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Chapter Text

WARNINGS: Racist characters

She need not see. Their screams were enough.

As wine wetted her lips then warmed her tongue and throat, she imagined their dirty bare feet desperately digging in the snowy cobblestones. Resistance would only infuriate the Goldcloaks. Make them crueler. A beating would be merciful, she thought. Better to perish under blows than by fire. It was faster.

But these dregs. They should have known better than to scale the walls of King’s Landing and endanger the citizens with their disease. They made their choice, she thought while holding out the goblet. Wine was poured without needing her command.

It was very human to fight and survive, she supposed, no matter how dire the chances. So rather than accepting fate, they made things even more difficult with resistance.

Now they would be dragged across the streets. She sipped, holding the wine for a moment in her mouth to savor the rich notes before bringing it to her throat. As it warmed her from the inside, she thought about the violence inflicted on them. Skin would be torn. Deathly blows to head. Blood on the streets.

The screams grew louder as she took another sip. Louder and tearing towards the sky for the god that would save them. Father. Mother. Warrior. Smith. Maiden. Crone.

A smile tugged gently at her lips. No one but the Stranger will be coming. And it will do nothing to hasten their agony. Gods never did anything. No grand erections of marble, no amount of prayers would have them deigning to listen.

If a child’s pleas for her dead mother be returned to life went unheard, why should cries for mercy be treated any differently?

The wine’s potent burn drew a small purr from her lips as sharp, even more desperate cries shredded the silence of winter. A pillar of smoke crawled up to the sky.

“Your grace.”

Her eyes remained on the smoke as the soft, papery voice spoke. The smell of burning wood and flesh was joined by another note. Something sharp that tickled and also soothed the nose but with the sour edge of corruption.

She glanced at the wine pooled near the bottom of the goblet. Her eyes stared back, brilliant even in crimson. More beautiful. “Any word from my brother?”

“Nothing still, your grace. But my little birds say he left Tarth four days before Daenerys’ attack—”

Qyburn froze at the blistering look she gave upon turning to him. His eyes dropped to the floor.

Tarth. That pathetic little isle. She all but slammed the goblet on the tray held by a handmaid, the spatter barely missing her dress.

She should have known better than entrusting the Stormlands to that massive freak. She’d never taken a good look of Brienne but never forgot how overwhelmingly ugly she was. Her face was an assault to the senses. Brought into question whether gods were capable of kindness. Or mercy, she added to herself as another chorus of screams ripped into the sky.

She shouldn’t have listened to Jaime. Having that creature as regent of that useless isle wouldn’t have come to be if not for him. If her own father believed she should be the Evenstar, he wouldn’t have married her off to that slug of a man. Jaime had insisted that only a Tarth should rule, and if a woman she was to serve as regent until her son was ready. It made sense at the time—to see his way, to listen to him. Brides no matter their age would be flushed with that resurgence of love and a husband could do no wrong. So she had agreed. Even put it in writing.

Damn Jaime for manipulating her.

And now, she had lost not just that fucking place but the entire region. She should have burned all of it to the ground. What love she ever had for Robert Baratheon died the moment he had whispered that woman’s name in her ear.

Hateful and untrustworthy, these men who have taken her heart and trampled on it. Rhaegar, the prince that should have been hers but given to that sickly, Dornish peasant instead. Robert obsessed with the ghost of some wild wolf.

And Jaime.

She wasn’t blind. He had been slipping away for years. Questioning her authority. Warning her how she would lose the seven kingdoms she had fought for. She may not have wielded a single blade to win them but she had paid with everything. Everything.  

“And Lord Marbrand? The other lords who received the same order? Is there a response?”

Qyburn looked up. “Your grace, there is some grave news from Ashemark.”

“Oh? Graver than the war that’s just begun?”

“It’s about Lord Marbrand, your grace. He’s died after a long illness. The maester has also informed that his heir Addam has been inconsolable and. . .needs calming.”

Her fury turned the lingering sweetness of wine into bilge.

“Your grace, if I may, it has only been. . .it has only been three days. Responses take longer because of winter. There’s also. . .we also have to consider the possibility that our lines of communication may not be as free as before.”

“The bells were still ringing when those scrolls were sent. What could be more urgent than war? How hard is it to write a response to the queen?” She pressed a hand to her belly. “And Jaime. . .Jaime will have been gone close to two moons already. We are at war and my husband, my brother, is not at my side.”

That person who took Jaime from her better be dead, she thought as the ugly face of the Evenstar’s daughter flashed before her eyes. The vision made her shudder. Damn that fool for failing her. That ugly freak deserves all of Seven Hells and more.

“Has there been no other sighting of him?” She pressed.

“Unfortunately, your grace, my eyes and ears have yet to answer my queries.”

“Am I supposed to just wait?”

“Your grace—”

The softer, soothing turn of his gravely tone infuriated her. “Why are you here? What other dire news have you brought me today? You’re Hand of the Queen. Your duty seems focused on just casting darkness on this bloody fucking kingdom.”

Qyburn lowered his eyes again. “Your grace, the lords of King’s Landing are here. They wait in the great hall.”

“And my small council as well?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“You said the lords of King’s Landing are here. What about The Reach? The north? Dorne?”

Her eyes were sharp as uncertainty crossed Qyburn’s lined face. There was her answer. She picked up her goblet again and turned away. As the handmaid refilled it, she spoke. “Go. I shall follow.”

Qyburn was quick to obey but his smell lingered. Cersei wrinkled her nose before sipping. There. The aroma of the wine erased that hint of decay Qyburn dragged with him.

As a handmaid approached with a tray on which Cersei was to put the empty goblet on, she spoke. “Dress me. The crimson velvet.”

The handmaidens hastened to action. The ties of her emerald gown was loosened. One stood by with a tray to collect the jewels carefully removed from her ears, her neck, her fingers.

The cold of the chamber was not a deterrent to the pride she took wearing only skin. At least three of her handmaidens cast furtive, admiring glances at her. She smirked at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked like a glorious, golden lion with unblemished alabaster skin. Her hair hung in thick curls and waves almost down to her waist. Her breasts full and still firm. She raised her arms, revealing the soft golden tuft under them as a handmaiden went around spritzing lavender on her body. Another knelt at her feet rubbing the same scent but in oil up and down her slim thighs and legs.

It was a new addition to her ritual. War was going to break out soon and she was going to face it not just as the queen but as the truest, most deserving Lannister. Her father who had made it repeatedly clear that she was not as smart as she believed herself was going to rue the day he said those words.

I am your firstborn and I should have been your true heir, not Jaime. I breathed air of this world first and only took him with me because he held my foot. The loudest roar is mine. It has always been mine.  

That was how it was, was it not? How she could have been so blind? It didn’t mean Jaime refused to be parted from her. From the very beginning, he had meant to usurp her. To beat her.

And now he’d left her. Vanished, for all she cared.

If he had been sincere in serving her, he would have refused her order to go to Tarth. The first chance he got he escaped. Abandoned her, despite all his warnings of Daenerys’ impending invasion. He thought to teach her a lesson, as all men who hated women ruling over them always did.

She needed no man. Least of all her brother, the gods damn him.

A hundred strokes of the brush went up and down her golden curls.

Quick but careful hands put her in the new gown. It was crushed velvet rendered in crimson. So vivid was the shade that it might as well be blood. She stared at herself in the mirror as the brushing on her hair coaxed the gold to shine until she was embraced in it. In the blood-colored gown, she looked beautiful and dangerous at the same time. Savior or executioner—what was she really?

Whatever she was, she was going to draw blood. Just as well that her gown was the color of a bleeding heart.

She turned her head this way and that as rubies the size of thumbnails were placed strategically on her hair so it looked like a rainfall of jewels. More of the gem was piled on her—large, tear-drop rubies set in gold threaded through her ears, a triple-strand of rough-cut rubies around her white neck, and more rings.

Topping her dress was a gold-plated breastplate crafted to the shape of her chest and waist. The gardbrace on each shoulder were gold as well, in the shape of a lion’s head with teeth bared in a snarl that promised bloodbath. Its eyes were rubies and the teeth pearls. A cape of gold silk trimmed with snowy direwolf fur. Embroidered at the back were rows of her House’s lion sigil.

The final touch was the crown. A disc of gold studded with diamonds around, at the center was a lion on its hind legs. It was rendered in ruby. Cersei stared at herself for a few moments in the looking glass. She thought of Daenerys.

That mad dragon bitch was mistaken to think that taking the seat of the Stormlands was a blow. It was a wasteland of sand and rock. Her dragons may be unbeatable—for now. But once they began to starve, once they had to hunt. . .no amount of command will stop them from partaking of human flesh.

And who would want a queen like that? One who couldn’t control the monsters of creation? What would she bring but blood?

On her walk to the great hall, the Queensguard flanked her, with The Mountain as always walking a few steps ahead of her. Their new armor was crimson and the helm in the shape of a lion’s head. As the guards opened the double doors, the lords waiting for her craned their necks and found a vision that stunned them into silence.

Cersei stared straight ahead as she gracefully treaded the thick carpet. The Iron Throne waited for her, as well as the smaller seats for Qyburn, Petyr Baelish and her new Master of War Randyll Tarly to sit on.

Along with the waves of admiration, she also felt their consternation. Disgust. Her lips curled in a sneer. Trust the men to mistrust her still, simply because she lacked that pathetic appendage. They still measured the right to rule on heads collected in the battlefield and the depth of blood spilled. No one cared what she had lost.

As she approached the throne, she couldn’t help but notice that though the hall was packed there were significant contingents missing. By the time she had ascended the steps, her worry was confirmed, and anger was swiftly taking over.

In the crowd was the sigils of Houses Tarly, Costayne, Rowan, Lowther and the rest from The Reach. There were also the sigils of Houses in King’s Landing. The Riverlands was represented by Houses Frey, Mallister, Ryger, she saw. Then of course, the Houses based right here in King’s Landing.

But nothing from the Vale. The north. Dorne.

No one from the Westerlands.

The sudden tightness of her expression and the narrowing of her eyes was enough warning to everyone in the hall. Silence soon reigned, broken only the crackling flames from braziers. Even the windows, shuddering in strain as they remained shut to keep out the strong winds of winter, seemed to fall quiet too. The rustling of her skirts as she swept them aside in order to sit on the throne was the only other sound to be heard besides the fires.

Layers of silks and velvets did little in protecting her from the chilly surface of this seat made of melted swords. It had never been warm, no matter how long the reign of the king who sat there and seemed to regard that a queen was no different. This caused Cersei to scowl some more, causing further alarm among her subjects as they battled to school their expressions between neutral and fear.

“My lords,” she began, refusing to be even more visibly affected by the insult of the absent Houses. “Having your presence here at the soonest possible time at my request is appreciated,” she began. “We have an impending war and as queen, I intend for it foster stronger unity among us. We have a common enemy in Daenerys Targaryen, here at last with her dragons after thinking to smite us one by one by the disease her spies brought to the capital.”

There was a moment of silence before a lord dared to speak. “A- disease, your grace?”

“Who are you?”

He bowed. “Remus Rykker, your grace, of House Rykker of Duskendale. I. . .I have become the lord to better take care of our lands and protect the people while my father heals from a long illness of the lungs.”

Cersei’s expression remained blank though she nodded slightly. She cared little for who he was father was, let alone the rest of his ancestry. The man looked to be boyish though she gauged he was at two and twenty already. Smooth in face and too pleasant in his features, he came off as plain and quite forgettable. The silks and velvets on his person seemed to devour him.

“Breath may be a struggle of your father’s but you sound clear enough to me, Lord Rykker,” she began. “Therefore I don’t see any reason why you’ve not used it to ask what has been going on.” As people shook their heads at him and chuckled softly, she continued, “The newness of your position is also another unacceptable excuse to know nothing of the deadly disease Daenerys Targaryen has unleashed on us, beginning with the most unfortunate. To grant you a rare indulgence, let me tell you the disease is highly contagious and the infected don’t live longer than two days. Will that be enough?”

As laughter echoed in the hall now, the young lord reddened and nodded quickly. Cersei moved right on to the next point.

“Walls have been erected around Flea Bottom in order to block the infected from spreading the disease to the rest of the population of the city. The City Watch has been doubled as a result. New arrivals into the city without a personal summons by the queen are now required to pay a tax of five golden dragons or ten silver stags.”

While there was a fair amount of grumbling upon the mention of this new tax, Cersei glanced at Petyr Baelish, indicating that he explain the reason for this. It had been, after all, his suggestion.

“My dear lords,” he began, standing up from his seat. “The tax may seem prohibitive but as you have seen what has happened in the last few days, we are now at war. Winter remains. Every gold and silver is needed to ensure the rations and weapons of our soldiers, who will be fighting for us. Who will be staking their lives to keep us safe. Alive. It is also a way to ensure that only desirable folk are allowed within our walls.”

“But five golden dragons?” Another lord demanded.

It was Randyll Tarly who caught Cersei’s eye and she gave him permission to speak with a nod. With his cold eyes and shrewd features, he was a man who not only commanded respect but also fear. He was someone you followed into the field, on pain of death.

“Five golden dragons,” he repeated while gesturing at the complaining lord’s clothes. “You whine of five golden dragons when you dress in furs that required the slaughter of at least a dozen foxes and the gods only know how many buckets of silkworms for the rest of your clothes. We know all that cost more than five golden dragons.” Standing up, looking powerful and displeased, he descended the steps and approached the lord. All eyes watched him. The great hall was again silent as a grave.

“You look like you’ve never starved,” he continued, gloved hand taking him by the chin. “Your jaw has gone soft and looks set to grow a second. By the lines around your eyes and the beginnings of the gray at your temples, you were well alive during the last war. The next time you complain about taxes, think of the soldiers who starved in the last war. Soldiers forced to drink from rivers still bloody from the dead while you had wine. Soldiers who roasted their boots for food while you dined on meat and fat.”

As gasps followed his words, Randyll fisted a piece of the lord’s cloak and turned it. A sigil of a golden crown studded with emeralds on a brown field. He shook his head.

“House Mudd,” he remarked. “Your worthless House was thought to have died out years ago.”

The lord swallowed and looked at him in the eye. “My good lord, being that mud is everywhere, why not us? We will never be gone.”

“Indeed.” Randyll was grim. “But you will always be stepped on, as  you’ve demonstrated yet again. You have no right to be a House.” 

He turned back to the seat, catching Cersei’s eye again. As he sat down, she looked at everyone before her.

“Make no mistake. What was difficult before has gone beyond all the struggles we’ve come to know at this point. We continue to survive this harsh winter. We have kept ourselves safe in spite of the rapid spread of the dragonfever Danaerys has gifted us. Yes,” she said with controlled relish. “Dragonfever.”

She glanced at Qyburn, who nodded, thin lips stretched in a very slight smile. She turned back to the people, now murmuring to themselves and each other. The fear in their eyes intensified.

“Dragonfever,” Cersei repeated. “A disease that burns the sick from the inside akin to being burned alive by monsters Daenerys Targaryen calls her children.” As the sea of faces before her whitened in horror, she pressed on. “A fever that tortures more by the hour yet drags the promise of death until little by little the body shuts down. All it takes is no more than a breath shared between you and the infected to start feeling the first hellish burn. Some of you deplore the wall I’ve built between the rest of the city and Flea Bottom. Abhor the violence and abuse you believe the City Watch gives to the sick. Question the necessity of paying entry into King’s Landing. Know that these things you regard with suspicion and horror are necessary in ensuring you live through winter and now this war. War, I remind you, that Daenerys brought upon us.”

Fear. She breathed. The hall almost smelled of it. Yes.

“If you don’t wish to cast a second look at the foreigners in your business circles, in your homes, then it falls on me to make that hard choice. Where you hesitate to swing the sword or light the fire, it is upon me to deliver the sentence you refuse to carry through. The burden you can’t bear I accept as duty being your queen. To protect you. To protect your children.”

She stood up, descending a step then another until she was eye level with everyone in front. “I am your queen. Mother, protector. And executioner, if need be, to ensure your life no matter the cost. The enemy is out there. Outside these walls. Lurking. Listening. What do you think they do past the city gates? They plot and prepare for that moment when they could strike. When we are at our most vulnerable. Outside is the enemy. Daenerys Targaryen. She, whose mad father burned fathers and sons. The mad king,” she sneered, “who did nothing when his heir kidnapped and violated a loyal subject’s daughter. I will not let history repeat itself. For as long as I reign, the seven kingdoms will not know of such madness again. For I shall pay Daenerys the debt of fire and blood.”  

She paused, waiting.

Then it came.

It seemed like the sound of distant thunder, a crack of sound that took a life of its own. Soon the hall erupted in applause and cheers of her name. “Cersei, our queen. Cersei, our savior.”

She took it in, barely able to hide her pride and pleasure. It went on until the hard expression on her face returned. The cheers quickly halted.

“Anyone who isn’t one of us is an enemy. As queen I implore you to find the courage in your hearts in helping me fight all that is foreign and dangerous threatening the peace within the seven kingdoms.”

This time the applause and cheers threatened to shake every brick in the Red Keep. Fists punched the air while chanting her name. She nodded then turned to the men behind her. They too were applauding.

“I shall see all of you in the Tower of the Hand.”

She left the great hall with breathless cheers trailing in her wake, fading to a dull, distant throbbing sound after taking several turns that to the courtyard. A servant clearing snow from the ground paused in order to bow as she and her Queensguard passed.

At the doorway of the tower, her other guards fell back, leaving only The Mountain with her when they took the stairs.

When the Small Council arrived, she was seated at the head of the long table, eyes giving nothing away but looking at each man as if to see through him. Qyburn was the first to bow, followed by Baelish then Randyll.

Qyburn sat at her right and Baelish, trying to be nimble and quick to take her left, was beaten to that chair by the sheer width of Randyll’s body. The silver-haired soldier approached with an ease even few men much younger could boast of. Baelish sat glumly next to him.

“I expected a more robust attendance of my lords being that we are at war. Do my eyes deceive me or only half the lords of the entire seven kingdoms deigned to answer my summons. Did my ravens not make it to The Vale?” Cersei looked at Petyr. “Lord Baelish?”

He began to speak and she deliberately continued, “We don’t have all day to go through the long list of titles and grants my father granted you for your loyal service. But perhaps you ought to be reminded that you are here and serve at my pleasure for as long as it lasts. My Master of Coin until you incur my dissatisfaction. I would think my patience is greater than my temper. That rarely do I make unreasonable demands. As such, won’t guaranteeing the presence of young Lord Arryn in the great hall be a small gesture of your appreciation, Lord Baelish, for House Lannister? Don’t you agree?”

Baelish waited for her to speak. When she did not, he said, “I agree, your grace.”

“You are Lord Protector of the Vale, are you not?”

“I am,  your grace.”

“And the guardian,” she said, preparing her stomach for that sour twist, “of my first husband’s namesake. Young Robert Arryn. Nicknamed Sweetrobin by his late mother, correct. Lysa. The woman you profess to have loved all your life.”

Randyll smirked.

“Yes, your grace.”

“I plea for your patience.” Her tone was steely. “If I’m not mistaken, dispensing a summons from me to my subjects in the Vale is one of your duties, is it not?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Then what you were asked was merely a performance of a small part of your duties. Correct?”

“Correct, your grace.”

“Well?” Cersei sat back, smug and annoyed. “Explain. We are at war and the knights of the Vale is quite a formidable force, if not the most—if you don’t mind my saying so, Lord Tarly—yet they are not here, Lord Baelish. No one from the Vale. Not even dear little Sweetrobin.”

“Your grace—”

“Yes?” She said, just to say it. Oh, but seeing him squirm was quite a show. And she had put him there.

“Your grace,” he tried again. “As we are at war and fighting off the spread of a deadly disease, I thought to not burden you even more on the state of Lord Arryn’s health.”

“I thought he was young.”

“Two and ten, your grace, yes, but sickly. Prone to shaking fits almost from the moment he was born. Winter has not helped. But I have made sure he would be given the best care in my absence. If I may be honest—”

“You are certainly not asked to lie.”

“Your grace, as his father, I am one of the few that can calm him when he has the fit. As his father and protector, it’s my responsibility to ensure his safety. He is the heir, after all. Travel would be rough. It could be fatal for him. And in support of their lord. . .” His voice trailed off, letting her figure out the rest.

Cersei waited a moment before speaking. “I would commend them for their loyalty but I am perhaps wrong to expect their loyalty is to me first. The queen.”

“I agree—”

“Utterly disrespectful and not at all what I expected,” Randyll Tarly suddenly declared. “There is a war upon all of us, Lord Baelish,” he said his name mockingly. “If the knights of the Vale will not fight, they may as well side with that Targaryen usurper.”

“Which can be considered treason,” Qyburn spoke up.

Petyr’s calm was frayed now. “That’s not—your grace—”

“They’re not at all wrong, Lord Baelish.”

 “I do not question them but please, your grace, my lords, allow me.” Petyr pleaded. “Though the lords and their knights are not here now, I give you my word that measures are being done as we speak to ensure the knights will come here and fight. On my honor, your grace. The Vale stands with you in this war.”

Cersei won’t be placated so easily. “Words have little weight now. I would much rather see.”

He was confused. “Your grace?”

“I will give you one chance, Lord Baelish. You have a moon for your lords to come here. A moon, to give them time that is more than enough. And for each day they are delayed, you will lose a title.”

Petyr bowed his head. “It will not come to that, your grace.”

“I’d like to believe you.” The sudden gentle turn in Cersei’s tone gave everyone pause. Petyr looked up. “A constant reminder would perhaps ensure you keep your word?”

She nodded at someone behind Petyr. She sat back, watching calmly as The Mountain’s thick arms grasped Petyr around the neck. As Petyr gasped and struggled, Randyll and Qyburn just watched as well.

“Y-Your grace—” but it was a losing battle against a death grip encased in steel, muscle and inhumanity.

“Now, Ser Robert.”

Petyr screamed as the knight  grabbed his hand and slashed a dagger through the glove to get to the skin. Just as suddenly as he was grabbed, he was let go. He coughed and gasped, gaping with a mix of outrage and disbelief at the cut on his palm. Blood dripped all over the table.

“Your grace, this is—” he started to protest.

“One moon, Lord Baelish. And for each week the lords and their knights are delayed, you will lose a title and a finger.”

Chapter Text

The little boy was sweet to look upon. Quite pretty too in the light.

It was the hair. Dark and grown fine, the years saw the strands drift past thin shoulders. Alayne reached out to fix some locks draped across his neck when she suddenly paused then retracted her hand.

The dead should be left in peace.

Was it freedom from this dark world that granted the boy peace at last? In spite of all the candlelight and braziers lit in the room, the gray light of winter lingered at all hours. The windows had to be kept shut because of the wind’s ceaseless howling. Even now the steel and glass rattled from the wind desperate to push past them.

Dark as it still was, Alayne thought that the boy’s sallow skin seemed kiss by the moon now. Soft narrow features once viewed as too delicate hinted at the sharpness they would have been honed into in the years to come.

Years that would now never come.

Dark hair and pale, he looked almost like the crippled brother she had left in Winterfell a long time ago. She couldn’t remember him running about or climbing things, and the latter had been his favorite and brought him that cruel fate. All she saw in her mind was his little face asleep, his once smooth forehead furrowed with lines. He had seemed almost dead. Perhaps it had been a rehearsal because in a few moons, his young body would be burned alive.

It was just as well she remembered him asleep. Flesh and bone still instead of ash.

The boy lying still on the table before her was not the first dead she had set eyes on. He was the first to have his head and limbs intact, however. Before him, the dead she’d seen were dismembered. Mangled.

There was her father on his knees at the slab before the executioner cut off his head. All she saw of him next was his head on a spike. As was her septa.

Then her beautiful, golden prince whose face was only a mask for the vile monster within. For many moons her screams had tore through the thick walls of the Eyrie as night after night she saw him torn apart. She couldn’t remember his screams but heard the sound of flesh sliced from flesh, bone hacked from bone. Her own screams still rang in her head sometimes as well as the cruel laughter and smiles of the men who had torn at her dress and spread her legs.

That day of the riots, when she’d been taken from the royal party and into some alley, after all she’d heard and seen were these monsters declaring of taking turns and wearing her maiden’s blood, she had wished for the Stranger. There was no point to living after being soiled and shamed in the most horrific of ways. She had felt her soul depart her body as the first man grabbed her thighs when blood suddenly poured over her.

One by one the hands holding her still and open loosened but her eyes were reddened with blood that kept pouring. If she had screamed she couldn’t remember but knew too well the taste of death because it flooded her mouth. As she lay drenched with entrails buried under hacked limbs, a head between her thighs and the eyeless face of her once beautiful monster, someone picked her up. Lifted her high. A bloody glove wiped across her face freed her eyes just enough to see the scarred face of her monster’s hound.

“Please—”

“Shut up, girl.” He threw something over her. Heavy and smelling of blood and sweat. It was the last thing she remembered before waking up in a ship with Littlefinger watching her from across the room. Tired and still confused, it barely registered in her mind what he meant about taking her far away from King’s Landing. That if she trusted him, she would take back Winterfell.

As the water put leagues between her and the living nightmare that had been King’s Landing, her dreams were interspersed with memories of playing in the snowy grounds of Winterfell as a child and the near-rape in the alley. For the safety of the impassable mountains that protected the Eyrie, she agreed to pretend to be Littlefinger’s bastard.

But the mountains and its steep slopes were no protection from the Stranger. He was undeterred in reminding her she owed him her life. For every corner she hid into, he took her loved ones violently: her beautiful mother slashed in the throat and her body dumped in the river, her warrior brother’s head hacked from his body to put his direwolf’s in its place, her crippled brother and the youngest of them burned alive.

And her sister—

Her own mind locked her away from further thoughts of her. She knew the cruelties men were capable of. Her sister—younger, more vulnerable—what chance did she have?

And now. . .she stared at the lanky body of the boy before her. His life had not been severed from his body with a single blade but by his body itself. A final violent fit before a drop of sweetmilk touched his lips. Instead of delivering the calm it always did it kept him asleep forever.

“May the gods have mercy on me.” Maester Colemon stood beside her, veined hands clutched to his heart. “I should have refused him sweetmilk rather than give it always. As maester I took the vow to preserve life, not aid death. As servant of my lord Jon Arryn, it was my duty to ensure the last of his seed survives. And leads us.”

Unlike her, he did not hesitate taking the boy’s hand for a kiss. “Young lord Robert was sickly, indeed, but so were many healthy, strong lords who would eventually lead their armies into battle and win. Why. . .why did he have to be different?”

As he gently caressed the back of the boy’s fingers, Alayne said, “You couldn’t have refused him. There was nothing to do. His fits got worse when Lord Baelish. . .when father left.”

After many years of thinking, of calling that man her father, her stomach still churned. Out of fear she had promised that even in her heart she would be Alayne Stone, his bastard named after his mother.

In the looking glass she saw none of the little girl who had left Winterfell with stars in her eyes and a heart bursting with love for her handsome golden prince. Nothing but darkness—a dye the color of midnight that erased every strand of her mother’s auburn hair, the blue eyes she had been told many men would happily drown into bleak and cold. She did look like Alayne. But in her was a wall that seemed as strong as Winterfell’s, continuously repelling this false identity from consuming Sansa Stark.

So she welcomed the familiar sharp twist in her stomach when referring to Petyr Baelish as her father. This was nothing. Sansa Stark had survived beatings and humiliations from the Kingsguard. Every bruise they left on her ivory skin slowly turned her into steel.

Pain and heartbreak seemed the path of her life. Pain even for one she felt no love for, she thought while gazing at her cousin. Her chest had been tight ever since the night he closed his eyes for the last time. All the furs heaped on her did little in keeping her warm. She might as well be in the middle of the courtyard covered in snow.

“When do you think the lords will begin to arrive?” She asked. “One would think they would dash to pay their final respects to Lord Robert. Or does the hardiness of men only apply to the soldiers?”

“They will come, my lady,” Colemon assured her although he looked a little worried.

“What is it?”

“It seems we are in for another long snowstorm, my lady. It will be at least a week before the lords can make their way. If the roads are passable.”

She understood but was still aghast. “And the entire time he just lies here? Wasn’t his life hard enough with all the shaking fits? Doesn’t he deserve rest after everything?”

Colemon spread his hands. “There is nothing I can do, my lady. If we put him in the crypt right now, the lords will be displeased. They already have their grief. Anger is the last thing they should have.”

“But Robert,” she insisted. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean no one should look after him anymore.”

“There are ways to preserve and keep him sweet-smelling, my lady.”

“That’s not what concerns me. It’s giving the dead the rest he never had in his too-short life.” She stared at him, lingering on the painted stones resting on his eyes. They were painted to look like open eyes. They would look almost comical if not for the small face they were on.

“My lord, I know I overstep as I’m not his blood and a bastard,” she continued, lowering her voice. “But you and I know the kind of life he had. How he was looked at. What everyone really thought of him. Now that there’s no life in him, what else is there to wring out? A show of respect to the lord they dreaded would rule over them someday? It’s not really for his benefit but theirs, isn’t it?”  

It would be a while before death would smooth and glaze the roughness of the boy. Young Robert Arryn was only protected and given deference because of his father and who he was going to be someday. When the entire castle wasn’t thrown in a panic during one of his shaking fits, his presence was barely tolerated and his company dreaded. He was a brat with the meanest streak, whiny and held grudges for moons.

But for all that he was, Alayne thought he deserved the peace he had been denied for a long time. It did not include lying in state in the sept for weeks.

“I’m sorry.” Colemon to his benefit was sincerely apologetic. “But without Lord Baelish there is nothing we can do.”

“Does my father know already?”

“A raven was sent last night, my lady. It should arrive in King’s Landing now.”

He turned and left. Alayne stayed for a while with Robert, unsure if it wasn’t disrespectful to leave the dead alone. When she turned to head for the doorway, Harrold Hardyng was standing there.

She quickly curtsied. “My lord.”

“Lady Alayne.”

He walked to her, looking like some god of winter with his sandy hair, deep blue eyes and smooth, creamy skin. The furs heaped on his shoulders emphasized his height and powerful build rather than drowning him. When he was close enough, the corner of his slender mouth quirked into a smile, revealing the dimples in his cheeks.

“Might I ask you to stay with me if it’s not too much inconvenience?” He asked in a tone that said he shouldn’t be refused. Alayne was immediately on guard. A quick look around the sept showed they were alone. Her heart slammed swift and heavy in her chest as her palms turned clammy.

“As you wish, my lord.”

A slim blond eyebrow raised. “Must I remind you to call me Harry? Again?”

“My apologies but such intimate address is not proper. Especially given my status, my lord.”

She lowered her head. Her hair falling over her cheek ought to hide that it remained cool rather than warm from the blush she couldn’t summon. But it was enough for him to think she was embarrassed.

He said no more and stood next to her. Alayne felt small despite being taller than most women. He was much taller.

“Would you fight for me as you had for him?”

“What?”

“It was quite touching,” Harry continued. “How you defended his right to peace. I don’t disagree. I think you even have me convinced.”

“Convince you about what, exactly?”

