back to stand up straight.

Putting on a brave face, Brienne left her room and made her way down to the first floor. Tyrion was already waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

“Breakfast with Lord and Lady Arryn at the Bloody Gate. Oh, the joy of it all,” Tyrion scoffed as he led them toward the door of the inn.

Brienne sat in a daze all through breakfast as the new Lady Arryn tried to engage her in idle conversation. She was still overwhelmed hours later, as she silently watched the first two jousts of the day.

Her willpower finally gave out as the sun reached its summit. Brienne had planned on participating in the joust to mark the close of the tournament in the Vale. She withdrew from the list and retreated back to the inn; she just couldn’t think straight.

Jaime was alive.

A part of her was happy Jaime’s past no longer haunted him. He is at peace, Brienne reminded herself, sitting alone in the common room of the inn.

Pia’s words still haunted her. If you ever loved him, you would let him go.

“He deserves to have a happy life,” she whispered under her breath as she picked over a plate of cheese.

“Who deserves to have a happy life?” Tyrion asked, sliding into the seat across from her and motioning for Lizbeth to bring more wine and cheese. “Me? Please let it be me.”

Brienne ran her hands over her face, trying to order her racing thoughts. Lizbeth arrived and placed a plate of cheese and a mug filled with wine on the table, curtseying before moving away to help other patrons.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Tyrion asked, reaching out and grasping her hand, “You have been walking around like a…like a wight all morning. You even withdrew from the list.”

Forcing out a dry laugh, Tyrion continued, “A situation, I must say, which has caused me great financial hardship. Who was I supposed to bet on?”

Brienne sighed and looked into his eyes. She had promised Pia she wouldn’t tell anyone. What did promises mean anyway? This was about more than simple promises; it was about family, and Tyrion deserved to know the truth.

“I have something to tell you,” Brienne said, gripping his hand tightly. “But you have to promise me, what I tell you must remain a secret. You can’t tell anyone, not Lord Bronn or Ser Podrick, not anyone.”

“Lady Brienne!” Tyrion laughed, rubbing his hands together, a sly smile playing across his lips. “Do tell?”

Brienne sighed and leaned closer and whispered, “He’s alive.”

“Who is?” Tyrion asked curiously, eyes twinkling.

“Jaime,” Brienne answered softly.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven
Veiled Reunion

In the shadows of the Mountains of the Moon, two riders silently drifted down the beaten gravel road. An unusual pair, one tall, the other short, their identities hidden behind hooded cloaks. They wore simple brown leather: no fine silks, no red-stained leather embroidered in gold. No golden armor. The only hint of their true identity was the fine Valyrian steel longsword attached to the tall rider’s belt.

If anyone saw them, they might assume they were a simple hedge knight and his squire returning home from the tournament. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

“You didn’t seem surprised,” Brienne said, looking over at Tyrion.

“I was,” Tyrion said honestly, but there was obviously more to the story. “I wasn’t sure if he was alive.”

“What? You suspected. How?” Brienne gasped, glaring at him in shock. “You found their bodies.”

Tyrion pressed his lips together and nodded. “I told you how I found Jaime and Cersei under the Red Keep.”

“Yes.”

“With everything that happened after Daenerys’ death,” Tyrion continued, a shiver running down his back as he remembered the weeks after the fall of King’s Landing, “I couldn’t get back to them for several weeks. When I finally did, their bodies were burned, rotting, almost unrecognizable.”

Brienne nodded; she knew this already. “And you had them sent back to Casterly Rock to be buried in your family crypt. You told me this already.”

“What I didn’t tell you, or anyone,” Tyrion said, looking up at the clouds billowing overhead, “was that the body that now rests in Jaime’s vault at Casterly Rock has two hands.”

Aghast that he hadn’t told her, Brienne sighed. “And you chose not to tell me.”

“I am sorry Brienne,” Tyrion replied guiltily, trying hard not to look at her. “I didn’t want to hurt you further.”

Brienne nodded solemnly. Did it hurt her more, that in the three years since Jaime’s supposed death, and everything they had endured together, Tyrion still didn’t trust her with his suspicions?

Turning off the road onto a small trail, which led up a hill and through a grove of apple trees, Brienne and Tyrion followed the path until a small cottage came into view.

Brienne slid off her horse, helping Tyrion down from his mount. Pushing back the hood of her long cloak, she looked around the small farm: house, barn, several chickens pecking at the ground near the well. It all looked so very peaceful.

Pia’s words flooded through her mind. He’s at peace, happy, truly happy.

The door of the cottage creaked open and Pia peeked out. A scowl crossed her face when she saw Brienne; shaking her head, Pia fearlessly stomped over to the taller woman.

“No, no, no!” Looking up at Brienne, Pia hissed under her breath. “We talked about this, you prom—”

Brienne gripped Pia’s arm and pulled her away from Tyrion. “He’s his brother. Lord Tyrion understands the situation; he won’t reveal your secret.”

“Pia, we saw riders,” an all-too-familiar voice called, and suddenly Jaime—Braeden—walked around the side of the cottage, wiping his good hand clean on an old rag.

On wobbling legs, Tyrion approached his brother. “Jai—Braeden?” Tyrion said, remembering the name Brienne told him to use.

“Yes,” Braeden answered, studying Tyrion’s face and trying to place him in his forgotten past. “I... I know you?”

“You did once. My name is Tyrion Lannister.”

“The Hand of the King?!” Braeden gasped and humbly sank to one knee.

“There is no need for that,” Tyrion motioned for Braeden to stand—he had never seen his brother act so humble, “between old acquaintances.”

“We are acquainted?” Braeden stuttered as he rose to his feet.

“Indeed, we met at WInterfell before the Long Night.”

“I fought at Winterfell?” Braeden asked. He had heard stories of the war against the dead. He just never imagined that he had been there.

“Bravely,” Tyrion answered with a nod and a pressed smile.

“I fought against the dead?’ Braeden stammered, still a little shocked by the revelation.

“Yes, so...Ser Brienne recognized you at the tournament and told me she had found one of the men who fought so bravely during the Long Night,” Tyrion repeated the tale he and Brienne had agreed on, to explain why the Hand of the King could possibly know an apple farmer from the Vale. “I insisted she bring me, so I could thank you personally.”

“I wish I could tell you what happened,” Braeden replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I suffered a head injury and lost my memory.”

“The horrors of that night,” Tyrion said solemnly, “are best forgotten.”

“Yes, my Lord Hand.”

“I hear your son is to attend the Citadel,” changing the subject, Tyrion said in a lighter tone. “I wish to sponsor him in his studies, and afterwards help him find a position with a noble house.”

“You do my family a great honor, my Lord Hand,” Braeden replied awkwardly.

A broad smile rose across Tyrion face as he said, “Well, they do say, a Lannister always—”

“Pays his debts.” Braeden finished the famous statement without a moment's pause.

“Yes,” Tyrion said with an ironic smile and patted Braeden’s arm. “Yes, we do. Now let us talk. Do you have any of that famous apple brandy I have heard so much about?”

As the sun drifted low on the horizon, Brienne watched from a distance, pretending to groom the horses, as Jaime — no, as Braeden and Tyrion sat at an old wooden table set up in front of the cottage, drinking apple brandy and talking.

They had gained an audience; Kaylan had perched himself on the bench next to Tyrion, staring at him in awe. Arik sulked at the end of the table, arms crossed and stoically pretending he wasn’t interested, although it was obvious he was hanging on Tyrion’s every word.

“Tell us about the time you freed the dragons,” Kaylan pleaded, his hand clasping Tyrion’s sleeve.

“Again? I already told you that story.” Tyrion laughed lightly.

Kaylan excitedly nodded.

“Well, the dragons had grown wild. Drogon had flown away after attacking a child.” Kaylan’s eyes grew wide, looking up into the sky for any sign of dragon fire. Tyrion ruffled the boy’s shaggy brown hair and continued, “Queen Daenerys knew she had to do something, so she chained Viserion and Rhaegal under the Great Pyramid. But dragons, you see, need to be free…”

Kaylan squealed as Tyrion lowered his voice to a deep whisper for dramatic effect. “I inched toward the furious beasts….”

Arik forgot he was bored, and leaned forward so he wouldn’t miss a word.

Brienne had to smile as Tyrion tousled Kaylan’s hair again. She knew from long conversations with Tyrion over the years how much he had loved his brother and sister’s children, how their deaths still haunted him.

Tyrion tried several times to invite Brienne to join them at the table. She only shook her head, claiming she had to keep watch. Her duty was to guard the Hand of the King, not join in the revelry.

In truth, seeing Jaime again brought back too many memories. Memories of sharing wine with Jaime, Tyrion and Pod, after the Long NIght, and how happy she had been. For the first time in her life, she had truly felt included.

She didn’t want to think about that night or afterwards, when Jaime had appeared at her door, complaining about the heat. She didn’t want to think about the weeks that followed, when Jaime told her with both words and actions that he loved her. Not enough, it was never enough; he still left.

She didn’t need that old wound reopened.

Sighing, Brienne leaned her head against her horse’s neck, blinking away the tears. The wound had reopened. She couldn’t allow herself to think of what might have been. He was Braeden now. He was married; he was at peace and seemed happy with his new life and family.

Tyrion and Braeden continued to talk late into the evening, even after Pia announced it was time for her and the children to go to bed and ushered the boys inside the small cottage.

Tyrion told Braeden about growing up at Casterly Rock. About the extended Lannister family, uncles, aunts, and countless cousins. Casterly Rock was often a hub of activity in the Westerlands.

Braeden proudly told Tyrion how Kaylan loved reading, had a knack for it. The family had no books, so the boy cleverly used charcoal and the backs of scraps of old handbills to write his own stories.

“When I return to King’s Landing, I will send books, some ink and quills and a stack of parchment,” Tyrion promised.

“I owe you a debt, my Lord Hand,” Braeden replied in gratitude.

“Nonsense,” Tyrion said, waving the gratitude away. “The realm owes you a debt. Owes a debt to everyone that fought at Winterfell, a debt that can never be fully repaid.”

The moon hung low in the night sky; soon it would be gone and another day would begin. Tyrion and Brienne rode down the gravel road, silently heading back to the inn. The Bloody Gate was still a long way off when Tyrion slowed his horse to a gentle trot.

“My Lord Hand?” Brienne asked, noticing the subtle change in the sound of the horse’s hooves on the gravel and slowing her mount to match his. “Tyrion?”

Tyrion’s mouth turned up, a sad smile. “I rarely saw Jaime. Sometimes months, even years would pass without laying eyes on him. But no matter how far away I was, I always knew he was out there, alive somewhere, maybe looking up at the same moon I was.”

Brienne nodded silently.

“You felt the same, didn’t you?” Tyrion said, studying Brienne’s face.

“I did,” Brienne whispered, her voice drifted away on the breeze.

“I wonder,” Tyrion sighed, pain leaching into his words, “is it still enough? Just knowing he is alive.”

“We can never go back,” Brienne said sadly, looking up at the moon. “We are too recognizable, you and I. No matter how careful we were, someone would find out. There are still many in the realm who would see him dead.”

“I feel like I’m losing him all over again,” Tyrion sniffed, a tear rolling down his face.

Brienne reached out and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Me too.”

They rode on in silence.

“Brienne,” Tyrion said suddenly, tugging on his reins and forcing his horse to a stop.

“Yes, Tyrion,” Brienne said, turning her horse around to face him.

“The King didn’t want you to come,” Tyrion said in a harsh whisper.

Brienne pressed her lips together in a frown. Why was he bringing that up now? Hadn’t she heard it enough? Tyrion had been relentless for the entire journey from King’s Landing to the Vale, teasing her about attending Robyn Arryn’s wedding against the king’s wishes.

“He did everything in his power to stop you,” Tyrion continued, looking up at her with fear in his eyes, “short of ordering you to stay.”

“He did,” Brienne agreed, her eyebrows knitting together as a shiver ran down her spine.

“The King has visions,” Tyrion said, both suspicion and fear flooding his eyes. “He knew if you came to the Vale you would find Jaime, and Bran didn’t want that to happen.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight
The Parley in the Vale

It was late morning when Brienne and Tyrion finally arrived back at the inn, every muscle tired and sore from their long ride through the night. As soon as Tyrion stepped through the ornate double doors of the inn, he was yanked off his feet. Rough, furry arms wrapped around him in a bear-like hug; Tyrion found his face smashed against a barrel chest covered in foul-smelling furs.

“Half-man!” a hearty laugh assaulted his ears.

Sliiiizt. The sound of a sword being drawn was followed by the roar of Brienne’s untamed voice, “Unhand the Hand of the King!”

His assailant growled and released his hold on Tyrion. A grunt escaped Tyrion’s lips as his ass painfully met the hardwood floor. Rubbing his wounded bottom, he climbed to his feet. Tyrion looked up and saw the face of Shagga, the leader of the Stone Crows, grinning down at him from between the horns of his unusual helmet.

Turning his head slowly he saw Brienne still held her sword at the ready, old battles flashing behind her eyes. Tyrion realized they were not out of danger yet. He still had to mitigate what had become a very volatile situation.

“It’s okay,” Tyrion said, reached out his arms, holding his palms out flat in a vain attempt to separate and calm the two warriors.