“Come now, Lady Alayne.” She tried not to bristle at his mocking tone. “You fight for this brat as if he deserved it. You know as well as I do that the slightest err on your end would have him screaming to have you shoved down the Moon Door. He’s gone. He can’t touch you anymore.”

As he said it, he touched her shoulder then down her arm before grasping the side of her waist. She stiffened, raising her chin to give him a pleading look. When he leaned in for a kiss, she quickly lowered her head. His lips landed on her forehead.

“My lady, you deny me now?” Amusement laced his voice as he caged her waist in both hands now. A thumb teased the underside of her breast through the bodice.

“I always deny you.” She darted a look up his eyes before dropping her gaze again.

He chuckled and brushed his lips up and down her temple. “I always convince you.”

She felt his strength despite the thick layers of clothes between them. As he pushed her hair away to feather kisses on her cheek, she managed to put her hands on his chest. “My lord, it’s not right.”

“What is?” His breath was a heavy warm gust in her ear, on her neck. She clutched at his clothes. “Me taking a kiss from my betrothed or doing it by the dead?”

Her hand flew at his cheek. As Harry grasped his reddening face in surprise and outrage, Alayne shoved at him. “My brother’s body has just gone cold but you couldn’t disrespect him fast enough. My brother, who was your lord. The boy who had you as his heir. Have you no shame, my lord? No honor?”

She shot him a look of deep disgust before storming off. The heavy furs and skirts on her person hindered her from moving as quickly as she desired, not to mention that the longer she was in this hall the greater the temptation to look behind.

She was almost at the doorway when Harry called her. “Alayne—my lady. Please.”

She allowed herself a quick, smug smile before stopping. He didn’t rush but didn’t keep her waiting long either. By the time he walked around to stand in front of her, she had schooled her face into a haughty, irritated expression.

“That was rude and unacceptable of me. I ask for your forgiveness, my lady, though I don’t deserve it.”

She made a drawn-out sigh before shaking her head in disappointment. “No matter how Robert was when he was alive, he still deserves respect. You should know better. The people expect you to know better. Did it ever occur to you about the eyes and ears upon us?”

“You don’t really think that, do you?”

“Tarth was taken because Daenerys had spies within the castle. And rumor has it the queen Cersei knew the isle had fallen before the first bell was even rung because of her own spies. I don’t want to cast doubt on anyone within our walls but the last thing we need is someone perceiving your behavior as a weakness to be exploited.” She looked in his eyes. “If someone had been watching or just happened to see what you were doing to me, you won’t live long enough to be an actual heir. I am a bastard, of no importance. But Lord Baelish is still my father. All it takes is a whisper from him for Cersei to set the Vale right in ways you and I won’t wish on our worst enemy.”

Harry’s face went from contrite to anxious during her speech. Alayne almost purred in victory. Instead she kept the displeasure on her face, knowing that it did little to mar her beauty. Perfecting it for hours in the looking glass told her so.

“Your insight gives me much to think about,” he finally said. He looked a little rattled and turned to look down the hallway, as if to check for the spies she had just spoken about. “I don’t deserve any of the wisdoms you’ve shared given my behavior. You were right to call me out on it, my lady. I am sorry.” He bowed his head. “Truly, I am.”

She pretended to consider before nodding. Then she walked past him, her cloak and skirts brushing his legs. Two steps away and he called her again.

“May I. . would you permit me to escort you, Lady Alayne?”

“Where do you think I will go that I need an escort, Lord Hardyng?”

“You just spoke of eyes and ears. Real or not, I highly doubt it anyone would help you should you trip on your long skirts.”

“I don’t and I never have. But I suppose,” she said grudgingly, taking his offered arm. “It’s the least you can do. I wish to return to my chambers.” This was the truth.

Though his company was the last she wanted, she was grateful for the security of his presence at her side. She hoped her gloves were enough protection from letting him know that underneath her fingers were icicles and the palms clammy. Her heart no longer raced with fear whenever playing him but she still worried about letting something slip, allowing a crack into the person she had worn ever since setting foot in the Vale.

By the gods’ mercy, Harry said nothing and brought her to the door of her chambers in no time. She curtsied and murmured her thanks when his fingers gently tipped her chin up.

She let him kiss her. It wasn’t a chaste brush of lips but a sure taking of her mouth, rough and possessive. Nothing at all like the kisses Littlefinger pressed on her. His always made her freeze then flinch. Harry’s made her forget the role she had to play. The person she should inhabit.

In songs, this was probably how knights kissed maidens they rescued—hotly, boldly, drove every rational and sensible thought out of your head. He held her face in both hands as his kisses widened her mouth to let his tongue explore deep. She groaned from the taste of him—wine and man.

He pinned her against the door, trapping her between it and his body. His hands cupped her breasts possessively.

“Invite me in.”

She blinked, his breath warming her face. Then he took one of her hands, his touch tender. But she was on guard, remembering where it tend to lead.

Holding it, he pulled it down until it was pressed on the hardness between his legs.

“My lord—” she protested, as she had many, many times. Breathlessly, because it made him smile deliriously.

Today was no different.

Of course.

They stared at each other as he fumbled with the ties in the front of his breeches. With a smile that was soft, and one that would have caused a flutter in her heart had things been so different, he pulled her hand inside the gap.

There he was. Warm, like a loaf bread just out of the oven. But hard. Big. Crinkly hair that tickled her fingers. He gasped against her mouth.

“Please, my lady. We are betrothed. You know I will not dishonor my future bride.” He kissed her. “I asked for your forgiveness and I meant it. Let me ask. I’m in your hands.”

She turned her head, eyes traveling to check for someone lurking. “You are forgiven. We court danger like this, my lord.” As her hand began to retreat, he groaned and pulled it back to his cock.

“Then invite me in because you want me, Alayne. We will not go any further than you wish. I will stop when you ask.”

He would. This she knew. As he covered her face and neck with more kisses and groped her breasts, she thought about the lessons forced on her. Lessons she had to learn to survive. To take back what she had lost.

And in her hand was the key to getting it all back. Getting all that was left. As she returned his kisses with the shyness that drove him mad, she whispered, “How far do you think I wish to go this time, my lord?”

“Huh?”

She withdrew her hand, nibbling her lip between even teeth as she regarded his surprised and confused expression. She pushed the door open with her back and slowly stepped into the room. He followed.

Folding her hands primly in front of her, she continued, “It has become harder for me to stop you, my lord. I think of your kisses all the time.” Lowering her head in shame, she whispered, “I shouldn’t. My thoughts should be on my departed brother but I can’t help thinking of being in your arms.”

She raised her head to look at him. “Your kisses make me forget sadness.”

“It’s a duty I take on with pleasure.”

“Just as it’s your duty to marry me because my father erased your guardian’s massive debts.”

“Alayne,” he chided gently. “I don’t mean that kissing you being a duty as equated to something dreary. Few duties bring happiness. Kissing you is one of them.” He went to her until his chest brushed her breasts. “Must we apologize for being alive and still able to partake of pleasure in a time of war?”

She held her breath as he pulled the cloak off her shoulder. Next he undid the ties of her bodice. As he pushed it open, icy air swooped in, pinching her nipples into points. She closed her eyes as he bent and cupped the full, firm mounds, mouth warming one of her nipples. The sensation made her shudder as it brought back memories of the young dead lord in the sept begging to suckle so he may sleep. 

“My lord, I fear if I don’t stop you nine moons from now would be a Stone babe.” She blinked as if to fight off tears. “I know too well how it is to be bastard. I don’t wish it on anyone.”

It halted his kisses on her breasts. Harry straightened up, pulling her bodice closed. As she clutched it, he swept a hand through his hair.

“Nor I.” He looked embarrassed but seemed unbothered by his cock sticking out from the parted placket of his breeches. “I never forgot how I first treated you. I have tried to be better since then.” His eyes dropped to her breasts.

“I know.”

“When do you wish to marry then, my lady?”

But Alayne did not jump at his offer. “My lord, such a choice is not for the likes of me. I want you. . .Harry.” Her hand slid up his chest.  It meant half of her bodice fell open and exposed a breast.“And. . And you do like me. . .”

He chuckled and squeezed her breast. His other hand took her palm from his chest to kiss it. “You don’t say.”

“You do remember that what happens to us rests on your decision to marry me. Wanting me is different from choosing me for marriage. You deserve the best woman, my lord. One who can hold her head up high. How can I do that when it’s become next to impossible for me to stop your kisses, your touches? I wish to be honorable but I’m a flesh and blood woman.”

She lowered her head again to convey shame. Harry continued holding her hand. Kissed it again. And then his fingers were under her chin, coaxing her to look up at him.

“I will not dishonor you. I wish you to be my wife within the moon, Alayne, if not sooner.”

She let out a gasp then shook her head. “My lord, we can’t. Robert. . .”

“Fuck Robert,” he declared, firming his hold on her chin. “He’s dead today, dead tomorrow, dead for the rest of our lives. He’s a lesson in teaching us to live, Alayne. To live fully. I want you as wife.  My wife.”

“My lord. . .Harry—”

He kissed her. She moaned melting against him.

“The lords would not want us to wait long,” he spoke between kisses. “There is war. As Lord Robert’s heir, it is my duty to mobilize the armies of the Vale. It will only happen once I’ve taken a wife.”

She couldn’t resist a final play, however. “But within the moon, my lord?”

“Within a fortnight, then.” He declared, taking her face in both hands. “What say you, Lady Alayne? Will you marry me then? Can you find it in you to love a husband who has no tolerance for waiting and time?”

As an answer, she kissed him this time. His fingers pushed in the silky thickness of her tresses. One of her hands slipped between their bodies. Towards his cock.

He rewarded her with a gasp. Their kisses deepened and sped up, as did her strokes on his cock. She remembered how to pull. How to push. How to touch at the right moment to have him arching against her. When to hold off to leave him helpless and beg. And he did. She resumed her touches, giving and giving then holding back. Making him want her more and more.

His cock was as warm as the lost sun of summer, and his balls warmer. Heavier. As he grunted and gasped from her caresses, he sought her mouth for more kisses. She denied him.

“Alayne—”

She showed no mercy. She relished the sight of his face twisting and tightening from the intensifying pleasure of her hand. A small smile stretched her lips as his mouth fell open. A final tug and swipe, thumb circling the head of his moist cock and he jerked. Spilled seed.

“Alayne Alayne Alayne.”

His face softened through the waves of release. She kissed him at last, cupping his cheek with her sticky palm. His eyes snapped open and she pressed those fingers on his lips. She licked her lips and he mimicked her, the tip of his tongue licking  a drop of his seed from her fingertip.

“My lord,” she whispered as he continued licking clean sons dripping from between her fingers. “My lord, yes. I will marry you.” Her eyes shone. “I will be yours once we’ve made our vows before the Seven.”

Chapter Text

Draping one of her legs over his shoulder, Daario lunged into Daenerys, looking at her through the locks of dark hair falling over his eyes. She managed a little smile, her fingers trailing up and down his face before pulling him down for a kiss. Then she let go but kept her hands on his shoulders, his back. He resumed thrusting into her.

“I wish to hold you.”

He grinned. “Of course, khaleesi.”

She lowered her leg and wrapped it around his hip. He leaned close and she took him in her arms. With every thrust back into her, his shoulder brushed her lips.

The sensation of her cunt stretched and filled was far from unpleasant but her mind was somewhere else. From long ago. Where the sensation was deeper. Stronger.

A night of moon and stars. When life was warm and the sun seemed to swell in her as another man thrust and loved her.

It had been the last time she had felt truly alive.

Daario’s groan in her ear and the familiar stickiness filling her cunt pulled her back to the present. Once again a smile was on her face as he pushed himself up on elbows. He grinned before kissing her.

He was a good kisser and she returned them easily, with some enjoyment. Warm lips slender on top and quite full at the bottom, a beard that tickled her cheeks and chin—pleasure was no hardship. She welcomed the taste of wine and exotic spices they could now enjoy after rationing them during their journey in the sea. For their delicious provisions to last they would sometimes go for days dining merely on dried fish.

She clutched him closer, inviting him to deepen the kiss as she sought the aftertaste of smoke in his mouth. There was none. Nor the scent of horses and sweat. Daario smelled of them but it wasn’t as potent. Her knees didn’t get weak although she was more than willing to take him between her legs.

“You’re still not here,” he remarked sometime later.

She lay facing away from him. His breath on her shoulder told he was curled close to her back. Under the furs, his hand caressed her hip, her thigh but quickly stilled. “We need more wood for the fire. You’re close to frozen, Daenerys. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I’m trying to get used to it,” she answered, turning just to see him leave the bed. Him hurrying into a robe quickly concealed the taut thrust of his buttocks. He groaned under his breath while scrambling to put on socks.

“You’re so chilled. Would you like a bath? It might help.”

She shook her head. “Perhaps wine.”

 She sat up and wrapped the thick furs around her body as he went to the door to inform the guards about the need for more wood.

The door closed again, Daario went to a table where some aged cheese and figs brought over from Essos have been placed, as well as wine. He poured her a cup and rejoined her in bed.

The wine had already acquired some of the cold but was quick to warm in her mouth. As she finished, Daario observed her.

“You’ve not been cold before,” he said. “I might be wrong but I can’t remember a moment when I had to warm you.””

“I never have been. Not until we got near here. Since arriving, the only warmth I’ve known is through wine and when we fuck. A bath helps only a little.” 

“Well, khaleesi,” the shine in his dark eyes pulled a smile from her. Taking the goblet away to put on the nightstand, he continued, “While we wait then let me keep you as warm as I had just a short while ago.”

She laughed as he suddenly pecked kisses all over her neck, his lips smoothing the goosebumps there. Hand fondled a breast and she pressed it there. But when the blanket slipped and cold whipped her from behind, she stiffened and shook her head.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think—not again. Not tonight.”

He leaned his forehead on hers. “Khaleesi, you can command me to taste you.”

“Indeed,” she agreed, kissing him. “But I really would rather wait for fire. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.” He assured her, wrapping them in furs again. She was grateful when he pulled her to his chest. With her head on the crook between his neck and shoulder, she felt a little warm.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“What about?”

“You’ve been different since we got here,” he said. “Forgive me. I’m not being critical. But it seems your mind is often elsewhere. Since you took Tarth.”

She shook her head. “I did no such thing. I liberated Tarth and all of the Stormlands from the claws of Cersei Lannister.” Touching his chest, she remarked, “You’re so warm. How do you not feel cold at all?”

“I’m not as cold as when we were in the open sea. The fire helps too but. . .”

“Go on.”

“Daenerys,” he said, helping her to look up at him. “What is this island to you? All there is to see is sand. Despair. The sky is dark. The sun is practically a memory. But then,” he touched her cheek. “It’s not mine.”

“I thought—” she began but stopped.

“Tell me.”

“Do you remember when we walked into Meereen after the slave traders and owners were put to the cross? How the people took to us—I was Mhysa. Their mhysa. Fire and blood are my house words but they are not mine to live by. I don’t wish for my reign to be defined by them. In Meereen, I knew-I knew I was right. I knew I did something right. I felt it from the people down to very ground I walked on. I was there to rule until the people could stand on their own two feet and shape their own destiny. But it wasn’t mine. None of it—not even a pebble to my name.  I don’t doubt my actions—” her voice faltered and she quickly said—“my decision to claim my birthright. I just thought I would know upon setting foot what it means to belong.”

“But you were born here.”

“No. I was born in Dragonstone, a castle that shares the name of the island it was on in the Stormlands—the region we are in now.” She glanced at the window where a storm from the sea raged. “I was born on a night not dissimilar to this. Stormborn is one of my names. Daenerys Stormborn. But the castle is no longer and the island a pile of waste and death. Cersei had it burned to the ground when a Lannister victory was clear in the last war.”

“Perhaps, you could see it for yourself,” Daario suggested. “Clearly it’s not a pretty sight but this belonging you look for. . .it might just be there.”

“It isn’t too far. A ship could sail there and be back in a day. But winter makes the water unpredictable.” As she spoke, the glass rattled from the powerful wind. “This is a strange country, where I come from. I’m here to give hope but struggle to see it anywhere.”

And any semblance of it now ash. 

“You have other ways to see it. Dragonstone, I mean.” Daario’s quiet tone told he was trying to be careful.

 “No.” Her answer was swift. “I can’t. Not now. You saw what they did.”

And what I’ve had to do. The howling wind drowned out her children’s cries at being chained. There was no space or anywhere in the isle that could contain the dragons except the beach. There, for the entire stretch of Tarth’s beach, her dragons were chained and guarded.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

She shook her head. “It matters not. They can’t be free while the people fear me. They don’t trust me because of the demise of the Lady Brienne at my hands. I should never have agreed to Goodwin’s plan. It was betrayal.”

“His intentions were good. He wished to save her and her son.”

“He swore there would be no bloodshed. That the Dothraki would be there to subdue. Ensure the least resistance. Not run amok and commit that massacre. I should have sought an audience with her myself. Imagine how different things would be. Instead it seems I intend to follow in Cersei’s footsteps.”

“You will not.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure.”

“Daenerys—”

“Have I told that you I was sold to Drogo in marriage for an army to take back Westeros? That my brother was willing to have me raped by forty thousand men if it meant getting back the Iron Throne? Not one protest out of me. I had no voice. I was a pawn. Probably even less. That’s why I never questioned Drogo when he swore to kill men in iron houses and rape their women. Take their children as slaves. When I realized I was all that was left of my House, without my husband at my side, I had no other choice but to take all I’ve lost back. I swore only the enemy will shed blood. Never the innocent. That’s not what happened here.”

“There is no victory without bloodshed. No conqueror has ever taken anything without an innocent paying the price.”

“It still doesn’t make things acceptable. The other lords swore themselves to me from one glimpse of my dragons. I thought there would be peace in forging an alliance with Lady Brienne. Instead I brought destruction. Fire. Blood.”

“So now what?” Daario pointed out. “We stop here, because this is as far as you’ll go in claiming your birthright? Khaleesi. Daenerys. Every grain of sand, every stone, every root in Westeros is yours. You can even command the wind. Dragons are beasts. Wild. Uncontrollable. Lethal. Blaming yourself over what happened here has to end. Accept responsibility. Then learn. Learn rather than dwell.”

“And just like that the people will swear themselves to me? For a sellsword that’s quite naïve.”

Undeterred, Daario pushed on, “People follow Cersei out of fear, not loyalty. She’s a fucking cunt whose hands drip blood without having swung a sword once.”

“With just swords she’s managed to turn all against foreigners.”

“And it’s revolting.”

“You miss the point. To the people I am foreign. This fear chains them to Cersei and would not swing them to my side.”

“So what do you propose to do? Help them in the fields, visit brothels and tell the women you care for them, comfort the abandoned and sickly in motherhouses? Create an antidote for the so-called dragonfever?” Daario was irritated. “Of all the fucking ridiculous things to heap on you.”

“Can you blame them? All they know of Targaryens is for every birth the gods flip a coin to see who will be mad. But it won’t be a hardship to be at their level. I too have known loss. I know how it is to cling to that last shred of hope, of dignity, and having to let go in order to survive.” Her voice was suddenly small, remembering Viserys.

Her brother had been the one to teach her their histories. Instilled in her that the Iron Throne was theirs by rights. She had loved him for a good part of her life, waiting for the day when moonblood would stain her thighs so they could be together. He had loved her back too. Protected her.

But interspersed with his kindness and warmth was a cruelty that made her terrified even of her own shadow. When Ser Derry had died, the servants helped themselves to their gold and jewels and threw her and Viserys out. Her cries to be returned to the house with the red door still rang. She had been dragged away. Pushed. Kicked and beaten so that sometimes she thought she could still saw the faint scrawl of scars on her knees when the servants’ violence ripped the skin off them.

All she and Viserys had were a few jewels secreted in their pockets. For a while they managed to eat. Had a roof over their heads. But gone was the tender older brother who held her in his arms until she fell asleep. He began hitting her. Cursed her for being born too late. Had she come earlier Rhaegar wouldn’t have had to settle for his weak Dornish wife, he had ranted. He wouldn’t have locked eyes with that young wolf girl.

Once they ran out of jewels, of money, when they were down to their mother’s crown, Viserys had completely changed. He slapped her for no reason more than her having committed minor transgressions. Even when Illyrio Mopatis came to their aid and expected nothing in return, Viserys remained bitter and cruel.

But the beatings Daenerys had endured in secret were nothing to the rage Viserys had unleashed when Illyrio arranged her marriage to Khal Drogo.

“Every suffering is different, of course,” she told Daario, willing herself from habit to draw a dark shroud on the evil Visery had visited on her the night before her wedding. “But I know how it is to be cornered. To be helpless. I know how terror can motivate you to agree to anything and everything inhuman and sickening if it means keeping your life. Don’t you understand? I must be with the people for them to know I’m nothing like Cersei. I don’t preach violence.”

“But that’s not what they want.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“People hardly care who gives the rules, let alone the kind of seat that power comes from. All that matters is they have food. They have dignity. Respect. If the world they’re in deprives or makes any of them difficult, they will not support whoever makes the rules. You have the power to change the world, Daenerys. And you already have when you ended slavery in Meereen. Their lives are forever changed for the better. Because of you. Daenerys Targaryen. Queen. Conqueror. Mother of Dragons.”

He had barely finished speaking when a gust of wind blew the windows open. As Daenerys clutched the blankets, Daario cursed and dashed around the bed to close them. He threw the bar across the windows, grunting. “Fucking storms. Even I sense much of the history here drips with blood. Perhaps it’s just as well storms are without end. Waters must rise to the sky to cleanse this hell.”

Come morning, Daenerys made an announcement before her small council. “I wish to see and walk Tarth as the people do.”

Barristan, seated at her right, said, “It can be arranged, khaleesi.”

“An escort of five,” Grey Worm agreed.

“No. You misunderstand. I wish to see and walk Tarth as the smallfolk do. That means I will not need protection.”

Immediately, Missandei, Grey Worm, Daario and even Barristan burst into a flurry of protests and hasty explanations on why she shouldn’t do it.

“It is probably best to wait for a while,” Daario tried to say while Missandi shook her head and declared, “Khaleesi, it is not wise.”

“Khaleesi, there remain unruly elements scattered all over. It is too risky to be without protection,” Grey Worm added.

“Out of the question.” The quiet tone was Barristan’s, drawing all eyes on him. Daenerys turned in her seat to look at him more clearly.

“Danger has always stalked me, ser. Danger from Robert’s forces is what brought my brother and I to Dragonstone at the orders of our father. His imminent victory and desire for our blood had the few loyal retainers we had spirit us away from Westeros. I still remember being cast out of the house when Ser Derry died. Trying to sleep while my stomach growled and ate at me because there was no food in there. I don’t see the point of avoiding something that will always be part of who I am.”

“It is most unnecessary to further court it,” Barristan insisted.

“The people think I bring fire and blood. If I think each of them wish to cut my head off there is no point to liberating the region. There will be nothing to rule. The change begins with me.”

“Your grace, if you wish to prove you are without fear, you have already done so much to prove you have the heart of a dragon—”

“I am not without fear, Ser Barristan. Courage I probably have. But me without fear, no. I fear failing the people who believed in me and left everything behind for a new life here. I fear that life in in the Seven Kingdoms might worsen once a Targaryen rules them all again. I have no interest in proving anything. But I wish to see and walk and breathe as the people do. They don’t have that privilege because it all they have known. And I do.”

“Khaleesi, as your trusted council, the only you can be allowed—” Grey Worm tried to say.

Daenerys cut him off. “I am not asking for permission. Merely informing you of what will happen beginning today.” Turning back to Barristan, she pointed out, “You of all people should be the loudest in your support. Didn’t you tell me Rhaegar spent a lot of time with the smallfolk?”

“It was different then, your grace.”

“Was it? My family has always drawn blood from this land, ser. Maegor executed septons until he found one willing to marry him and a second wife while the first was still alive. Aemond set fire to villages he believed were disloyal to him. My father had a father and his son burned alive in front of his court. The violence ends with me.”

“Your grace, Lady Brienne’s demise was not at your hand but Goodwin’s. As with her trusted soldiers. We put our faith on the wrong person.” Barristan’s head lowered. “Upon my advice.”

“I don’t look for blame. Only for right.”

“Then please, listen, your grace. As Lord Commander of your Queensguard, as a knight who vowed to protect you where I failed with your family, if we let you out that door without protection then so goes the hope this land needs.”

“So far all I’ve heard is refusals and no advice. Mind you all, I will have my walkabout. So if you have any advice on the inevitable, I wish to hear it.” She looked at each of them in the eye. “And only such advice.”

The others looked at each other until Missandei spoke up. “Khaleesi, you will need a disguise. Humble robes in order to blend in the crowd. But Ser Barristan and Grey Worm are right. Protection is necessary. But they too must blend.”

Daenerys considered this and nodded. “An escort then. But in disguise and discreet.”

“I wish to join the khaleesi if she will let me,” Grey Worm said.

“You can’t. Cersei’s decree on foreigners dies on these lands but there are still people who follow her. I can’t risk you.”

Barristan stood up. “Then I am at your side, your grace. At least allow for an escort such as myself. I can still remember my way around the isle if things have not changed much.”

She looked him up and down. Tall, determined and strong, with a flash in his eyes that hinted at courage and steel. “Very well. But I also wish to include another guide.”

“Who, your grace?”

A while later, Daenerys and Barristan stood at the gates of the castle, along with Daario. Gone were the pristine cloaks trimmed with fur and gowns and breeches of silk and fine linen. Now they wore clothes brown and gray worn and frayed. Daenerys’s hair was hidden under the hood of the cloak, pulled back in a simple braid. She kept her eyes downcast to not easily call attention to their color.

Though there was no snow or frost on the ground, the wind from the sea whipped even at the heavy furs worn by the Dothraki, Unsullied and the sellswords manning the castle and the lands around it. A cracked leather belt secured her clothes but they rippled and swished wildly. The pins holding the hood to her hair were beginning to slide.

She was also shivering under the layers. Her fingers were icicles under the gloves.

Suddenly, the doors of the castle opened. A small figure emerged in between, also dressed in worn garb. He was flanked by two Dothraki, each he looked at with suspicion. When he saw her, he stopped.

“You’re not giving me my freedom, are you, your grace?” Tryion asked, showing his bound wrists.

Daenerys nodded at one of the Dothraki. He removed the chains. As Tyrion rubbed his reddened wrists, he continued, “If not my freedom, is it death?”

“What have you done to earn freedom?”

“Why, your grace. I gave you advice at your request. I did try to warn you about trusting a man such as Goodwin. Anyone who presents himself as unblemished has a festering turd of a soul.”

“You forget that being in my presence is a privilege granted to you when I wish it, not something you’ve earned. Today, I wish you to join me and Ser Barristan as we see Tarth from the ground instead of from stallions.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, your grace, if I may say so.”

“The reason being?”

“Your grace, there is still a bounty for my head. The Stormlands are yours but from what I’ve seen before being thrown in the dungeons here is people are desperate. My sister knows by now what you’ve done. I imagine she would be more than generous if someone serves my head on a platter to brighten her day.”

“All the more reason why you shouldn’t think of running, don’t you agree? I don’t see a lot of dwarves. Any dwarf with a head of white will do for your sister.”

“Ah, but I’m the only one with mismatched eyes.”

Daenerys shrugged. “They can be gouged out. I don’t believe she would mind having your face desecrated.”

That quieted him. Satisfied, she continued, “You will accompany us today. Ser Barristan’s thoughts remain invaluable but I will welcome further counsel. I know you have traveled a bit before your escape during the riots. Now if at any moment during our walk your feet suddenly travel a path that diverges from mine, these men will be quite happy to leave your feet where they’ve gone and the rest of you will go elsewhere. Stay in the path I tread and you keep your life. You are safest with your captor.”

Tyrion dared to look at her right in the eye. She saw the question there. The anger. The resistance. That Lannister arrogance. A lion too fearless and reckless to remember the dragon before him. She looked right back at him.

“A word you would like to share before we go, Lord Tyrion?”

“Neither of us are our fathers or nor our families but your grace, you intend to make me pay for what House Lannister has done to yours, don’t you?”

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

They left the castle in cart pulled by a donkey, Barristan and Daenerys in front and Tyrion and Daario at the back with sacks of earthen pots. The wheels wobbled throughout the journey, causing the carriage to sway and bounce and whine.

Daenerys hardly noticed. Her eyes never left the landscape. Gray and bare, the few trees that have grown looked more like sticks with their spindly branches rather than the thick, powerful trunks she’d seen even in the wastelands of Essos. The wind was a sheet that constantly slapped the face, leaving her cheeks and lips reddened and the latter peeling.

At the tip of her tongue was the taste of the sea, but a wet brine rather than something fresh, with a hint of smoke and blood. She forced herself to look at the stone houses still standing from the aftermath of her children’s carnage but charred black as night. The few people out in the fields scrounged for whatever vegetation that could still be found.

It was close to midday but their baskets were still largely empty.

At the harbor, the smell of fish was so strong it was a stain in the air. There were few ships moored and Daenerys recognized a few brave citizens of Essos selling their spices, fruits and silks. But it was noticeable how most of the locals avoided them.

“There is not much trading, I’m afraid,” Barristan told her. “I remember during my visits as a youth. This part of Tarth would be so crowded it took an hour to pass through.”

“Were you close to any of the Tarths, then, ser?”

“I was, your grace. Selwyn and I squired together at Feastfires. House Prester in the Westerlands,” he added when she looked puzzled. “He was a good man, Selwyn. Principled. Took his house words to heart. He was the only son to survive the cradle so it was no question that the seat was his. He was quite unusual. For a lord.”

“How so?”

“When you are born into privilege, there will always be an arrogance in you.” Barristan looked slightly amused. “Selwyn regarded it as a burden. His privilege. Not because he abhorred it. But that it meant he was always expected to be better. To be above the rest. To embody an ideal. He was happiest on horseback and he was the best I knew. Merciless with a sword too. Despite his regard for privilege being a burden, he did what he could to uplift the lives of the smallfolk.”

For all his regard of the life he had as a burden, he did what he could to uplift the lives of the smallfolk.”

“He was loved by them, then.”

“There was no one who wouldn’t fight for him, your grace. When Renly raised his banners, Selwyn did not have to summon men of fighting age. They came to him.”

“And they paid the price.” Daenerys thought of the fathers Cersei had executed following the Lannister victory. As well as the sons of fighting age.

“Lannisters never know of honor. Only gold. And blood.”

“Not all Lannisters,” Tyrion interjected from behind. “You forget Selwyn Tarth sold his daughter to that pathetic Humfrey Wagstaff. All to secure an heir. You forget he preferred to raid the skirts of whores before picking one to warm his bed for a year. Rather than remarrying properly and possibly getting a son he put all the burden on a daughter who was born broken and destined to be belittled and disparaged despite her size and skill with the sword.”

When no one said anything, he continued, “All Houses are destined to die out. There is no resisting it.”

Daenerys rested her hands on her stomach.

“I guess that’s why you sister and brother got married,” Daario scoffed.

“Only taking a page off the Targaryen book.”

“Clearly they didn’t read the entire book or they wouldn’t have risked spreading further madness in a world that already makes little sense,” Daenerys pointed out. Glancing at him, she added, “Isn’t your niece believed to be your brother’s bastard?”

“Myrcella is a Baratheon, your grace. If hair color is proof of incest then perhaps Catelyn Stark cuckolded Ned too. Her eldest son had auburn hair rather than dark like his very honorable father.” Daenerys felt him lean close. “I don’t have the golden Lannnister hair but more the silver of a Targaryen, wouldn’t you say?”

“That is enough,” Barristan warned.

The cart turned and Daenerys saw a few stalls selling dried fish hanging on racks and a stand that came with a few tables and chairs, with food cooked close by. She picked up the smell of sour vegetables and spices. A couple of more stalls sold meat but they were sliced small and few. At closer inspection, she saw that they rats. Rats sliced open in half and now hanging from racks.

Daario came around to help her down from the cart. Her hand was in his before they realized that the gesture could be a giveaway. She quickly let go and wrapped her cloak tighter around herself.

People continued with their business. Daenerys’ eyes were drawn back to the stall selling rat meat. Seeing this Barristan said, “It’s not a usual fare here, your grace.”

“I wouldn’t think it’s food anyone willingly eats.”

“Livestock has been dying since the beginning of winter. The fields are mostly barren too.” Barristan watched as two children split a small roll between them. “Farming is next to impossible, your grace. But the need to eat is without end.” He glanced at the rats. “Whatever it is.”

“Was there no warning of winter’s arrival?” Daenerys asked as they walked.

“The Citadel would have,” Tyrion answered, holding the veil to his face to cover the lower half. “When I visited Winterfell during Robert’s reign the people there had already noticed the longer and colder days. ‘Winter is coming,’” he mused. “Snow never leaves the grounds there. It is always winter.”

“But the people don’t starve.”

“Because it’s ingrained in them to always have stock in reserves. Not to mention northerners are born dull and believing all things will always be dire. It hardly protected them when the Boltons and Freys massacred the Starks and their loyal men. Do you know the sigil of House Bolton, your grace?”

“The flayed man.”

“A man flayed is a man left with only bones but still a man. Boltons are beasts straining under the disguise of skin and a human face, your grace. With them now in power, things are not just dire. It is without hope.”

While he spoke, Daenerys was looking at people by the fish stall. They were arguing with the seller. As they passed, she overheard them.

“Please, just one then,” one of the women pleaded. “I swear to pay the rest as soon as I have more coin.”

The man waved her off. Another woman, her hands clasped together, begged, “Our children are starving. We will pay. You know we will once there is coin.”

“Get away from me,” the man barked. “You think you only have mouths to feed? Think of my family if I sell the fish for a fucking coin. A fucking coin! Unless you can pay, don’t come near my stall.”

Daenerys took a step towards them to have words with the man but Daario grabbed her by the arm. Barristan also urged them onward. “This is unacceptable!” She protested as they rounded the corner. There, Daario pulled her by hand behind a wall.

He grasped her shoulders and looked at her. “So you buy their food for the day. And then what? It’s still winter. Remember what Ser Barristan said. What aid you give them is just for today.”

“Didn’t you hear what they said about their children?”

“Living hand-to-mouth is no solution. Changes must stick. They should be long-term. That is what they need.”

Daenerys mulled over his words, glanced at his hands still on her person. He dropped them and bowed his head. “Forgive me. Your heart is in the right place. But if you buy their food, they will point you out and there will be a mob. I trust Ser Barristan with my life, as you do. But us against an angry mob don’t stand a chance.”

They rejoined Barristan and Tyrion, who kept looking behind them as they resumed walking. Daenerys saw a tavern next, with a roof that seemed ready to fall and a structure that reminded her of a burdened, hunched man. Outside was a man getting sick by the door.

“I want to go there.” Daenerys announced, stopping and looking at the tavern.

Barristan looked unsure. “Your grace—”

Daenerys marched right on, leaving the men scrambling after her. She climbed up the two steps of the tavern put a hand on the man’s shoulder. He jumped and immediately raised his hands protectively over his face.

“No. I will not hurt you.” Daenerys untied the pouch at her belt and handed it to him. Slowly he lowered his hands.

The whites of his eyes were yellow like snot, his face thin and streaked with dirt. His stench was a combination of sweat, blood and fish. As she tried not to breathe too deeply and wrinkle her nose, she said, “You need food. Here. It’s bread. Bread and fish. You must eat.”

He looked puzzled. She turned to her companions, thinking that maybe they should speak to him when he spoke. “I prefer ale, lass.”

“Ale will have you retching again. Take the food. All of it.”

“That’s—that’s very kind.” His hand shook as he reached for the pouch. His dirt-crusted hands with the blackened nails touched her lily-white hold. “Thank you. Seven blessings—”

A powerful gust of wind came from the sea just then, upending stalls and even causing children to fall and cry as they struggled to stand. Daenerys whipped her head around, her heart racing fast. The wind blew the hood off her head.

The man screamed.

Startled, she turned back to him and saw he had dropped the pouch and was now trying to crawl away from her. “Wait—”

“Don’t touch me! The gods curse your fucking House!” He ranted, jabbing a finger repeatedly towards her. “Brother and sister fucking to keep the bloodlines pure.” He spat, the globule of phlegm tinged with green hitting her right on the cheek. “Your abominations brought us nothing but war and continue with that fucking cunt and her twin on the throne! If the gods know justice, your monsters will burn you!”

Chapter Text

It took all Jaime had to not wring his hands in the presence of Warek as the latter cleaned Brienne’s burns. The sea captain, whose hands looked rough and heavy even from the foot of the bed where Jaime stood close, was surprisingly careful and light of touch as he applied salve on each mark.

The salve smelled of honey and other herbs that Jaime didn’t recognize.

What doubts he had about Warek’s claim about knowing proper burn treatments from his mother were long gone. Gone were the red blisters on Brienne’s face ready to burst the slightest touch. Scars would mark her from cheek to neck for the rest of her life, Warek had said.

It matters not. She lives and that is all that matters.

Jaime crossed his arms as Warek put clean dressing. Brienne remained still; if not for the plump pillows propping up her head it would loll and she would likely end up with a broken neck.

He wished her face did not rival the whiteness of the pillow. Above all, he longed for her eyes to open.

“Her burns are healing well, milord.” Warek’s voice pulled Jaime’s eyes from her. “She’s not had a fever. A good sign.”

“She still won’t wake.” Jaime tried to keep the edge from her voice. His eyes returned to her face before settling on her cracked lips. “All she’s had is drops of water and broth.”

“My mother, the Seven bless her soul, told me about the rule of three. The body can survive three weeks without food, three days without water.”

“It’s been ten days.”

“Milord, she breathes. It would be better if she can eat proper food but she heals. You tell me she’s a knight. I also see she’s young.” He nodded at Brienne. “Those strengths should bring her back. But—”

“Yes?”

“Something else my mother mentioned.” The captain was suddenly hesitant.

Jaime sighed. “Out with it. Good or bad, I’d rather know now than later.”

“The right herbs and treatment, food, water and care, for as long as the body is strong, ensures the person lives. But my mother also spoke of the spirit. That it’s more powerful than them combined. The Citadel’s maesters scoff at healers like my mother but she knows more than their collected chains will prove about the world. She spoke of the spirit as that which cannot be measured but sensed.”

“What do you mean?”

“The spirit, milord, is what pulls a person through from the darkness. When the spirit knows. . .if the lady has something to live for. . .then she will return.”

Jaime was about to bark a harsh reply but stopped himself in time. Something to live for.

Someone he couldn’t give her.

Seeing his expression fall, Warek quickly stammered, “Milord. . .I’m sorry—very sorry. I don’t mean to cause alarm.”

“No. You didn’t.” Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired and frustrated. Wished he could throw things and shout at the gods and curse Daenerys Targaryen. But Brienne. He had her to think about. She mattered more than his temper.

“She was bleeding when we got her that night. Then three days ago she started bleeding again.”

“Moonblood, my lord. I imagine her shock caused her to bleed that night—I know next to nothing about women’s bodies but I’ve heard my mother discuss it with some of her patients. Shock and exhaustion can affect moonblood for a while. It may stop or returns earlier than expected.”

Confused, Jaime demanded, “Moonblood? But she—”

He looked at Brienne but of course, she remained still.

“Milord?”

“She-she told me she was barren. But I had thought because of the blood—I thought she was with child. Had been with child.”

It was the first time he spoke about that fear. When she had confessed about being barren, he had been disappointed. It was pure selfishness why he wished her fertile—he spoke true about welcoming a child with her. It would be a bastard but it was their child. A proof of goodness in this shit world.

The blood cleaned from Brienne was just that. Blood. He wouldn’t be new to disposing a dead child but that memory from many years ago was hazy. There had been blood. A lot of it. And it-the child, had what looked like a form—a ragged, bloody pulp.

Though there was nothing anything like that when he would clean Brienne, he did wonder. She would know she was barren but part of him had hoped, foolishly, that she was wrong.

“I assure you, milord,” the captain’s voice took him from thoughts that should never be. “A miscarriage would be bloodier, for one, and there is a smell. A smell of death—one that you might know something of with your experience of war. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

Jaime knew what he meant. “There has been no such smell,” he said quietly, looking at Brienne. “That will be all, Warek. Thank you.”

“Milord.”

No sooner had the captain left when a tentative knock came to the door. Jaime sighed. “Come in.”

“Good evening, my lord.” Garrett bowed, red hair spilling down his face. He entered carrying a bucket of water and clean rags slung over his arm. Jaime took them from him.

While Jaime arranged the clean rags on the table before plunging one in the warm pool in the bucket, Garrett picked up the soiled sheets and clothes piled in the corner. He brought them outside then returned for the chamber pot. At the door, Jaime suddenly called him.

“Garrett. Let me look at you.” He was frowning. “Turn around.”

The boy was puzzled but did as ordered. Jaime went over and picked up the loose cuff of his tunic. “Have you been sick? This seems more a sack.” The boy’s red hair hung down cheeks more defined as well.

“No, my lord. But we’ve been rationing.”

“Rationing? We’ve only been at sea ten days.”

“Captain Warek thought it would be better to skip some port stops to replenish supplies, my lord, since we are not aware how much of Westeros is. . .is—”

Jaime sighed, realizing what he was trying not to say. “He thought it better to keep moving until we’re more westward and in friendlier waters. Because of the Targaryen threat.” At the back of his mind he knew why it was better for them to keep going, to remain in the water. But he had almost forgotten the brewing war.

“Yes, my lord. But I assure you, we’re not starving. Just smaller portions. And in order for the dried meat to last some of the men have been teaching Peck and I fishing. Captain Warek says fish is healthier than boar meat.”

“Let me guess. His mother told him.”

Garrett grinned. “Something like that, ser. Would my lord be wanting supper soon? It’s seafood chowder tonight.”

“Perhaps later. But bring some for the Lady Brienne as soon as you can. Thank you, lad.”

Alone for the time being, Jaime threw the bar across the door then went to Brienne. He stroked her bare cheek. Its warmth should reassure but it wasn’t enough. He wished for the familiar ruddy shade of her skin. Her eyes to be open. The sound of her voice.

He kissed her on the forehead, her hand, then pulled the blanket to her feet.

Giving Brienne as thorough a cleaning as possible in her state was a duty he’d taken on without question. The first few times Warek had to help, for he had to be cautioned about moving her so as not to hurt her even more or damage her dressings. Jaime was quick to learn—he had to. The process wasn’t only delicate because of the care needed but also required her to be stripped. He didn’t want anyone else seeing her body.

He got on the bed to pull her up in a sitting position. Supported by his arms and chest, he slid the robe off her.

The press of Brienne’s shoulder on his mouth, a softened slab rather than the firm muscle he knew, had him blinking back tears once again. He hugged her, filling his nose with the scent of dried sweat from her skin. How many times had he held her like this—as he fucked her, or when he just wanted to be with her?

His lips brushed up and down her undamaged cheek and neck, smoothing away the blunt edge of short hairs that tickled his nose. Her hair had to be cut to prevent it from sticking to the burns and exacerbating her discomfort while healing. He’d been the one to take a dagger to her limp tresses.

He cradled her by nape to look at her sleeping face. The sound of her breath, faint as it was, brought some reassurance but for how long? As much as he would like to believe Warek, Brienne had not awakened after fainting in his arms.

“Come back to me,” he whispered against her lips, kissing her. He thought she kissed him back. The things hope made him think.

He put her back on the bed, sliding the rest of the long robe off her. It left her face resting a bit on the burned side so he turned her. Again, hope made him think she had turned her head slightly after adjusting her position.

Rag and bucket were in his hand but he stole another glance at her face, her body. She always looked calm in sleep—soft and quite sweet. Back in Tarth when he found himself restless, he would draw the blankets from her body and look at her in the firelight. He envied her broad shoulders and thick arms. The large, fat nipples on her small breasts made him smile. Admired her long, strong legs and even her wide feet. He liked to stare at her cunt the longest, still fascinated by the thick hairs.

She looked far from calm now. She was too still, too much at peace. Though her nipples were peaked from the cold air drifting from the sea, there was no stirring in his breeches. Her cunt was covered in a makeshift pair of smallclothes, the center already red with her moonblood.

Slowly, he started cleaning her. Slid the damp washcloth up and down an arm that had become some sadist’s canvas with the fading cuts and yellowing bruises. He’d seen enough battle wounds to know she hadn’t made it easy for Daenerys’ forces. It enraged and made him proud at the same time. As he covered those marks with kisses in some foolish belief that they would heal faster touched this way, his eyes veered back to her face.

Warek had warned against touching her burns except to clean and change the dressing. Helplessness washed over Jaime staring at her face, that for a few moments the rag just dripped to the floor, his boots. He didn’t want to think exactly what happened for those burns though he had an inkling.

The Mad King’s children should have perished too.

He dropped the rag in the bucket, wiped his hand on his tunic and leaned toward her. As his lips touched her cheek, he remembered how she turned pink and laughed at his butterfly kisses.

No laugh. No blush. Just quiet breathing.

“Please come back.” His voice was so small he wasn’t sure if he’d spoke out loud.

Nothing.

Finding himself in a battle against despair again, he turned and wrung the rag. He wiped her throat, down her chest, her breasts. After each pass of the cloth he laid more kisses. Rested his head on her heart to listen to it. There. A faint but sure thump. A sign of life. But far from the strong, vital beat he had come to know on the many nights he’d slept in her arms.

Taking a deep breath, he resumed cleaning her. He forgot her underarms so they got an extra scrubbing. The blond hairs that were faint feathers when he left Tarth were now a thickish cluster.

He replaced the rag with a fresh one, plunging it in the warm water, wringing again before cleaning her thighs and legs. Finally, he removed the smallclothes from between her thighs. The bright crimson of her moonblood covered the inside of the cloth, with some smeared on her thighs.

Then without warning, it came. He squeezed his eyes shut as if in great pain.

Cersei.

She came for him, clawing at the walls his mind had erected from her. Beat her fists at them. Screamed. Such was her anger at being kept out that the walls shuddered from her blows. As she cried and cursed and clawed over and over came a floodgate of memories: her face beautiful even when lined with sorrow as she looked at their son, her mouth soft and opening wider and wider through their kiss, the desperation in their embrace as they fought to fuse one and for always through clothes, skin, and bone.

He shoved rag into the water, squeezed it so while wishing it were her, any part of her that could crush and turn to dust. Still she came.

Her hurried whispers of his name. The dark crimson moonblood on her smallclothes. White thighs flung wide. The delicate curls of her bush stained with blood. His tongue. In her mouth. His release. Seed and blood staining their thighs in the aftermath. For every beginning his seed promised was blood bringing its end.

Just as suddenly as the memory of Cersei had attacked him, she was gone. He meant to take a breath but instead began to gasp. His mind was quick to warn was going to happen yet barely managed to bend over the bucket and vomit.

It seemed an endless outpouring of sick. It felt like a hand had reached in and was determined to scoop out all that was wrong. He groaned. Moaned. Clutching at his stomach with one hand while grasping the edge of the bucket with the other, he felt the sickest he had been since finding worms in his food back in Harrenhal.

Harrenhal. Brienne.

Strong, scowling, ugly, massive Brienne. His Brienne. Younger and standing in the pool of Harrenhal. Rage in her sapphire eyes after he’d mocked her about Renly. He could only stare at her, dumbfounded and oddly amazed at her pointy little breasts and thick, dripping bush. She was everything that Cersei was not, all that he thought ridiculous and probably wouldn’t even give a single thought but he had been hard. The hardest he had ever been in his life. For her.

But it was the memory of her eyes, round and so very blue, that he held on to as he let go of the bucket. Collapsing on his back, he clutched at his heart. It beat fast. As if he’d just been in a fight. Or fucked. The room seemed to spin. Went from light then dark then back. He flung an arm over his eyes. The sea urging the boat long didn’t help.

Thinking of Brienne did. Brienne in nothing but her blue cloak. Brienne grinning back at him as she galloped ahead. Her lips on his hand. Her voice in his ear. The safety of her arms. Her eyes. Her truly astonishing eyes.

When all was calm, he sat up. He stared in confusion at the blood between Brienne’s thighs before remembering. Goosebumps covered her skin. Cursing, he quickly pulled the blanket over her, touched her cheek in apology. He hurried out of the room.

“You there,” he called to a Lannister soldier happened to be passing by. Passing the bucket to him, he said, “Look for one of my squires and tell them I need fresh water. At once.”

The soldier bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”

Jaime shut the door and rubbed his eyes. Then he returned to Brienne’s side, sitting heavily on the chair. He took one of her hands and covered it with kisses.

“I apologize,” he said as if it was the most normal thing conversing with her in her state. “I don’t know what came over me. But I’ll get you clean. You will be comfortable.” Holding her hand tightly, he gazed at her face. “I’ll make you well, Brienne. But you have to come back first.”

He leaned close, still holding her hand to his heart. With his other hand he played with the short lock of hair that kept falling over her forehead.

“The captain says. . .he says for you to heal that. . .that you must have something to live for. With Tarth taken and how you came to the water. . .how I found you—” He rested his head on her shoulder, wishing for her strength to keep him together.

He swore her heartbeat raced under his cheek. Holding his breath, he held her closer and listened again.

It had been all in his mind. That soft thump that he was beginning to hate. A kitten’s heart was stronger.

“I know what you think,” he said, sitting up to look at her. “What you believe—what we know—” He braced himself for what he was about to say next. “What Cersei has done.”

His fucking curse of a sister.

“I am not reason enough to come back for. I am loved for the most hateful thing I’ve done and hated for an act that is my finest. I break oaths as easily as breathing. I fucked my sister. Loved her for most of my life. Until you. Until you—you who deserves better than someone so soiled but I love you.”

Bringing her hand to his lips, he whispered, “Perhaps. . .perhaps that is something that can bring you back here at my side. I have no right to ask but I am, anyway. I know what I ask, Brienne. I’m not only asking you to return to a world already at war but one where the thing you love most is gone.” He opened her palm and buried his face there. “I ask you to leave what peace you’ve found to return to this place of pain. But. . .Brienne, I-I can’t. Without you I can’t. I am not. I need you.”

Shudders seized him and it wasn’t the cold wind from the sea that brought them. He clung to her hand. Her strong, big, beautiful hand. His lips brushed the bluish web of veins on the inside of her wrist. She smelled of salt and steel.

As he gazed at her face again, willing for her eyes to open, the door opened. He lowered their joined hands on the bed as Peck entered the room.

“My lord.”

“Peck.” He sighed. “Next time, don’t forget to knock.”

Peck froze, his knuckles turning white as his hold on the bucket tightened. “My apologies, my lord. It won’t happen again. I ah. . .I brought extra rags. Garrett said you might need them.”

“Good.” Jaime nodded at the door. “Go on now, you.”

Peck nodded, bowed, and rushed out of the room. Jaime reluctantly let go of Brienne’s hand and sat back on the chair with another heavy sigh.

He was tired but got up. Barred the door again then took the bucket and all the rags.

With the blanket at her feet, he resumed cleaning. This time, he was more gentle while dabbing her cunt clean.

And for every surface of her skin brushed by the rag, his lips followed.

He kissed her thighs. How soft she was, here. She smelled of moonblood and faintly of water. The scents drew him closer, bringing his mouth fully on her cunt. He kissed her slit through the coarse hairs. Soft kisses like the ones he pressed while she slept. Kisses that made her coo his name as she was roused.

But she didn’t stir. No sharpening of breath. He closed his eyes and felt a tear slide down his cheek before it plopped on her bush. He wiped the cuff of his sleeve on his eyes then dressed her again—one of the rags knotted at her hips to serve as smallclothes, the robe. The blanket was drawn high to her shoulders.

“Wench—” It was out of his lips before he realized. Clasping her hand, he continued, “I hope to the Seven that my gamble has paid off. That Lyonel lives. You charged me to deliver him Starborn but. . .it’s the Tarth ancestral blade. It’s not right for it to pass from my hand to his. It should only be between Tarths. I am not his father.”

But he had been a father. Still a father. Yet he felt no tie to his last living child. Not even some fondness—Myrcella was a stranger to him. It was odd he cared more for a child he’d seen only once. A child who wasn’t even his blood.

Because he’s hers. He looked at Brienne.

There was no telling if the scroll he’d sent to Addam reached him in time. Perhaps he should have just used the seal of Master of Laws rather than the Kingsguard for his bannerman to know right away the urgency of the message.

Though Uncle Kevan had no love for him and Cersei because of their marriage, there was no telling who exactly within Casterly Rock felt the same. Not all of the Westerlands supported Cersei for the same reason but there was a handful, Jaime was sure, whose loyalties were for sale. He couldn’t risk anyone knowing he’d sent a message to Addam.

Yet he wasn’t worried about Cersei finding out. What frightened him was breaking his vow to Brienne.

Someone knocked on the door and he reluctantly left Brienne’s side.

“My lord.” Garrett and Peck bowed before pushing a trolley into the room. The dome concealed the food but Jaime picked up the aroma of the seafood chowder mentioned earlier. His squires set up his meal on a table before picking up the rags and bucket from the floor.

“Ser, the captain has asked if you could join him for ale after your meal,” Peck said.

Jaime was about to say no but changed his mind. It was the least he could do for the man, considering all the help with regards to Brienne. He’d given up his room for her as well.

“I’d be most pleased,” he replied. “But one of you should stay with the Lady Brienne.”

“I can do it, Ser,” Garrett volunteered.

Peck rolled his eyes and insisted, “No, ser. I will do it.”

“Here’s a solution. You both look after her. I won’t take long but I don’t wish to leave her alone.”

Pleased, the two squires nodded eagerly although Peck was smirking. Jaime sighed. He would need to have a word with the young man about his attitude soon. Nothing irked him more than someone who thought himself better than others. The lad did not even come from a fucking major House, nor had distinguished himself in any way.

“Good. That’s settled then. Wait for me outside while I have my meal.”

But Jaime didn’t eat. His share of the chowder went untouched because he wasn’t very hungry. Instead, he spent the hour feeding Brienne.  

He had to dip a clean cloth into the thinned chowder and feed her drop by drop. The same went with water. It was a long and delicate process but he threw himself at it. Anything that kept her alive, that held the promise of her return, he did more than willingly.

What he was far from willing was joining the captain. He did not share his siblings’ love for the drink but refusing the invitation would be rude. Besides, after all that Warek had done, sharing ale with him was a small price to pay. So he allowed him to fill his glass until half-full. Even toasted with him and sipped some.

“I apologize for the absence of a finer drink, milord,” Warek said, leaning back on his chair and stacking his feet on a stool. “But I thought you might want a respite from all the work you’ve been doing for the lady.”

“Hardly work,” Jaime muttered. “Else she’d be awake now.” He raised his glass. “But I don’t believe I’ve properly thanked you for your efforts. You gave up your quarters for her. Your knowledge on healing has been invaluable.”

Warek spread his arms a little and gestured at the crimson and gold accents of the room. “I have no complaints regarding my grand chamber. I should be thanking you.”

Jaime chuckled. He held a hand over the rim of his glass but took the bottle and offered to refill Warek’s. The captain looked surprised but pleased with the gesture and held out his glass.

As he poured, he remarked, “This mother of yours. Where is she? I would like to thank her.”

The captain’s eyes seemed to dim and the smile fell from his face. He moved like an old man taking the glass from the table.

“She is long gone, milord.”

“I am sorry.”

Warek nodded. “I struggle to remember her face. Strange that I remember how to make poultices, the kind of herbs to brew into a tea but her face—” he looked at Jaime, shaking his head. “She was a healer, as I said. With a vast knowledge of the world—knowledge my own father believed drove her mad.” He sipped the ale and was smiling again. “My father thought that for her to heal it would be best to bring her back east. She came from Essos. I loved her. Very much. I stayed with her until the Stranger came.”

“And your father?”

“Ah, that is a story for another time, milord.” Though smiling, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I try to not to think of the past so much. But a night such as this, and ale, company—” he raised his glass. “My mother. Would you join me in toasting to her?”

“Of course. What’s her name?”

“Maggy, milord.”

Jaime raised his glass. “To Maggy. And  you.”

“Thank you—”

The sharp, rapid ringing of a bell cut off Warek. Glasses fell and ale spilled on the rich carpets as they hurried out of the room. The icy air whipped at Jaime’s face, stunning him for a moment before he dashed along with everyone else to the direction of the sound. It came from the crow’s nest.

Lanterns and torches were lit. As one was handed to Warek, he bellowed towards above, “What goes on there?”

“An iceberg, captain!” Came from the faint cry.

Jaime elbowed the other sailors and his soldiers out of the way to look. For the first time since he’d been out to sea, the night was silver and the sky filled with streaks and spirals of lights the color of blue, pink, and green. Someone handed him a torch and he aimed it towards the water.

“It’s some twenty yards ahead, captain! Straight ahead!” Shouted the same voice from above.

Jaime didn’t have to squint. The block of ice sat in the ocean looking like a squat, jagged piece of diamond. It was that big. Before them were other pieces the size of human heads and bigger.

“Drop the anchor!” Warek ordered. “Now!”

Growls and squeaks accompanied the device as it was dropped into the water. Warek continued barking orders. “Lower the boats, men! Three to a boat and no more, no less! Milord,” he said to Jaime, “There’s bound to be growlers in the water. Not as big but harder to spot and can cause as significant a damage as an iceberg.”

“My men can help.”

“My thanks, milord, but the task is for sailors such as I. We need to get those bits out of the way and also spot where other icebergs may be to avoid them.” He glanced at the heavy furs on the Lannister soldiers. The sailors were in light vests over their clothes. “Your men can be trusted in a battle on land but the sea needs hardier men.”

“How far along are we that there are icebergs?” Jaime demanded.

“We’re approaching the Cliffs of Shields, milord. Mountains of ice and snow protecting the Shield Islands.” Warek suddenly grabbed a rope and swung himself off the edge, landing firmly on a boat lowering into the water. “If the ice is melting, it can only mean one thing.”

“And that is?”

“Winter is ending, milord.”

Chapter Text

Gods above but she was burning.

Steam clouded the baths and the ceiling. The little light coming in from the small windows of the bathhouse showed varying colors of faint green, gold and even crimson. Brienne wasn’t sure—everywhere was its gossamer-like form twisting, stretching. She felt rather than saw her gloved hand coming for her face until it was reaching up to scrape the sweat from her forehead and the rest of her face. Rougher than intended, her cheeks stung from the action.

As if the heat from the baths wasn’t enough punishment, the constant sound of water streaming into the shower stalls reminded her too much of men taking a piss.

When the steam cleared, she looked longingly at the stairs. It led outside. Outside where there was cool air. So what if it also meant soldiers spitting at her boots? Raining insults on her?

She would take spit to her face if it meant leaving this hell. A spit and Renly with Queen Margaery smirking at his side.

But she was here because of Renly. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for him, it was true but this. . .this fucking curse of a task, she thought, trying to sneak a glance at the tall figure standing a few steps away from her—this was close to self-inflicted punishment. Renly’s thick raven hair falling over his clear, beautiful navy eyes had robbed her of speech when he asked her to stand guard over the Kingslayer following his treatment by Qyburn.

“Are you just going to stand there like some useless, giant plank or will you be helping me?”

Brienne stared straight ahead, refusing to even risk a quick side glance at Jaime Lannister. Didn’t have to. She could smell him. As soon as he’d arrived his familiar wet, unwashed stench chased away the fresh air of the bath.

“You. I’m talking to you, you dolt.”

She ignored him.

“Why are you even here?”

He asked with a wonder that bordered on innocence and even genuine curiosity but she also heard the mockery underneath it. So while still refusing to look at him, she snapped, “I’m asking myself the same thing.”

“Renly off his feet being king for a change, whatever that means? He doesn’t need you to rest his feet on or something? Smooth the creases from his collection of silk cloaks?”

She ignored him again.

It turned out doing so could only last so long. She should have known he won’t stand for it as his smell ripened and made her eyes water. Her eyes watered and she blinked several times. When moisture cleared, he was right in front of her.

Scraggly, mud-crusted hair swished around a neck now wrapped in a fresh bandage rather than chains. He was squinting at her and seemed to sway. A fresh gust of steam rising from right behind him thickened not just his stink but also the spicy smell of the salve rubbed on his wounds.

Despite the shapeless rags that his fine clothes had turned into after a year in captivity, there was nothing weak nor soft about him. The stubborn set of his jaw still called for a fist. He still had a way of looking at her as if she were ridiculous and beneath him.

“If you don’t help me I’ll be the first Lannister to drown in the bath.”

She met his stare. “No one will care.”

“Your beloved Renly would. And Robb. You wouldn’t want to displease your king, would you? Let alone two kings.”

“If you think I will make any effort to save you from drowning or however the Stranger comes for you, you’re mistaken. No one wants to die trying to save a Lannister.”

“Well, if you won’t do it for me, won’t you do it for your dear Renly?” The man had the audacity to pull a pout. “Don’t you live for him? Won’t you die to please your beloved, pretty Renly?”

“Stop that. He’s not—I don’t—how dare you—”

 She was so mad she could only sputter. Jaime, despite his wobbly step and eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing on her, smirked.

“Not what? You don’t love him? You don’t worship him? Come now, who do you think you’re fooling?” He stepped closer until there was nothing she could see but him. Smell only him. Feel only the warmth from his body as their chests touched. Then he suddenly put his lips close to her ear, his beard brushing her shoulder. She quickly tried to move but a hand wrapped around her wrist, tight and determined. “All of the camp can see you’d give your hand to sniff his used breeches. It’s the talk among the guards that they can smell how wet you get when helping him with his armor.”

She jerked away. “You’re disgusting.” But her burning cheeks gave her away and soon he was laughing. She was mortified. Who had seen her hands linger on Renly’s person whenever helping him with armor? What did he mean about her smell?  

“You’re pathetic.”

She glared at him. “I’ve never fucked a brother.”

“That’s because they’d rather die than be burdened trying to marry off your ugly face. Had they lived, they won’t fuck you even with a dagger to their balls.”