Brienne ignored him, holding Oarthkeeper with both hands, leveling her longsword and eyeing Shagga down the length of the blade.

“Ser Brienne,” Tyrion said, still holding his hands out. He knew he couldn’t actually hold her back if she chose to attack, but he had to try. “This is Shagga, son of Dolf, leader of the Stone Crows.”

Realization and an amount of sanity returned to Brienne’s eyes, and she sheathed Oathkeeper. She looked down at Tyrion questioningly, but the Hand of the King merely shrugged and motioned for Shagga and Brienne to follow him inside.

She nodded once to the Stone Crow, the only apology the man would get, as they followed Tyrion to the hearth, where more Stone Crows, Lord Royce and several knights of Vale waited.

Brienne wrinkled her nose as she noted Shagga’s appearance, rough furs hanging loosely and ragged. The most ridiculous helmet she had ever seen covered his unkempt shoulder-length hair and beard. The man made Tormund Giantsbane look like a well-heeled lord from the Reach.

Lord Royce was sitting next to the fire, and nearby Ser Podrick Payne stood alongside several Knights of the Vale, including Ser Hugh Beringar.

“I told him not to do it,” Podrick laughed as they approached. “I told him Ser Brienne was like to rip out his eyes if he laid a hand on Lord Tyrion. He didn’t listen.”

“You found him quickly,” Tyrion said, nodding to Ser Podrick in acknowledgement as he passed.

Sitting down across from Lord Royce, Tyrion motioned Shagga to claim the third chair set up next to the fire.

“Truth is,” Podrick replied, “he found me.”

“Is an inn really a proper place for a parley?” Lord Royce groused.

“I ain’t going in no castle,” Shagga announced stubbornly, crossing his arms in front of his barrel chest.

“See, there you are Lord Royce,” Tyrion said, motioning toward Shagga. “It looks like this inn is our only option. Neutral ground, if you will.”

“At least get rid of the rabble,” Lord Royce blustered, motioning to the other customers scattered around the inn.

With the tournament over, the inn wasn’t even half full. Only a few patrons sat around the common room, drinking ale or eating a late breakfast.

Tyrion called the innkeeper over, motioning around the room, and whispered, “The crown will pay double for some privacy.”

“At once mi’lord Hand,” the proprietor said, and hurried away to begin clearing out the remaining patrons.

“Oh, and bring me a plate of eggs and bacon and some wine. I’m famished,” Tyrion called after the man. Looking back at his companions, Tyrion asked, “Is anyone else hungry? Thirsty? No?”

“Ale,” Shagga grunted.

“And ale for my Stone Crow friends,” Tyrion shouted after the proprietor.

Lord Royce huffed in disapproval.

The innkeeper poured several large mugs of ale and handed them to Shagga and the other Stone Crows before grabbing Lizbeth’s arm and hurrying away to hide in the kitchen.

“Where have you been, anyway?” Lord Royce asked curtly. “We have been waiting for hours.”

“My own business,” Tyrion replied arrogantly, in a tone that dared Lord Royce to continue asking questions.

Brienne, standing behind Tyrion’s chair, remained perfectly still, her hand resting on Oathkeeper’s hilt. Although she had never been good at hiding her expressive eyes. If anyone had bothered to look, they might have seen guilt flickering across the vivid blue sapphires as she glanced down at Tyrion.

Ser Hugh had not bothered to look.

“I would have expected the Black Ears and Burned Men to also want in on this,” Tyrion said to Shagga as he waited to break his fast.

“Gone,” Shagga said gruffly and drank deeply from his mug, half of the brownish liquid spilling and soaking into his beard.

“Gone?” Tyrion replied dubiously. “Gone where? What happened to them?”

Shagga shrugged and looked away from Tyrion’s gaze.

“Something is wrong,” Tyrion said, leaning forward and eyeing the larger man. “Shagga? What happened to the Black Ears?”

“Dead,” Shagga said, curtly still refusing to meet Tyrion’s gaze.

“All of them?” Tyrion asked in disbelief.

Shagga nodded with a grunt.

“And the Burned Men?” Tyrion asked.

“Mostly dead.”

“How?” Tyrion asked, his confusion evident by the tone of his voice. “The Hill Tribes have eluded the knights of the Vale, some of the best swordsmen in the realm, for countless generations.”

“We are being hunted,” Shagga answered, before taking another long drink from his mug.

“Hunted by whom?” Tyrion asked, leaning back and tapping the tips of his fingers together.

“A witch,” Stagga replied brusquely.

“A witch?” Lord Royce snorted sarcastically. “You’re scared of a woman?”

Although remaining outwardly calm, Brienne did roll her eyes at Lord Royce’s comment. It was as if the man hadn’t been at Winterfell and didn’t know it was Arya Stark, a woman, who had ended the Long Night.

“A witch with an army.” The Stone Crow leader glared at Lord Royce.

“It could be that this witch or whatever,” Ser Hugh said, stepping forward for the first time, “is leading the band of outlaws we have been tracking.”

“Her army has not only attacked the Hill Tribes,” Shagga nodded wildly in agreement, “but anyone who has ever…um...traded with us in the past.”

“If by traded,” Ser Hugh said, glaring at the Stone Crow leader, “you mean bribed you not to steal their harvest, that would include most of the farmers in the Vale.”

“You knew of this?” Lord Royce thundered, turning his head to glare at Ser Hugh. “This extortion scheme?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Ser Hugh stood perfectly still as he replied. “I’m afraid the smallfolk felt they had little choice.”

“Well, if it was only the Hill Tribes being attacked, I would say they’re getting what they deserve,” Lord Royce said, rising up to look into the fire blazing in the hearth.

Shagga roared to his feet, fists clenched as he stared at Lord Royce. Sensing the threat, the knights of the Vale wrapped their hands around the hilts of their swords and stepped forward. The Stone Crows answered in kind, drawing their axes and clubs.

“Everyone calm down!” Tyrion’s deep voice penetrated the tension that filled the air. “Shagga…Lord Royce,” Tyrion barked in an annoyed tone, motioning for both men to sit back down.

Lord Royce grunted in contempt as Shagga belched loudly. However, reluctantly both men returned to their seats.

“We can’t let this witch and her army attack innocent farmers,” Ser Hugh said after tempers had cooled, “whose only crime is not trusting us to protect them.”

Tyrion turned to Shagga and said as earnestly as he could, “It appears we have a common enemy. Can we count on your assistance tracking down this witch and her army?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine
Descent into Darkness

Three years ago

Snow blew down from the branches of the weirwood tree. A dusting of white contrasted against the red leaves of the grandfather tree in WInterfell's Godswood. Twirling and twisting, the snow made its way slowly to the ground.

Samwell Tarly exasperatingly blundered around a young man in the wheeled chair, tucking a quilt around his legs. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay out here by yourself? It’s awfully cold.”

“I will be fine,” Bran replied calmly, looking up at his companion. “Gilly is looking for you.”

“She has used the last of the chokecherries to bake us a pie,” Sam said, smiling and looking toward the castle, licking his lips.

Bran didn’t respond, only continued to stare into the starry night sky.

“Well,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together for warmth, “I will come back in an hour and check on you.”

Bran watched blankly as the large man waddled away, disappearing into the grove of trees near the entrance to the Godswood.

Suddenly, Bran’s head jerked backwards, his brown eyes shattering and turning icy white.

Daenerys didn’t see the shadow as it came to rest in a dark corner of the map room. Her eyes were focused on the cursed table spread before her and the map covering its flat surface; it seemed to taunt her.

The discarded figurines—wolves, lions, dragons, and krakens—were scattered across the map, some still standing, others tipped over. Every one of them not where they were supposed to be. Daenerys picked up a lion figurine, running a finger over its growling maw.

A scream exploded from her throat, and she threw the small lion across the map room. The figurine bounced several times before coming to rest under the far end of the table.

Covering her face with her hands, Daenerys sank to the floor. Her skin grew clammy as more tears fell unabated. She had lost them: Ser Jorah, Viserion and now Rhaegal, her child shot down before her eyes as they approached Dragonstone. They were all dead because of this hideous map.

“Jon, I need you,” she sobbed, looking toward the ceiling and moving her hand to rest on her still-flat stomach. She hadn’t yet begun to show.

Inhaling the salty air of Dragonstone, Daenerys closed her amethyst eyes. Calm enveloped her as she remembered the last time she and Jon had been together, in her cabin on the Targaryen flagship before her fleet had sailed away from White Harbor and the North.

They had finally talked, truly talked, about their past and their future. Jon Snow hadn’t wanted to talk, of course; he had tried to avoid her entirely. When she finally ordered him to her cabin, he stoically pretended the uncertainty between them didn’t exist.

“I can’t do this alone,” Daenerys said, looking out the small window of her cabin facing out toward White Harbor. “I don’t want to do this alone.”

“The Northern Army and remaining Dothraki are al—” Jon began.

“Troop deployment is not what I’m talking about,” Daenerys said, inhaling deeply and turning around to face him.

He stood there looking at her in confusion, waiting for her to elaborate.

“Claim the Iron Throne with me,” Daenerys said, walking up to him and gripping his arms tightly.

He shook his head and tried to pull away from her grasp. “I bent the knee to you.”

“If you never wanted to be a king,” Daenerys asked, “then why did you lay with a queen?”

“You know why,” Jon said in his gravelly northern accent.

“You wouldn’t rule alone,” Daenerys cried, clutching his arm tighter. “We would rule together, as equals.”

He had looked away, shame, confusion and uncertainty spreading across his face.

Daenerys ran her hands down his chest. With all the strength in her small body she pushed him backwards; his legs hit the edge of a large chair and he sat down with a thump.

Looking down at him, Daenerys sighed before crawling onto his lap and straddling his legs. She could feel a bulge brushing against her inner thigh, for all his cold stoicism she was happy to note he still found her attractive.

Holding his face in her hands, Daenerys forced him to look at her.

“When I was a child,” Daenerys said, gazing into his shadowy Stark eyes, “I always assumed I would marry Viserys. That was until he sold me to Drogo in exchange for an army of Dothraki screamers.”

Jon chuckled in spite of himself. “From what you’ve told me of your brother, I would say you were truly lucky.”

Daenerys smiled down at him. “Targaryens think nothing of marrying their relatives, even close relatives, brothers to sisters.”

“It’s not the same in the north,” Jon said, blinking up at her.

“And I am your aunt,” Daenerys said with a sigh, looking away from his face.

“It’s not that I don’t love you.” Jon lurched forward, almost throwing Daenerys from his lap. His hands automatically seized her hips, preventing her from falling.

“Do I look like an aunt?” Daenerys growled, turning back to face him, a mischievous smile suddenly crossed her lips. “Some old crone who pinches you when you misbehave?”

Daenerys ran her hand up his arm and pinched him, hard, drawing a sharp yelp from his throat.

Jon grabbed her hand, clutching her fingers, and stared into her eyes.

“Family is about more than blood, Jon,” Daenerys said. “You should know this more than anyone.”

He could only stare into her amethyst eyes, not knowing where she was going with this.

“Your brother and sisters?” Daenerys asked, in a soft voice. “Are they any less your brother and sisters? Now that you know they are only your cousins?”

Jon shook his head.

“Of course not, as I am not really your aunt,” Daenerys replied.

“But you are,” Jon said, turning his head away.

“It wasn’t so long ago that we didn’t even know each other,” Daenerys said, running her hand across his face. “We share blood Jon, nothing more. We are not family, but we could be.”

“What are you proposing?” Jon asked.

“Rule by my side,” Daenerys said, leaning forward and resting her head against his chest. “A just woman and an honorable man. Together we would break the wheel.”

Jon’s hands clutched the fabric of her white fur-trimmed tunic. “I—” Jon stuttered.

“There is no I,” Daenerys said, looking up and placing a finger to his lips. “Only us.”

Jon nodded, moving his hand up to caress her face. Daenerys leaned into his hand and whispered, “I love you, Jon Snow.”

He replied softly, nuzzling his nose against her neck, “Always and forever.”

As the ship gently rocked on the tides of White Harbor Bay, their child was conceived. Had Jon been right? Had the witch lied? Or maybe the child was a miracle, which was what Daenerys believed.

Drifting out of her daydream, Daenerys smiled, rubbing her stomach with a gentle hand. As long as Jon and their child were by her side, she knew she would be okay; she would be grounded.

A breeze dusted the chamber, caressing her silver hair, and a shadow crept on the wind and moved across the room to hover near her ear.

Jon has betrayed you, the shadowy wind whispered.

“All finished then?” Sam said, fussing with Bran’s chair, brushing the snow that had accumulated near the wheels.

Bran looked up at the large man and said, “Almost, but there is much I still need to do.”

“Gilly saved you a slice of pie,” Sam said good-naturedly as he rearranged the quilt on top of Bran’s lap.

“I have no need for pie,” Bran said dully.

“It’s not about need, Bran,” Sam chuckled as he pushed the Three-Eyed Raven under the archway leading out of the Godswood. “It’s about enjoying life.”

Bran’s eyes fell on the old tower as Sam pushed his chair across Winterfell’s snowy courtyard. High up near the top of the ancient stone structure, in the very window he had fallen from all those years ago, a wisp of red hair fluttered in the wind.