“Is that how the queen gets you to spill in her?” This time Brienne got in his face. His smell almost made her gag but her anger was stronger. “Or maybe you force her.”

Jaime looked like she’d slapped him. “I have never forced her!”

“So she forced you? The self-proclaimed best swordsman in all of the Seven Kingdoms? You?”

“You would force yourself on a man. But you’d prefer Big Brienne be taken down, wouldn’t you? Man or horse it doesn’t matter as long as it’s cock.”

“Do not mistake me for your sister.”

Suddenly, his hand came up, maybe to take her by chin or slap her. She was fast and fisted it. His eyes watered from the pain but the lion wouldn’t be stopped.

“Speak of her that way again and I’ll rip your tongue out with my bare hands.”

“Then it will be the last time you’ll have hands.”

She pushed his hand down. Sapphire and emerald burned into each other before both turned away at the same time. She returned to her post at the other side of the bath.

Burning would be merciful, she thought, glaring at the steam clouding everything again. If she died at least she was in armor. As she waved a hand to clear away the steam, she heard him sigh. Loudly.

“I don’t want to fight.”

Death by dragonfire. It would be heaven to this, she thought, looking at the faint green, gold and crimson plumes of the steam again.

“I’m tired of fighting.” His voice was louder. “I’ve been fighting even before you dragged me from the battlefield. I suggest a truce.”

All she granted him was a glance at the corner of her eye. “If that’s what you call fighting it’s no wonder a woman bested you.”

“I fell off my horse. Hit my head. I dare you to fight your best when seeing double and an aurochs such as you.”

“I do fight my best because I have never fallen off a horse nor taken as a hostage. You also forget I captured you and your bannerman.”

Another sigh, longer this time. “Please.”

The ground could swallow her up. Or she could go in the pool. In her armor she would drown, no matter how shallow it was. Water would keep me safe.

“You will be in violation of your duty as Rainbowguard should you let harm come to me.”

That got to her. Annoyed, she turned to him and shot back, “What on earth are you talking about? Let harm come to you? Bloody seven, you’re in a bath.”

He pushed his shoulders back and winced. The action probably pulled at his neck. “In my condition I’m likely to drown.”

“Why should I care how you die,” she muttered.

“It’s the least you can do. After all, if not for me your precious Renly wouldn’t have pulled you through the ranks and make you his Rainbowguard. Admit it, wench. He’s never seen you until you hauled me to the camp.” He cast a resentful look at her from head to toe. “Though how a tow-headed plank like you banging your head on the ceiling could escape anyone’s notice is beyond me.”

“Wench?”

His smile was drunken yet still beautiful. She felt her mouth suddenly go dry. “Are you not one? Why not unlace your breeches and prove otherwise.”

Her fingers drifted to the pommel of her sword. His smile dropped. “I meant what I said. I wish for a truce. As one knight to another. Has war made such animals among us that honor is no longer possible?”

“I’m no knight.” Her soft tone revealed a tremor at the end. She flushed and looked away.

“A truce between soldiers then. I apologize for what I’ve said.”

“What exactly are you apologizing for?”

Her question was met with silence. The steam in the baths seemed to thicken, shrouding Jaime for a moment. When it cleared she thought he looked smaller. Sickly. Helpless.

“Every insult on you as a person,” he said, looking at his feet then back to her. “Every threat I’ve made. There is no excuse.”

“Why do you apologize? What do you want?”

“A truce, I told you.”

“I don’t trust you. Why should I trust a man who murdered his king?  A man who soiled the white cloak of the Kingsguard further by cuckolding another king with his sister? You crippled a child. Who knows what else you’ve done.”

She though he looked hurt but it was the steam, the heat of the baths making her see things. What goodness she had believed in had been stamped out of her heart a long time ago.

“What can I do,” he asked after a long silence, “to earn your trust?”

“Why do you want it?”

They stared at each again, but without fire in their eyes this time. Jaime was the first to look away. Facing the bath, he started undoing the ties of his tunic.

His movements were slow, as if he were moving through water. He had to keep to keep his neck up to avoid upsetting the bandage and possibly opening stiches on his neck.

“I shouldn’t be surprised.” He was talking to himself but she heard him clearly. “That look. I’ve known that look for seventeen years. It’s on every face I’ve come across since ending Aerys.”

One of the ties was knotted more tightly and refused to be loosened. He grunted and cursed, pulling and pulling until Brienne’s eyes veered to the dark ceiling. She cast a prayer to whoever heard her before going to him. She pushed his hands away.

“Move aside.”

“I can do it.”

“I don’t trust you but I’m helping. Will you do as you’re told?”

At last, Jaime lowered his hands. She worked on the laces until they loosened and the neckline parted wide. She grasped the edge of the tunic then pulled it up. He raised his arms.

Dirt matted his chest all the way to a flat stomach. She wondered if the hairs would be golden once soaped clean. Hating for the sudden direction of her thoughts, she reached for his belt. He put his hand on hers.

Blushing, she looked at his face and stammered, “I-I apologize.”

“You might want to get my boots first.”

“Oh.”

He shuffled to a bench close by and sat down stiffly. For a moment, as more of the emerald, gold and crimson steam embraced him, he looked like a king. Maybe even half a god. She got on her knees to hide the deepening blush on her face.

Around his boots was the slick texture of both mud and shit. As she grunted and tried not to soil her hands with the impossible task, he cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry. I’d do it myself but I can’t—I’m having a hard time bending.”

She shrugged, grasped his leg tightly and pulled at the boot. She did the same to the other. As she looked around for something to wipe her hands on, he pointed at the bucket. “There should be some rags there. And soap, I think, as well as a brush. But you can do that later. My breeches.”

“What about your breeches?”

A stray, dirty wisp of his hair fell over his eyes. “I told you.”

She felt the exact moment her neck went red. She kept her eyes averted as he stood up and spread his arms, giving her permission to finish undressing him. It was impossible to not look at what she was doing.

And when it was time to look away because the breeches have parted open, she saw them: the hairs below his navel, his cock, his balls. She had to slide to her knees again to completely remove his clothing. As she did so, it put her cheek right next to the pillar between his thighs.

He smelled of something dragged through every pig pen but there was still beauty in him. The steam hid the dirt crusted on his hair, his beard, made it seem he wasn’t as skinny nor as delicate in the waist. She glimpsed slim thighs that were once firm with muscle. And his cock—

She had never seen one in the flesh before. Rather than a bulge of flesh dangling between thighs, it was thick, yes, but not fat, straight and wrapped in what appeared to be silk. As she helped him take one foot out of the puddle of his breeches, his cock brushed her.

He must have hissed, maybe gasped—she wasn’t sure. She finished as quickly as possible, snapping back to her feet, and heading for the bucket for the rags and soap.

“You should rinse me first before I get in the bath.”

“What?” Her shock caused her to turn back to him.

Proud in his skin and the dirt that clung, he made her feel even more ridiculous somehow. As if she were overdressed.

“H-How am I supposed to rinse you?”

“In one of the stalls.” He pointed.

“I’m wearing armor. I’m in my Rainbowguard cloak, for fuck’s sake!”

“Then remove it.”

“What?”

“Your virtue is safe with me. I’ve no interest in the charms you offer.” He stared at her chest then between her legs. “Wherever they are. Either you rinse me in your armor or in your nameday suit. You have pretty armor. A shame to get it wet.”

“You can just go in the bath!”

He looked ill. “Seven only knows what critters have been put in my food before I saw them and now you wish for me to stew in filth?”

To her dismay and shock, she suddenly felt sorry for him. Her hand actually rose to take him by the shoulder in comfort but sanity was quick to knock it down. She dropped her eyes upon seeing his gaze on her. He’s no doubt seen me crack. That old loathing feeling was back. Good.

She couldn’t stop herself from staring at his cock, though.

Shaking, she had to will her eyes back to his eyes. He’d seen her. Seen her look at him. There. Ashamed and knowing she was cornered, she growled, “Seven bloody hells!”

“Why must you protest so when we both know you’ll do it anyway?” He complained as she yanked at her cloak and threw it on the bench. “You squeal more than a pig to the slaughter.”

Brienne took care with the sword belt next, putting it carefully next to her folded cloak. As she unbuckled the breastplate and other parts of her armor, it became very clear that Jaime had no interest in lending a hand—let alone turning away so she may undress with some modicum of privacy. As sweat dripped down the sides of her face and made her flush even more, she sat down to pull off her boots.

“Look, neither of us have other places to be but whatever drug Qyburn’s given me will inevitably knock me out again. Unless you relish the idea of sweeping me off my feet and carrying me like a bride out of here, you might want to pick up the pace?”

Brienne was tempted to toss one of her heavy, long boots at him. Instead, she worked on the other one next then stood to remove the rest of her clothes. She gave him her back.

All she’d wanted was to fight and die for a lord she believed in yet the path was more treacherous than a forest of venomous snakes at your feet. Though cool air caressed her damp spine as it was bared, she was far from eased.

Down to skin at last, she glanced at Jaime over her shoulder and pointed at one of the stalls ahead of her. “Over there.”

“I want the one here. The stream is stronger.”

She shot him a warning look and he sighed. But he shuffled towards the group of stalls she had pointed at. She followed him with the bucket, trying to keep her eyes on her feet. The high thrust of his ass drew her stare.

Aqueducts built within Harrenhal meant streams of water were guided into the stalls. Anyone who bathed was expected to rinse first. As Jaime entered one, Brienne realized there was no space for another.

“You’ll have to rub your front,” she said, forcing her eyes to the back of his head. His hair was a clump of tangles and mud. “I-I can do your back.”

“Of course. That’s why you’re helping me. I can scrub your back afterwards if you want.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll try to fix my hair first then you scrub me.”

Though Jaime clearly planned to do the task alone, she had to step in when he turned to face her and water began to drip down his nose. She grabbed one of the rags from the bucket and pressed it on his forehead, halting the progress of more drops. They stared at each other until Brienne felt something nudge below her belly.

His nostrils flared and something in her, perhaps instinct, something primal, told her to scurry out. She left the stall and listened to him wetting his hair to soften and get rid of the dirt. While he finished, she stared at her tightening nipples. Wondered why her heart was beating so fast. Why in her cunt was a sensation akin to an ache and a burn.

“Do my back now.”

She grabbed a brush from the bucket, wetted it with water from one of the stalls lest her front strike his back. With brisk, efficient motions, she got to work on the back of his shoulders. He was coated in grime. Grime that was resolute in remaining fused to his skin.

“Not so hard or you’ll scrub the skin off.”

“You’re practically dressed in dirt. A gentle hand will do you no good.” Brienne wrinkled her nose as she moved lower. Her movements faltered and Jaime stopped moving.

“I’m sorry,” he suddenly said. “I was. . I spent a good part in the pen fevered. It’s why—”

She made the mistake of sniffing and gagged. Loudly.

“I’ll do it.”

Hand over her nose, she insisted, “No. I can do it. Just—just give me a moment.”

He did. No more complaints or one of his snippy remarks, his insults. It was impossible to scrub the trails of mud and excrement from him with just one hand no matter how forceful. The solution was to hold her breath, brace a hand on him and keep scrubbing with the other.

She did it quickly but it didn’t escape her mind that his skin was soft. Finished, she got to her feet and moved to the side, turning away when he left the stall.

“Good. That’s done.” He muttered. She went into a stall to cool her hot face with water.

“What are you doing?” He suddenly yelled. “You’re not done!”

Startled, she turned too quickly and nearly slipped. Her hands pressing on opposite walls prevented the accident. As she blinked through the water falling over her face, her breasts, she saw his eyes fixate between her legs. Water trailed down her cunt, leaving her sodden. Dripping. Mercifully, steam came between them. When it cleared, his eyes were no longer on her body. They were back on her face and looking at her impatiently.

No longer embarrassed but annoyed even more, she stormed to him. Proud of her superior height and size for once, she glowered at him while poking him in the chest with a finger.

“You want a handmaid, get one. I’m Rainbowguard!”

No retort. Nor a twitch or some tightening in his jaw. Instead he just turned away and, groaning, lowered himself into the bath like an old man.

Seven help me. She grabbed the bucket and plunked it next to him. Her hand on his shoulder gave him pause.

“I go in first, then I take you. We don’t know how deep the pool is and your wounds can’t get wet.” She sat at the edge and then put one foot in, feeling for the floor. Warm water from underneath bubbled and lapped at her cunt as she lowered the rest of her body in the water. She stood and found it was at the level just below her buttocks.

“Here.” She offered a hand to Jaime next.

He was heavy despite the taut stretch of skin over his bones. She could count every rib just by feeling it. As they moved into the pool, she tried not to notice his breath on her ear, or the hairs on his chest rubbing her nipples. She didn’t want to think about that thing pressed on her thigh. She helped lower himself in the water. Once he was settled she moved to the other side of the pool.

“What about the soap?” He gestured at the bucket.

“You can get it yourself” 

 “Gods, you’re the one who’s not easy.” He complained. When she ignored him, he demanded, “Is it really that hateful? Having to help me?”

As response, she shot him a look. He sighed. “There it is again. That look. Pure loathing. Strange, if you ask me. I’ve done nothing to you. Never uttered anything against your father. But the way you look at me—” a hand rose from the water to gesture at her loosely— “you look at me as if I burned what few livestock you have. That I took a knife to your father’s throat.”

“You murdered your king.” Brienne pointed out. “You’ve committed. . .the thing you did with your sister. You crippled a child.”

“Did fucking my sister affect you directly? What is Bran Stark to you?”

“Personal ties need not to be there to despise someone like you. Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. A man without honor. Yet you keep the white cloak you should no longer have a right to. You dare to look at people in the eye as if to shame them for rightfully hating you.”

He sighed and rested his head on the edge of the bath. He looked vulnerable at that moment, arms spread to the side as if on a cross. She hugged her knees and kept her eyes on the water.

“You’ve heard of wildfire?”

He sounded as if dreaming. He looked like it—head still leaning on the edge, his eyes closed. The water lapping at his chest and the steam seemed to embrace him. Comfort him.

When she didn’t answer right away, he opened his eyes and looked at her. “Have you?”

“Yes.”

He sigh was ragged. “Aerys was obsessed with it. Would’ve bathed in it, if he dared. Targaryens. . .” he closed his eyes again. Steam tinged with green, gold and red rose around his throat, looking like jagged ends of swords. “Targaryens are all mad for fire. You know your history, wench. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Aerys was a crowned beast.”

“He was mad and cruel. No one has denied that.”

“Indeed. All of the seven kingdoms knew, down to the roaches and worms.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “But no one knows about the caches of wildfire throughout King’s Landing.” Seeing the surprise on her face, he gave a slight nod. “Yes. To this day. All over that festering shithole. No one knows how many. Where. Only I know of their existence.”

He lowered his head and she thought he’d fallen asleep. He continued speaking, his voice rough and soft. “His Hand found out. Tried to stop him from this mad course. Aerys had him killed. Chelsted was his name. He was still bleeding when Aerys made the pyromancer Rossart his next Hand. I saw the moment he realized Robert Baratheon was no mere outlaw who just happened to be good with the ax. He was still my king, and I was there to guard him and his secrets. You think the wildfire is the only one? How wrong you are, wench. You have the hard eyes of one who’s seen the worst of the world but I still see summer in them. Perhaps what I tell you next will take it away. For your own good.”

“You’re not yourself—”

“Aerys said, ‘The traitors want my city, but I’ll give them naught but ashes. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat.’ You think he was mad then-let me tell you that he was sane. Rational. As if the death of thousands by wildfire was law. But he was also mad. He may have thought the great fire would kill all but him. That he would transform into a dragon.”

As he spoke, he raised his head until their eyes met. At first he looked at her through the beginning of his tale. As it progressed, his stare seemed to see elsewhere. The past, she guessed. As if he was right there with Aerys seeing the nightmare about to unfold.

“Aerys was desperate. He didn’t know if there were any allies, who else to trust besides the people in the throne room. Letters had been sent to Casterly Rock but my father never responded. Rhaegar was recalled from the south. He had his Kingsguard take command of the army. That’s why he had wildfire all over King’s Landing, wench. No one was going to take the kingdom from him but he would destroy it. But then. . .but then the Lannister army arrived. They were at the gates. Aerys thought he had an ally still. Varys,” he chuckled, “was wise to advise the gates remain closed. Pycelle, that old, cock-sucking fool, persuaded Aerys to let my father and his armies in. He gave the command to open the gates. You don’t need to be the smartest to know what would happen when you let lions in.”

Despite the warmth of the bath, Brienne began to feel cold.

“Good.” Jaime took her silence for agreement. “Remember, wench. You’ve taken vows to protect your king, to do as your king bids with no question. But will you still obey your dear Renly when he commands you to take your father’s head and bring it to him?”

Brienne hold on her knees tightened. “Renly—he—he would never. He’s no Aerys.”

“Aerys had his madness but what if your Renly just felt like having your father’s head on a platter one day? Would you do it? An impossible choice, is it not? Obey your king, kill your father. Save your father, destroy the king. I—I tried—I tried to persuade him—” His head was beginning to roll to the side. She rose to go to him, bringing his eyes back to her.

His mouth fell open staring at the water dripping from her shoulders all the way to her breasts, the droplets clinging to the hairs of her cunt. She started to help him but the abrupt wave of his hand stopped her. He turned away. She remained standing for a moment longer until it was certain he didn’t need her help.

As she slid back into the water, he turned to look at her. Though his eyes were on her, they didn’t seem to see her.

“Aerys wouldn’t listen. He kept me from the rest of my sworn brothers to ensure my father’s loyalty. Lannisters sacking the city proved I was not a deterrent. Aerys wanted my father’s head to teach a lesson. His head. . .and for the city to still burn. He was not going to stop Lannister soldiers. He was going to end everyone. ‘Burn them all,’ he said. I made the choice. Once it was clear, the rest. . .the rest. . .” He breathed deeply. Several times. Brienne wondered if besides remembering he thought himself back there, in that throne room with Aerys. That he was reliving the moment when he made the choice that sealed the rest of his life until this moment.

“Rossart was the first to know my blade. He was gone before I turned to go back to Aerys. Aerys thought the blood on my sword was my father’s. He was still smiling when I opened his throat with it. He fell just like any other man. I stared at him dying like any other man, bleeding just like any other man. There’s no victory in killing an unarmed man, even a mad one. But it felt like justice to finish off one who wanted the lives of thousands just to leave ashes for his enemies. That was my mistake—”

At that, his speech suddenly ended. Pain twisted his face.

“If—if this is true, why does no one else know of this tale?” She asked.

He took a breath, a long one. Then for the first time since his tale began he seemed to see her. Looked at every feature of hers visible above the water before holding her eyes. He looked away.

“Kingsguard are sworn to protect the king’s secrets.” His voice sounded dull. “And an honorable man such as Ned Stark would never have believed me. But you, wench,” he looked back at her. “Do you believe my tale?”

Brienne didn’t know what to say. As her silence lengthened, he sighed and closed his eyes.

She thought him resting until he began to slide into the water a moment later. Scrambling up, she caught him around the shoulders just in time, holding him tightly against her breasts. His beard scratched at her nipple. Knees straining under the dead weight of his body, she shouted, “Help! The Kingslayer!”

“Jaime,” he groaned. His hand rose, trying to touch her face but it landed on her neck instead. Then it slid limply down, stopping at her breast before flopping back in the water. “My name’s Jaime. Don’t—Don’t leave me.”

“I am not—”

“Come back to me.” He sounded far away but he was staring at her. “Brienne, come back to me.”

Her surprise over his sudden use of her name turned to shock and panic when a hard force suddenly pulled her under. She managed to hold her breath just before getting dragged completely under. She tried to hold Jaime, keep him up, but a thousand hands seemed to push and drag her away. As his body floated up a surface where clouds of green, gold and red formed a thick cloud, she felt this incredible pull at her ankle. The world darkened and she closed her eyes. Her heart broke.

The Stranger had come.

She gave herself to his arms, realizing at last that the Harrenhal bath was a memory. Through the growing murkiness of the water pulling her deeper and deeper into the darkening depths, she saw her past:

As a little girl running in the halls of Evenfall Hall, her furious septa charging after her. Her hair was in pale braids and she had more freckles. She tripped on her skirts. The septa caught up with her, looking red and ugly. She raised a hand to strike her but someone shouted.

Orlyn.

Except having fewer lines on his face, the maester’s appearance had changed little over the years. He berated the septa before picking up Brienne in his arms. As she watched her little knees treated by his old, capable hands, she still felt his kindness.

As she sank further, she saw herself older, much taller but with cheeks that still had the roundness of a child’s. She was wielding a sword, a simple steel blade. Her eyes were bright with anticipation.

The same brightness remained in her eyes as Renly took her in his arms and spun her on the dance floor. Her eyes were still a little red but he kept looking at her—looking at her as if she were beautiful, a sweet maid that inspired songs. She already knew the truth. Gods did she know by now. Her septa’s warning about mirrors never lying had found cruel echoes in the japes and laughter of the people around them now. Though their hurtful mirth had softened, she still heard it over the strains of the music.

Seeing her struggle, Renly suddenly paused in the middle of the dance floor. He put his hand on her cheek. As the music and revelry of the hall faded as soon as he touched her, she found herself looking into his blue eyes. The raven hair falling over a graceful dark brow called for her hand to brush it but she dared not. He may have taken her for a dance, he could touch her, but she shouldn’t touch him unless he asked. He was, after all, the king’s brother.

“My lady, you must be stronger than you look. Be steel under all the silk.” He leaned in and her heart stopped. Was he going to kiss her?

“Never let them see your tears. Do not let anyone see one fissure no matter how much it hurts. Many who will try to bring you down are worthless shits.” He continued, standing so close that his breath was warming her lips. It was almost a kiss. “Promise me, Brienne.”

“Come back to me.”

Confused, she looked past Renly to see Jaime. Jaime looking as he did the last time she saw him—older, more handsome, his eyes soft and clear with yearning. It was no struggle leaving Renly, whose solid touch turned to mere flutters as she made her way to Jaime. Step by step, the music and the dance fall faded.

Brienne was ready to surrender to the Stranger but not without reliving the last moments of joy she had. Thinking of what had been. What could have been.

Cupping her face, Jaime raised his head to meet her kiss. In the warmth of the chamber of the Moonmaid, their naked bodies surged and tangled around each other.

She drank from his mouth as if to take his very essence with her. Gave him her body by thrusting her breasts in offering. His lips took her firm nipples in deep, wet suckles that had her moaning. Her hands traveled down the hard line of his back, toward muscular shoulders wrapped in warm, supple skin. She pulled him by the hair so his mouth would return to her lips.

She kissed with all the love she had for him. A love that began soon after his confession in the Harrenhal bath. As she turned so he was under her, she gazed into emerald eyes that used to be tormented by the cruel names he’d earned as a result of betraying his king. She brushed her lips there, wanting him to know with every kiss on his eyelash that in the oathbreaking choice he’d made was honor.

Their tongues sparred wetly, gracelessly, with a voracious hunger that could rival the appetites of beasts. Once again they turned, putting him on top of her. His lips moved down her body, bestowing kisses on every part of her that had been ridiculed for not being womanly—her small breasts, her broad shoulders, thick, hard arms, her big hands. He watched her while kissing every calloused, pudgy finger.

As his lips moved to the inside of her wrist, his other hand groped for her breasts. She groaned and pressed it firmer to the soft mounds. “I don’t want to leave.” Her plea brought his eyes back to her. “Jaime, please. . .I don’t want to.”

“Don’t. Please don’t.” There was a sudden, desperate edge to his voice. He kissed her deeply on the palm before moving over her. She opened her thighs. Sliding her hands under his arms, she helped guide him inside her.

Her face pinked while a smile touched his lips upon hearing the rustle of hairs below their bodies, followed by the familiar wet squelch of his cock stretching the folds of her cunt. He pushed deeper. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as sweet heat spread through her body.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, lips brushing hers. “Brienne, don’t leave. Please.”

She grabbed his face, fingers burrowing in his thick hair as they kissed. He fucked her long but fast, igniting little conflagrations all over her body. Her legs wrapped tightly around his back.

Through the rough ride, he kept pleading with her to come back to him. The pain in his voice wrenched her, bringing tears to her eyes. Even when their hunger was eased and sweat and seed mapped through their bodies, they remained joined.

She couldn’t kiss him enough. Touch him enough.

One lifetime was not enough to love him.

As he lay on his back, she slid down his body. Golden and now filled with firm meat where there used to be bone, he was more beautiful to her. He groaned as her lips nuzzled the hairs on his chest before she licked his nipples. His hands roamed her nape, the back of her shoulders as her kisses traveled to his midsection, then the tight, defined muscle between his waist and hip. A sharp breath escaped him when she lingered there, for she was fascinated by this stretch of sinew.

Her fingers drifted to his thigh. Fingers fisted her hair. “Brienne.”

His husky cry of her name told what he wanted, what she needed. She opened her mouth and sucked his cock deep into her throat.

He held her back to watch her head gently move up and down. She stared back at him, taking every inch of him easily, eagerly. He tasted of his seed and her release. He felt like warm meat over steel. As his tip bumped the back of her throat, she widened her mouth. Wanting more. Loving him so much.

In loving him, she felt truly, wonderfully, alive.

He shouted her name just before his seed filled her mouth. Gagging briefly, she retreated only to  take him back inside, loudly sucking and swallowing every stream and drop of his seed.

His thighs loosened around her shoulders as he finished. Her head fell on his stomach and there she caught her breath. She was wet with him down to her throat and the chamber smelled of his release too.

“Come here. Come back to me.” Without waiting for her to move or say anything, he was pulling her up. Holding her against his chest and taking kisses from her mouth and tongue still slick and thick with his seed.

“I love you,” she whispered as he pressed kisses all over her face, licked her. “I love you. I love you.”

They fell in each other’s arms soon after. She held him around the waist while he kept stroking her cheek. When they began kissing again, a soft cry reached her ears.

“Lyonel.”

She was reluctant to leave Jaime but the cries of her child pulled harder. Robe only half on, she went to his cradle, crying at seeing him so small again. Where fear crippled her from taking hold of her baby before, now she scooped him up with sureness. “My love. My light,” she whispered, crying as she held him to her chest. She laughed through her tears because now she was bawling while Lyonel was just gurgling.

He smelled of sunlight, sugar, spring and innocence. She cradled him, heart lurching with love for something so small. And how. . .how this being, who was still untouched by the world and knew only the love and protection of his mouther, could love her. Its warmth turned his green eyes—or was it blue, it was still too soon to tell—golden.

“I have loved you when you were only a dream I was too scared to even think about,” she whispered, touched by the soft wind playing with the soft, pale wisps of his hair, the splash of freckles on his face. “My life is yours. You never have to ask.”

Lyonel stared at her with his round eyes. She knew he didn’t understand her. He was not likely to remember either. But she hoped that one day, he would know. That he would know when she had declared her love and life for him, it had been no dream.

“I am your knight,” she said. “No matter how big and strong you’ll get, if your weapon be sword or book, potion, I am your sworn knight.”

“And I yours.”

She turned and there was Jaime, surprisingly looking younger again. His hair was longer and the beard was thicker. Naked, he was more bone than muscle. The bandage was back around his neck.

“I swore a vow, to you and Lyonel.” He declared. “I have no intention of breaking it.”

As soon as he finished speaking, a series of repeated bangs shook the door. Lyonel wailed and Brienne tightened her hold on him. Her other hand instinctively dropped at her hip but there was no sword there.

“I’m his mother. I will not fail him.” She had to speak louder over the loud banging.

“Nor I you.” Jaime said. “Both of you. You have my word, Brienne.”

She hardly heard him. Whoever was behind the door was delivering consistent brute force attack. It threatened to tear the door off its hinges.

“Do not be afraid, Brienne. Come back.”

She clutched at Lyonel. “No.”

“Brienne—”

She shook her head and went to him. “I don’t want to leave. I know who’s come. Jaime—I—I have you. And Lyonel.” He put an arm around her waist and she leaned her forehead on his. “Please don’t tell me to go. Please. Please.”

“Wench, I’m not.” The endearment calmed her. “All I ask is for you to come back to me.”

Between them, Lyonel began to whimper. Jaime kissed him on the cheek. Brienne sobbed. “But Lyonel—”

“Please, Brienne. Have faith.”

“I don’t want to leave. I’m with you.” As Lyonel snuggled against her neck, she put a hand on Jaime’s cheek. He held it there. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, Jaime. You, Lyonel—all of us together.”

“We will be. Brienne,” he begged. “Please trust me. I will do everything within my power and beyond to keep those vows. Everything. Anything.”

She saw his heart, then. She would always trust it.

“Jaime—I—I should have told you. That morning. The morning after you fucked me for the first time.” She was crying so hard now, the pain of years being apart finally ready to burst. “I loved you before I lay with you. I didn’t want to leave. I should have fought for you.”

And then she brought her lips close to his ear. “I’m sorry I chose duty. I should have been foolish enough to ask for you because. . .because. . .”

She gave Lyonel a slight boost in her arms then, drawing Jaime’s attention to him. The words were there but she was shaking so much. “Jaime—”

“There is nothing to fear,” he kissed her softly. “Never with me, Brienne. You should know that by now.”

“I do. Gods, I do.”

“Will you come back? I know—I know I have no right to ask. But I’m asking anyway. I can’t—I am not with you. Do you understand, Brienne? I can’t be without you. I need you so much. I love you more than this life. Please—please come back to me.”

The banging of the door raged on. Brienne looked at it. “If I open it—”

She turned back to Jaime. “I love you. So much. And Lyonel—” she hugged him for the last time, her heart in pieces as he wailed. But she managed to put him in Jaime’s arms.

A brief moment of peace fell on her as she stared at them. There was nothing as beautiful as the two of them together. She shuffled to the door, keeping her eyes on them until she felt the bar. Only then did the banging stop.

“Jaime, I want you to know that Lyonel is—”

The door suddenly swooped open. As she screamed, she was swept up in a whirlpool of green, gold and red once again. It seemed an eternity before it cleared. Finding herself underwater again, she watched as plumes of green, gold and red fire choked the world above.

Daenerys’ dragons.

Tarth was gone.

She had failed.

Lyonel was next.

It was the easiest thing to succumb and open her arms to the Stranger. So spread her arms she did. . .as did her legs.

Her legs kicking furiously to push her toward the surface.

She had been in melees and battles, she had spent more than half her life fighting in the battlefield, the birthing bed, and the rest of the world that deemed her not woman enough but a freak, or a too much a woman but still a freak. All the rage that had simmered within came bursting out of the cauldron of her soul, powering her way to the surface.

What was fire? Fire could not kill a dead soul. But she still had her body. To the very last limb she would fight to protect her son. It was a choice imbedded in her a long time ago.

But once she broke through the surface, she didn’t find Tarth on fire nor any ship nearby. Instead she found herself blinking at unfamiliar surroundings: the low wooden ceiling, plush chairs, tables and desks carved with intricate details only the finest craftsmen could do, maps, navigation tools—

And two boys at the foot of the bed she was in. One with long red hair over a round face, the other with limp brown hair framing a skinny face. They scrambled to their feet as she stared at them with growing confusion.

“My lady?” The skinny boy asked.

“Lady Brienne?” The other sounded scared.

She could only nod because she was still trying to make sense of where she was. The boys looked familiar, for one. That was a clue. Another was the unmistakable swaying underneath.

“Where am I?” Her voice was a croak.

“A ship, my lady,” the redhaired boy answered, confirming what she’d thought. “We are bound for Casterly Rock. Shall I—I shall get my lord.”

“Who—” Brienne demanded, only to start coughing. The boy had rushed out of the room before she could even ask. What lord? As she doubled over, the other boy hurriedly poured water in a glass and held it to her.

“Drink, my lady. You need it. The captain said you would need water upon waking up.”

Brienne took a sip then more. “Captain?”

“Captain Warek, my lady. This is his chambers.”

“Why am I in some captain’s chambers?” Good Gods. The water. It was coming back to her now. Falling in the water. Seeing Tarth aflame. It had happened. Daenerys had taken Tarth. Was she a captive? A prisoner?  

“I need—I need—” she started to say, panicking.

Just then the door opened. Her eyes widened.

Jaime remained by the door. As did the redhaired boy. She hardly noticed the latter because Jaime’s expression mirrored her own disbelief. “Is this—this is no dream? You are awake?”

She nodded slowly. “I’m real.”

“Outside, lads.” Jaime snapped his fingers. “Now. Now!”

The two boys did his bidding and he shut the door. Even barred it. He continued to stand there, looking at her, still trying to convince himself she was real. She was doing the same thing. Her Jaime. She ached to kiss the new lines on his face. He seemed to have aged ten years.

And then he was rushing to her, sweeping her in his arms and peppering her face with kisses. For the first time she felt the press of a dressing on her cheek when he kissed her there. It mattered little. She wanted his kisses more. He gave them.

He kissed her as if her lips were as soft and smooth as the petals of a rose rather than cracked and rough. Tasted her tongue as if it wasn’t dry and bitter from sleep. She moaned tasting wine from him. His lips lowered to her throat, nudging one side of the robe down her shoulder. His mouth wrapping tightly around her nipple had her clutching him. Slowly he returned to her lips, little kisses igniting gentle fires along the way.

They were slow to pull away from each other although their hands remained joined. As a tear dripped down to her cheek, Jaime kissed her hand.

“You came back. You really came back.” He cradled her cheek while still holding her hand with the other. His eyes kept looking at her face, her breasts, hands then all over again.

“I don’t want to go,” she clutched at his hand with both of hers. “I would never willingly leave, Jaime.”

“Nor I. Nor I you,” he wrapped a hand around her neck and she put her head on his shoulder. It felt good to be in his arms. To lean on him. She continued holding his hand, pressing it to her racing heart.

With every beat of her heart, it spelled the other reason for her return. “Jaime. . .I tried to tell you. . .I tried to tell you before I fainted—”

“Hush, wench.” He moved away a little, shaking his head gently. “Don’t overexert yourself for now. Take things slowly. You’ve been asleep for ten days.”

A chill claimed her heart. “Ten days? Ten days since. . .since. . .”

He nodded gravely. “Tarth and the Stormlands are lost.”

“Lyonel—” His name was a broken sound from her lips. As pain lanced through her, he grasped her by the shoulders. Urged her to look at him.

“I swear to you, I don’t know how but I refuse to believe he has been harmed. I made a vow, Brienne. I will never break a vow to you.” He spoke through gritted teeth, as if willing through every syllable that it be true. She wanted so much to believe him.

Just before she shattered completely from the inside, she realized that she did.

“Please, Brienne. I beg you to believe me. I beg you to have faith. If not in me then in Lyonel. He’s your child. He’s strong.”

She nodded slowly, knowing the time had come.

“He’s strong too because of his father.”

Gone was the frantic beating of her heart. Now there was only the steady, rhythmic thump. She watched Jaime battling within himself whether to object or not. His eyes told her what he was going to say next so she kissed his hand.

“Lyonel is strong because. . .because he’s also yours, Jaime. He’s always been yours.”

Chapter Text

The moon was a crescent so faint in the sky it looked more like a dream than something real. Addam rubbed his eyes, futilely trying to see through the darkness ahead. Plundering through the thick forest in the night, with moonlight more of a shadow rather than a sword in the darkness, was most unwise. Branches and leaves snagged and scratched at his face and the horse’s, the latter whining and grunting in annoyance.

Addam breathed, drawing his fur cloak closer to his body. It was so dark he couldn’t even see the puff of air leaving his mouth at every exhale. Breathing in, his chest tightened from the ice drawn in.

The wise thing to do was to stop. Rest. His skin pressed on his bones as if his muscles had been sapped—the horse felt much the same. Worse for the beast because it was burdened with his weight and other packs.

But to stop would mean going off the path. In the ten days since Addam and his six most trusted men stormed out of the castle while bells clanged about the coming war, they’d had very little rest, food. They also had diverse from known routes to lose whatever spy may be following them on land and sky. The Westerlands only had four hours of sunlight in the day, which was hardly enough time to put as much distance as possible between trust and betrayal. The darkness concealed them from the sky but Addam had read enough tales, heard enough songs to believe a dragon could scent you even from the sky.

Daenerys could easily rain fire on us.

Besides trying to lose whoever might be following them, the many frozen rivers had forced them to go off the usual paths in search of other water sources. They had ended up camping on spots too cold and windy that two tents have been lost, forcing some of the men to share. The rocky, icy ground made the most torturous bed and pillow despite their bedrolls of thick fur.

Addam yawned, letting in dry, winter air. He was parched despite the cold. His stomach had been growling since yesterday.

Really, they should stop. Rest.

Except he didn’t want another night shivering under his tent—and nor did his men. Undying loyalty only existed in songs. If they didn’t have a good, hot meal soon, mutiny would follow. He couldn’t risk that—not with the precious cargo entrusted to him.  

There was no choice.

A kick in the ribs of the tired horse spurred it into a full gallop. His men followed.

After what felt like the longest night of his life, he finally saw the glimmer of a fire ahead. The closer he approached, the clearer it became. At last, with a weary smile on his face, he was looking up at the humble, two-story structure of an inn. Its roof was missing a few tiles but other changes it may have acquired since his last visit were concealed by night. His men followed, their horses heaving and seeming to sigh in relief. A door opened.

“Milord.”

“Alton,” Addam acknowledged, swinging off the horse. He nearly lost his footing on the snow-slicked ground. A grip of the reins and steadying himself firmed his footing then he went to the man.

The innkeeper’s hair had been white since Addam’s youth, and he had more lines in his face than the bark of a tree. Alton approached and that was when Addam saw something new: his steps were careful shuffles now rather than strides, and the soft roundness of his cheeks now shrunken bags of skin. Winter had taken a toll on everyone, but harsher on the smallfolk.

“Milord.” Alton’s bony hands gripped Addam’s when offered. “You honor us with your presence again. But I am truly sorry for the recent loss of Lord Damon Marbrand. If there’s anything, really, anything, milord, it will be yours.”

Now Addam put his other hand over the old man’s. There was nothing special in his words regarding his father but they hit him hard.

“Your kindness is always a gift, more so in such a difficult time.”

Alton nodded. “Our distance and the thickness of our forests protect us from dragons, milord. Though you and I both know it is only a matter of time.”

“My men need rooms and a hot meal. The bannerman I’ve sent ahead told you what we need, I hope?”

“He has, milord. He has been waiting for you since he arrived this morning.”

“Very good.” Addam had sent a scout from the night before, having already anticipated the hard, treacherous ride ahead. A scout had been sent ahead to ensure they would have rooms even if only for a night.

He glanced at the five other men tiredly lowering themselves from horses. The forests of Ashemark protected them but they were still in dangerous country. The letters he’d tucked in his coat pressed on him like steel. He knew not if it was a warning or caution.

He didn’t know what was right from wrong anymore. Was it shameful to have not even stayed long enough to view his father’s body lying in state? Was it abominable to refuse to draw blood from an innocent merely at the command of a queen? The only thing certain was he was likely a fool and had risked the lives of his most trusted men.

He might be uncertain but not them, he saw, as the five quickly fell into formation, swords drawn and crossbows at ready. Even as he looked at them he took note of the surroundings, thinking the worst. Alton turned to go inside so he had to follow too.

His armor would have to protect him.

Rather than the usual bawdy songs and excited chatter, only quiet welcomed him and his men. Climbing down the stairs was Hoult, his bannerman.

“My lord,” he said. He walked to Addam, limping a little.

“You made it.” Addam grasped him tightly by the shoulder then glanced at his leg. “You had no trouble walking upright last I saw you.”

Hoult flushed. “A fall from my horse, my lord, but nothing too terrible. Alton has been kind enough to have his wife tend to it. I can walk but I do have to be careful.”

As the others followed and scanned for a table laden with food, Addam asked, “You have rested? You’ll have to keep watch tonight while we rest.”

“As ordered, my lord. Yes. I have.”

Satisfied, Addam turned to watch Alton directing his serving wenches to put out hot stew, fresh bread, ale. Though his men were eyeing the food hungrily, neither was stepping forward to take a seat. Instead, they kept their formation.

“Men, you’ve more than earned warm beds and hot meals. I shall join you shortly.”

“Are you certain, my lord?” Asked the one named Dru. He was a young knight of one and twenty, with light brown hair that turned chestnut in the sun. His dark green eyes won’t stop scanning the inn. “Shouldn’t we ensure everything is safe first?”

“I trust Alton.” Addam told them softly, not wishing for the man in question to overhear. He glanced to make sure and saw him ordering a wench to get fresh milk.

Her flaxen braid was loose and draped over a shoulder. She had a face white as milk—a lot whiter than the blouse she wore under a worn dark vest. The other serving wenches were lovelier by a mile—one had waves the color of copper, giving him a smile that burned with carnal promise and another a brunette whose deep curves were seen even under her modest clothes. His eyes kept returning to the plain-faced maiden with the braid, however. Her sturdy figure towered over the other two serving wenches.

When she noticed him looking at her, her cheeks reddened like plums. Addam smiled at her kindly and she made a stiff, awkward curtsy.

Turning back to his men, he continued, “If any harm is to come for us, it should have bared its teeth during the ten days we’ve been on the road. Go,” he gestured towards the table. “There’s plenty of food.”

The men bowed but glanced at the charge they surrounded before doing as he’d ordered. Lyonel, looking more like a lad of ten-and-four rather than a boy of nine, asked, “My lord, can’t I go with them?”

“I’m sorry, lad,” Addam was sincere. “But until I’ve delivered you in safe hands, it’s best you’re not seen by many.” The boy wasn’t handsome but he was tall and striking with his pale hair and clear, green eyes surrounded by fan-like eyelashes. His garb was a humble cloak of worn wool taken from a servant to conceal his fine, fur-trimmed coat, tailored breeches and leather boots. Despite attempts to make him look ordinary, the brown color of the cloak only emphasized his hair and pale coloring, made his eyes greener. He was almost pretty—a fact that didn’t escape the notice of the copper-haired wench. Addam quickly got between them.

“Hoult will guard your door tonight,” he said as the bannerman joined them. “You will have a wonderful meal and fresh, warm milk. Most of all a bed, rather than rocks for pillows.”

Tired as Lyonel was, he managed a small smile. Addam blinked. He’d seen that smile before. “I think all of us are very glad about that, my lord.”

“Go on, I shall follow.” Addam bade them. They bowed and Hoult led Lyonel up the stairs. Addam looked around then had Alton approach him.

“Milord?”

Smiling, he put a few silver coins in the old man’s hand. “The maiden with the braid, the one whose red face can be a beacon in the night.”

“That would be Florys, milord.” Alton said, taking the pouch with a smile. “But she bore a babe two moons ago.”

“Have her bring my supper and a bath to my chamber.”

“As you wish, milord.”

Addam headed upstairs, grunting from the stiffness of his legs and his lower back. He went to the door near the end of the hall and knocked. It didn’t open right away. Instead, from the inside came Hoult’s voice: “Identify yourself.”

Pleased, he replied, “Open the door.”

“My lord.” Hoult said as soon as it was open. Addam nodded.

“Good that you didn’t open the door. We’re on safe ground but it doesn’t mean we lower our guard.” Addam looked around, nodding at Lyonel. The lad had risen abruptly at his entrance. “Go on with your supper, lad.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Lyonel sat back down but he didn’t touch the food as Addam went to the window and looked out. A barn with a low roof was the only thing across. There were no trees for anyone to climb.

“All is satisfactory,” Addam declared, turning back to the door. As Hoult opened it for him, he heard the scrape of a chair pushed quite abruptly.

“My lord?”

“Yes, Lyonel?”

“My lord—” What boldness that spurred Lyonel to address him first seemed to desert him upon speaking. The boy’s face was the color of apples. “I-I know not what quarrel the queen has with me but I would like to express my gratitude for the risk you’re taking.”

Addam shook his head then pulled the door closed. He stepped away to make sure they were not overheard by Hoult, who closed the door as he stepped out.  

“Don’t thank me yet, lad. My men only know what I’ve told—that your presence in Casterly Rock is urgent. You and I know it’s a lie. It’s treason what we’ve done. I, you, Hoult and all the other men downstairs. Even Alton and the women. I am a loyal subject but I draw the line on unnecessary cruelty. Besides,” he patted him briefly on the cheek, “I made a vow to the Lady Brienne.”

“But she captured you in the last war, my lord,” Lyonel blurted out. Startled by his own outburst, he quickly lowered his head. “I apologize, my lord. I-I was told. The other squires told me and I—”

“Yes, your mother did. Ser Jaime and I were prisoners for a year. Not an experience I would wish on anyone but we were at war. Lady Brienne was following orders, as was I. And Ser Jaime.” Addam paused, thinking back. “Your lady mother was perhaps the only one in the camp who never behaved despicably to prisoners such as us. It’s hard to go against a mob once the back of its leaders are turned but she did.”

“If you could forgive me, my lord. It was not idle gossip—what we were doing.” The boy was still embarrassed.

“There is nothing to forgive. If we manage to find a moment, I would be happy to speak to you about it but it is no grand experience. In songs knights are noble and honorable, brave. But you can hardly blame singers for that. No one wants to hear about knights and the darkness of men over fine wine. We hardly speak of it among ourselves.”

The redness have somewhat faded from Lyonel’s face. Rather than reflecting relief, worry darkened his eyes now. “What bothers you, lad?”

Lyonel hesitated, opening his mouth then shutting it. Then he seemed to summon some courage from within and spoke. “Mother only spoke of her time once.”

“Understandable. It was a difficult time for all. Especially a woman in a camp crawling with men.”

“My father said it was a time for heroes. He never mentioned my mother. . I only knew because she spoke of it. And never again.”

Addam knew better than to speak the truth about Humfrey Wagstaff. Doubtless the fat goat had cast himself in a good light when he lasted no more than a few swings of the sword sparring. He couldn’t even remember seeing him in the battlefield.

“Your grandfather Selwyn was certainly a hero for all time. I count myself fortunate being too young to have ever faced him in battle. But even when he was old, his swing was sure and swift.”

Lyonel smiled, making Addam wonder again when he’d seen it before. The dimples, the hint of mischief thrown with its warmth. “I heard the songs.”

“Your grandfather was quite unusual for a lord. Few would let their daughters know how to fight. The Mormonts have she-bears. House Martell its Sand Snakes. Your mother learned from him, I believe, and Ser Goodwin. Another knight of House Tarth. A force barely contained by his armor. Your House has courageous warriors, Lyonel. It’s in your blood.”

“You’re kind to say so, my lord. I still need more work with my sword. And my footwork. I do wish to make my mother proud.”

“She is, I assure you.” Addam suddenly reached out to ruffle his hair. Lyonel was startled too but didn’t stiffen from the touch. Withdrawing his hand and confused about the affection he’d shown to his squire, he said, “If that’s all, I leave you to your supper. Rest. We have another hard ride tomorrow.”

He left, nodding at Hoult before heading for the room at the end of the hallway. There, two boys were filling the tub with steaming water. Florys turned from the small dining table laden with food and wine at the sound of the door opening. Again, she delivered an awkward curtsy, much to his amusement.

“I am sorry that things are not yet as ready as they should be, milord.” Florys had a voice made for song even as she spoke. “But we are almost done so you may have your meal and rest.”

“I will need your assistance, however,” Addam told her. “Florys, is it not?”

Her eyes widened and she nodded quickly. “Y-Yes, milord. ‘Tis my name.”

With little distance between them, Addam saw her more clearly. What was plain from afar was quite pleasant once closer. Florys’ face was smooth, for one. She had a wide yet oddly delicate jaw. Her lips were slightly chapped. Addam was oddly charmed by that.

The boys finished filling the tub, leaving them alone. As Addam removed his coat, Florys quickly went to help him. His smile drew another blush from her cheeks, her eyes dropping to the ground a moment before continuing with the task. As she freed him from his clothes until he was down to a tunic and breeches, he caught the faint whiff of soap from her skin.

She was hanging his coat when he went to her, first placing a hand on the side of her waist. She paused and turned her head, glancing at him. He brushed his lips behind her ear.

Various notes and sensations hit him from that first contact: the scent of woodsmoke laced faintly with soap, the quivers that softened her firm body against him. He nuzzled his nose against her hair, his fingers loosening the ribbon around it before it spread in a soft mane roughened by frizz. Still he kept close to her, moving his lips until she turned to give him her mouth.

He took her in his arms, crushing her breasts against his chest. Her whimper sweetened the kiss. She was soft despite her strength. He sank a tongue in her mouth while drawing her harder against him, wanting more of the surprising softness from a body molded by years of hard labor.

In no time at all their clothes were on the floor, leaving her in nothing but worn, dark stockings and peeling boots. He drew milk from her breasts hungrily, making her moan and arch. Once having his fill, he turned her towards the bed, urged her on her front. She had just risen to her hands and knees when his cock pushed inside her.

“Milord,” she whispered, breathing swiftly.

The soft heat of her cunt was sweet relief for a cock that had known nothing but the hard, unyielding saddle for days. She rocked sure against him until his hand on the small of her back told her he wished to go slow. To savor. He wanted to stay in her until he forgot what the cold was like.

He took her repeatedly, seemingly without end, just to not be alone even for a few moments. When she fell limp and exhausted on the bed, he finally took pity and pulled out. By then it was already deep in the night. He should sleep but his mind wouldn’t rest. So he tried distracting himself with her body some more, through soft touches of her warm skin, tasting the milk from her breasts.

When he thought to take a bath, the water was already tepid. It mattered little—the room was still warm enough. A dip in the water soothed him a little, and he finally decided to take a bite of the hot meal he’d been dreaming about for days. Yet the boar and its spices and sauce was almost flavorless on his tongue. The wine might as well be water.

Rather than joining Florys in bed, he put on his clothes and sprawled on a chair. The night was still long.

Florys was his until daylight—or for as long as his gold lasted, in truth. But her naked limbs did little to entice him, and the milk wetting her nipples less so. It was better to send her away or give her to one of his men—for the gold he would be paying her, she’d have to fuck an entire battalion.

Instead he let her stay. 

Because he was afraid of being alone.

Being alone meant uncertainty. Second-guessing himself. It was all strange and new to him. His whole life had been laid out before birth. Lord of Ashemark. Someone who would marry a lady that would further the strength and wealth of his House. Someone who would father sons to do the same. He had always known but never realized that at some point, that part of his life would begin.

Or that it would begin as it had—with the death of a father dear to him.

Damon had been a firm man of strong opinions but far from unkind. He was one of the few lords in the entire Westeros who knew the name of every knight under him and the stableboys who cleaned the stalls. In his footsteps Addam wished to follow.

They were on two different paths the moment Cersei was crowned queen. Damon believed in loyalty to the crown no matter who wore it. Loyalty meant survival of their House. Addam thought the crown should have passed to Myrcella, Robert Baratheon’s last surviving heir. This was one of the only things he’d mentioned to his father before deciding to keep silent on his true opinions regarding who wore the crown now—even from Jaime.

At an early age he knew Cersei was not to be trusted. Her cruelty had been whispered among servants even as a child—how she had abused her dwarf brother, instilled fear in her handmaidens and the septas who didn’t last more than a moon. Addam knew too well about the servant Cersei had accused of stealing. The woman had lost an eye following a beating from soldiers at Cersei’s orders.

And long before Stannis wrote to every lord in the seven kingdoms of the incestuous affair between Cersei and Jaime, Addam too had heard of whispers. Saw things too—the strange closeness between the twins, how Jaime’s bed was hardly slept on, the poisonous glare Cersei had already mastered as a child. Addam was often at the receiving end of it when Jaime preferred to spend time with him.

The most damning whisper to reach his ears concerned Cersei’s wedding day to Robert. All the way from the Red Keep, servants whispered that Jaime had spent the night between his sister’s legs. That when she had her bath in the morning she smelled of sex and her thighs covered with drying seed.

He had dared not confront Jaime—the man was protective and willfully blind when it came to his twin. Their marriage would eventually confirm the truth of those rumors.

For all his blindness and devotion to Cersei, he did not share her cruelty. He could be merciless when needed, of course—Addam was perhaps one of the few people in Westeros who believed Jaime was right to end the Mad King. It was a subject his friend and sworn brother did not ever wish to talk about, nor to be within an earshot of when it came up. Addam understood. Perhaps, he was one of the few as well who understood him.

But it seemed the wool had been removed from Jaime’s eyes now. Why else would he trust Addam with something so incendiary? Unnecessary cruelty chilled Addam as well but was it the right thing to do what he’d been asked? What if by honoring his friend’s wishes House Marbrand’s fate would be ashes?

He sipped the wine and chuckled, but it was a bitter, heartless sound. In times like these, a wife would better suit than a whore.

Yet as he drank some more, the idea of a wife began to sweeten. A wife would listen and protect his secrets. She would reassure him, or at least be honest. Perhaps offer her arms as sanctuary. Had he a wife, his choice would be very different.

What he would give for a voice telling him that he was right. Or wrong. A voice that would tell him to present Lyonel’s head on a platter or yes, take him as far away as possible in the farthest reaches of the kingdom. Maybe that voice could call him a fool for choosing friendship over survival—Jaime, after all, was no king. He was Master of Laws but really no more than a consort. Cersei was queen. She was unpopular but as long as she sat on the Iron Throne, she held the lives of everyone in Westeros in her hand. Despite Daenerys and her dragons now occupying Tarth and in effect, owning the Stormlands.  

He finished the wine, his head fogged even more instead of having some relief. As he staggered to bed, he debated between rousing Florys for a fuck or just sleeping next to her.

Instead he put two gold coins at the bedside, where she would see once awake. He pulled on the coat, patted to make sure the damning letters were still there, then went out.

In the hallway, the walls seemed to tremble from the loud snores of his exhausted men. Even Hoult, rested as he was, was nodding off under his heavy cloak. He blinked at Addam before scrambling to his feet. He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“Go back to your chambers. I’ll take over,” Addam said.

Hoult rubbed his eyes. “My lord?”

“Go.”

Hoult looked like he didn’t know whether he was dreaming or not. Addam had to take him by the elbow to shove him gently to the middle of the hallway. Only then did the younger man realize this was real. He made a clumsy bow to Addam and stumbled towards one of the doors. It creaked open and soon Addam heard the heavy thump of a body on the bed, and the latter’s protesting squeak.

He stationed himself at Lyonel’s door and exhaustion claimed him at last. But though he was the last to sleep, he was also the first to wake. By the time light was beginning to stretch across the horizon, he, Lyonel and the rest of his men were galloping away from the inn.

They couldn’t afford to stop, or even slow down. The sun would only last for so long and Lyonel had to be delivered in the safest hands in the Westerlands.

Addam hoped he gambled right. Or else it was the last thing he would do. Anyone of them would do.

The sight of the crimson and gold banners of a castle crowning the mine almost brought him to his knees. At the top of the hill, he glanced at his men, all catching their breath and also with relief on their faces. He turned to Lyonel, who was at his right.

“Hold on tight. There’s no other way down but here,” he said, nodding at the inclined path. Expecting to see worry in the boy, he was startled by the flash of excitement in his eyes.

“I’m ready, my lord.”

At full gallop once again, they charged down with hardly a care that they might fall or worse. With the icy wind whipping at their faces and cloaks, they raced toward the castle.

Soldiers cloaked in fur over their gleaming crimson armor stopped them from further approaching, forming an impenetrable cavalry around the gate shaped like a roaring lion’s head. The man in charge broke away and rode toward Addam and his men. Addam removed his helmet as the man approached.

“Lord Marbrand,” the man was surprised. “We were not told to expect you.”

“The fault is mine. I’ve not sent word ahead.”

“We heard about Lord Damon. We are so very sorry.”

Addam nodded. “My thanks for your sympathies. I have a pressing matter to discuss with your lord. You will see I’ve brought only a small host. We will not stay longer than needed but it is urgent that I speak with him.”

“Of course, milord.” The man turned and gave the order to let them pass. Again they charged through, but without breaking the protective formation around Lyonel.

Soon, Addam and Lyonel were following the maester into the castle. With each step, memories returned to Addam. Little, if nothing, had changed in the castle. The grand marble staircase was still flanked by crimson and gold banners where a lion stood on its hind legs. The railings still gleamed gold. While all of Westeros had fallen on hard times due to the long winter, in this castle were carpets so thick and woven with rich, vibrant colors and patterns they seemed new.

The arched doorways were covered in gold filigree in the patter of a lion’s mane. Though Addam knew it was only memory, he was still tensed thinking at any moment Cersei would slink out from one of those doorways. She had not been too happy about his friendship with Jaime when he had been a page here and was always lurking.

While he cast one suspicious glance after another for every doorway and corner they turned to, Lyonel didn’t mask his awe. His eyes were drawn to the high, painted ceilings, the gilded edges of furniture upholstered in silk and velvet, and the colorful tapestries. When the maester bade them to wait outside, the boy bumped into Addam from behind. Addam had to steady the boy, who was red while mumbling apologies.

“I have not seen anything like this, my lord,” he confessed.

“Worry not. There’s no other place like this,” Addam said. “Chin up, lad.”

Lyonel fixed his unruly pale hair, desperately trying to flatten it but a few wisps still stuck out. As he straightened his cloak and checked his coat for any dirt, the maester emerged.

“The Lord Kevan will see you now.”

Addam gestured at Lyonel to walk beside him as they entered the great hall. Daylight streamed in from the bay windows. Addam glanced at the boy, not surprised to find his eyes owlish at the golden splendor of the room.

Realizing Addam was staring at him, Lyonel flushed and cleared his throat before affecting an impassive expression. At that moment he looked very much like his mother, except for the brilliance of his eyes.

“This is a surprise,” Kevan Lannister remarked as they stood before him. He sat on a chair of wood carved to resemble the mane of a lion, with clawed feet for legs. Details pertaining to the beast were tipped with gold. He did not radiate with the power of Tywin or even Tyrion but there was no ounce of softness in him. Though he had the elegant, refined features of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock with his narrow nose, sculpted lips, high cheekbones and emerald eyes, his hair was sandy rather than gold, the jaw round instead of square.

“Word of your lord father’s demise has reached our halls and I am truly sorry. He was a good man. One of the few that his world was fortunate to have.”

Kevan’s sincerity was true. Though he was one of the few to not support his own niece on the throne, Addam knew Kevan respected Damon.

“Thank you, my lord. That is kind of you to say so.”

“But you’re not here to hear my sympathies in person.” As he spoke, Kevan squinted at Lyonel. Suddenly, the man frowned and stood up from his seat. “Tell me, why did you think to bring to my household Jaime’s bastard?”

Startled, it took a moment for Addam to speak. “Lord Kevan, you are mistaken. This lad is the son of the Lady Brienne and Lord Humfrey Wagstaff.”

“Lie to me not, young lord. One look and he could pass for any of my lost twin sons. I would even say he’s the spitting image of my Lancel but he was gone before he could have fathered a boy his age. What is he, ten and five?”

Lyonel was beginning to breathe audibly. Gone was the color from his face. Addam quickly stepped in front of him. “I swear before the Seven, my lord. He is of Tarth. As for the matter of his age, Lyonel is nine.”

“A Baratheon name,” Kevan scoffed, still scowling at the boy. “If Lady Brienne is indeed your mother, you have her build and size.”

“I am here at the request of Ser Jaime Lannister.” Addam reached in his coat and pulled out the note.

Kevan’s eyes were sharp and cold as glaciers. The maester came forward to take it when his lord made no move. Addam closed his fist.

“I was instructed to ensure this is seen by your eyes only, my lord.”

“If he acts on his sister’s orders I have no interest and you’d best leave.”

“The queen knows nothing of it.”

Kevan’s temper seemed to falter and his gaze drifted back to Lyonel, who had stepped away from Addam’s protective form. Frowning, he stood up and snatched the note to read.

It didn’t take him long. He looked back at Addam, his face this time impassive.

The man was no lion like his brother, or either of his nephews, one of them a dwarf everyone had made the mistake of underestimating. But Addam held his breath as Kevan regarded him. The note remained in his veined hand.

“Do you know,” Kevan said slowly, “What he asks? What you ask?”

“Have we not seen more than enough death of children in our lifetimes, my lord?” Addam asked. “Wars spare no one, and despite peace brought until nearly a fortnight ago, a royal decree has ensured the slaughter of innocents would continue. My loyalty is to Westeros as is yours, my lord. Not the crown. Jaime knows the gravity of what he asks. I am well aware of the consequences once found out.” May whatever god of true mercy forgive me. “I am my father’s son but I am not him. What legacy my House may still have following the choice I’ve made shall not begin with blood. It is why I stand before you, my lord. An innocent should not pay for his life because of a subject’s failure.”

“I have heard of fire Daenerys had rained on Tarth,” Kevan said after a moment, climbing down the steps until he was eye to eye with Addam. He looked at Lyonel. “I also know what had happened to your lady mother.”

There was nothing Addam could do. The truth he’d concealed from Lyonel since word of the attack on Tarth spread was now out. As expected, Lyonel shook his head in denial. “My lord, my mother will not go easily.”

He looked at Addam, eyes naked with hope and imploring him to agree. All Addam could do was put a hand on his shoulder. That was all the answer the boy needed.  

Kevan was grim by the time he turned back to Addam. “The lad will be given not just bread whilst under my roof but the protection of my army. If Cersei thinks to cross me and sends her armies, those men will be digging their own graves.”

Chapter Text

“Everything is healing well, my lady. But I’m afraid some of the scars will be permanent.” Warek said while gently applying more of the honey-scented salve on Brienne. “You are young still. The scars will lighten over time.”

From the doorway, Jaime watched the sea captain’s gentle hand dab at Brienne’s burns. His tone and words would be a comfort to anyone. Anyone but Brienne. She seemed to stare off into space and had barely acknowledged him after he sat down with her in the bed. Hells, she hardly even glanced at Jaime.