Sansa suspects something.

The cold winter wind whistled through the ancient tower, a distant howl of a wolf shattering the lonely solitude. It was a wonder that the old tower survived the assault of the dead, while so many newer towers had collapsed under the battering of blue dragon fire.

Sansa placed her hands on the rough stone of the window; dried vines rustled and cracked as her hands brushed against them. Leaning forward, Sansa looked down from the height and a shiver ran down her spine. It was a miracle Bran had survived at all.

She looked out across Winterfell and saw Samwell Tarly pushing Bran in his wheeled chair. Her eyes followed them as they left the Godswood and slowly trudged across Winterfell’s icy courtyard.

From this high vantage point, Sansa could just make out the trees of the Godswood. The spruce, cedar and pines, their prickly branches still green even in the darkness of winter, in stark contrast with the large Weirwood, its bright red leaves lingering on the wind.

She knew Bran was spending more and more time in the Godswood, sitting under the weirwood tree. Sam said Bran’s power was enhanced by the ancient tree. What was he doing, that he needed to draw so much power from the old tree? The Night King was dead, and the north was safe, at least for the time being. What was he doing in there?

A slight rustling noise startled Sansa away from her troubled thoughts.

“I can hear you,” Sansa smirked, not turning away from the view outside the window.

“I let you hear me,” Arya replied, as she joined her sister by the window, “to be polite.”

“Yes, I guess you would,” Sansa grinned down at her sister.

“What are you doing up here?” Arya asked.

“Do you trust me?” Sansa asked solemnly.

“Surprisingly,” Arya answered with a slight chuckle, “yes, yes I do.”

“Bran is...” Sansa started, not knowing what to say and not even sure Arya would accept the truth. “I don’t know…different, changed—”

“Into the Three-Eyed Raven,” Arya said matter-of-factly.

“It’s more than just that,” Sansa replied, her eyes searching the courtyard below. Sam and Bran must have already entered the Great Hall. “We have all changed. I used to be a silly little girl who believed the world was good and just. You were nothing less than a wild beast.”

Arya looked up at her sister. “And Jon was Father’s bastard, lurking in the corners. I don’t see how—”

“I’ve noticed some discrepancies in Bran’s character. He claims to have no ambitions, yet—” Sansa started.

“Not everyone wishes for power, Sansa,” Arya interrupted her sister. “Not everyone is you.”

“Don’t they?” Sansa growled, turning to face Arya. “The power to destroy your enemies, the power to protect your family, the power to love. There are different kinds of power.”

“So what power does Bran want?” Arya asked quietly, following Sansa’s gaze out of the window.

“I don’t know, but I’ve been around enough people whose thirst for power led them down dark paths,” Sansa said in an ominous tone. “I recognize the look.”

“You think Bran is heading down a dark path?”

“There is a darkness lurking behind his eyes.” Wrapping her arms around her waist and turning toward her sister, Sansa shivered. “He tries to hide it, but I’ve seen it and so has Meera Reed.”

“Meera Reed?”

“Howland Reed’s daughter,” Sansa replied. “She brought Bran back from beyond the Wall.”

“Where is she now?” Arya asked curiously.

“Something scared her, so much so she fled back to Greywater Watch.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You’re going south.” Sansa said, not a question a statement. “To kill Cersei.”

“Yes…” Arya said. She hadn’t told anyone she had planned to leave, but Sansa knew anyway.

“Go to Greywater Watch first and talk to Meera Reed.”

Burn them all, the shadowy wind whispered in her ear.

The wind had whispered the same words in Daenerys’ ear, over and over again, ever since she had returned from the failed parley at King’s Landing. Ever since the Mountain had sliced Missandei’s head from her body and pushed her corpse from the battlements of that cursed city.

Burn them all.

Daenerys had suffered so much, endured so much pain and loss. Starvation and death had walked beside her as she crossed the vastness of Essos, learning to rule, building an army, gaining power. At first, she had been alone, just a slip of a girl, frightened in the darkness.

Burn them all.

One by one, drawn by her light, they had come and she no longer walked alone. Ser Jorah came first, her most loyal advisor. He had loved her, even though she could never fully return that love.

Jorah was soon followed by her children, Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal, who arrived born from fire and despair, and returning hope to Daenerys’ world.

Missandei and Greyworm came next; they followed Daenerys because they believed in her. Because she was the queen they chose.

Lastly Tyrion arrived, a lost soul hated by his family and distrusted by the realm. He had traveled across half of Essos to find a queen he could believe in.

They had all believed in her; their love had kept her grounded. Now she had no one left. Her foundation had crumbled away when she needed them the most.

Burn them all.

After Missandei’s death, Greyworm had retreated inside his own pain, abandoning Daenerys to battle her demons alone. Tyrion had tried, talking Daenerys down from the brink of the abyss on several occasions. However, he was just one man, and you can only talk someone down from a cliff so many times before they jump. She felt Tyrion slipping away from her with each passing day.

When the bell tolls, burn them all.

Daenerys had no one left. Everyone she had ever loved, everyone she had ever believed in and who had believed in her, everyone who had kept her grounded, were gone. The ground had fallen away; she was falling once again, a frightened girl alone in the darkness.

Burn them all.

She could no longer trust Jon, she knew that now. He had betrayed her; the shadow on the wind had told her as much. She ran her hand down her stomach. She wouldn’t tell Jon about the baby. He didn’t deserve to know, after his betrayal.

She had suffered so much, lost so many, all to win back the Iron Throne. It was hers, by right of blood and by right of sorrow. She was a dragon and she would do what Dragon Queens do. She would rule, and the entire world would bend the knee.

Burn them all.

Burn them all.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten
The Knights of the Vale

A fervent wind blew down from the Eyrie, filled with hope and exuberance. The frosty breeze thinned the air near the Bloody Gate until it fractured. The morning dew crystallized into shining shards that reflected the rising sun.

Brienne readied her saddlebag, pausing as the knights of the Vale rode past, led by Lord Royce and Lord Aryyn, their armor glistening in the glow of the new day. They did look impressive, these knights of the Vale, their horses moving swiftly with a high-stepping gait, designed to excite the imaginations of the smallfolk who had gathered to watch them depart.

Watching the knights pass, Brienne was reminded of the stories she had loved as a child. Quickly mounting her dark mahogany destrier, Brienne straightened her long white Kingsguard cloak so it flowed dramatically across her horse’s flank, then took her place in the pageant next to Lord Tyrion and Ser Podrick.

Behind the knights of the Vale rode a small contingent of knights from great and minor houses from throughout the Six Kingdoms, as well as a scattering of squires and hedge knights, including Ser Hyle Hunt. The Tournament of the Vale had ended just a few days ago, and there were still enough trained knights left at the Bloody Gate to form a substantial host.

Tyrion’s personal guard of Lannister soldiers and the Stone Crows on their rugged mountain ponies took their place at the end of the long procession.

After the tall towers of the Bloody Gate disappeared from view, the procession slowed to a gentler pace. The formally choreographed riding order shifted around as friends and acquaintances found each other.

The Stone Crows urged their sturdy mountain ponies forward to ride in front alongside Ser Hugh and Lord Royce. Much to Brienne’s annoyance, Ser Hyle had found his way through the pack and now rode next to her.

“It could get dangerous,” Ser Hyle said, looking down at Tyrion in concern. “Should you and Lord Arryn really be tagging along?”

“Lord Arryn is Lord Paramount of the Vale and the Warden of the East. It is to be expected he lead this expedition,” Brienne replied indignantly.

“That doesn’t mean the boy can fight,” Ser Hyle moaned and rolled his eyes, “and now we’ll have to worry about his safety.”

“I’ve heard Lord Robyn is quite good with a bow,” Podrick said good-naturedly, ever the optimist.

“What happens if we get into close combat?” Ser Hyle’s irritation was evident in his voice.

“We will just have to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Brienne replied gruffly, letting Hyle know this line of questioning was at an end.

“What about you, Lord Tyrion?” Ser Hyle finally said after a long, uncomfortable pause. “Why are you here?”

“Why must I constantly have to remind people I was the hero of Blackwater Bay? I saved the city,” Tyrion said with a huff. “Podrick was there. He knows. Tell him Pod.”

Ser Podrick’s lips turned up in a wry smile. “Lord Tyrion fought bravely.”

“See,” Tyrion said smugly, motioning toward Podrick, and then added, “and besides, if I wasn’t here, Shagga and Lord Royce would tear each other apart.”

As if on cue, a heated argument erupted at the front of the convoy. Tyrion sighed and rode ahead to mediate the dispute before it could get out of hand.

On paper, the Vale wasn’t very large, certainly not as large as the North. However, the best maps in the realm couldn’t accurately depict the maze of passes and hidden valleys that made up the foothills and high passes of the Mountains of the Moon. No maesters had ever entered the region to make a detailed survey. If they had tried, the Hill Tribes would have murdered the survey team and stolen their equipment.

The knights of the Vale had never ventured into the high passes either; only the Hill Tribes knew the region well enough not to lose their way in the primitive forests and roughly hewn crags.

When the long column of knights turned off the main road and ascended into the mountains, the Stone Crows took the lead. Guiding the party through a labyrinth of hidden moss-leaden paths, ancient valleys and secret hollows.

As the sun sank below the mountain ridges, the host set up camp in a thickly forested glade near a dancing mountain stream. Murky shadows were born amongst the trees as the sky darkened.

The gloom only receded slightly after a few squires lit several small campfires; meanwhile, the rest of the squires set up three large tents under the overhanging limbs of ancient trees, for each of the lords and the Hand of the King.

“Of course, there has always been an outlaw element in the Vale,” Ser Hugh explained as they sat around one of the campfires. “But they have never been so well organized.”

“Tis the witch,” Shagga muttered, looking from one face to the other. “She cast her spells on your outlaws and enchanted them into her army.”

“So, tell us about this witch,” Tyrion said, leaning forward. “What does she want?”

“She takes the boys.” Shagga’s eyes grew wide as he replied sinisterly, “To eat them.”

“She eats the children?” Brienne gasped in horror. “You’ve seen this?”

“Well, no, I haven’t seen it,” Shagga replied grimly, looking over at Brienne. “But what else would she be doing with all them boys?”

“Selling them in Essos,” Ser Hugh replied indignantly, paying little thought to Shagga’s theories. “Making the next generation of Unsullied.”

Brienne felt a chill crawl down her spine. Glancing over at Tyrion and Podrick, she knew they were thinking the same thing. They had all heard Samwell Tarly’s tale, how the Night King had created the White Walkers from Craster’s male offspring.

“Where did the witch come from?” Tyrion asked, praying Shagga didn’t say from north beyond the Wall.

“Six moons ago,” Shagga said with a harsh whisper, “she came down from the giant ice sheets on the high peaks of the Giant’s Lance.”

“How could someone live on a glacier?” Ser Hyle laughed, clutching his stomach and almost falling off the log he was sitting on.

Brienne, Tyrion and Podrick didn’t think it was funny at all.

“Her army, are they human men?” Tyrion asked, putting into words what both Brienne and Podrick were thinking. Did they have another Night King on their hands?

“What else would they be?” Shagga asked, confused by the bizarre question.

“What kind of powers does she have?” Ser Hyle asked curiously, his eyes wide with mirth. “She’s a witch isn’t she? Shouldn’t she have some kind of magical power?”

“She’s a witch,” Shagga growled, knowing the knight was making a joke at his expense. “She’s got them witch powers.”

Tyrion had stopped listening, tapping his finger against his chin as he worried over what he had just heard.

Although real witches were rare in Westeros, there were areas in Essos where witches and warlocks were commonplace. The witch could be a transplant from Essos.

It was possible the witch was only a charismatic female leader who had united the different bands of outlaws that had roamed the realm since the end of the war.

Or the Witch of the Vale could be something far, far worse.

The night grew quiet and still, the sound of the wind whispering through the leaves murmuring in their ears. Sentries were posted around the perimeter of the camp as the knights made their way to their bedrolls.

After Brienne crawled inside her bedroll, Ser Hyle brazenly arranged his roll next to hers. She was grateful when Podrick edged in between them, smiling smugly at Ser Hyle as he lay down next to Brienne.

“Great, more competition,” the knight growled and rolled over onto his side.

The moon flickered through the latticework of leaves overhead. The forest floor became a patchwork quilt of moonlight and dark shadows. Gradually, the whispered talk of the men grew silent as one by one the other knights fell asleep, their snores rising with the stars.

Lying quietly, Brienne’s senses grew attuned to the primeval forest. The flutter of unseen wings as an owl dived for its prey. The smell of decaying leaves gradually vanishing into the forest floor. The jagged stone under her bedroll, which Brienne couldn’t seem to find.

Heavy and cold as a winter storm, a mist rose, weaving through the sleeping camp. Brienne watched as the trees disappeared, enveloped by the freezing mist; the odor of decay and death followed the mysterious haze. She heard the sound of a branch breaking followed by strangled gasps from the sentries. The hairs on the back of Brienne’s neck rose, like a procession of knights riding into battle.

“Arise, arise, we are under attack!” Brienne shouted, soaring to her feet as she drew Oathkeeper from its sheath.