He tried not to be upset. She had returned from near-dead only two days ago. The entire ship was still abuzz about it. He himself had trouble believing that she was back. Often he tried to find reason to touch her, to look at her longer than he should. Whenever duty took him away his heart was heavy.

But he should give her space. He knew that. Let her get her bearings. Hardly a word passed between them since her reveal. Their meals were silent affairs broken only by the occasional clang of silver on the china and the swish of wine poured into the cup. When she would rest in bed, he made himself comfortable in the chair long dented by his body after days of sleeping in it. He fell asleep listening to her breathe, comforted by how much stronger and surer it sounded.

What he should do was find a bed elsewhere. But his feet refused to move.

After all, they had things to discuss.

Much to discuss.

Finishing, Warek stood up and one of his men gathered the vials, pots, and rags. “My lady, it would do you well to have a walk in the ship for some fresh air come morning. Mind you, it is still cold but I have reason to believe winter is coming to an end. Icebergs have been found in our path. The air can do wonders in reviving you further.”

“I-I’ll keep that in mind.” Jaime winced from her hoarse voice. It improved by the day but the rasp stubbornly clung.

“And water, please.” Warek took a cup from the table and handed it to her. Her blush almost made Jaime smile, and the gentle motions of her throat swallowing nearly made his head spin. He got hold of himself and focused on what was pertinent: a discussion about that blasted secret she’d kept from him.

Warek stayed until she finished the cup then bade her goodbye. He bowed to Jaime on his way out. Alone, Jaime entered the room and closed the door behind him.

At last, Brienne looked at him. Even with only gentle firelight from candles and lamps, which could often flatter anyone, she looked wan and paler than when unconscious. She looked to have aged ten years.

“Do you think it wise?” She asked. “To stay with me?”

Startled by her question, he frowned. “The captain has taken my room since I brought you here. I’ve been with you—why do you wish for me to go?”

She drew the blanket over her shoulders so he checked if the fire was still strong and there was enough wood. When he turned back to her, she was leaning against the pillows and looked a little flushed.

“We’re not in Evenfall Hall.”

“I wouldn’t have known if you thought not to tell me.” His attempt at humor was met with a sigh. Annoyed, he demanded, “Do you wish for me to sleep with the cats and horses?”

“Of-Of course not.” She stammered, looking at her lap. “It’s just. . .you know what they might think.”

“You don’t think no one has whispered I’ve been fucking you? What of your servants that cleaned the Moonmaid come morning? You’re a fool if you think they’ve not noticed my seed and your scent in bed. The lot of them may be dead, but whispers go far.”

“Jaime—”

“The same men I brought to Tarth with me know I’ve been fucking you. They talk as well. Did you mislike having my cock? Then why were you spreading your legs for me at all hours?”

His words were intended to sting and her flinch told he’d succeeded. But it brought back memories of those days, and nights—when he filled his mouth with the taste of her cunt, when his cock forgot about winter as it fucked her.

He didn’t know which angered him more—that she was suddenly bothered by his presence or that this was the subject they were talking about rather than the secret she’d kept all this time. His blood ran hot, indeed, but he also knew that if she just made one small indication that she wanted him, he wasn’t going to refuse.

He fucking hated himself for that. He couldn’t refuse her.

“It would not surprise me if they think I’ve had my way with you while you slept,” he continued. “Did it escape your notice that you’re not soiled, you don’t stink, in the ten days you hung between life and death? Who do you think put his hands all over your body?”

“Why do you speak to me like this?” She demanded, her voice raising slightly. It made her cough violently.

His body was taut from warring against the instinct of rushing to her. He had to grip the doorknob to remain there.

“Why? You ask me why after finally deigning to tell me after nine years I have a son?”

Still coughing, her face red, she gasped, “Jaime—”

“You requested an audience with me in the Red Keep when your belly was already swollen,” he snapped, finally leaving the doorway to glower at her. “Do you remember? Did you know?”

She was shaking. Clutching at the blanket. The truth wished to burst from her and still she was fighting it. He wanted to roar.

“I fucked you three times the night you gave me your maidenhead. Each time—each time I made sure none of my seed was left in you. You were gone when I woke up. There was only your blood on the sheets. How did you know he’s mine? You were in Humfrey’s bed before sundown that day. His wife,” he spat. “Did he not fuck you?”

“He fucked me,” she whispered. “He fucked me over and over but he was drunk. I didn’t know then—”

“What?” He almost shouted, making her jump. But she shot to her feet, leaving the blanket to trail after her. The robe had been loosely belted and hung down one shoulder, baring a pale breast. They went unnoticed by her as she got in his face, her sapphire eyes suddenly alive with rage. She was uglier with the bandage on her cheek. Fiercer. Fearsome.

“He fucked me,” she repeated through gritted teeth, her dry breath a slap to his face. “But I didn’t know that buggering wouldn’t lead to a child until I overheard some maids speaking of it. He liked wine and couldn’t see straight by the time he made it to our bed. He had me only on my hands and knees because it was easier for him. He often mistook the other for the—”

Jaime held up his hand, not wanting to hear more. It sickened him imagining that monster’s hands on Brienne.

Realizing she was almost naked, she yanked the robe back on with a huff. “I didn’t know yet when I begged you to spare my—Lyonel. And even if I had known earlier, what did you expect me to do?”

“If you could bear a journey as you had when you asked me to intervene with Cersei, I would think you could manage a fucking note!”

“And then what would happened after that? Would you have left her?” She looked angry enough to kill him. “We both know I’d be lucky to just have my head cut off instantly.”

As her words cut him cold, she seemed to calm. Blinking rapidly, her breath shaky, she muttered, “I was under no illusion there would be more to that night, Jaime. It was a transaction between two parties in agreement. I had a husband. You, the queen. I wanted nothing more.”

“You speak as if we’d agreed on borders or trade. This is a fucking child, Brienne.”

“Indeed, a child. A child I’ve had to protect from the moment I’d realized he was yours. I couldn’t run to anyone, Jaime. My father was dead. Humfrey had everyone from the maester to the person who fed animals slops replaced with people loyal to him. I meant what I said that I was under no illusions that our first night would lead to more. I never hated you for marrying your sister. But I couldn’t tell you. Even if you hadn’t married her—”

She suddenly stopped and shook her head. Shoulders slumping, she shuffled back to the bed. The frame shook as she fell heavily, as if the world had become too much to bear.

He leaned against the door, not trusting himself to stand on his own. He knew hurting him was the least of her intentions but her words still cut like a knife. Knowing it couldn’t get worse, he pressed, “Tell me. Even if I hadn’t married her.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

She struggled to not look at him but it got the best of her. “Bran Stark.”

He was wrong, he thought, the strength in his legs suddenly gone. His back slid down the door until he was on the floor. She might as well have cut off a limb.

“He was a child. How was he to know what you were doing when he saw? But you wouldn’t chance it. You did what you did. . .without question.” She hugged herself. “You’ve never regretted it. There was nothing you wouldn’t do to protect her.”

Sighing deeply, he brushed his fingers through his hair. Through the locks falling over his eyes, he looked at her. She was staring at him, her face gleaming with tears.

“Do you see why, Jaime? It’s not that I couldn’t. I shouldn’t.”

He was shaking. “I. . .I don’t know what I would have done. But you’re right. At that time. . .there was nothing I wouldn’t do.”  

Talons and the sharpest teeth should rip him apart for eternity. Indeed, out of the choices to make, he would have chosen the darkest. It was the easiest. It meant never losing Cersei. He continued staring at Brienne. I’d have cut her into pieces until no one thinks she’d ever been alive.

“What about now?” His voice was small. “Do you still think of me that way?”

“I love you, Jaime. I asked you to protect him.”

“I made a vow without knowing he’s mine.” A son. I have a son.

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect Lyonel. I didn’t mean for you to find out as you had.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Brienne hesitated then shook her head. “I had no intention of telling him either.”

“You wanted him to think that goat you married was his father?” He demanded.

“For his protection. For his life.”

“But you told me now. Why?”

“Because we’re at war, Jaime. This won’t be the last time the Stranger will try to take me. If not for what had happened in Tarth, I would never tell you. When I’m gone—”

“Don’t.”

“Who else but his father would do everything for him? I did not expect to love you, Jaime. You never thought to care for someone like me either. When it became clear to me that I loved you, I knew I had to tell you. Daenerys’ attack forced me.” She stood up and looked out the window, shivering from the icy breeze. “The moment I knew of Goodwin’s betrayal was the moment I accepted the Stranger. I can’t go on without my son.”

“Our son.” Jaime managed to say after a while.

“Yes.” She whispered, her eyes still on the sea. “Yours.”

Watching the air play gently with the uneven tips of her hair, he moved away from the door toward her. Once close enough, he brushed his knuckles on her nape, all the way to the middle of her back. He leaned on the back of one shoulder. To his surprise, she reached behind and grasped his hand, drawing it to her stomach. He hugged her with his other arm, fully resting against her.

“When you were unconscious, I begged for you so many times to come back. To have faith,” he said, his lips nudging a bit of the robe away to press his mouth on her naked shoulder. “All I wanted was to have you back, alive. I knew I was not reason enough but I still asked for you to come back.”

She gripped his hand. He kissed her even more firmly while continuing. “If not for what you’ve told me, I would still urge you to have faith. And I still urge you. But I realize how much harder that is now.” Looking past her shoulder into the dark sea, he added, “I sent a raven to Addam a day before Daenerys took Tarth. I have no idea if it reached him on time. But. . .I hope. I had to hope, Brienne. Before it was only for you. And now. . .”

He was the one to hold tighter this time, unable to voice what was inside. A storm seemed to brew, or maybe something burrowing deep and clawing at his heart.

It felt like being ripped apart all over again—as when finding out what had happened in Tarth. When he thought her gone.

Strange, this feeling. He could hardly remember the face of the boy. Didn’t even know if he cared for him. But he was his son.

One thing was certain—Lyonel was more than a squirt in the cunt.

And he was afraid, truly afraid, that he would not get to hold him.

“Jaime, please don’t leave.” Brienne whispered. “I can’t—just please, don’t.”

She was hurting so much that he gave her the only balm he could. Turning her in his arms, he looked up at her face, gazing longingly in her eyes, caressing her bandaged cheek before pulling her down for a kiss. She gasped but didn’t push him away. She gripped the collar of his tunic before her arms wrapped around his back.

It was supposed to be a kiss, nothing more. But having her pressed to him, tasting her mouth, his response was to have more. Get her ready for more. His cock, stirring at her mere presence, hardened as her thigh pressed on him.

His hand on her bandaged cheek had his kisses faltering. She kissed him still until the absence of his enthusiasm gave her pause. As she peered at him questioningly, he turned away in shame.

Yet leaving her arms was harder than he’d thought.

“I apologize,” he murmured, trying to move away, and having her move with him. “I have no intention—I only wish to comfort you.”

He pulled the robe over her shoulders again and she held it close. As he tightened the belt, she said, “Don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I don’t want you to think me depraved. Or any more depraved than I already am.” This time he succeeded in moving far enough away but she still managed to grab him by the hand. His heart lurched as she brought it to her lips for a kiss.

“No. I’d never think that of you.”

She pulled him closer until their bodies were all but fused again, save for clothes. Cradling her cheek, he whispered, “How could you not?”

“I just can’t, Jaime. I love you too much. ”She kissed him this time, drawing him to a hot embrace that had him sagging against her willfully. Her mouth seemed to warm through the kiss, and then he tasted salt. Tears.

“I’m hurting you. You’re still not well,” he breathed, reluctantly stopping.

She shook her head, brushing her tears away. “It hurts. It hurts so much thinking that. . . Lyonel. . .I need you.” Big hands clasped his collar. Eyes big and shimmering with tears looked right into his heart. “I forget pain when I’m with you.”

Then her mouth was on him again, wrapping around as if to silence his protest. But there was no resistance in him. He stood on tiptoes to meet her kisses, the thrusts of her tongue, all while gripping the back of her skull. With mouths refusing to stop long enough for a breath, or even to step away from the window, he ended up having to drag her to bed.

They held each other as they fell, Jaime turning to take her weight before turning once again to pin her underneath. As he opened her robe to free her breasts, she suddenly gasped. “Wait—we can’t.”

His hand tightened on her breast. “What?”

She was red. “My-my moonblood. I’m sorry. It’s not—it’s not right.”

He shook his head and pulled at her smallclothes. “I don’t care.”

Her hand stopped him. “I should get clean. It’s just that it’s been years since—”

He kissed her. Fully. Hungrily. She sighed and embraced him. “Might I remind you that I was your handmaid, wench. I wasn’t going to let anyone touch you. Who do you think put you in these fucking things—“this time he yanked the smallclothes far down enough to bare her cunt. There was only a small smear of blood now. “Don’t send me away. I need you.”

He was having trouble seeing straight until the bright pink spots on her cheeks made everything clear. In her eyes were despair but longing too. His hand climbed to her cheek and she nodded. Thank the gods.

He couldn’t bear to be away from her. Not tonight. Not ever. He had never deserved her, let alone another chance with her.

Fingers fluttering to his jaw, she breathed his name. Then lifted her hips.

His mouth returned to her lips while pulling her smallclothes all the way down, chuckling as she kicked them before wrapping a leg around him. He knelt to unlace his breeches, too hot with his need and desperation to be embarrassed how his cock pointed straight up and at her.

The breeches were only pushed far down enough until his cock was free. Then he was inside her.

“Brienne.” Holding her tightly, his mouth on her shoulder muffled his gasp. She needed him to escape from pain. He needed her for calm in the storm.

The fever-warm clutch of her cunt drew sweat from every pore of his body as he fought for control while thrusting, wanting so much for the pleasure to last, to ensure her pleasure. He stuck to the gentle pace despite her sharp gasps and nails digging on his shoulders. Her wide eyes mirrored his own disbelieving gaze—he’d dreaded having to leave her for a few moments since she woke up thinking her return was all a dream. But she was real. Now that he was inside her, wrapped in her strength, her warmth, he didn’t just believe. He knew.

For all his efforts in wanting things to last, he miscalculated pulling back. A rough cry of pleasure was torn from him as his seed spilled on her thigh and the bedspread rather than in her cunt. Eyes bored on her face while rubbing his cock, her name guttural grunts from his lips.

She was still panting, left hanging from the promised pleasure that had swept through him first. Still shaking from his release, he planted his mouth on hers while his hands roamed all over her body. He kissed her everywhere, lingering especially on the fading cuts, the scars, groaning in pleasure as his mouth took the entire mound of her breast. She was taut and firm everywhere else but silken with these pale, freckled mounds.

There was nothing in her body he could kiss enough—under her arms with the fine feathers of pale hair, the slight dip of her waist, the long, hard line of her back, the arches of her feet. He licked all the way up the back of one long, firm leg, collecting the droplets and streams of sweat pouring out of her. The flat curve of her ass also ended up lavished with kisses, and when pushed his bearded cheeks between the divide, she squealed.

Gently, he spread the cheeks of her ass open until the pink pout of her rosette peeked at him. Remembering how Humfrey had taken there nearly dampened his mood until he remembered she would never be touched by him again.

So he tongued her.

“Jaime.”

Again.

“Gods. Jaime.” 

And again.

“Don’t—” her ass pushed against his face. “Jaime. Jaime. Don’t stop.”

She needn’t tell him. For every dart and swirl of his tongue, he wished to erase Wagstaff’s abuse on this part of her. Seizing the taut cheeks to spread them further, he buried his face between them and licked her with abandon. Sharp spasms overtook her body. Whimpers left her throat. When she fell limp on the bed and panting, he licked the last beads of sweat gathering in the pink valley before kissing up her spine.

He rolled to his back with a sigh, turning to look at her. She still lay on her stomach, resting the side of her face with the uninjured cheek on the pillow. They were both flushed with sweat, their eyes bright from pleasure. But when they reached out to grasp each other’s hand at the same time, it was clear reality had returned sooner than desired. He pulled her hand to his heart and she turned to lay on her side.

“He has to be safe.” For both of them, he had to be strong. “I can’t. . .I refuse to imagine any scenario different from that.”

“I wish to have your faith.” She whispered.

“Do you not have faith in me? I made a vow to protect him, don’t you remember?”

“I do. But House Marbrand supports Cersei.” She bit her lip. “And his son spent a year in captivity because of me.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Addam had always been a friend. In all the years Jaime knew him, he’d never witnessed nor sensed any cruelty or the slightest malice in him. Addam was hardly the sort to be swayed—the man could be unyielding to a fault.

Though Jaime had known him for more than half his life, he was certain there was a side to his friend he had no knowledge of. Every man had that, a side hidden from everyone else. It wasn’t always dark, but it often threw off everything you had come to know about the person. Brienne was right about House Marbrand’s support of Cersei. Jaime hoped that while Addam admired his father, he was his own man.

“I all but flung myself at his feet when he came for Lyonel,” she went on. “I would have kissed his boots, if need be. There was nothing I wouldn’t have done to ensure Lyonel’s safety under his roof. I’m not good at reading people, not away from a battlefield.”

Jaime frowned, not liking the image conjured up in his head. “And? Did he give you his word?”

She nodded. He looked in her eyes. “Then you can trust it. I asked the same thing of him in my letter. I asked. . .I asked for Lyonel to be brought to the safest place in the Westerlands.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you trust me? Do you believe that I will do everything in my power to protect Lyonel, Brienne?”

“I already said I do. Why do you ask again?”

He held fast to her hand and stopped breathing until he spoke. “I told him to bring Lyonel to Casterly Rock.” As she gasped and tried to pull her hand away, he trapped it in both hands. “Brienne, please.”

“Casterly Rock? Right into the Lannister stronghold?”

“It’s well-known throughout the Seven Kingdoms my uncle Kevan doesn’t support Cersei. He is hardly the sort to lead anyone into battle but he’s very capable of standing up for himself.”

“But he hasn’t exactly opposed her, has he? There’s a huge difference between disapproval and contempt, Jaime! And since he doesn’t support Cersei, what in Seven hells makes you think he’d welcome any request made by you? A request delivered by proxy from a House loyal to her!”

She yanked her hand away this time and sat up, giving him her back. She was so tensed he could count every bunched muscle at the back of her arms and shoulders. “You implore me to have faith yet there’s nothing you’ve told me to urge me to it. I don’t doubt your word,” she said, looking at him. “But you don’t make it easy to hold you to it.”

Then she was off the bed with a huff and grunt. He watched her head for the basin of water and the rags by the fire. She shoved the rag in the water, wrung it so that her knuckles cracked before scrubbing his seed and her moonblood from her thighs and legs.

“We shouldn’t fuck for as long as I can’t get any moon tea,” she muttered, slamming the rag in the water again before wringing it. He winced. She was probably thinking the cloth was his neck. “You probably don’t mind siring bastards, but I do. Who knows if I’m still barren despite the moonblood, but I refuse to chance bringing any more children into this world if I can’t protect them.”

Another furious scrub of her cunt and thighs then she flung the rag into the water. She turned to him, a hard expression on her face. His eyes quickly dropped to her breasts then her cunt, bush wet and gleaming.

“I don’t expect you to love Lyonel right away, Jaime. But I wish you’d thought further about keeping a child safe. Any child.”

“I made the only choice possible,” he snapped, forcing his gaze away from her cunt. “And even if I’d known the truth about Lyonel  before, I’d still have him sent to Casterly Rock for his safety.”

“I don’t care that Kevan doesn’t support your sister. But you forget that Tarth fell because someone I trusted betrayed me most horribly.” That gave her a pause. Jaime bowed his head, able to imagine the carnage in Evenfall Hall ordered by Goodwin. She’d told him of it in the fewest words but it was enough. “What makes you think Cersei doesn’t have eyes and ears loyal to her within Casterly Rock?”

“Anyone who sides with Cersei at this point is a fool.”

“What about before?” She demanded. “I’ve tried with everything I had to understand what you had with her. I have always respected your claim to not have had regrets but a part of me has always raged about the years you committed the most horrendous acts for her.  Love should not bring out the worst in people, Jaime.”

“And you know this how?” He shot back. “From Humfrey?” He shot to his feet as another name came to mind. “From Renly?”

Brienne let out a sound between a hiss and a snarl. “From you, you fucking idiot! I hated you for the longest time. Oathbreaker. Kingslayer. You were everything I raged against, everything I swore I’d never be. But I saw. . .I saw the man you are. The man you’ve not let yourself to be for her.”  

They stared at each other, this time with faces flushed from their tempers. Brienne was the first to look away and suddenly remembered her naked state. Jaime picked up the robe and handed it to her. She hurried into it, her blush rivaling the crimson of his robe.

She turned to sit on the chair he’d been sleeping on. “I’m not jealous of what you had with her. I don’t hate you for being her husband,” she said calmly. “But it breaks me each time I hear you say you don’t regret loving her. It means you still don’t see it. The truth about her.” She looked at her feet. “The truth about yourself.”

He stared at her slumped, forlorn form. His first instinct was to fight back. He knew the words to say. How to say them.

“I can’t regret loving Cersei,” he began, his heart racing fast. Words couldn’t fail him now, and what he said next would either break them further or tentatively bring them back to each other. “If I hadn’t loved her, it wouldn’t have led me to you.”

She raised her eyes from the floor to look at him suspiciously. He shot her an exasperated look but fought for patience.

“I don’t know if I can make you understand what we had. I don’t understand all of it myself. There’s no name for it, only a knowing. It’s what bound us to each other before we even realized. As for the matter of not becoming the man I’m supposed to be because of her. . .again, I can’t regret those choices. I know a lot of them are beyond deplorable. But for every one of those brought me a step closer to you.” He slowly sat on the bed, directly across from her. “I can’t remember when I first loved Cersei. But I knew when it was over.”

“Do you?” She asked after staring at him for a while. “Is it truly over?”

“Why do you still doubt me?” He complained.

“Because we’re in a ship sailing further away from her each day. It would be close to three moons soon since you’ve seen her. The last time you were away from her you did the unthinkable.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jaime, you fucked me. I believe you when you promised you didn’t think of her that night. That first time. I can’t help but think if you don’t know yourself that you. . .that you sought me. . .because you needed—you had—”

“I’ve never touched another woman in all the times I’ve been away from her until you. You’re a fool if you think I mindlessly make vows and try to turn your head with declarations of love just because I need to fuck. Is this why you think I’ve done nothing to protect our child?”

When she didn’t answer, he knew. He let out a breath. He was sitting down but the truth hit him like a war hammer right in the chest.

“I don’t know what else I can do to prove myself to you, Brienne. I have broken sacred oaths, indeed. I care not for the Seven, but I do for you. You matter above all, not just because you happen to be here. I made an oath to you and have no intention of breaking it, even if it comes to choosing between Lyonel and Cersei. If you still don’t believe that. . .” He stood up and began to get dressed.

He refused to hope she would stop him, that she’d beg he stay, she was sorry. It was not enough to shield him from disappointment when she remained seated.

He pulled the door open, wincing from the knife-like gust of the cold from the sea. He looked at her a final time.

“My life is Lyonel’s, whether it’s asked or not. As my heart is yours, should you want it or be repulsed by it.”

Chapter Text

A servant yet lovelier than me.

The maid was no older than eight and ten, sweet-faced with her large, brown eyes, shy, dimpled smile, and a dark braid almost as thick as her arm. Winter reddened her cheeks, the blush making her look even more beautiful.

Her cloak was worn and frayed at the hem, hiding most of her shape but every man she passed on her way to fetch water from the well stared after her with longing. There was no seductive sway to her hips, nor a coy smile or sparkle in her eyes. In fact, she kept her head bowed and went about drawing water to pour into the pail she’d bought. As the men reluctantly shifted their attention back to work, she carefully put the long bar holding the two buckets together and returned to the castle.

She went to the well a few more times for the rest of the morning before continuing to the next task. The good lord was set to return soon, and then a wedding. The latter was too soon, but thoughts from someone of her station mattered not. She knew, let alone saw very little of the young, departed lord, so her thoughts concerned more the timing of something celebratory rather than anything rooted in sentiment. Servants whispered he had been odd a long time: nursing from his Mama when he was already running, wet his bed until he sighed a final time, a fondness for things falling through the Moon Door.

Fortune blessed her. She had never been in direct contact with him, nor anyone in the stately chambers of the castle. Duties kept her mainly in the kitchens. When she wasn’t fetching water, she had to chop wood, and when that finished, she chopped and sliced until her fingers were numb. At least, the kitchens were warm. Wedding preparations also banished that cold, wet smell that had stunk the air since winter began. Now the kitchens were fragrant with pies, spiced stews and roasting meats.

The work was back-breaking on any given day. There were not enough hours to rest, especially when daylight still meant darkness. But she had wages, a narrow cot stuffed with straw in a little room with a fireplace shared with other servants. Always there was chatter about fields of ice and starving towns, peopled by souls who barely passed for living flesh because of their emaciated forms. Further north was even more dire, with snow having buried houses and storms felling so many trees that the roads were impassable. Waterfalls had frozen, as well as rivers and lakes.

After slicing carrots into strips and chopping up cabbage dozens of heads of cabbage for one of the many stews, she set aside the knife and chopping board to catch her breath. As she looked around for ale to wet her dry throat, a heavy hand fell on her thin shoulder.

“You there.” It was one of the head cooks, burly in shape, sour in the face. Only the dress hinted it was a woman. “Come here. You still have your fingers and can chop fine. Let’s see you grind.”

“I’m parched—”

“Well, my back hurts, lass, and I can hardly feel my feet, but there’s work. Come on, you.” There was little she could do once grabbed and shoved to another table.

As she rubbed the soreness on her shoulder that would show a bruise tomorrow, the head cook gestured to the sacks on the table. Another servant was already there, fist wrapped around a pestle as she ground into a mortar.

“All those lords coming for the wedding will be stuffing themselves day and night,” the cook said, pulling out something from a sack that looked like the bark of a tree. “You’ll be grinding these so when those soft men complain about the bloat or not being able to shit, we have a cure.”

“All of them?” There were about half a dozen sacks, somewhat small but crammed with the same thing.

“They’re for cooking too. Get to work.” The cook pointed to the other servant. “Make sure she grinds them fine into powder. Really finely.”

“I’ve never seen them before.” She remarked after the cook left. “This looks like from a tree.”

“It’s cinnamon, you fool. It doesn’t grow in this cursed place, so you’d best take care grinding. We wouldn’t want your head to be without your pretty hair. Get to work.”

She picked up one. “But where is it from?”

“Essos.” The servant sighed loudly.

She gasped and dropped it. “That’s where the sick come from! We shouldn’t—”

“Will you just shush? There’s no truth to that. Hardy and healthy that’s what they are. The queen knows nothing outside of fucking her brother.” The servant lowered her tone. “Serves the bitch right she still has no babe. Madness probably even knows it’s a better choice not to live in her twisted womb. Now get to work and shut your mouth.” The stare she sent the girl told this would not be breached for whatever reason, even when close to death. So, the girl nodded and reached for the mortar and pestle.

Not another word passed her lips through the task, although she was able to grab a glass of ale during a very brief respite before resuming. After grinding the bark with that sweet, rich smell that reminded her of warm pastries and summer, she was ordered to chop more herbs next.

When the day came to an end, her fingers were numb, and a stiffness had seized her back and hips. The worn, narrow cot in the attic shared with other servants called to her but the aroma of bread and spiced stew proved a more irresistible lure. She fell in line with the others as portions were doled out in bowls.

Despite all the meat cooking in the kitchens all day, they were only for the lords, for the wedding feast. But she was happy enough with the rich, flavorful stew with a few bits and pieces of fat, skin and innards, the vegetables. The bread was tough but softened once dipped in the shallow pool of the remaining stew.

When she finished, she walked past a table of vegetables and fruits, thin hand quick to swipe a carrot before tucking it under her apron. She grabbed her cloak, fastening the ties quickly then stepped out into the cold, dark night.

A stillness had fallen, so quiet that the only sound heard was the fires whipping against the much colder air. She kept her head down, lest one of the guards call her out and she’d get a beating for being out. Her feet darted across the courtyard, eyes looking back and forth until she made her way out and towards the stables. Even there she had to take care as well, for she could still be mistaken for being a thief.

She entered the stables, grateful to be away from the icy air. As the horses softly grunted in acknowledging her presence, she made her way to one. The animal sniffed loudly, and she smiled as it turned to her. She liked to think it recognized her. “Hello,” she whispered, pulling out the carrot and holding it out to him.

He was the color of beautiful, warm chestnut, with eyes the exact color. She giggled glimpsing his big teeth and the brush of his tongue on her fingers as he ate the carrot. Stroking his cheek, his mane, she marveled at his strength, but mostly loved his gentle eyes. “I’m sorry it took me long today,” she whispered. “But I have missed you.”

The horse grunted, as if he didn’t believe her. She nuzzled him. “I did. I wish we can be together all day. What a gift that would be.”

She was still cooing and giggling as he licked her palm when she heard the squeak of a door opening. She held her breath and turned around, not knowing how to convince the sentry she meant no harm. Her worry was quickly banished seeing the boy by the door. His hair was the same chestnut as the horse.

“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling sheepishly while rubbing his palms. He blew into them. “I was trying to be careful.”

“I thought I would miss you too. Come here,” she waved him forward. “He’s just had a treat.”

His smile widened and she thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. She made room for him to stroke the horse too. When he reached in his pocket and revealed a cube of sugar, she laughed. The horse grunted as well and immediately took the treat.

“I have something for you too.” He pulled out something wrapped in cloth from his other pocket and held it to her. She knew before removing the wrapper what it was. Joy filled her eyes at the sight of a generous hunk of meat pie.

“Seven, where did you get this?” Her mouth watered despite the meal she’d had.

“Better you don’t know,” he said, looking very proud of himself. Without another thought, she broke the meat pie in half and gave him his share. He grinned. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you. You really are the kindest. The most wonderful.” She took a bite and closed her eyes. The pastry wrapped around the mince was soft, with a hint of sweetness. But the meat. Gods, the meat was the true gift. She sighed and closed her eyes while chewing, trying to savor this rare taste of heaven. The feast in her mouth ended too quick but her eyes still shone when they opened. The light in them warmed as he leaned his forehead on hers. His breath was warm and smelled of the meat pie still.

“Someday, we won’t have to scrounge for meat pies,” he whispered as her fingertips ghosted over his slender, smooth jaw. “I swear you will have all the sweets and meats, all the flowers you and our children deserve.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she teased, though her heart raced at the future he painted. “Else you shouldn’t be making promises when winter is here to stay.”

“It’s hard not to,” he teased back, stroking her cheek. “Your eyes are the color of lush fields. And your hair—” he twirled a lock around a finger. “It’s the earth.”

She laughed. “Did you just say my hair is the color of mud?” He blushed and shook his head, lips opening to sputter a denial, but she preferred something else. Something sweeter. Warmer. More potent.

Standing on tiptoes, she kissed him.

Only a moon had passed since their lips brushed the first time, but there had been many nights such as this since, where for the briefest of spells they held each other and kissed, kissed, and kissed. Now she knew to tilt her head to the side. She had learned to breathe, and it helped to pause to come up for air.