A body flew into Brienne, knocking her to the ground. In the haze, she could see other knights rising from their bedrolls as shadowy shapes stalked them through the heavy mist.

Brienne raised her sword just in time to block an attack by her shadowy foe. Reaching toward the shadow, Brienne clutched the tunic of her attacker, pulling him close. She needed to look into his face, half expecting to see frozen blue eyes.

The man’s eyes were cloudy brown. He’s just a man, a living man! Brienne’s thoughts rejoiced even as she drove her sword up through the soon-to-be-dead man’s ribs.

Pulling her blade from the corpse, Brienne swung wildly, slicing through the chest of another attacker.

Suddenly, pain laced through her body as a force skewered into her shoulder, and then another: arrows, slamming Brienne back hard against the trunk of a tree. Her vision blurred. Screaming harshly, Brienne reached up and tried to pull an arrow from her shoulder. Stinging heat and pain spread out from the point of impact. Poison, Brienne realized as her lungs refused to inhale enough air. The arrows were laced with poison.

“Light the torches,” Brienne heard Lord Royce’s voice bellowing from the cloudy miasma.

Torches flickered alive, shattering the mist.

“Lord Tyrion!” Ser Podrick’s voice rang through the cries and moans of the dying.

“They’ve taken Lord Robyn and the Hand of the King!” Lord Royce’s voice barked as blackness began to replace the hazy mist in Brienne’s eyes.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven
The Outlaws of the Vale

Crunch!

“Kaylan!” Arik growled angrily. “Stop eating all the apples.”

Crunch! “Sh’is, good,” Kaylan replied, his mouth full, wiping his sleeve across the sticky apple pulp running down his chin.

A chill ran down Braeden’s spine as he looked up from his work to see Arik standing a full head taller than Kaylan glaring down at his younger brother.

A memory flooded Braeden’s vision, his oldest son slapping his little brother, taunting the smaller child with cruel words and crueler actions. However, the sons in this peculiar memory didn’t have shaggy brown hair like Arik and Kaylan; they had golden hair and striking green eyes.

Braeden let out a sigh of relief when Arik dropped the bushel of apples he held next to his little brother and grabbed an empty basket from the back of the apple cart. Arik cast another glare at Kaylan before trudging back to the grove of apple trees Braeden and Arik had spent the better part of the afternoon harvesting.

Where had that memory come from? Even with all of Arik’s irritability, Braeden knew his son would never strike his little brother. He knew Arik’s hard exterior was a result of what he had endured during the wars. The boy had just been old enough to at least partially understand what his mother had suffered to insure the survival of their family. If anything, Arik was overly protective of both Kaylan and their mother. In Braeden’s absence, Arik, as the eldest son, had felt it his responsibility to try to protect them from the monsters who had preyed on his family.

It had been over two weeks since the Hand of the King had visited their humble cottage and life had almost returned to normal. Kaylan was annoying his brother; Arik was rolling his eyes. Life continued on at a peaceful pace.

The only difference was the strange fragments of memories which would suddenly haunt Braeden’s mind. As he watched Kaylan writing on the back of scraps of old handbills, recording Tyrion Lannister’s visit, Braeden remembered a dusty library and reading a book to a small child, who he somehow knew was a young Tyrion Lannister. Although, the Hand of the King said they had met only three years ago in Winterfell. He couldn’t have known the King’s Hand as a child.

As Braeden drew water from the well, he remembered jumping from a high cliff into a rolling sea. The fluffy white clouds reminded him of sailing past a beautiful island on a shimmering blue sea. As far as he knew, he had never been to the sea.

He didn’t even want to think about what chopping wood reminded him of: a sharp blade and a taunting voice, “This should help you remember.”

The most intense fragments of memory seem to involve the tall lady knight, Ser Brienne. Lord Tyrion had said she had been his commander during the Long Night, but that didn’t explain his more erotic memories.

“When am the maester of House Mertyn,” Kaylan called smugly to his brother’s back, bringing Braeden’s mind back to the present and his bickering sons, “I’ll have all the apples I want.”

“There’s not enough apples in all of the Six Kingdoms,” Arik replied mockingly.

“Kaylan, why not pick out three or four of the best apples?” Braeden suggested, winking at his eldest son. “Momma can bake us a pie.”

“Pie?!” Kaylan’s eyes lit up and he started to rummage through the bushels already loaded onto the cart.

“Good call,” Arik said dryly, looking up at his father.

“You want pie as much as he does,” Braeden laughed as he glanced down at his often dour oldest son.

Braeden was almost certain he saw a sly smile sneak across Arik’s mouth before the youth remembered himself and rolled his eyes.

“Papa!” Kaylan’s harsh scream broke the quiet serenity of the grove.

The young boy stood on the apple cart pointing in the direction of their cottage. Braeden looked up as wisps of smoke drifted above the trees.

“Pia!” Braeden gasped, dropping the basket he was holding. The apples bounced as they hit the ground before rolling to a stop under his feet as Braeden took off running toward the rising smoke.

As he burst through the trees, the scene in front of him sent an icy chill down his spine. In front of their burning cottage, a tall raider stood behind Pia, pressing a large dagger against her throat.

Dead chickens and broken barrels of apple brandy lay scattered around the yard, and more hard-faced men wielding torches set fire to the barn and chicken coop.

“Momma!” Kaylan screamed.

Arik grabbed his brother, drawing him into a protective embrace, preventing the younger boy from dashing toward the armed man threatening their mother.

“Kid!” another of the outlaws shouted, pointing a gnarled finger toward Arik and Kaylan.

“Leave him alone!” Arik shouted at the raiders, as his little brother was ripped from his arms.

“Kaylan!” Pia cried harshly, her eyes wide in panic as Kaylan struggled against the raiders. She tried to pull away from the man holding the knife to her throat.

Time seemed to slow, and Braeden lunged forward. Pia continued to scream, even as the tall man slid his knife across her neck and pushed her limp body forward.

Braeden reached the outlaw, impaling the hook on his right arm into the villain’s neck, and twisted the long knife from the man’s grip as he gasped for air.

Muscle memory took over as Braeden turned and plunged the blade into the raider’s eye, like jamming a knife through Jory Cassel’s eye. Braeden dropped the blade and in the same instance grabbed the raider’s sword from his belt. Twisting around, Braeden lodged the sword into the gut of another outlaw rushing to attack him from the left.

He raised his blade to meet the next onslaught as more of the outlaws hurried forward. Confusion and pain filled Braeden’s mind even as he continued to fight. The dam had broken and a torrent of lost memories, more than just broken fragments, flooded forth from the depths of his soul.

Stab—pushing Brandon Stark from a tower.

Parry—being held captive at Riverrun.

Thrust—Brienne escorting him to King’s Landing.

Stab—fighting against an army of the dead.

Parry—leaving Brienne.

“Retreat!” a voice barked through the noise and chaos.

Shouts, the nickers of horses, followed by the beating of hoofs roared in Jaime’s ears as the remaining outlaws melted into the forest.

Jaime clenched his hand to his side, bending over to catch his breath as memories of people and events continued to flood into his mind: Brienne, Tyrion, Cersei, dragons. He remembered it all, every good and bad deed he had ever done. Brienne, he had left Brienne in Winterfell.

Why did I leave Brienne? his soul shouted, pulsating through his brain like the beating of a drum.

A rasping sob drew Jaime’s attention. Dropping his sword, he fell to his knees next to the woman who for the last three years had been his wife and not his wife.

“Hold on,” Jaime cried, gathering Pia into his arms.

Shakily Pia raised her blood-soaked hand, leaving sticky red fingerprints across Jaime’s face.

“It’s okay,” Pia coughed, and blood spilled from her mouth. “I got to have you,” another cough, “Ser Jaime.” Pia’s hand fell away from his face as her body went limp in his arms.

“Momma?” Jaime vaguely heard Arik cry as the boy clutched at his mother’s neck in a futile attempt to stop the flow of blood.

Looking up at Jaime, Arik’s voice rasped, “Papa…they killed Momma and took Kaylan.”

Jaime’s hands knitted through Brienne’s hair as she floated suspended in air. Emerald eyes with specks of gold met her sapphire eyes as he drew his hand down her cheek, gently kissing her brow, her nose and her lips.

“Jaime!” Brienne cried as his image slowly faded from her dreams.

“She’s awake,” Podrick Payne’s familiar voice sounded in her ears.

Brienne heard the muted clink, clink, clink of a maester’s chain Opening her eyes, she saw a strange elderly man hovering above her.

“You gave us quite a scare, young lady…um…young Ser,” the maester said with a chuckle. “Luckily the wounds were only superficial, and the poison they used on their arrowheads is well known in the Vale.”

“Where am I?” Brienne said, sitting up and looking around the dark chamber.

“You’re in the Bloody Gate,” the strange maester said, gently trying to push Brienne back down onto the bed.

“Where’s Lord Tyrion?” Brienne’s voice rose to almost a shout. The last thing she remembered before slipping into unconsciousness was Lord Royce shouting that they had taken Lord Tyrion.

Podrick’s face turned ashen as he pressed his lips together in a tight grimace.

“Both Lord Tyrion and Lord Robyn were taken prisoner,” Lord Royce said curtly as he entered the maester’s chamber.

Brienne pushed the maester’s hands away and threw her legs over the side of the bed. “We need to immediately mount a rescue.” Sneering accusingly at Lord Royce, she asked, “Why didn’t you follow them?”

“Over half our host was either dead or injured during the attack,” Lord Royce croaked, as he raised his chin indigently. “We barely made it back to the Bloody Gate alive.”

Brienne struggled to her feet and grimaced as her full weight hit the floor, after...she actually didn’t know how long she had been out.

“A raven has been sent to King’s Landing, informing the king of the situation,” Lord Royce explained, trying to stay composed, “and a raven has returned. The King believes we will be able to ransom Lord Robyn and Lord Tyrion, as they are both high-value hostages.”

“What are their demands?” Brienne asked.

Shaking his head slowly, Lord Royce replied, “We haven’t heard anything yet.”

“Get me my sword and armor,” Brienne growled, turning to Ser Podrick. “We’re going after Lord Tyrion.”

“The King has ordered us, ordered you, to stay put,” Lord Royce crossed his arms over his chest and replied firmly, “and wait for their demands.”

After Lord Royce and the maester left the room, Brienne turned to Podrick; her resolve was written across her face.

“We’re going after him.” Podrick said. It wasn’t even a question.

“Oh, we’re going after him,” Brienne stated matter-of-factly.

Two shadowy shapes in dark hoods slipped into the stables. Neither of them spoke as they silently saddled their horses. If they were discovered, they could be arrested for disobeying a direct order from the crown.

“And where do you two think you are going?” a gravelly voice drifted from the shadows.

The two knights flinched, startled by being discovered so soon. Ser Hyle stepped into the light and smiled slyly at them.

“That is none of your concern,” Brienne growled at the hedge knight as she mounted her horse.

“It is,” the knight replied smugly, grabbing the reins of her horse, “because I’m going with you.”

“Why?” Ser Podrick snorted in contempt.

“I rather like the little fellow,” Ser Hyle replied and turned to look Brienne directly in the eyes. “And since I’m not making any progress winning your heart, being a sworn knight to the Hand of the King doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve
The Soft Brown Leather Coat

Dawn spread across the sky; the stars faded into a cloudy gray mist that clung to the hard limestone of the Bloody Gate. The thick fog hid the departure of three knights as they slipped past the gatehouse, the sentries being more concerned with people trying to enter the castle, than with who was leaving.

The three knights walked their horses silently through the sleeping village that hugged the walls of the Bloody Gate, only picking up speed after the walls of the fortress disappeared into the morning mist.

The knights dressed lightly, forgoing heavy plate for lighter leather. The horses could travel faster and for a longer distance before stopping to rest. It was an added benefit that without the golden Kingsguard armor they were not as easily recognizable.

Under her dark hood, Brienne wore the soft brown long coat she had found in the trunk Jaime had left behind in the White Sword Tower. When Brienne wasn’t on duty, she often wore Jaime’s old coat; it made her feel safe, like someone having her back when the wights attacked. When she wore his long leather coat, she could almost imagine Jaime holding her in his arms.

The sleeves were a little short and the chest and shoulders loose. The heavy plate armor that Brienne favored exaggerated her bulk, making her look larger and more masculine than she actually was.

The horses thundered down the gravel road that led toward the Mountain of the Moon. The terrain gradually changed from high granite cliffs to low forested foothills. Brienne recognized the surrounding countryside; it was only two weeks ago that she and Tyrion had rode down this very road. She knew soon they would pass a newly repaired fence atop a small rise where an apple grove grew.

Brienne saw the smoke billowing across the sky before the hill came into view. As they neared Braeden’s homestead, her worst fears were confirmed. The smoke was coming from the direction of his cottage.

“Gods, no!” Brienne gasped and urged her horse onto the well-worn trail leading up the hill to the small farm.

“Ser?” Podrick called after her, but Brienne was already halfway up the hill.

Turning to Ser Hyle, the other knight merely shrugged and turned his mount. They really had no choice but to follow.

Brienne burst into the yard at a full gallop. Her horse reared up, frightened by the fire that continued to consume the cottage and barn. Brienne’s eyes widened, taking in the destruction to the small homestead.