She leaned into him, not just out of desire to be as close as they can despite the clothes but also because he was all in her life that could hold her, catch her. Love her. It made kissing him even more wondrous—he had the softest lips in the world, though his was all she had kissed but in her heart, she knew, she knew—and she loved him even more.

And with his every kiss returned, she felt him love her more as well.

Piece by piece their clothes fell, scattering from the stalls towards the mountains of hay they approached without really looking. Cold brushed her bared spine despite his kisses and arms around her until he turned to lay her on the hay. She smiled at him, heart full of love, of want, her fingers ghosting over his smooth jaw, lips. She gazed in his soft, brown eyes before drawing him down for more kisses. Holding him, she managed to turn so they lay on their sides, still kissing, touching even more urgently—his hand gripping her nape, the other cupping her hip, hers roaming his back, his arm, down his chest. Moaning softly from the ache in her cunt, she rubbed against his cock.

They fucked with her on her knees, her head bowed as she fisted the strands and mounds of hay. He breathed and grunted against her back throughout, his hand clutching hers while the other held her hip. Winter, the horses, even the stables, were the farthest from her mind when they were like this. She burned without end, soothed only with him inside her but just about. Every time he pulled out, she dreaded the end but she also craved the end of the burn only he could deliver—an end that felt like the sweetest death yet also the beginning.

Indeed, when they held each other afterwards, it seemed she was seeing him for the first time. Discovering once again the soft little hairs on his chest, that despite his calloused, rough palms his touch was gentle. She felt some peace again, and warmth, of course. Wonderful, delightful warmth without clothes. In each other’s arms the moments seemed to stretch into hours, maybe even moons.

“I don’t understand,” he spoke, wearing a soft smile as she played with the scattered hairs on his chest, “how these lords and ladies still keep their own rooms after getting married. Isn’t the point of marrying to be together?” His eyes sparkled. “Why go through the tediousness of saying your vows in front of everyone else and eating all that food if you’re only going to fuck that one night and then only a few times after?”

“When we’re away from here, I want you to fuck me all the time,” she said, nuzzling her nose with his. “I heard that in Winterfell they don’t even need a septon to witness vows. All they need to do is say them in front of a heart tree.”

“I’ll find us a heart tree as soon as what little of the sun comes,” he jested. She laughed and kissed him.

“The Lady Alayne is most beautiful, I heard,” she said. “Have you seen her? Is it true?”

“I heard the same thing. All I had was a glimpse that one time I was taking the horses away. Her hair is black as a raven’s.”

As he played with a stray lock of her hair, she declared, “It’s too soon.”

“Too soon for what?”

She rolled her eyes and shoved him playfully. “The young lord’s not yet a moon dead, as you well know! It just seems highly improper to be feasting and happy when he’s barely cold in the ground.”

“You don’t need to be in the ground to be cold.” He was shivering. She hugged him tighter.

“I suppose because she’s really beautiful she must be married off quickly.” She remarked out loud. “Do you know this lord she will marry?”

He nodded. “He looks every inch a lord should be. Hair kind of yellow and gold. Good with the sword. The kind of knight ladies like yourselves swoon over in songs,” he teased before suddenly throwing himself on top of her. She squealed then suddenly covered her mouth, lest they be heard.

Wrapping her legs around him, she said, “Is he kind?”

“Huh?”

She shrugged. “There’s no point having good looks and knowing which end of the sword to stab if your soul is black.”

“I don’t think Lady Alayne’s father would let her marry anyone cruel. But she’s a bastard.”

“Trueborn or born out of wedlock, she’s still his daughter. He should never let her marry just about anyone.”

“Them lords and ladies are not like us,” he reminded her.

She giggled. “They sure are not.”

“I meant,” he kissed her gently, “they hardly marry for love.”

They kissed, probably for an eon, before she came up for air. “Pity them.”

It didn’t take long for him to be hard again, and her to be back on her knees. Just as satisfying as the previous, she cuddled against him, unable to stop smiling.

She smiled until the happiness in her heart lasted. Bit by bit, the rest of the world returned: the wooden beams holding up the ceiling, where she saw through thin gaps the sky, then smell of horses.

“I would trade a hundred meat pies to just stay here.”

“It’s plenty warm,” he agreed. “No back-breaking work too.”

“I did nothing but grind some bark for fat lords who will eat too much at the wedding and struggle with their bowels.” She made a face. “We get by with soup with hardly anything in it while an entire cow goes to one lord. One lord!”

“I heard from the guards and soldiers that things are worse in King’s Landing. Sickness everywhere. Everyone starving except those in castles.”

“The head cook had me grind that strange bark from Essos. Isn’t that where the sickness comes from?” She was worried. “What if I fall ill?”

“A sickness passes between people, not from whatever bark thing you held. Nothing bad will happen to you.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I will always protect you.”

“If we stay here, you can.” She smiled and moved on top of him. He smiled back and framed her face in his hands. “You do make a good, warm bed. Let’s stay here. Even just for the night.”

Barely had the words left her when the clanging of the bell suddenly shattered into the night’s stillness. She was off him quick, scrambling into her clothes while also tossing him his. As the sleepy castle lumbered back to wakefulness with voices coming from all directions, they managed to put most of their clothing back on. One of her boots was nowhere to be found.

“Let’s go,” he held out his hand to her and she shook her head.

“I can’t. I won’t be long.” She showed her foot clad only in ragged hose.

“I can’t leave you! What if we’re under attack?”

“We’re not. If we are they’d have burst through the doors for the horses already.” She touched his cheek. “You should go. See what’s going on. What could happen to me while in here looking for my shoe?”

He was grim. “A whipping.”

“When have I ever been scared of being beaten?”

Seeing she was determined to stay, he sighed. But not without suddenly grabbing her for a kiss that silenced the bells for as long as his mouth was on her. And then he was gone.

She stared after him for a moment then went back to looking for her shoe. This blasted hay, she thought. She could be here until morning! She was used to getting whipped but would rather not go through it. Furious at herself, she pawed and pushed through the hay.

Seeing the toe of her shoe peeking under the clumps and mounds, she reached for it, only to find her hand stilling in mid-air. Something cold and sharp sliced through her neck. Confused, she looked down and saw big droplets of crimson on the hay.

Just as her severed head began to fall from her body, a hand, quick and light, caught it. Turning the head over revealed stunned, wide eyes and half-open lips. Her dead eyes mirrored the small face of what looked to be a girl.

A girl, because there was a delicateness to her chin, but her hair was shorn like a boy’s.

“Death is my gift to you,” she whispered to the head. “Your loveliness, your innocence, will only be ravaged should your life continue.”

Chapter Text

Feathers. Feathers rather than fur.

Alayne dropped her hand and stepped back, staring at the dress hanging before her. A column of silver silk with fitted sleeves before billowing at the elbow. Gray feathers lavished the wide collar and the rest trimmed the edge of the sleeves. Rather than long, generous wisps of feather, they had been trimmed to be used further in the dress.

There was no mistaking the simplicity of the dress. Despite whispers that winter was coming to an end, much of the Vale was still struggling. It wasn’t new to Alayne—scarcity of materials was the least of her problems for a long time. Her skill with the needle had far from disappointed her, despite the challenge of making an old gown of Lysa Arryn’s fit. But the dress was ready to be worn, and decent.

As her thoughts wandered to the possibility of a different life, a much different now, the bells suddenly rang. Not too long after the doors opened. Alayne stood up as a handmaid curtsied.

“Forgive me, my lady. Lord Baelish has returned and wishes a word with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Alayne replied. “I’d like to see my father. I-I have missed him.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Alone again, Alayne put on a heavy robe. She checked herself before the looking glass and draped the raven braid over her shoulder. She put away the dress just as the door was opened again.

“Father,” she murmured, curtsying before Petyr Baelish.

He smiled. “My dear daughter.”

There were more gray on his hair since she saw him last. Snow dusted his plum cloak and his boots made crunching sounds on the bare floor by the door before stepping on the many carpets. He stood before her, looking quite worn but unruffled from travel. A mockingbird jewel gleamed from his throat.

He held out an arm and she went to him, finding herself wrapped in a cold embrace. She was glad he didn’t hold her long but kept her close. Very close. The familiar whiff of mint drifted from his lips as he spoke.

“Forgive me for disrupting your sleep, my dear. I couldn’t wait until morning to see you again. By then you’d be swept up in the madness of your wedding.” His eyes swept from her hair to the embroidered slippers before resting on her face. Alayne lowered her eyes, not because she couldn’t stand his scrutiny but for him to think her blushing.

“You’ve become even more beautiful since I was last here. And it wasn’t too long ago.” Taking her hand and cradling her cheek with the other, he urged her to look at him. “I would have sent a raven but it was more important to hasten my departure. I also didn’t want to get your hopes up about arriving for your wedding in case I fail. But I’m here now. And I can see you are troubled.”

“I missed you. And needed you.” Despite her words, she wished for distance between them, for his thumb to stop stroking her cheek. “Have you seen him?”

He nodded. “Tomorrow he finally rests in the family crypt. So little. So young. If only there were more of the sun so he could have at least been taken in the light. So young,” he repeated, “but to have accomplished much.”

Not understanding what he meant but not wishing to disrespect the dead, she said, “He was upset and loved you so much. I tried to tell him that a summons from the queen couldn’t be refused—”

“Hush. Hush.” Petyr whispered. “The blame is all mine. I failed to try to appeal to the queen as a parent. If I had, he would still be with us.”

Though his words rang right, and his voice laced with sorrow, she found it difficult to see the same in his eyes. He always spoke right, words and inflection, but his eyes could never catch up.

His hand firming around her nape told what would happen next. Sansa held her breath and let him pull her closer until their mouths met. It took a few seconds before her lips moved against him, parting wider and inviting the thrust of his tongue. He tasted cold and bitter despite the freshness of his breath.

He squeezed her breast but made no attempt to pull at the silk and linen covering it. When he set her apart from him, he was flushed and staring at her with half-closed eyes. She knew all too well what the stiffness pressing at her hip meant but she had learned that whatever touch came from her must be prodded by him first.

He had kissed and touched her everywhere but never took more. When he let her go, she hastened back to the chair by the fire. It was then the doors opened again, and in came a maid with a tray of food and wine.

“I was hopeful you would arrive before the wedding despite the difficulty of the travel,” Alayne remarked as the maid put the items on a table and began arranging them. “I’m glad you’re here, though it’s only mere hours before.”

“Some roads remain impassable,” Petyr was smirking, catching on right away what she was doing. “I thought there might be significant delay. Rivers that were ice for the longest time are now swollen and flood nearby towns.”

“How terrible.”

“It’s quite safe to assume winter is coming to an end though the Citadel has yet to say anything about it.” Petyr gave a brief nod at the maid who curtsied, watching as she headed for the door. As soon as she was out, he strode to the table and poured wine.

“Whose idea was it for the wedding to happen so quickly? Yours? His?” He handed her a goblet before pouring the next for himself. When he turned back to her, she tried to catch a twitch, something, but his face remained blank.

“We can say he was given reason not to wait too long,” she responded.

He looked amused. “I’d say. His impatience is understandable. Especially when he’s had a taste of the pleasures you can give him.”

Alayne bowed her head. “If that’s what you believe. Father.”

“You don’t seem very happy,” he remarked. “Do you truly mourn for your cousin?”

“I’m sorry he died so young. I am sorry he was not given the chance to a better person. As for my wedding—”

“Yes?”

Alayne smiled. “He’s young. Strong. Handsome. Songs made flesh. But how can you be so certain that when he finds out who I really am the deceit won’t upset him?”

There were two kinds of monsters. Those born with the face of one and the other cloaked in beauty. She had willed herself blind to Joffrey until realizing she’d have to be mad to continue doing so. The Hound had terrified her with his scars and cruelty, but he’d saved her. Just as Petyr had. But him—she wondered if he was another monster entirely. He did not scare her, but she’d sensed a long time ago not to cross him.

Harry in some ways reminded her of Joffrey. He was no sadist, but she’d glimpsed a savagery laced with that familiar glee. From their kiss in her chamber following Robert’s death, he had begun to want more. She’d begun avoiding quiet corners of the castle because twice he’d grabbed her, trapped her between a wall and his body and forced hard kisses on her. Passion for her was his reason, and passion why he muffled her protest with more kisses while forcing her hand down his breeches.

She had taken to barring the door before sleep though he was in another wing. Perhaps this night, because of Petyr, he would steer clear of her. It was getting more difficult to stop him. In her growing fear she was very likely to fail and undo all the years of planning. Petyr she had never seen cruel but would rather not know if it were true or not.

“When he finds out who you really are, he’d be a fool to even feel the slightest bit upset. Your House is close to obliterated. It survives only because of you. You’ve been wronged, my dear, and it’s about time things are set to rights. Bolton armies won’t live to see another day faced against the Knights of the Vale. And what House wouldn’t fall behind your Harry to remove Cersei from the throne—” Petyr laughed at the idea. “The tapestry on which the Seven Kingdoms are sewn have been frayed long before her reign and she will be the one to destroy it all. Think of all you can take from her, Alayne. She, aging, childless, alone, and you, more beautiful by the day, with your lord husband and armies of the Vale and the North.”

“I’ve no wish for the Iron Throne. I only wish to return to Winterfell—”

Petyr’s hand clamped around her mouth, his touch surprisingly bruising. As she stared at him with big eyes, he whispered, “Careful.”

He waited until she nodded before lowering his hand. Then she saw the large scar on the palm. “What happened?” She stood up to inspect it more closely.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Cersei Lannister sends her regards.”

Once, the name made her tremble. A long time ago, another lifetime ago. Staring at the cut drew not one ounce of fear now but she remembered. She would always remember the queen: golden, beautiful as she was cruel. For all the terror that took hold of her as the men from the riot tore at her clothes and growled about the things they’d do, she’d found glee in how the rest of them tore Joffrey apart. And his screams. Furious, painful screams. Did Cersei go mad finding out what had happened to her precious baby boy? Did she get all of him?

Noticing her stare, Petyr held it to the light. The cut ran through his entire palm.

“Remember what the Lannisters did to your House. You owe them a great deal of debt. Through your marriage, it would be paid many times over.”

“What of Daenerys?” She looked away from the cut to him. “She has dragons. Wishes to be queen. The queen.”

Petyr seemed about to sigh but didn’t. Instead, he grasped her by the shoulders. “My dear, taking back your House is what matters above all. Daenerys has dragons, yes, and the numbers. Soldier slaves. Mercenaries. They have no ties here. Once her gold runs out, they would desert her. Or if she were made gone—” smiling as he caressed her cheek, he added, “Think only of your marriage. Pleasing your husband. Nothing more.”

“I shall.”

“You sound as if you’re awaiting to be hanged instead of married. Has he been unpleasant?”

“He has been. . .keen on having rights upon me.”

“As expected. You are beautiful and taught well,” he said softly, looking at her from head to toe again. “Can you blame him? Especially when he’s had a taste? You do enjoy him, don’t you?”

“As I said, he’s handsome and young.”

“But unable to think straight when someone of your beauty is in the room.” Petyr seemed to be speaking to himself although he was touching her now—waist, the side of her breast, her dark braid. “Even in this color you captivate, Alayne. You enchant all.”

Then he kissed her again. He was still cold.

“Dare I say you’re even more beautiful than she was, and will ever be,” he murmured, looking at her with half-closed eyes. He drew her tightly against his body. She clung.

She clung because there was no one else. Nothing more she could do. So she didn’t stop him as he groped the rest of her body. She needed him. There was no one else. This man was her only protector.

“He’s had a taste indeed,” he murmured against her lips, “to wish to marry you so quickly.”

He kept pawing her and she didn’t stop him. What choice was there?

Her true father gone at a rabid boy king’s orders. A knife to the throat ended her mother next. Her brother betrayed most cruelly. Her wild sister lost and likely dead, for she was little. Her young brothers, ashes. As Petyr continued whispering to himself about her beauty, her thoughts went to a bastard brother, sworn to the black and for all she knew, taken by the Stranger.

Petyr’s kisses deepened and she summoned what will there was to respond with equal fervor. After everything that had befallen her, her House, she was still alive. Because of him.

And she could go home. Because of him.

“All will be shocked once it’s known you’ve been here all along,” he whispered, caressing her hair again. She stood still as he loosened it, threading fingers through the tresses until they spread below her shoulders like a mantle. “How much of you has he tasted?”

“Just,” was all she said.

“He’s only breached your mouth?” He pressed.

She nodded.

“Do you think him satisfied or pleased with your mouth?”

“He has no reason to be displeased with me, father.”

“Yes,” he looked at her breasts then her face, tousling her hair to softly frame her cheeks. “He has no right to be. Your voice will not always steer him, Alayne, but there is another use of your mouth that will always guide him as desired. Never show him how you can be steered, my dear. Wants lay a man bare more than you think. Know them, and he’s all yours.”

“What do you want?” She whispered.

He smiled very slowly. “Everything.”

Then he kissed her again, gently this time, like a lover. As he let her go, he asked, “When will you bleed again?”

“My-My lord?”

“I trust you enough to tell you that the arrival of Daenerys has taken time I thought we have. Enough time that we must act fast.”

“I still don’t understand what my. . .what my moonblood has to do with it.” Alayne wondered what else of hers would be given just to go home.

“You are reason enough for your husband to gather all armies of the Vale, my dear. But to ensure his loyalty, you must secure his dynasty.” Petyr said. “Please him on your wedding night. Please him so much he won’t stop fucking you.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “So. Tell me. When will you bleed again?”

It should please her. A child. For did she not want to be wife and mother for as long as she could remember? Tomorrow they would finally be true.

Marry to take back all she had lost. But the dead are still dead.  

“Innocence so becomes you,” Petyr chuckled, briefly touching her face. “Get used to questions like these. More will be asked of you, if you’re fortunate enough. Now, tell me.”

Her voice was wooden even though the final piece of a puzzle she didn’t know had been forming fell into place. “Not for another twelve days.”

“Good.”

“Do you think it wise?” She suddenly asked. “To have a child?”

“Your mother did the same and it fired up your father enough that he not only returned home alive but also with a bastard. The songs say men fight for glory. I disagree. Glory is worthless. A dynasty will last long after he’s gone.” He looked at her longingly. “I’d have taken you for myself a long time ago. It’s harder because you get more beautiful by the day. I can only love you as a father. That is the only choice I can make.”

The walls seemed to close in on her. Alayne sat down, barely feeling his fingers on her cheek again. When he kissed her on the forehead, she bit her lip. “I-I shall see you at the wedding. Father.”

“Together we will rise from the ashes, my dear.” He whispered. She watched him go.

In bed, wrapped in heavy furs, she felt herself breaking into pieces. How much more must I give to be home again? How many more men will hold my life in their hands?

Morning came, gray and dark still, the air crisper. Cold gripped her bones.

The maids were seized by excited chatter, chirping about like little birds as they gasped over her gown and the soaps and fragrant oils Petry had bought from the capital. Alayne barely tasted the salt of the aged ham and the warm eggs of her breakfast, her thoughts far from this place. From this life.

If only father had stayed.

Winterfell would be in a flurry for her wedding. She would be in her parents’ grand chamber, fussed over by giggly maids while her mother tried to temper the madness with amused reprimands and gentle scolding. She tried imagining what she looked now.

Her mother had always been a beauty despite the harshness of the north. Auburn hair that was lush and silken, skin smooth and unlined despite the dry air. She stared at herself in the looking glass while maids stripped her of the shift for the bath. Petyr didn’t know what he was talking about. She couldn’t possibly be more beautiful than Catelyn.

“No,” she suddenly said to a maid beginning to pin up her hair. “I wish to have it washed.”

“But it will be wet a while, milady,” the maid pointed out.

“I will make full use of my father’s gifts, from head to toe.” She said firmly.

“As you wish, milady.” The maid began undoing her hair. When it finally fell close to her shoulders, she stood up and addressed the others. They halted their tasks.

“No more will be said of my wishes for this day, or what else you might see. Unless the order comes from my very lips, you will remain silent about what happens from now until my wedding.”

No sooner had she spoken when an insistent rap came to the door. The maids gasped and jumped and Alayne sighed. “Who is it?”

“Your beloved, my lady.”

As the maids giggled and looked at each other, Alayne hurried into her robe. “Harry—my lord, you can’t. We can’t see each other before the wedding. It’s bad luck.”

“Forgive me, but it’s been too long since I saw you and I’d rather not share my first sight of you today with others in the sept. Please. Allow me a glimpse. And I have a gift.”

“No.”

“My lady—”

“One of the maids will receive the gift for me.”

Harry sighed. “As you wish.”

A maid did advance to the door and opened it, but rather than simply handing over the present he claimed to have, Harry flung it open and swooped in, startling everyone. Bright-eyed and sure of himself, he flashed a smile at every maid before striding towards Alayne. His sandy hair looked soft rather than limp and damp as was the curse of most people. A rich cloak of green covered him from shoulder to hip, the edges embroidered with the black, broken wheel that was the sigil of House Waynwood, the House that took him as a ward. The rest of his clothes were black, except for a peek of his shirt that showed a field of red and white diamonds. These were the colors of House Hardyng.

“I wish to see my bride alone,” he declared, winking at a maid before his smile widened upon finding Alayne.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Life is too short to bother with superstition. Will you not assist me in having my bride all to myself before I share her with everyone else?” His dimpled, heart-melting smile was too irresistible, sending all the maids blushing and giggling. “I will not take long, dear ladies.”

To Alayne’s irritation, the girls hurriedly curtsied, stumbling into each other as they  hurried out. Alone, Harry turned to her.

“You truly are ravishing,” he said softly, gazing at her. “I can’t wait for this fucking winter to end so I can see you with all the light.”

When he looked at her like this, spoke as he just had, Alayne’s heart fluttered. She waited as he stepped closer to caress her cheek. I could love him. If he is like this always I could.

“We court bad luck, my lord,” she whispered as his thumb stroked her chin then lips. She tried moving away but his arm wrapped around the back of her waist. She looked up and met his kiss.

His kisses were always bold and aggressive, giving her no choice but accept them. Under her palms were the tight, strong muscles of his chest, hard as a wall. He felt good but she knew too well how things could easily turn to him wanting more. As expected, he dragged one of her hands between them, toward his thighs.

She snapped turned her head swiftly to the side. “Please. My lord, we must wait. It’s only a matter of hours.”

“It’s not right,” he said, palming her cheek before squeezing her face roughly. “For me to be clearly more eager for this day than a bride with nothing but a Stone to her name.”

Alayne froze. This was the real Harry.

Forcing her to look at him, he rasped, “How your father swung the elders at my becoming an Arryn contingent on marrying you, I will never know. But I do look forward to the marriage, my lady. You are sweet.” She flinched as he pulled her robe open. As her nipples tightened painfully in the cold, one of his gloved hands cupped it. The leather, peeling and rough, scratched the soft skin and she gasped. “You do promise delights. A lot of delights. It won’t be a chore fucking you.”

“I-I didn’t mean to speak out of turn,” she said, trying to twist away from him. She was so close to bringing this game to an end, but things could still turn out differently. There was only one end and she had to see it through. For her House. For her to go home.

“Just-my lord-please—” She managed to pull him by the hair hard enough to get him to look at her. Her eyes wide with panic, she said, “There’s already talk we’re rushing our union. It’s been less than a moon since Robert’s death. Please. I worry—I fear—let’s just tread carefully through the day until I’m truly yours before the gods. Please. Please, my lord.”

A glint, silvery and as sharp as the tip of a sword, shone in his eyes. Alayne dared not to breathe until his hand loosened from her breast and he pulled away. As she righted the robe, he started chuckling, then burst into laughter.

“I look forward to it, my lady. When you can no longer deny me.” Still laughing, he reached for something in his coat. “All I thought was to steal a kiss from my bride and give her this. Come on,” he held out a wide, flat velvet box to her. “This is for you. I saw them and thought of you.”

Alayne hesitated and he laughed again.  “I promise not to maul you again. But you do make it difficult.”

So, she took the box and opened it. Inside was a set of earrings and necklace done in pearls and diamonds. “Stunning, are they not? They reminded me of how luminous and smooth your skin is. Especially the pearls.”

Never had she seen anything close to exquisite in her life. Yet instead of thanking him with a smile, she put the gift on the table and looked at him.

“If I wear them, you will never speak an unkind word to me ever again.”

He sent her an exasperated look. “My lady—”

“I am a bastard,” she snapped. “But I didn’t choose to be. No bastard does. I refuse to be reminded of a shame I had no hand in, least of all by the man who will be my husband. Who will vow before the gods old and new to be my protector.”

“Lady Alayne—”

“I don’t believe in reciprocating unkindness with unkindness, my lord. The world is far harsher and crueler past our already unforgiving mountains and paths. I have no wish to contribute. Let me remind you of something you said just a while ago: your becoming an Arryn, the heir of House Arryn, rests on marrying me. The death of my stepbrother doesn’t entitle you to anything of his House, or anything in this region, except for the clothes you wear.” She held out the box to him. “I know of your baseborn children. Do not deny they are your seed. But if you continue disrespecting me, insulting me, forcing me into actions you wouldn’t dare on a highborn lady, I have no wish to accept this gift. Nor you.”

Harry looked surprised, completely unaware of the cold in the pit of Alayne’s stomach and the sudden rush of blood in her veins that made balance a sudden effort. But she stood her ground, kept her stare frosty and her lips pursed while holding out the box.

She dreaded Petyr’s wrath if this dangerous game didn’t turn in her favor but if she was going to subject herself to this marriage, she refused to be a mere body, let alone a figurehead.

“My lady.” Recovering, Harry clasped the box but only to press it to her chest. He got on his knees and bowed his head. “My children. . .it is knowledge I thought to spare you. I never meant to treat you so atrociously.”

“You may not care for those children, but I am flesh of the kind of knowledge you wish to forget. I don’t have much choice being a bastard, indeed. However, you are not the only choice to be made. My father has forgiven House Waynwood of its debts. He is not only Lord Protector at Lady Lysa’s command but also the queen’s Master of Coin. There is nothing he will not do for me. If he finds out what you’ve been doing to me, you will see he has little mercy to spare.”

Harry grasped her hand and kissed it. “If you can forgive me, my lady. You deserve better. Fortune has granted me the favor of marriage to you and if you believe my promise to be a better man, I will honor you the rest of our married lives. I will protect you.” He looked up at her. “I will love you.”

She said nothing. I am the daughter of winter. Little can sway me.

“Lady Alayne,” he continued, looking and sounding very earnest. “Will you marry me? Choose me though you deserve better?”

She pulled her hand away, biting back a smirk as his face paled. She walked past him, still holding the box to her chest.

“Stand. Look at me.”

He obeyed and faced her.

“You will find out along with everyone else if you still have a bride.” She spoke just above a whisper but he heard her. “Leave. I will not ask again.”

He didn’t look too happy but obeyed her. She was still staring at the door, clutching the box in her shaking hands when one of the maids knocked. “Milady?”

“Enter.”

Sensing perhaps the tension lingering in the chamber, the maids continued with the rest of their duties quietly. Alayne was more than glad to lie in the steaming bath, needing relief from the cold that clung to her skin and within. Fragrant oils and soaps Petyr had brought for her from the capital were poured in the water. Scents of lemon and summers she struggled to remember rose to her nostrils and she closed her eyes.

The steam and sweetness of the bath ended before the maid rinsing her hair spoke the question. Alayne, still keeping her eyes closed, was unsurprised by her faltering question. “Milady, your hair. . .have you been coloring it?”

“Continue with your duty,” she replied. “Remember what you were told.”

“Yes, milady.”

The bath began to cool so she left the tub and was toweled dry. Sitting by the fire in a thick robe, two maids squeezed the water from her hair while combing it. Another rubbed rose-scented oil on her arms and legs. Two maids ensured her dress was free of wrinkles and readied the jewelry Harry had given her.  

When her hair was dry, she began to dress. They slipped the robe off her. Alayne fought the instinct to curve into herself and cover her breasts, her cunt, even when they sent furtive, admiring glances on them. One of the maids, she noticed, stared at the hair then the curls of her cunt, looking away only when Alayne caught her.

“Tell me your name,” she said, startling the maid.

“It’s Rosyn, milady. My name is Rosyn.”

Rather than keeping her head bowed after addressing Alayne, Rosyn met her stare. Under her cap, a section of blond hair peeked. Her face was uncharacteristically smooth for a maid, and her features were refined—too refined. Shaped in a graceful arch were her light brows, and eyes gray as a stormcloud stared back. Realizing she was being impolite, Rosyn hastily dropped her gaze.

“Will you hold my hand as I’m dressed, Rosyn? I fear I might fall and hurt myself. I don’t wish to delay marrying my lord.” Alayne held out her hand. Rosyn, grateful that she was saved from a reprimand, grasped her hand.

Alayne held her hand until she had to let go to be relieved of her robe. The maid stuck close to her as she raised her arms for the other maids to lower the chemise on her body. Lowering her arms, Alayne took Rosyn’s hand again as the linen garment was straightened. Then it was time to be helped in her dress.

It was a column of pale silver silk, the fabric and other materials gathered from two of Lysa Arryn’s gowns. Alayne had opted for a straight skirt instead of a full one because there was little time to make the dress. She splurged on the details instead—feathers at the wide scooped neckline and the cuffs of the flaring sleeves, and a detailed embroidery at the back of the gown done in white silk thread taken from gowns as well. The cape was of gray velvet, a skirt from one of the voluminous gowns repurposed. Feathers concealed the additional fabric of the same color and material sewn at the edges to accommodate Alayne’s height.

When she could, Alayne held Rosyn’s hand. She also tasked the maid to put the jewels on her. The pearls and diamonds sparkled in what little light of the day there was.

“Milady,” one of the maids couldn’t help gushing. “You look as beautiful as the Maiden in winter, if we may say so.”

Alayne smiled. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”

Someone knocked on the door, opening right after instead of waiting for an invitation. The maids quickly curtsied upon seeing who it was.

“Father,” Alayne acknowledged. Petyr smiled and sauntered in, a soft bundle of what looked to be fur in his arms.

“How exquisite you look, my daughter. I wish a word.”

“Of course.”

The maids curtsied again, with Rosyn being the last to leave. Once the door was shut behind her, Petyr approached but Alayne stopped him with a look.

“That whore among my maids. Is she yours or Cersei’s?”

Petyr’s smile froze. “Who do you mean?”

“Rosyn. Her impertinence alerted me. Her hands told me I was right. Once I smelled her, I was even more sure. Don’t you trust me?”

“I need you safe.”

“Safe from what? I live in what is probably the highest point of the Seven Kingdoms. Only dragons can get to me. Does she know how to fight? Is that how she will keep me safe?”

“You’re upset. My dear, it’s your wedding day. You should be happy.”

“There is no good day to discover a spy among those I trust.”

“Then she will no longer be one.” Petyr declared. “You have my word. Are you pleased?”

“I’d rather wait to see it done before I’m pleased.”

“That means I’ll have to see to it myself after giving you this.” Petyr presented her with the bundle. “For you.”

Alayne stared before taking it. Indeed, it was fur. Soft. Gray. Like a direwolf.