Several dead raiders were scattered around the yard. Sprawled in front of the burning cottage, Pia lay in a pool of her own blood. Her son Arik rested his head on his mother’s shoulder as tears streamed from his eyes.

Braeden stood nearby, clenching a rusted sword in his left hand and breathing heavily. Battle fever flashed in his green eyes as he turned his gaze toward the Brienne.

Podrick’s eyes grew wide as he rode up behind Brienne, confusion spreading across his face as he took in the scene. “Ser…Ser Jaime?”

Jaime looked up, replying between gritted teeth, “Podrick, would you be so kind as to watch my son?” Walking swiftly to one of the dead raider’s horses, Jaime grabbed the reins. “Brienne, if you would, there’s some people in need of killing.”

“No,” Arik shouted, jumping up and running toward Jaime, then tugging on his arm. “They killed my mother and kidnapped my little brother. I’m going with you.”

“No you are n—”Jaime looked down at the young man and saw the determination in Arik’s eyes. He nodded once and said, “Go find a horse.”

“What in the seven hells is going on?” Ser Hyle asked, looking from Brienne to Podrick to Jaime.

“Brienne, Podrick, and I don’t know who the seven hells you are,” Jaime looked to each of them in turn, “I’m going after the assholes that killed my wi…Pia and kidnapped my son, if you care to join me.”

“They are probably the same band of outlaws that kidnapped Lord Tyrion,” Podrick said, looking at Brienne for confirmation.

Jaime growled, grabbing the reins of Podrick’s horse and looking up at the young knight. “What did you say?”

“Lord Tyrion and Lord Arryn were kidnapped by the Witch of the Vale and her band of outlaws,” Ser Hyle replied. “We are going to rescue him.”

Jaime looked at Brienne for confirmation. Brienne could only nod, still in shock. She couldn’t speak; Braeden wasn’t acting like the simple farmer she and Tyrion had visited two weeks ago. He was different somehow. His demeanor, his confidence, even the timbre of his voice was Jaime.

“We should bury the dead first,” Ser Hyle said sympathetically, waving his hands toward the destruction. “Before wolves or lions eat them.”

“No, burn them,” Brienne and Podrick both said at the same time.

The outlaws who had escaped Jaime’s sword were easy to follow; they weren’t even trying to hide their trail. Broken branches and overturned stones marked their swift passage through the forest.

Jaime could feel Brienne’s eyes on the back of his head as they rode through the forest. She was confused, and he couldn’t blame her; the whole situation was confusing. Two weeks ago, Jaime was a humble apple farmer. He knew his demeanor had changed; he remembered being Braeden, but that wasn’t him, not anymore.

When the small party stopped at a mountain stream to water the horses, Brienne pulled Podrick aside. The two knights spoke in quiet whispers. Every now and again Podrick would look up at Jaime, his eyes wide in astonishment.

They continued to follow the raiders for several hours. The surrounding forest gradually darkened as the sky drained of color, bathing the forest in deep shadows. Arik’s eyes grew heavy and his head fell to his chest. The lad’s head jolted up suddenly as he caught himself before he could fall from his saddle.

“We should camp for the night, pick up the trail on the morrow,” Ser Hyle said, reaching over and steadying Arik as the boy almost fell from his saddle for a second time in nearly as many minutes.

“No,” Jaime grumbled and urged his horse forward. “We have to keep going.”

“If we don’t stop, we’ll lose their trail in the dark,” Brienne said firmly, waving her hand at Arik, “and the boy is falling asleep in his saddle.”

“The villains we are chasing will surely rest for the night,” Hyle added, trying to sound reassuring. “I promise you, we’ll find them.”

With a sigh, Jaime reluctantly agreed. If they continued on through the night, they might make up some lost time, but it was just as likely they would lose the trail in the darkness.

Almost immediately, Arik fell asleep under a large pine tree, rolled up in a thick blanket. Podrick set up camp while everyone else dispersed into the forest to look for firewood.

Jaime had already gathered a handful of dry twigs when he heard a low rustling. A few feet away a man shrouded in shadow rose from the ground holding a dead rabbit. The mysterious man suddenly stopped, hearing Jaime’s approach, and aimed a bow in his direction.

Jaime dropped the twigs he had gathered and reached for his sword.

“Ser Jaime,” Ser Hyle said in greeting, stepping out from the shadows and lowering his bow. “You know, we fought together once.”

“Did we?” Jaime eyed the hedge knight before responding, “My memory isn’t what it once was.”

“At Highgarden,” Ser Hyle continued. “I was in service to House Tarly.”

“Ah,” Jaime replied with a nod.

“Randyll Tarly was a hard man, a real taskmaster. But you always knew where you stood. I haven’t found such a desirable posting since he was…” Ser Hyle trailed off.

“Were you also at the Battle of the Goldroad?” Jaime asked, still trying to place the man in Randyll Tarly’s large contingent of knights.

“When the Dothraki rode over the rise, I thought we were done for,” Ser Hyle said with a swift nod. “Then she appeared over the horizon, riding that huge black beast.”

A chill ran down Jaime’s spine as he remembered the dragon fire and the slaughter.

“I saw what you did,” the hedge knight said, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Charging that dragon head on. I don’t know whether it was incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.”

“A little of both, I suppose,” Jaime replied with a snort.

“You seem to make a habit of stupidity.” Hyle looked at Jaime in contempt.

“I’ve killed men for less,” Jaime sneered down at the hedge knight.

“You fucked the queen, your sister,” Hyle replied in disdain, undeterred by the one-handed knight. “Siring her bastard children and starting a war to keep it a secret.”

Jaime’s hand itched as he wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword.

“And then there’s what you did to her.” Hyle’s eyes motioned to the forest, in the direction Brienne had gone in search of firewood. “She may not be much to look at, but she is an honorable, high-born lady.”

Ser Hyle was taking him to task about his actions toward Brienne. Jaime wanted to hate the man, but he knew the knight had the right of it.

“Do you know what they called her after you left? What some still call her?” Ser Hyle spat on the ground and glared at Jaime. “The Kingslayer’s whore!”

“I will kill any man who—” A low growl rose in Jaime’s throat.

“And there you go, doing something stupid again.” Hyle held up his hand, gruffly interrupting Jaime. “I asked her to marry me, you know? You were dead three years, and still I couldn’t compete with your memory.”

Jaime’s hand dropped away from his sword. “Brienne…?” he trailed off.

“She may be a fierce warrior. But she still has a maiden’s heart. Don’t hurt her again,” Hyle warned, purposely bumping into Jaime’s shoulder as he brushed past him.

Before he disappeared into the woods, Ser Hyle turned to look back at Jaime and scoffed. “Stop being such a damn fool and go after her!”

Brienne had travelled farther into the ancient forest than was necessary for finding twigs and branches for firewood. The leaves rustled under Jaime’s feet as he followed Brienne through the tall trees. Every now and again, he would catch a glimpse of her pale blond hair far in the distance, a fleeting vision soon to disappear into the thick forest.

He was beginning to worry he had lost her trail when Jaime heard the laughter of a mountain stream in the distance. The sound of running water like the giggling of shy maidens gradually changed to a roar.

He followed the song of the flowing water, finally finding Brienne on the banks of a mountain stream. Jaime’s breath caught in his throat; she looked like a vision standing on the rocky banks of the stream, looking up at a waterfall, its ivory white water leaping from a cliff face.

The moon had cast a shimmering light onto Brienne’s hair, which glowed as it cascaded over her shoulders and across Jaime’s long soft brown coat. Jaime smiled, deciding he liked her hair that length; it framed her face nicely, softening her.

“That’s mine,” Jaime said as he stepped out from the trees.

“What?” Brienne sniffed as she turned around, rubbing tears away from her eyes with the heel of her hand.

“That’s my coat,” Jaime said, stepping closer and pointing at the long leather coat Brienne was wearing.

Brienne looked down for a moment, running her hand over the fine leather. When she looked back up, Jaime had closed the distance between them. His emerald green eyes locked with her sapphires, staring at her like he had done so many times in the past. She used to be confused by that stare, until that night in Winterfell. Then she had finally understood.

“You remember?” her words floated up into the air and then just hung there, haunting him like a ghost from the past.

“Yes,” he murmured, fingers of guilt scratching at his soul.

Brienne inhaled deeply as tears threatened to well up once again, stinging like poison. “Everything?”

Reaching out and clutching the leather coat near her waist, Jaime softly replied, “Everything.”

Brienne’s face changed from relief to pain to something else entirely. Her eyebrows knitted together as her lips curved downward in an unpleasant scowl.

Jaime felt his heart drop. She must hate him, and that felt like an arrow through his scarred soul.

“I—” he started, but he didn’t finish before her hand crashed against face, knocking the words from his lips.

Brienne had slapped him, knocking Jaime’s head backwards.

Jaime’s sister had slapped him more than once, whenever she was annoyed or angry. Jaime often laughed, catching Cersei’s hand and drawing their bodies together, running his hand down her supple body and whispering in her ear, distracting Cersei from her madness at least for a short while.

That tactic wouldn’t work with Brienne; she would probably knock him on his ass.

Brienne’s slap had hurt worse than any Cersei had ever given him. Not only physically, and it had hurt like a wave crashing against a rocky shore; the heat was already rising on his cheek. It had also hurt emotionally. Jaime knew he had betrayed Brienne and their love when he left her alone in Winterfell.

When she struck him a second time, it was with enough force that Jaime fell to his knees.

Wrapping his arms around her waist, Jaime pressed his face against her stomach. He suddenly wished the leather coat wasn’t in the way; he needed to feel her skin against his face.

“Why?” Brienne sobbed as she beat her fists against his shoulders and back.

Tomorrow he would have bruises; Brienne wasn’t pulling her punches, and each blow struck like a blacksmith’s hammer. Jaime let her, knowing she needed the release after three years of suppressed grief. His only response was to continue placing light kisses along her stomach.

“Why?” she continued to sob over and over again, until her voice cracked.

The blows gradually tailed off and finally stopped. Brienne’s legs buckled and she sank to her knees. Their eyes met, emeralds drowning in a deep sapphire sea.

“I don’t know,” Jaime whispered, caressing her face with his thumb and gently kissing the tears from her eyes.

Holding her chin up with his thumb and forefinger, Jaime risked a chaste kiss on her lips. Softly at first, and when Brienne didn’t pull away, he ran his hand to the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen
A Night in the Vale

The sky had disappeared, replaced by the forest canopy; only small flecks of a starry sky peeked through the leaves, like pebbles on the shore of a mountain lake. A breeze drifted through the branches, a gentle wave repositioning the starry stones.

Brienne lay awake staring at the canopy of leaves soaring overhead. It was Podrick’s turn at watch, and she could hear the receding crunch of the young knight’s boots as he walked around the perimeter of their camp.

Turning her head, she looked at the man in the bedroll next to her. Jaime was awake. He lay on his side with his arms crossed in front of his chest, staring at her. The dying embers of the campfire cast golden starbursts in his emerald eyes.

“Hey,” he whispered, reaching out and running his thumb across Brienne’s lower lip.

“Jaime,” Brienne said in a hushed whisper. Just saying his name felt like the years had fallen away and they were once again back at Winterfell.

Jaime inhaled softly, closing his eyes as a smile tugged at his lips. “Do that again,” he murmured.

“Do what?” Brienne whispered, rolling onto her side to face him.

Jaime opened his eyes and replied. “Say my name.”

“Jaime?” Brienne asked tenderly.

“It’s been so long since anyone has called me by my name,” he said, a light smile playing on his lips.

“Jaime?” Brienne asked blinking at him, “What did you mean when you said you didn’t know why you left?”

Turning onto his back and looking up at the canopy, Jaime sighed. “What I said to you that night, I meant it, I was hateful.”

“Jaime don’t—” Brienne said, rising up on one elbow and looking down at his face.

Jaime reached up, laying a finger across her lips. “Let me finish.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “What I didn’t say was, I was no longer that man. I wanted to do better, You made me remember when I was better.”

“Then why—?” Brienne started to ask, until Jaime’s eyes silently conveyed he had not finished.

Laying back down, Brienne nodded for him to continue.

“It was never my plan to leave,” Jaime said, his eyes glowing in the firelight. “I had even sent a raven to your father, asking for your hand.”

“You wanted to marry me?” Brienne shook her head, confusion flooding her vision as her eyes blurred with tears.

“I was just waiting for your father’s response.”

“He never said anything.”

“He probably didn’t want to hurt you,” Jaime said, wiping away the tears that had fallen from her eyes. “I had already hurt you enough.”

“If you planned on asking me to marry you,” Brienne’s voice shattered like a crystal chalice. “Then why did you leave?”

Jaime didn’t answer at first, struggling to find the right words. Finally, he quickly uttered, “It will sound crazy.”

“Oh, just spit it out,” Brienne said in annoyance.

“It was…it was like there was a shadow on the wind that kept whispering in my ear,” Jaime replied with a shudder, hoping she would believe him even though it sounded insane. “Telling me I was hateful and reminding me of all the terrible things I had done, all in Cersei’s name.”

Brienne remained silent, reaching out and laying her hand on his shoulder. Jaime clutched her hand, rubbing his thumb against her long fingers.

“The whispers kept getting more and more intense,” Jaime continued, encouraged that she hadn’t yet called him a liar or a fool. “Then when Lady Sansa said she had hoped to see them execute my sister, the whisper said, We were born together and will die together.”

Sighing, Jaime looked back up into the trees. His eyes searched the branches, like he was looking for the lying shadow on the wind.

“I know how it sounds,” he finally said in a hushed whisper. “But it’s the truth. Please, Brienne, I need you to believe me.”

“In front of my own eyes, the first man I ever loved was murdered by a shadow.” Brienne sniffed away the tears, gently running her hand along his cheek, turning his head to face her. “I’ve fought against an army of the dead and seen real dragons. After everything I have seen, it’s not unreasonable to believe a shadow would whisper cruel lies to drive my…to drive our love away.”

“I love you, Brienne,” Jaime said, his chin trembling a little. “Do you still…do you still love me?”

Brienne smiled gently down at him. “I never stopped loving you.”

Jaime rose up onto his elbow and leaned over her, gently brushing his lips across Brienne’s face, kissing her lips softly before nuzzling his nose behind her ear. Brienne laughed, inhaling sharply as his breath tickled the sensitive skin on her neck.

“Ka-kaff!” A loud cough interrupted the tender moment.

Startled, they both looked up. Podrick was sitting on a log on the other side of the campfire staring at them. The young knight motioned toward the sleeping forms of Hyle and Arik with his eyes, before standing up and pretending to check on the horses.

With a sound that could only be described as half a snort and half a giggle, Brienne pushed Jaime back to his own bedroll.

“Cruel,” Jaime sighed dramatically, laying down and staring up at the moon. “The both of you are so, so cruel.”

Brienne sighed and looked over at him. “Jaime?”

“Hmmm,” Jaime hummed in reply.

“Did you love her?” Brienne asked, suddenly serious again.

“Who?’ Cersei?” Jaime said, turning to look at Brienne.

“No, I know you loved Cersei. I know a part of you always will.” The sadness was evident in her voice, “I mean Pia. Did you love her?”

Jaime thought for a moment before answering. “I…I cared for her. Even though she lied to me and stole my identity, I can’t hate her.”

“She loved you very much.”

“I thought it was because of the head injury that I couldn’t love her back,” Jaime whispered, remembering the past three years. “I always felt something was missing from our marriage.”

“Love?” Brienne asked.

“That,” Jaime nodded in reply, turning to stare into her eyes, “and you. You were missing. It should have been you.”

Brienne reached out and clasped his hand. They lay silently for a while, staring up at the trees.

“Brienne?” Jaime finally spoke, his voice strained.

“Yes, Jaime,” Brienne whispered in reply.

“I need you to know, Cersei owned my heart for…for as long as I can remember,” Jaime said, as a tear rolled down his cheek. “Until I met you. From almost the first moment we met, my soul was yours. It was always yours.”

She squeezed Jaime’s hand and smiled. “I know. I found your letter.”

“I had a pure heart once. When I was young, I wanted to be an honorable knight, like Arthur Dayne or Barristan Selmy. Cersei corrupted my love for her, turned my heart black, but she could never touch my soul,” Jaime sighed, losing himself in the sapphire sea of her eyes. “Only you could see into my soul and recognize the knight I was meant to be.”

“The knight you can still be,” Brienne replied matter-of-factly.

The forest was wearing a cloak of light mist as the sun rose above the Mountains of the Moon. Having stood the last watch, Hyle was already awake. The knight sat on an old log pushing the last dying embers of night’s fire with a stick. His head pivoted as he heard stirring from his sleeping companions.

They rose one by one and gathered around the dying campfire to break their fast with the last of the leftover rabbit. Only Arik didn’t join them; he glanced sadly at Jaime before wandering a short distance away. Sitting down against a tree, the young man dropped his head down as he stared at his hands.

“Go talk to him,” Brienne nudged Jaime, almost knocking him off the log they were sitting on. “He needs his father right now.”

“I’m not his father,” Jaime replied sadly, shaking his head.

“Aren’t you?”

Jaime looked over at the Arik and nodded before standing up and walking over to where the boy sat under the tree.

Arik looked up as Jaime approached and sniffed, “Ser Jaime.”

“Oh? What happened to Papa?” Jaime asked, sitting down next to Arik. “Or ‘hey you.’ Isn’t that how you usually refer to me?”

Arik sighed and shook his head. “Kaylan didn’t know. He’s too young to remember our real father.”

Reaching over, Jaime laid his hand on Arik’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have…I didn’t mean to replace your real father.”

“He was a drunk and a coward. He ran away, as soon as he saw the Mountain and his soldiers approaching our village.” Arik rubbed at his hands, trying to wipe away an imagined stain. “You were a better father than he ever was.”

“I’m still your father.”

“But you’re…you’re not,” Arik cried and shook his head. “Momma tricked you and made me go along with it. I’m sorry, I—”

Jaime shook his head. “A father is more than the man who sires you. He is the man who raises you, teaches you how to be in the world, teaches you to read. I did that, not him.”

“I don’t much like reading,” Arik snorted.

“To tell the truth,” Jaime said with a smirk, lightly nudging the boy’s shoulder, “when I was your age, neither did I.”’

“Then why did you make me learn?” Arik scowled and looked up at Jaime.

“It’s what fathers do.” Jaime chuckled as his son rolled his eyes. “Now let’s go get your brother and uncle.”

The green coniferous forests of the foothills gradually changed to gray granite cliffs as the rescue party followed the path of the outlaws up a dry river bed, past the tree line of the Mountains of the Moon.

“So is there even a plan for rescuing Lords Tyrion and Arryn and the boy?” Ser Hyle asked.

Brienne pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders; the temperature had dropped sharply as they climbed higher into the mountains. Looking up at the cloudless sky, she contemplated their options.

“They are too many outlaws for an outright assault,” Brienne said, looking up at the position of the sun. “After it gets dark, we’ll sneak into their camp, free Tyrion, Kaylan and Lord Robyn and escape into the night.”

“It’s not much of a plan,” Jaime said with a laugh. “I like it.”

“That explains the hand,” Hyle snorted, pointing at the hook on Jaime’s right arm.

Jaime looked at the hedge knight for a moment before he burst out laughing and replied with a smirk, “I’ve been told that before, when Bronn and I tried to sneak into Dorne.”

“Oh? And how did that work?” Ser Hyle asked curiously.

Jaime shrugged and replied, “We were captured.”

“Ah,” Hyle said with a snort, “I would say our chances are just about the same.”

“Just stop it, both of you!” Brienne finally had enough. She looked from knight to knight and growled, “Since Lord Royce has decided to just sit on his bloody ass in the Bloody Gate, this is the best we can do.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen
The King in the High Tower

Six months ago

The hall in which the small council met in Maegor’s Holdfast had once been the queen’s solar. It was diminutive compared to the small council’s two previous locations, first in the Red Keep and later in the Tower of the Hand during the time Tywin Lannister served as Hand to Joffrey Baratheon.

“Your grace,” the members of the council said simultaneously, standing as the king appeared.

Bran nodded to the small council as Ser Podrick pushed the young king’s wheeled chair to his position at the front of the table.

“Your Grace, I was just telling the council that the rebuilding has gone exceptionally well.” Tyrion smiled at the young monarch. “Two-thirds of the city has been rebuilt and the new sewer system is now complete.”

“And our noses thank you for it.” Lord Bronn looked at Tyrion and smiled arrogantly.

“The city does smell considerably better than the first time I visited the capital,” Brienne said, straight-faced.

“Indeed,” Tyrion replied, “and now that the city is nearly complete, we believe work should begin rebuilding the Red Keep.”

“The rebuilding of King’s Landing takes precedence over the Red Keep,” Bran said dully. “Maegor’s holdfast is quite large enough to fulfill all our needs.”

“If our needs include being shoved in like raccoons,” Bronn scoffed, winking at his fellow small council members.

Tyrion threw Bronn a menacing look before turning back to the king. “Your Grace, the smallfolk look to the state of the Red Keep as an indication of the state of the realm. If the home of the king is in disrepair they fear the realm to be in disre—"

“Broken King Bran sits in his broken tower, on his broken throne, eating his broken bread…" Bronn began to croon a rowdy song that had recently become popular in Flea Bottom.

“Amusing,” the king said. He didn’t sound amused, but neither did he sound angry. Bran just stared ahead at some unknown vision at the far end of the chamber.

“Your Grace?” Tyrion asked, after the king hadn’t spoken for a few minutes.

Bran focused his eyes back to his small council. “You can begin repairs on the White Sword Tower.”

“I am sure the Gold Cloaks will be pleased they no longer have to share their barracks with the Kingsguard,” Brienne nodded professionally.

The long, squat barracks of the city watch had survived the destruction of King’s Landing relatively intact, while the taller White Sword Tower had suffered enough structural damage to make it unsafe.

In truth, Brienne would be pleased by the change in living quarters. Tensions had flared more than once between the Gold Cloaks and the Kingsguard.

“Well, since that is decided,” Tyrion hummed, looking down at this meeting notes, “I believe we can call this meeting to a close.”

The sound of the chairs scraping against the floor echoed through the hall as the rest of the small council stood.

The king, who had remained quiet, suddenly held up his hand, signaling that the meeting had not yet ended.

“Grand Maester Tarly,” King Bran said, turning to Sam and nodding for him to speak as the rest of the council sank back down into their chairs.

“We have received a raven from Riverrun,” Sam began, holding up a scrap of rolled parchment and handing it to Tyrion.

Unravelling the small slip of parchment, Tyrion’s brows knitted together. “Is this a joke?”

“What is it, Lord Hand?” Brienne asked in concern.

“The North, Queen Sansa has annexed the Twins,” Tyrion said, holding up the slip of parchment, “and it would appear she is in the process of building a rather large wall.”

“You mean rebuilding the Wall,” the Master of War, Ser Addam Marbrand, said, leaning forward as Tyrion handed him the message.

“The Crannogmen are building a wall across the Neck,” Bran said dully, his brown eyes looking at no one in particular. “On Sansa and Meera Reed’s orders.”

Brienne shook her head and gasped, “Sansa would never—"

“I know you are fond of my sister,” Bran said, turning dull eyes toward Brienne, “but she has chosen to isolate the North.”

“Lord Edmure has asked our help retaking the Twins,” Addam Marbrand declared after reading the raven’s message. “He contends the castle belongs to his second-born son, as the last living male Frey heir.”

“Laying siege to the Twins would constitute an act of war,” Brienne said, turning toward the king, “against your own sister.”

“Sansa has had her fun,” Bran said monotonously. “It is time for the North to rejoin the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Before this situation gets out of hand,” Tyrion said, hastily raising his hands and trying to contain the rising tensions, “let me try and reason with Queen Sansa.”

Bran only nodded. “As you wish. We will revisit this after we have heard her reply.” The king looked up to Samwell. “I wish to retire to my chamber. I grow weary.”

The Red Keep lay mostly in ruins; many of its once great towers had collapsed under the barrage of dragon fire. In the years since the destruction of the Red Keep, only the rubble in the courtyard had been cleared away.

Looking out over the castle grounds from his balcony in Maegor’s Holdfast, Bran could see Tyrion, Brienne and Bronn moving across the courtyard toward the White Sword Tower. No doubt they were anxious to assess the damage to the tower and begin planning repairs.

With luck, the rebuilding project would distract them. It might work with Brienne and Bronn. However, keeping Tyrion distracted wasn’t going to be easy.

King Bran would have to do something about his overly inquisitive Hand. Tyrion’s insistence on negotiating a peaceful solution with Sansa would disrupt his plans for reintegrating the North into the Seven Kingdoms.

The wall Sansa and Meera was building hindered Bran’s etheric shadow from passing into the North. The Crannogmen, descendants of the Children of the Forest, were infusing the giant vine-covered structure with ancient magic wards.

It would be so much easier if he could bend Tyrion and Sansa’s minds, but Bran had failed to manipulate either of them.

He could confuse Tyrion, causing him to make stupid mistakes, but Tyrion’s mind was too sharp to bend to his will completely.

Even before she had ordered the construction of the magical wall across the Neck, Sansa wasn't easily influenced by Bran’s shadowy whispers either, possibly because she had no demons left. She had already fed them all to Ramsey Bolton’s hounds.

Most people either didn’t have enough demons or their minds couldn’t be bent. Most people were not a problem; only those in power carried their guilt around with them like demons. Not everyone could be manipulated as easily as Daenerys Targaryen or Jaime Lannister. Those two had enough demons to fill all seven hells.

In the last weeks of the war, Bran’s etheric shadow had plagued Daenerys, whispering in her ear and using her fear of abandonment and betrayal against her.

Then, as now, Tyrion had almost succeeded in disrupting Bran’s plans. His deep soothing voice had talked Daenerys away from the precipice more than once. However, the Dragon Queen had clung onto her guilt and sorrow like she had clung onto her dream of reclaiming the Iron Throne. She had too many demons, and in the end Tyrion was just one man.

When Daenerys finally jumped, following her demons down into the darkness, she took King’s Landing with her, paving the path for Bran to claim the throne.

Jaime Lannister had also followed his demons down into the abyss, after Bran’s etheric shadow had whispered in his ear, convincing him he needed to return to King’s Landing to die with his sister.

Bran’s eyes fractured to white as his etheric shadow left his body; there were other ways to deal with his Hand. He just had to find the right person, someone who had hated Tyrion Lannister.

There were so many options; in his traumatic life, Tyrion had made many enemies. Bran’s etheric shadow began to search. Joffrey wouldn’t work: his body was destroyed when the Sept of Baelor was engulfed in wildfire. Cersei’s corpse, burned and bloated, decaying in the Lannister crypt at Casterly Rock, was too far gone. As was Bran’s own mother; when he found her, all that remained of Catelyn Stark was a scattering of bones on the banks of the Trident.

Finally Bran’s shadow found her, on a glacier skulking down the side of the Giant’s Lance. The shadow of the Eyrie lingered overhead, casting the glacier in darkness. Her body lay broken but whole, enclosed in the slow-moving sheet of ice.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen
The Witch of the Vale

The Mountains of the Moon rose ahead of the riders; while the lower passes were carpeted in green silk, the high peaks were tiled in cold granite and ice.

Tyrion couldn’t see the majestic view rising before him. The raiders had jammed a sack over his head; the rough material scratched and bit into the delicate skin on his face.

“Once again tied in a sack,” Tyrion quipped. “Cersei would be pleased.”

“Shut up, Imp,” a gruff voice said, and a firm hand met the back of Tyrion’s head.

The body pressed against his back and the gentle back-and-forth swaying told Tyrion he and another prisoner were tied to the back of a horse. The moans scratching at the corner of his ears identified the other prisoner as Robyn Arryn.

Just great. The boy couldn’t fight his way out of a sack, Tyrion grumbled to himself. Not that fighting your way out of a sack was easy Tyrion knew this from firsthand experience.

Tyrion couldn’t see his surroundings, but that didn’t stop him from paying careful attention. The angle of the horse’s back told Tyrion they were gradually moving uphill. The sound of the horse’s hooves identified the terrain. The swish and snap as they crossed through the forest suddenly changed to the cracking of stone when they travelled along a dry creek bed.

The kidnappers had changed directions several times. Tyrion wasn’t sure whether this was because they were doubling back to hide their tracks, or because the mountain passes twisted and turned. He felt the latter more likely; these outlaws were not afraid of the Hill Tribes or the knights of the Vale. They wouldn’t care who followed them back to their lair.

As they continued climbing upward, cold, damp air clung to Tyrion’s hands and the smell of death and decay assaulted his nose. The farther upward they travelled, the stronger the foul odor became.

The crackle of burning wood whispered in his ears shortly before they stopped, and Tyrion and Lord Arryn were roughly pulled from the back of the horse.

Heat warmed Tyrion’s right side as he and Robyn Arryn were dragged past what sounded like a giant bonfire, which snapped and hissed as wood was consumed in flame. Tyrion grew colder as they were pushed farther away from the fire; by the time they stopped, the heat no longer even lingered on his skin.

Someone’s boot kicked the back of his legs and a hand clasped his shoulder, pushing him down to his knees on the cold rocky ground. He felt the thump as Robyn Arryn was forced to kneel beside him. The rough bags were swiftly yanked from their heads.

Tyrion looked around; the rocky ground was littered with dragon skulls. He remembered reading once, as a child, that feral dragons might have once roamed the wild regions of the Mountains of the Moon. Obviously the stories were true.

Snow-capped granite cliffs rose like castle walls on three sides of a box canyon carved out of the mountain by time and the slow moving glacier.

All around the canyon, a cold, foul-smelling miasma clung to the rocky ground, twisting and twirling as it floated on the currents of air created by the upward draft of the bonfire that blazed near the entrance of the gorge.

Near the raging fire, its flames glowing brightly against the inky black sky, several men huddled together for warmth, their dancing shadows stretching up the sides of the canyon wall.

Before them, well outside of the ring of warmth generated by the giant fire, sat the witch of the Vale on a throne of gnarled pine boughs. She looked like a queen of death. Her tangled hair hung down her chest in loose braids. The garment the witch wore might have once been a gown of the finest of silks, but time had worn the finery away, leaving behind only a shredded memory.

The witch drummed her long, bony fingers on the bark-covered armrest of her throne. Her face was in profile, but Tyrion recognized the woman’s firm jaw and aristocratic nose.

“Lady Arryn,” Tyrion said, looking up at the woman sitting on the pine throne. “I am glad to see rumors of your death were greatly exagger—"

Tyrion gasped, jumping to his feet, staggering backwards as Lysa Arryn turned to face him. The blue Tully eyes, which Tyrion remembered from the last time he was a prisoner in the Vale, had changed. Two unnaturally vivid blue eyes glowed down at him.

Terror exploded from his heart. He had seen those eyes before, first at the Dragonpit and then again when the Stark ancestors escaped from their tombs during the Long Night.

A hand clamped down on Tyrion’s shoulder, pushing him down. Tyrion didn’t recognize the voice, although he knew the accent and timbre, as the voice barked, “You will kneel, dwarf.”

“I see the rumors were not exaggerated.” Tyrion shuddered, looking up at the living dead woman.

In the dim light cast by the distant bonfire, he could just make out her greyish-white skin, cracked like ice floating on a frozen river. Lysa Arryn’s hands were blackened; her blood had long ago stopped flowing and had pooled in her limbs. Her lips were blue, as were her eyes, which glowed in living death.

“Mother?!” Robyn Arryn gasped in horror, trying to shrink away from the horrifying sight.

“Robyn my precious boy.” Lysa Arryn’s voice grated like a glacier breaking into the sea.

Stepping down from her throne, the witch drew the young lord into a cold embrace. Lysa Arryn’s icy blue lips pressed cold kisses on Lord Arryn’s forehead, his cheek and finally his lips.

“Mother…no,” the young lord whimpered and tried to push away what remained of his mother.

The Witch of the Vale, however, was stronger than her thin frame appeared and easily dragged the young lord up to her throne. She forced Robyn to sit before pulling him into another icy embrace, wrapping a protective arm around him.

“Tyrion the Imp Lannister,” Lysa Arryn snarled, turning her wicked blue eyes back to Tyrion. “Have you finally returned to the Vale to confess your crimes?”

Tyrion stood up and looked at the men who stood in a semi-circle around the witch’s throne, expecting to see an army of wights. None of the raiders had unnatural blue eyes, which was only a small relief. However, there was a dullness in them, as if the cold mist that covered the canyon floor had migrated up to glass over their eyes.

The witch’s army was a collection of Tully, Stark and Lannister deserters. A few of the outlaws wore armor decorated with the Bolton’s flayed man or the twin Frey towers. Filling out their ranks were Unsullied warriors and Dothraki screamers. A truer collection of lost causes Tyrion had never seen.

“Can’t you see what she is?” Tyrion growled at the assembled crowd.

“I see a small man who betrayed his queen,” the same Unsullied warrior who had pushed him to his knees scoffed down at him.

“She is a White Walker!” Tyrion enunciated each syllable, sneering at the gathered men.

Standing up from her throne to tower over Tyrion, the dead woman spit in his face. The drop of saliva wasn’t warm like spit should be; it felt like the drippings from an icicle. The cold burned Tyrion’s skin where the droplet touched it.

“Throw him in the pen,” the White Walker who was once Lysa Arryn sneered, and with a wave of her hand, Tyrion was yanked to his feet. “When the moon is full, he will stand trial for his crimes.”

Turning to Robyn Arryn, the witch cooed, running her cold fingers over the young lord’s face, “Wouldn’t that be fun, my darling? The bad man will finally be punished for his crimes.”

Tyrion fell forward, landing facedown on hard-packed snow. Rising up on hands and knees, he looked around his prison, a roughly made cage of pine boughs lashed together with hempen rope. In the dark corner of the pen, several small shapes were hunched together for warmth.

“Who’s there?” Tyrion asked, squinting into the darkness as the shapes began to stir.

A boy no older than ten emerged from the formless mass. The rough furs identified him as one of the missing Stone Crow children. The mass shifted and several other children, all boys, began to inch forward.

“Did the witch take you because she thought you was a kid?” the Stone Crow boy asked, turning his head to look at Tyrion sideways.

“You’re the missing boys from the Vale,” Tyrion gasped, looking from one boy to the next. “What does the witch want with you?”

Another of the boys, this one wearing coarse garments, possibly a farmer’s son, timidly replied, “She’s looking for her son. It was the same for all of us. We were dragged before the witch. She cursed and shouted that we are not the one, and then we were thrown in here.”

“Where are the rest of you?” Tyrion asked, counting the children. There were only five boys in the cage. From the reports he had received from Brienne and Ser Hugh, in the last six months over thirty children had gone missing from the Vale.

The Stone Crow child tried to sound brave; however, his chin trembled in fear as he replied, “Fed to the Dread Bear.”

“What is a Dread Bear?” Tyrion said, drawing his eyebrows together.

“The guards tease us. They say it’s a giant bear with glowing blue eyes,” the farm boy trembled. “Every few days they feed one of us to it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen
The Trial of Tyrion Lannister

The serrated cliffs of the box canyon cut the night sky like a knife. The sky had turned inky black, dotted with thousands of glowing stars. When the moon had risen over the snow-capped cliffs, Tyrion realized he was out of time.

For almost a week, Tyrion had tried rather unsuccessfully to find a way to escape the pen. The rough pine boughs were stronger than they appeared, almost as if the bars were held together by a magical ward.

Tryion also tried unsuccessfully to reason with, and then bribe, the guards. They either laughed or stared at him with glassy eyes and simply ignored him completely.

Finally, Tyrion came to the conclusion that he would have to talk his way out of his current predicament. He didn’t like his chances; talking hadn’t worked the last time he was a prisoner of Lysa Arryn, when she was alive. He had the sinking feeling she would be even less reasonable dead, and this time he didn’t have Bronn to champion for him.

“Do you confess your crimes?” the witch hissed down as Tyrion was dragged in front of her pine throne and forced to kneel on the cold, hard ground.

“I am the Hand of the King,” Tyrion said with disdain, as he stood up and faced the witch, “and I do not recognize your authority to pass judge—”

“Do you confess your crimes?” she screamed again, clenching her black fists. The mist that covered the ground quivered.

Tyrion brushed the dirty snow from his tunic and looked up at the witch and smiled. “I don’t know. Which crimes am I being accused of this time?”

“Confess!” The Lysa Arryn screamed, and the mist around Tyrion’s feet once again rippled in agitation.

Tyrion sighed. She definitely was less reasonable dead. “If I knew what crimes I was accused—”

“Conspiring with your family to murder my husband, Jon Arryn, and pushing my nephew Brandon Stark from—" the witch screeched, slamming her blackened hand down on the throne.

Tyrion shook his head, and with a bitter laugh replied, “I seem to recall being found innocent of those crimes, when Ser Bronn defeated your knight—"

“You are a liar!” Lysa screeched, Turning to Lord Arryn, the witch purred, “See Sweetrobyn, do you see how the bad man lies?”

The young lord swallowed and tried to pry the witch’s icy grip from his arm, all the while staring at Tyrion with pleading eyes.

“You are a Lannister,” Lysa Arryn sneered, turning her unnatural blue eyes back to Tyrion. “Your guilt is in written in your name.”

“So, that is my crime?” Tyrion asked, glaring up at the witch. “Being born a Lannister? Then I claim innocence. My sister hated me. My father never wanted me; he barely acknowledged my existence.”

“Shut your lying mouth, imp,” the witch growled.

“My family is dead, some by my own hand,” Tyrion shouted at the vile witch. “I am the last Lannister.”

The witch leaned forward and hissed, “You confess to killing your own family?”

“Betraying our queen, Daenerys, the mother of dragons and breaker of chains,” the Unsullied warrior growled, pushing Tyrion back to the ground. “Placing a false king on her rightful throne.”

The witch looked down at the Unsullied warrior and smiled sinisterly. “Mange Mouse has accused you of betraying your queen, Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Oh, I am to be accused of that now? I did not betray Daenerys. I tried to save her.” Tyrion looked up the Unsullied warrior whose name was apparently Mange Mouse. “You were there, you saw! She needed to be stopped, but it wasn’t I who betrayed her.”

“Enough!” the witch hollered. “How do you plead?”

“To what?” Tyrion sneered. “Supporting my family or my queen or betraying them?”

“Lord Tyrion!” a voice croaked as someone small slammed against him, and arms wrapped around his neck.

Tyrion pulled the small arms away and gasped, “Kaylan?” Tyrion’s lips trembled. If Kaylan was here, that could only mean Jaime was dead. Clasping the boy’s shoulders, Tyrion cried, “Is your father—?”

“They killed Momma,” the boy sobbed and clutched Tyrion’s tunic. “Papa scared them away, but not before they grabbed me.”

Relief washed over Tyrion, and he pulled Kaylan into his arms. Jaime lived. It only lasted a second before he realized now he really had to find a way to get out of this predicament. Even though Kaylan wasn’t sired by Jaime, he was still his brother’s son. He wasn’t going to let another of Jaime’s children die.

“This child means something to you?” Lysa Arryn said curiously, leaning her chin in her hand and motioning to several of her raiders with the other. “Feed the boy to the Dread Bear.”

A large circus wagon, the type that a traveling mummer’s show might hold a large animal in, was wheeled forward. The cage was covered by a ragged tarp and shook violently as a hideous roar escaped from the beast held inside. When the tarp was pulled away, the glowing blue eyes of the Dread Bear stared down at Tyrion and Kaylan. The creature threw its bulk against the cage, rattling the thick bars.

“Stop!” Tyrion shouted and stepped forward. “I’ll plead guilty to whatever crimes you want. Just let the boy go free.”

“No, it won’t be so easy,” the witch cackled wickedly. “Trial by combat. For your life and that of the child.”

Tyrion hung his head. “You know I can’t—”

Kaylan again wrapped his small arms around Tyrion’s neck and cried, “I know you will find a way, like you found a way to escape from the Black Cells.”

Tyrion didn’t share the boy’s level of confidence as a rusty dagger and shield were pushed into his hands.

“Who will stand for me?” the witch asked, looking to the raiders who stood in a semi-circle surrounding the throne. “Who will be my champion?”

Mange Mouse stepped forward and announced, “I would revenge my queen.”

“Mother stop!” Robyn Arryn begged, clutching at the witch’s arm. “This isn’t a fair trial. Lord Tyrion is half his size.”

“You’re so right, my sweet Robyn. It isn’t fair. Shall we even the odds?” the witch cackled as a wide smile nudged at her lips. She turned and pointed a crooked finger at Kaylan and said, “Arm the child!”

“No, that is not the deal,” Tyrion shouted, stepping between Kaylan and the witch.

“Do you have a champion to fight in your stead?” Lysa Arryn replied smugly. “Although I don’t know who you might choose. Your brother is dead and your foul sellsword isn’t here, is he?”

Tyrion looked at the assembled raiders gathered in a circle to watch his gory end. “A bag of gold and a full pardon for any past crimes to the man who stands for me.”

No one stepped forward; the outlaws merely stood in place, slowly swaying back and forth, their eyes dull as the mist drifted around their feet. Tyrion would find no champion amongst the raiders.

Tyrion pushed Kaylan behind him as the Unsullied warrior advanced toward them, aggressively tapping his spear against Tyrion’s shield.

“Stop,” a voice rang out from the darkness. “I will stand for Lord Tyrion.”

“Who?” the witch screeched, standing up and squinting into the darkness.

Jaime stepped into the light and answered, “Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“Jaime,” Brienne gasped and clutched his arm, “let me—”

“I’ve got this.” Jaime arrogantly winked at her. “I need you to get my brother and children to safety.”

Jaime stepped forward and the two men circled each other, attentively jabbing spear and sword at their opponent. Both men were holding back, not wanting the other to know the full extent of their skills.

The tall Unsullied warrior was quick, dancing backwards before moving in with swift strikes. The man wasn’t as showy or dramatic with his spear as Oberyn Martell had once been. Mange Mouse was trained for war, not entertainment.

Jaime swung his blade, narrowly missing as the Unsullied warrior blocked the blow with the shaft of his spear. Jaime smiled as his right arm shot upward; Mange Mouse saw the motion and quickly twisted aside to evade the sharp hook attached to Jaime’s right hand. A second earlier and Jaime would have lodged the hook into the man’s neck. Instead, the hook merely opened a long gash across Mange Mouse’s chest.

The Unsullied scowled silently and backed away, staying out of range of both sword and hook. Using the longer reach of his spear, he laid down a quick torrent of thrusts. Jaime avoided the rapid attacks by knocking the spear aside with his sword.

Mange Mouse bounced backward on the balls of his feet, eyeing his opponent and looking for weakness. Changing tactics, trying to prevent Jaime from using his sword to block his attack, he thrust his spear at his opponent’s less-protected right side.

This was the move Jaime had hoped for; wrapping his hook around the shaft of the long spear, he yanked.

Taken by surprise, Mange Mouse stumbled forward, and Jaime pushed his sword between the warrior’s ribs. Mange Mouse staggered against Jaime, gasping for air as blood blossomed from his mouth. Collapsing to his knees, he weakly tried to reach for Jaime before falling facedown into the mist.

“Kill them!” the witch shouted. Standing up and releasing her firm grip on Robyn Arryn’s arm, she raised her hands high into the night air. The mist began to shimmer and twist wildly. The witch’s army screamed and drew their weapons.

While the witch was distracted, Robyn Arryn used the opportunity to jump down from the throne and pillage a dagger from Mange Mouse’s corpse.

Meanwhile, Tyrion raised his shield in an attempt to guard Kaylan and himself from the onslaught of violence. Luckily the outlaws paid Tyrion and Kaylan little notice, as they seemed intent on attacking the much more dangerous knights.

The cage containing the Dread Bear shook violently, bursting open in a rain of splintered wood. Men scattered as the beast tore apart anyone unlucky enough to find themselves in its path; it didn’t seem to matter to the Dread Bear that the men in its path were the witch’s own soldiers.

“Mother no!” Robyn Arryn shouted as he plunged the dagger into the witch’s heart.

“Traitor child!” Lysa Arryn screamed, striking a blow against the side of Lord Arryn’s head, knocking him to his knees.

Brienne knew the dagger wouldn’t work; only Valyrian steel could kill a White Walker, and she had the only weapon forged from that rare metal. However, an army of raiders stood between her and the witch.

“Lord Arryn!” Brienne shouted, knowing she would never reach the throne in time. She had only one option. With a grunt, Brienne threw Oathkeeper toward the young lord.

Time seemed to slow as the sword hovered in the air between them. Brienne elbowed the raider behind her, breaking the man’s jaw, and quickly relieved him of his blade, rejoining the fight alongside Jaime, Podrick and Hyle.

Brienne’s heart sank as she saw Lord Arryn stagger backwards. Had he missed? In the chaos of battle, she couldn’t tell.

The Dread Bear had moved on from its first victims and was stalking Tyrion, Kaylan and Arik. Tyrion held the shield in front of him in a vain effort to protect the two boys from the undead creature.

Robyn Arryn suddenly rose on shaking legs as he lifted Oathkeeper with both hands. Closing his eyes, the young lord swung the heavy sword.

“My sweet Robyn?” An icy tear ran down Lysa Arryn’s cracked face as the blade strafed across her chest. She began to shake violently and suddenly burst into a hail of icy shards.

The Dread Bear roared loudly as it forced Tyrion and the two boys back against the side of the wagon. Terror spread across their faces as they peered over the shield into the blue eyes of the beast. The undead creature rose up on its hind legs and roared once more before it collapsed to the ground.

The icy mist covering the rocky ground rippled and dissipated. The witch’s army suddenly stopped moving and a stunned silence filled the canyon. It only lasted a moment before the chaos resumed. Many of the raiders dropped their weapons and fled, but not all. The Dothraki and Unsullied raiders attacked the Lannister defectors. Former Stark and Tully soldiers attacked the Boltons and Freys.

Only a few of the raiders continued to harass the rescue party. Somehow Robyn Arryn had gotten ahold of a bow and was standing on the pine bough throne raining arrows down on the outlaws.

One of the young lord’s arrows fell a raider who was seconds away from overpowering Ser Hyle.

"So much for being useless," the young lord grinned down at the knight.

Ser Hyle looked up at Robyn Arryn and saluted before turning back to the fight.

Brienne caught Jaime’s eye and nodded in silent agreement. It was time to leave while most of the raiders still fought amongst themselves.

Fighting their way through the chaos, they had almost made it to the edge of the canyon when Tyrion stopped.

“We have to go back,” Tyrion hissed.

“Back? Why?” Ser Hyle asked.

“We’ve forgotten something,” Tyrion said and ran back into the canyon.

After their escape down the mountain, Lord Robyn was eager to return to the Moon Gate. Ser Hyle volunteered to accompany the young lord back to the castle along with the five children Tyrion had insisted they go back and rescue from the witch’s lair.

In a few days’ time, if all went as planned, they would all meet up again at the inn outside the Bloody Gate.

However, first Jaime wanted to take Kaylan and Arik home, so the boys could say goodbye to their mother. The burned shell of the cottage still smoldered in the early morning air. The farm that had once been so full of life was nothing more than an ash-covered corpse.

Tyrion had gone off in search of any apple brandy the raiders might have missed.

Arik and Kaylan were in the apple grove under the watchful eye of Ser Podrick, picking fluffy white blossom from the apple trees. They planned to lay the wreath before the burned shell of their cottage, the final resting place of their mother.

Jaime sat with Brienne at the old wooden table next to the husk of his former home, watching in fascination as her long fingers wove the apple blossoms the boys had already collected together into a wreath.

“I didn’t know you could do that?” Jaime said, motioning toward the wreath.

“Just because it’s a womanly skill doesn’t automatically mean I’m bad at it,” Brienne huffed.

“As I recall, there are several womanly skills you are quite good at,” Jaime said with a wink. He couldn’t help but smile as a blush spread across Brienne’s face, covering her freckles in a soft rosy glow.

“What will you do now?” Brienne asked, ignoring Jaime’s teasing and innuendos.

Jaime leaned back against the table and sighed. “I can’t really ask you to step down from the Kingsguard.”

Brienne’s fingers stopped, laying the wreath on her lap. “I only agreed to serve during the reconstruction of King’s Landing. I promised my father I would someday return to Tarth and marry.”

“Oh?” Jaime sat up straight and turned to look at her. “Do you have a future husband in mind, then?”

Brienne smiled, a mischievous sprite playing behind her eyes. “Ser Hyle has asked me to marry him, repeatedly.”

“That twat?” Jaime growled like a lion in a cage. “Tell me you are not seriously considering it.”

“He’s quite handsome,” Brienne replied, a soft smirk rising on her lips as she picked the wreath up and continued to weave in more apple blossoms.

Jaime shot up and began to pace in front of her. “He is an opportunistic—”

“He is a realist—" Brienne smiled, not looking up at the raging idiot in front of her.

“Uncouth—"

“Honorable—”

“Craven—"

“Brave —"

Jaime stopped pacing and looked down at Brienne. Without warning he seized her arms, dragging Brienne to her feet, and hissed, “You’re having a joke at my expense!”

Brienne laughed and leaned forward to kiss the bridge of his nose. “Of course I’m joking, you oaf.”

Jaime pulled her into his arms and whispered, “I’ll never leave you again.”

Running her hands through his hair, Brienne hummed, “No more listening to lying shadows whispering on the wind—"

“Wait, what?” Tyrion’s deep voice asked, startling both Brienne and Jaime. In their soft distraction, they hadn’t heard him walking up behind them.

In his arms, Tyrion carried several bottles of apple brandy the outlaws had missed and he had somehow managed to sniff out.

“What’s this about a shadow whispering on the wind?” Tyrion asked again. The timbre of his voice was like a gathering storm as he placed the bottles of brandy down on the table.

“It’s nothing,” Jaime said, sinking down to sit across from his brother, “just my imaginings caused by guilt.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Before my queen…” he stopped, searching for the words in the crypt of painful memories. “Before Daenerys had completely succumbed to her madness, she told me a shadow on the wind kept whispering in her ear, telling her everyone she loved would betray her.”

Brienne reached down and squeezed Jaime’s shoulder, and he shuddered.

“The real question is,” Tyrion continued, drumming his fingers on the table. “Who has the power to do something like that?”

“And who would have something to gain?” Jaime asked.

“Indeed,” Tyrion said, looking up to the sky and pondering. “Who would gain from removing both Jaime and Daenerys from the equation?”

“The King,” both Tyrion and Brienne said at once.

“Brandon Stark?” Jaime said, shaking his head. “No, he…he forgave me.”

“Did he?” Tyrion asked, looking at Jaime.

“You are a dangerous man to have around,” Brienne said, looking down at Jaime. “If you happen to be an all-powerful tyrant.”

“Very few people knew the true events that led up to the Mad King’s death,” Tyrion said, pointing a finger at Jaime. “I only found out after your own…um…death.”

“I never told anyone, except,” Jaime said, looking at Brienne and squeezing her hand, which still rested on his shoulder.

“I thought you were dead,” Brienne smiled down at him. “As Lord Commander, it was my duty to record your great deeds in the White Book. I couldn’t very well leave out the greatest deed of them all.”

“King Bran wouldn’t have needed the White Book to know how King Aerys met his end,” Tyrion said, tapping his fingers on the table. Like fragments of a scattered puzzle, the pieces finally came together. “Not to mention, he is the only person alive who would possibly have knowledge of how to make a White Walker.”

“We can’t go back to King’s Landing,” Brienne gasped. Her legs buckled as she slid down next to Jaime.

“No, the king would almost certainly know we had found Jaime by now,” Tyrion replied, shaking his head. “But where—?”

“Tarth,” Brienne said, looking from Jaime to Tyrion, “My father will protect us.”

“Tarth is still a part of the Six Kingdoms,” Jaime replied, weaving his fingers together with Brienne’s and looking into her eyes. “Even if your father could resist the king’s powers, it would put your home and father in unnecessary danger.”

“The North,” Tyrion said suddenly, standing up and banging his hand on the table.

A loud growl escaped Jaime’s lips as he threw his head backward and said in a low mumble, “I hate the fucking North.”

The end