She shot Petyr a glance, who seemed to regard her warmly. Almost fatherly. She unfurled the gift.

A cloak. Fur from the hood right to the very bottom, a gentle, almost-gray color trimmed with softer, white fur. As she continued to stare, Petyr stepped closer and touched her hair. “You are even more beautiful now. I had feared the dye might have destroyed your real hair color but it’s a richer shade than I remember. Your mother’s was a touch darker,” he added, his voice low. “Let me put the cloak on you.”

She could only nod, barely feeling his fingers as they loosened the ties of her cape. He flung it to the bed then wrapped her in the heavy fur. But she didn’t feel burdened nor swaddled in it. For the first time in so long, she was warm. Warm as if she were back in her old room in Winterfell, listening to the gentle bustle of the new day. She touched it, thinking how much she missed home. That she would return soon.

Petyr pulled up the hood to cover her hair. “Look at yourself.”

To the looking glass she went, almost gasping seeing her reflection. With her dark hair she had looked paler, beautiful but somber. As Peter arranged the rich auburn waves to drape one shoulder, she thought she looked no different from the young girl who had left Winterfell for the glamour of King’s Landing. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, and her chin even more defined. She was taller and her figure had filled out to a full bosom and hips, with a small waist in between.

How she had heard nothing but how her beauty guaranteed the truest of love from the time she was little until those wonderful, sun-drenched few days following her arrival in King’s Landing. She had believed those words.

No. She was no longer that girl.

“Your father would have been so proud.” Petyr whispered.

Alayne lifted the hood to cover her hair. “The ink of the past is dry.”

Together they left the chamber, her hand on his arm. Through the walk to the sept, Petyr filled her ears with more whispered pronouncements of her beauty as well as rising from the ashes to pay the Lannisters the dearest of debts.

“Power is within your reach, my dear,” he said as they stood before the closed doors of the sept. Alayne clutched at his arm. He smiled and patted her hand. “It is time.”

The doors opened. Alayne fought to keep her expression calm taking in the sea of faces before them.

Roads slicked by ice or buried in an avalanche, rivers and lakes that have swelled from impenetrable ice to water drowning towns around them, had not deterred the Houses of the Vale. There was Anya of House Waynwood, her hair grayer in her green jacket, and her face sterner and deeper lined than when Alayne saw her last. Lyn Corbray, heir and brother to Lyonel Corbray, stared at her with a mix of boredom and reluctant awe. He was handsome and haughty-looking, the latter more pronounced because the winter had not been too kind to him. His dark brown hair was now shot with silver and his mouth, thin-lipped and even more spare with kind words, resembled a straight slash. The next she saw was the powerful build of Lord Yohn Royce, easily the tallest because he was well over six feet tall. His bushy eyebrows gave him a harsh look, but she knew him to be solemn. A man to be trusted. Alayne felt some of her anxiety lessen at his presence.

Petyr walked her down the aisle, proud and smug, not because of her but what she could do for him. The sobering reminder washed away the rest of her anxiety. Alayne didn’t have to look closely to know how the other lords and ladies regarded her. They knew her as a bastard, the bastard of the lord who started out with the littlest of land in the region who was now the lord protector they did not want. Alayne would have felt their bile years ago, been bothered by their whispers about the colors of her cloak.

Knowing she was moments from being free served as her armor.

Finally, they reached Harry, who didn’t mask his relief. Alayne didn’t return his smile as Petyr took her hand from his arm to put in Harry’s. Then he stepped back a few inches.

“Who gives this woman away in marriage?” The septon asked.

“It is I, Petyr Baelish of House Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale.” Then Alayne felt his hands on her, ready to remove the cloak. Harry pulled at the ties that loosened the cloak to fall into Petyr’s hands. Alayne stood still as the rest of it was removed and Petyr stepped to the side, revealing at last the rich auburn color of her true hair and the detailed embroidery of a direwolf at the back of her dress. She heard the crowd behind her gasp and cry out.

The septon, not realizing what the people had seen and beginning to piece together, proceeded with the ceremony. “Let it be known that today, we are here to witness Harry Hardyng of House Hardyng and Alayne Stone—”

“No.” Her voice was clear and firm. “I am Sansa Stark of House Stark of Winterfell.”

Chapter Text

What a strange, strange land.

Daenerys looked behind her. What she thought was only a short distance from her protection showed a long trail of her footprints on the sand. She could barely make out the cluster of Unsullied who had remained in formation. Turning forward, she took in the sky and the sea before her.

It would be close to a moon since conquering the region, but she still found it strange. The cold that clung to her from within had receded although the nights were still freezing. The sea echoed the growl of her dragons, but she also heard the cry of shattering ice and glass. There was nothing but that desolate shade of gray above and under her feet. She longed for color, be it crimson or blue.

A familiar cry slicing into the sky drew her eyes there. Sensing her wishes, her children circled her in a graceful dance of wings and colors—Drogon’s scarlet ripples reflecting what little sun there was, Rhaegal looking like a shimmering dark emerald, Viserion a bright slash of gold. Seeing them brought some peace in her, and she waited until they flew down.

Each headed for the water first, dipping their heads briefly then emerging with fish as long as her arm in their jaws. The ground shook and walls of sand rose as one by one they landed on clawed feet the size of boats. As their scales rippled from breath and revealed glimpses of fire underneath, she approached them. Their growls drowned out the wind and the sea as they ate their feast.

 Rhaegal was the first she touched, smoke emitting from his nostrils as she stroked his long neck. Viserions’s shriek almost sent her to the ground, so she turned to him next, rubbing his snout. Only Drogon waited for her patiently. He was a black shadow casting darkness in the beach, but she found him warm and full of life.

When she rejoined Barristan and the Unsullied, Missandei was there. “Khaleesi. It’s time.”

“Thank you.”

The Unsullied formed two columns around her, with Missandei right behind and Daario to her right.

“Isn’t there a better way to spend the day instead of receiving tribute?” Daenerys told him. “The people curse me and my family for their misfortunes but how is keeping within the walls of the castle going to improve their regard of me?”

“For one, you are not in danger of getting attacked again.”

“Again? I was not attacked,” she scoffed.

“What do you call it then?”

“An unfortunate run-in with a man driven half-mad from hunger and despair. You should not blame him.”

Daario cleared his throat. “If I may remind you—”

“No.” Daenerys turned to him. “I listen to your advice when I should but there is no ruling from sitting on whatever chair. That’s just sitting and giving orders. I refuse to let one nasty encounter ruin and scare me off from what I need to do: liberate the Seven Kingdom’s from Cersei’s claws.” Resuming her walk, she added, “Do I disagree that the lords of the Stormlands have come to honor me? No. But we know they are here because they’ve seen what I could do. They don’t want to lose any more than they had. I want people who are loyal because they know I am just. I can be trusted. That I will fight for each and every one of them. The lords will only look after themselves and swear as they have since the beginning of time to anyone on some chair if it means keeping their lands and bellies full.” Gesturing loosely at the sea, she added, “People must resume their livelihood. Regain their pride. A queen who helps them achieve that they will be loyal to.”

“Well, you would know them better. They are your sort. I mean no disrespect,” Daario added. “I know you are also not one of them.”

Daenerys smirked. “For a moment there I thought I’d need to have your tongue cut.”

He leaned in and whispered, “You would prefer I use my tongue another way. Your favorite. Your grace.”

Back in Evenfall Hall, she headed for the throne room right away. Dothraki, Unsullied and Daario’s mercenaries were spread out, their eyes as sharp as the weapons they wouldn’t hesitate to stab should any of the waiting lords step out of the cluster they were only allowed in. She sat down and nodded at Barristan.

“Casper Wylde of House Wylde, Lord of the Rain House,” he called out.

The man who approached had a thin, narrow face that looked too small for his wide-shouldered frame. He bowed before her before opening a large box. In it was a dagger that glinted like lightning.

“Your grace, if you will allow my House the honor of presenting you this blade, as a symbol that when called to arms, we will be the first at your side.”

“Then Lord Wylde, it is exactly what I shall expect of you.” Daenerys responded.

It went on for half the day. The Stormlands were hers from the moment she’d set foot in Tarth, yes, and she understood why the lords paid her tribute. Gold, silk and what riches they still had that was now hers did nothing in putting food on the table of the helpless.

With the throne room now empty, Daenerys made a choice. “Ser Barristan.”

“Your grace.”

“I need your wisdom. And that of another’s.” He wasn’t going to like it but her well of resource was limited. “The prisoner.”

As expected, Barristan was not happy. “If you will join me in the small council room.” She then addressed Grey Worm. “Bring him there as well. You know which one?”

“Yes, Khaleesi.”

For all the displeasure Barristan felt at her choice, he remained quiet during their walk and even after they’d arrived. The guards opened the double doors and she preceded him. Once the doors closed, she turned to the knight.

“I know you disapprove.”

“Your grace, it matters not if I do or don’t. You have my loyalty and my support. Without question.”

“There is no need for reassurances, Ser, but they are appreciated. But you must understand. The Seven Kingdoms are mine by birth but I’ve yet to earn the right to call them mine. I intend to fulfill my vow to free them but without further unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Your grace, I do understand. But blood is the foundation of all wars.”

“But war should be the last choice, not an inevitable. And if that’s the path I must walk to the Iron Throne, I refuse to accept human casualties as a natural part of it. Westeros bleeds, Ser Barristan, and struggling. To drain it further is death.”

“Not with you as our leader, your grace. And you will win.”

“Indeed. With my dragons and you at my side. But that’s only the battle, ser. Removing Cersei would mean merely taking over. A substitute. I am queen. It should be my rule. Changes that will be made by me. I took the Stormlands by fire and blood. A military victory but to do what I must, to usher in a new dynasty, I need the people at my side too. There must be a way to free the Seven Kingdoms without taking more lives. What would make me different from previous kings and Cersei if I only take a page from their book? And you, can you stomach to stand with someone no different from them?”

“But you are not of their ilk, your grace. I made a vow, but I’m not blind. I am no longer the man who stood by while his king demanded for others to burn, and in our journey together I’ve become less and less acquainted with the man who once again stood by while another king ran the kingdom to the ground. It took being removed from the Kingsguard for me to learn, your grace, and the lessons continue. One thing I have learned and which you prove every day is you’re nothing like these men. That difference is why I will remain at your side no matter what.”

His words were uplifting yet Daenerys worried too she might crumble. Ending slavery and conquering and ruling Meereen, she knew now, were stepping stones in taking back what was violence had stolen from her. No different than turning a page to find out what happened next in a story.

Retaking the Seven Kingdoms from where she was, now that was an entirely different book. A book no scribe had ever written. She would have to do it herself. Foolish of me to think I’m a character in a book as the rest. This story is mine, and only I can tell it.

“And I have no wish for you to break it. I want you at my side. Don’t ever turn a blind eye to me, Ser Barristan. I will always expect your wisdom. I will not always agree but I will listen. I ask the same.”

“Your grace.” Barristan hesitated.

“What?”

“You are queen. You are to never ask. What you wish must be given without your having to ask.”

“Has it done plenty of good? Queen, king, prince, a lord, a tradesman—what has that entitlement done for most people? That entitlement is why the Qartheen thought they had the godly rights to determine who was free and who should be sold. Grey Worm and the Unsullied were born accepting they are less than you and I. I’m not so new being queen but I have much to learn, ser. Much. I launched a campaign against the slave masters not because of the fire and blood in me but because it was my duty. I won’t have my name written in blood because of entitlement. I will ask, not demand. That is why I will remain queen. That change begins with me. So, I ask, Ser Barristan, so we break no vows.”

As soon as she finished, the doors opened. Daenerys arched a brow at Tyrion flanked by Unsullied.

“These lovely men told me of your invitation, your grace. I couldn’t refuse,” he announced. Gone was the worn garb he’d worn all the way from Essos. Clean linen and a simple coat were his clothes now, made for warmth rather than style. His face had been scrubbed but a beard still covered half his face. Mismatched eyes glinted before he turned to give the knight a mocking smile. “Ser. We meet again.”

“Quite unfortunate, I must say.”

Tyrion grinned, the action contorting the scare on his cheek. “Then say no more.”

Daenerys went to sit at the head of the table. As Barristan sat at her right, she addressed Tyrion. “It was not an invitation but a summons.”

Tyrion seemed to be looking for something before letting out a sigh. “I agree, your grace. Else there would be wine. Will there be wine?”

“Why don’t you use your temporary widened sphere of freedom to choose a chair.” As he stared at her suspiciously, she swept a hand through the empty chairs surrounding the table. “If that’s not good enough for you, you’re more than welcome to return to your. . .chambers.”

“Chambers,” he scoffed. “A cot underneath this castle with the sea coming up to my ankles when the tide comes in.”

“Arrangements can be made to make what little comfort you have even less.” Since Tyrion refused to move, she snapped, “I’m waiting. Which I loathe. And the Unsullied and Ser Barristan are here to ensure I don’t exercise exactly how loathsome I find it.”

“This chair suits me just fine, your grace. Thank you.” At last, the dwarf sat at the other end of the table. Daenerys was amused. Perhaps he could be useful again.

“You were Hand of the King during your nephew’s brief reign and went on to be Master of Coin. That tells me you need all there is to know about the Seven Kingdoms. We’ll get to that shortly but tell me about your sister.”

“My sister? Surely you’ve not brought me here from my dungeon for that? No disrespect, your grace, but I’d rather cut off a limb with a rusty knife than waste breath on her.”

“No worries. Your wishes will be seen through if you refuse. Ser Barristan is keen to keep his sword sharp. It won’t take more than a second.” As Tyrion paled at her reply, she sat back on the chair. “I don’t wish a war. It is last of the choices I have. I intend to liberate the continent from Cersei without further bloodshed.”

“Your grace,” Tyrion seemed to be considering every word he said. “I don’t mean offense, but that is loftier than a dream of spring.”

“I have dreams, but I wouldn’t call them lofty. Last night, I dreamed of a world wrapped in the white of winter. My gaze had become ice, and my voice that of breaking glass. I ordered my men to give me the warmest coat. They skinned a little man because when the sack holding his meat and bones is spread it can be made into a coat.” As her meaning sank in him, she continued, “You are here on my orders, Tyrion Lannister, and you can be made gone the same way. Your breath, the ground you walk on, your time, are mine.”

“The queen also doesn’t need to order me to make you gone. I will risk her wrath if you put me in that position,” Barristan snapped.

“I am not the sort of queen who will punish a good man who only wishes to deliver justice in my name.” Daenerys added. “Are we clear?”

Tyrion coughed then cleared his throat. “We are much so, your grace. You have my ears.”

“Cersei. How is she queen when her daughter the princess lives?”

She didn’t think her question blunt but made Tyrion shrink in his seat, his narrow little shoulders slump. Something that looked like pain caused his scar to twist as his face contorted. His thick fingers folded to make fists. Barristan’s eyes were drawn there too, before Tyrion spread his palms and his face cleared.

“She thinks Myrcella dead. She had raged and threatened my life upon finding out I made arrangements to marry the princess to Doran Martell’s son. But I know Cersei well enough to realize she didn’t rage due to despair. It was because I had taken something of hers.” Seemingly speaking to himself, his voice dropped lower and lower. “It was war. We needed armies. Princes and princesses marry all the time for the promise of larger armies. For victory. So those who managed to survive may live and do better. Cersei cared not for an end to the war.”

“That still doesn’t explain why she would think Myrcella dead.”

Tyrion looked displeased. “Your grace, you know of the rumors.”

“Rumors? House Lannister sacked King’s Landing. Your brother murdered my father. Your father’s monster ripped my goodsister apart in the worst way.” Daenerys said. “A dog never acts unless on the orders of his master.”

“That Tywin Lannister remains one of the worst of humanity even dead I won’t dispute, your grace.”

“Silence doesn’t absolve you. He always had monsters at his command. Rhaenys was not the first child Amory Lorch murdered.”

“No,” Tyrion seemed to struggle with the word. She wondered if he knew about the last lord Tarbeck, thrown down the well by the knight at Tywin’s orders. “Your grace, she is not. I will never defend my father’s actions. I know all too well he meant to have me killed in the cradle and was only spared because of my name. But while we tally the monsters we know—their faces, their stink, what of monsters that shine brighter than the sun, ever so pristine in white?”

Daenerys looked at Barristan before he could protest, silencing him immediately. Fire continued to burn in the knight’s eyes as she responded. “No one at this table is without sin.”

“You think I am sinful because I’m a dwarf?”

“I will always think you have blood in your hands because your House would drown Westeros in blood when given the chance. You will never repudiate your House. You think me mad because of my House, and yes, I simply stood by when my husband forced a golden crown to melt on my only brother’s head. But we are more than our fathers. If we choose to be more than them. I’m giving you that choice.”

“I-I don’t understand.” For the first time, he seemed robbed of speech. “Your grace, I-I don’t know what you mean.”

“Am I correct in assuming Cersei thinks the princess dead because she believes the Martells will exact their revenge on her? Because of what House Lannister did to Elia and her children?”

A shadow seemed to fall on Tyrion’s face. “The last I saw of the girl was in the ship sailing for Dorne. There has not been a day when I’ve not regretted my decision, your grace.”

“How are you so certain that she’s met cruelty at the hands of Martells? What kind of world is this if evil upon little girls is a given?”

“There has been no letter, not even a scroll after being assured of her transfer to a Dornish ship from ours, your grace. What else is there to think? Dorne did send men but it was too late. We have already won when they arrived.” Looking gray and tired, he continued, “Essos and its barbary are nothing to what holds the Seven Kingdoms together. In Essos it’s the lands that promise menace and savagery with every step you take. In our blue waters and green mountains, golden cities and such, we are lucky if the only monsters are wolves in silks.”

And dragons cloaked in velvet. Daenerys still felt it, after knowing kind, desirous touches, the painful squeeze of Viserys’ hand on her breast. His hard kisses that bruised her lips. She remembered Drogo in his long braid, and the worn leather vest that barely covered his copper-skinned body. A beast barely passing for a man in his animal skins, Viserys had described him.

Drogo’s kisses had never hurt her. His hands, scarred and much larger than her face, hands inscribed with murder, had cradled her cheeks.

“There are monsters everywhere.” She looked at him. “But not all are monsters.”

“You still believe that in spite of what happened to you in the streets? What the people think of you?”

“Would you open the door willingly to a stranger who brings fire and blood? The people have every reason to fear me. I intend to change that. And you will help me.”

“Your grace.” There was no humor in Tyrion’s chuckle. “While I do welcome fresh air, I’d rather not risk being quartered or worse, brought before my sister. Your men would protect you from a mob. They won’t grant me the same favor. I’d rather not die at my sister’s command.”

“And if the dungeon will no longer be your chamber? Will that change your mind?”

“I’m listening.”

“You will help me remove your sister from the Iron Throne. And in return, you will be granted your freedom.”

“That’s all?” Tyrion asked after a moment.

“Don’t be misled by the few words I’ve used. Cersei would cling to power harder than to her twin, don’t you agree?”  

Tyrion didn’t answer.

“It will not be easy removing her. There are enough Houses loyal to her. Ready to go to war for her. But I will not bring war on her doorstep.”

“Then your grace, you’re making a mistake. As we speak, she is no doubt rallying all Westeros. Ships are being readied to sail. Armies ready to march, if they’re not already.” Tyrion glanced at Barristan then her. “It would be fatal to show her mercy.”

“I refuse war not out of mercy. I refuse that choice because I believe in justice. Wars cost more than all the gold in the world. Heirs are lost. Spares too. It spells doom to Houses. But their dead are remembered. What of the smith’s son? A father? Your brother? The children left behind starving because there are no fathers to farm what little arable land there is this winter. My rule will not be built on the dead.”

“Then forgive me. If not through war, how am I to render service to you so I may be free?”

“In the short time Ser Barristan has seen you as Hand, he’s witnessed the sharpness of your mind and your skill in diplomacy.”

Tyrion looked surprised. “High praise, Ser.”

“Merely fact and I’d rather you see don’t see it more than that,” Barristan told him.

The dwarf smiled. “I dare not cross a fine swordsman such as you. Done.” When he turned back to Daenerys, he looked grim. “Do you mean to send me as an emissary to Cersei? She will sooner have my head cut off than breathe the same air with me.”

“How little you trust me. Have I shown you cruelty?”

“Your grace, I would call the constant reminder of my status and you could easily order my death, far from kindness.”

“But you were never starved, were you? As for the reminders, you only have yourself to blame. I doubt if you will respect me. I care little for it from you. However, I will remind you of what I can do to you when your insolence becomes intolerable.”

“If I help you, I will be free?”

“If?” Daenerys almost laughed. “It is not for you to choose whether to help me or not. As I said, I give you that choice. If you feel differently, I see no point in letting you live.”

“You are right. I shouldn’t have thought it would be simple just because you used so few words.”

“Well? Shall I tell you how you will help me so you will earn your freedom?”

“There’s no other choice, is there? Then tell me, your grace.”

“I want your word first. That you will help me. That your failure would mean your death.”

Tyrion looked at her in the eye then promptly got up from the chair. He walked around the table until he stood across from her. Then he dropped on one knee and bowed his head.

Somehow, he seemed a much bigger man bent and kneeling.

“I, Tyrion of House Lannister, vow to serve Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons, as she commands, to the best of my ability in mind and body. That should I fail I forfeit all my rights to live.”

Daenerys got to her feet, expecting him to look at her as he had always done. His eyes remained on the floor.

“I accept. Rise.”

He did, and this time looked up at her face. She returned to her seat.

“My first command so you may begin earning your freedom,” she said. “You will sail to Dorne and speak to Prince Doran.” As she spoke, expressions of shock, disbelief flitted on Tyrion’s face. “You will carry a message for me.”

“Your grace—” This time, he seemed to shake. “Is this. . .truly? This is what you command?”

“The first. What problem is there?”

“Your grace, forgive me and I mean no disrespect, but it wasn’t too long ago we were discussing the uh, actions of my House against the Martells. How it’s led to continuing tensions, putting it mildly, between us.”

“Which makes you perfect for what I have in mind.”

“Your grace, once word reaches the Martells that I, a Lannister, is headed for Dorne, they will kill me. They will kill me, your grace. And then what will be of your command?”

“You will see it done because you will not find your end in Dorne. It would please you to know that my eyes and ears have told the princess lives and is well. No harm will come to you. As we speak, their loyalty is with Cersei. Your House.”

“Your grace—”

“If a little girl could survive living with vipers, surely a lion will do better?”

“Myrcella is a Baratheon, your grace, a Lannister only through my sister. I am a Lannister through and through, though I’m only half a man.”

“Is she?” Daenerys wondered. “Robert is her father, yes? Imagine someone so boorish siring her. I am told she’s even more beautiful than her mother now. Golden from head to toe. A Lannister through and through until reminded of who her father is. Who her father is supposed to be.”

“Robert Baratheon is her father.” Tyrion’s voice was tight. “He is her only father. Her father in every way that mattered.”

“That is what you believe?”

“It’s what I know.”

“Then I trust it.” Daenerys declared. Seeing him still worried, she said, “Was I wrong to think that an opportunity to earn your freedom would please you?”

“You will not hear any complaints from me. Only gratitude, your grace. I will do as you command. I will sail to Dorne.”

“Good. You will not be alone, I can assure you. Ser Barristan will join you.” When the dwarf didn’t look any happier, she added, “Do not forget. This is only the first step in earning your freedom. Ser Barristan will protect you but my interests come first. I pray for your success, Tyrion Lannister. No other outcome will be acceptable. However—”

She shared a look with Barristan before returning her attention to Tyrion. “Well, I need not say it. You said it yourself. You will not cross a swordsman as fine as Ser Barristan. We know that will end in only one way. You will not like it.”

Chapter Text

“Fire. Or blood.”

The voice was silk yet cut like a knife. Soft, careful footsteps approached closer, sure as the ship swayed gently underneath. Brienne kept her eyes on the wooden floor planks, counting every drop of sweat and blood that fell. She was almost lulled to a fool’s sense of peace when the edges of an emerald skirt came to view. Some of the blood fell on its velvet folds and lace.

She closed her eyes then, knowing who stood before her. Smooth fingers slipping under her chin to raise it robbed her of that little mutiny.

Cascading golden curls framed a smooth oval face. Eyes of clear emerald stared right into her. There was no flinching or the slightest twitch of disgust on Cersei’s face.

She looked like spring: golden and green. Her eyes gleamed but there was no life in them. When she tilted her head and moved closer as if to kiss, a cool gust of air left her lips.

“I give you a choice despite my rights to your head,” she whispered, her breath stinging the many cuts on Brienne’s lips. “I should have your eyes gouged out. Your tongue sliced.” A slim finger touched the parts of the face she mentioned, the press barely felt. Cersei moved to the side then, the motions of her body graceful as if she were dancing. “But I shall give you the privilege of witnessing the consequences of your betrayal. Now, you ugly freak. Choose. Fire. Or blood.”

The sudden tug at her hair forced her to look higher. Nothing in this world and beyond came close to the pain that grew more acute every time she saw them dangling in the air: Jaime bound in neck and hands, his throat bloody as he gasped for air through the ropes cutting through skin, Lyonel kicking wildly as his hands gripped the noose. Tears fell from Brienne’s eyes seeing his little throat arched as he too gasped. It would have been kinder to have him bled from my womb. Yet the thought of never having gazed into the eyes of her son, of a life without him, cut her the deepest.

Caressing her cheek while scraping her nails on the skin, Cersei murmured, “Did you like fucking my brother? I won’t ask if he’s worth the betrayal. I have fucked him too. Many of my memories have him between my legs. In my mouth.” She licked her lips. “His seed is sweeter than Robert’s. I liked that about him. Of course, he loved me. Or so I thought.”

Brienne tried shaking her head. Nothing about Jaime’s relationship with Cersei could touch her now. Her eyes kept darting between Jaime’s purpling face and Lyonel’s swinging legs. Gods above, if you could hear me. I beg you. Save them. Have me torn limb to limb but let them live. Lyonel. Lyonel must live.

“Whatever pleasure you had with him, and I know there was pleasure,” the queen continued, “it was because he saw me while inside you. I am all he sees in every woman he comes across. He never wanted you. I love my brother but he’s no different from other men. Gone too long from me, any warm, wet cunt would do.”

Jaime must have overheard because he shook his head. Brienne looked away, not because she didn’t believe him but that she refused her last sight of him to be in pain. Cersei chuckled. “I know the truth. He can never want anyone but me.”

Then she moved in front of Brienne, her hands cupping her bloody, wounded face. She absolutely did not want the queen’s face to be the last she saw before death but at least, she was spared from the agony on Lyonel and Jaime’s faces. Her hands were searing to the touch. The brilliance of her emerald gown made her appear lit in flame.

“You did not just betray me. You stole my child from me. My dynasty. But you will be forgiven,” Cersei now spoke in a normal voice. She freed her head and glanced at the two hanging bodies. “You only need to make the choice. Will you save Jaime or your son?” she said in a normal voice

“They’re innocent.” As Brienne spoke, blood spilled from her mouth. A tooth fell. Cersei watched it roll before getting stuck in the gap between the planks. She looked at Brienne.  

“Hmm? What did you say?”

“Your quarrel is with me. Hang me. Cut my tongue. Blind me. Tear me apart if that’s your desire. Lyonel is innocent. So is Jaime.”

“Jaime? Lady Brienne, you seem to think that my love for him blinds me. I am well aware men hardly last long without fucking,” she glanced at Jaime. “But to choose to fuck you out of all the women he could have? I find it quite odd. Quite, quite odd.”

“He did not betray you. I took him! He was in chains. Delirious. I took him. I took him over and over.” She was shouting and Jaime was making gurgling sounds. Cersei’s head swung back and forth between them, displeased and annoyed. “Ignore him! I wanted him because he’s the best swordsman. I did what any soldier would do. He was never willing. Let them go. Let them go!”

“But he got hard.” Cersei frowned as Jaime continued to struggle to speak. She glared at Brienne. “He still fucked you. He betrayed me. For you. And your son is proof of that betrayal.”

“He’s a child. Please. I beg you, as a mother, and yourself one—”

Cersei’s palm cracked across her cheek. Brienne’s world went dark and for a moment she thought herself dead. But her eyes opened, and she was still in the ship. Jaime and Lyonel were still hanging.

“Don’t you dare liken yourself to me in any way,” Cersei hissed, furious as a viper. “A monster like you.” She glared at the scar on her cheek. “How dare you.”

“Indeed, your grace is right,” Brienne managed to say through the pain. “We are nothing alike. As for the privilege you’ve granted me, while I’m thankful, I must refuse it.” Tears falling again, she declared, “I choose neither blood nor fire. I choose my death.”

“Mother, no!” Lyonel managed to wheeze as Jaime let out what seemed a shout.

Cersei chuckled. “Trying to be the hero of whatever song will be sung from this night? I’m afraid, Lady Brienne, the only choices you can make are the ones I allow. However, I do appreciate it. Bravery has become rare. I shall reward you then.”

Then she nodded at someone to the side. Two archers approached and got ready.

“No!” But the arrows were in already in the air racing towards Jaime and Lyonel before the word left her mouth. A scream was torn from her as they pierced flesh, the sound wet, squishy. Blood spattered and she instinctively turned away, her cheek taking most of it. When she willed herself to turn and see, there was only one thing she could say.

“Kill me!” Jaime was brought to stillness with an arrow in his mouth. Lyonel’s body continued to turn despite the other arrow buried in his eye. “Kill me now!”

Hands grabbed her and she grunted and continued to yell, desperate for a weapon to kill herself. Bodies pressed upon her, trapping her, suffocating her. The world turned black, leaving her unable to see anything else. Her mouth continued to form a silent scream.

“Brienne!”

She gulped in air like a fish robbed of it as her eyes flew open. Light burst in and seared her through the eyeballs. Shallow pants slipped out of her as white light blinding her receded into spots, the latter eventually clearing to reveal tousled golden hair and gently-arched eyebrows. Her heart continued to drum heavily and painfully in her chest as she stared at Jaime with relief and fear.

“Brienne.” He spoke softly now, the sound soothing instead of making her burn. She looked at her wrists imprisoned by his hands. At the lamp overhead that gently swung and squeaked with every sway of the ship. “You’re safe. It was a dream. Sweetling, it was a dream.”

When she looked back at him, he was staring at her. He looked worried. Concerned. He released one of her wrists to touch her cheek and she closed her eyes. A calloused palm instead of a smooth surface, firm rather than gentle. Her heart bursting from relief, she sobbed and clutched it with both hands. “Oh, Jaime,” she whimpered, kissing his hand deeply. “Oh, gods.”

“You’re safe,” he repeated, raising her from the bed to hug her. Never had she been so grateful for his hold and the strength of him until now. As she breathed in the familiar notes of his sweat, soap and linen, he rubbed her back. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”

“Was I screaming?” She asked, her mouth moving against his shoulder. She didn’t want to leave his arms anytime soon.

“Yes.” He kissed her on the cheek and continued rubbing her back. “Peck was at the door when he heard. He saw you thrashing and screaming and thought you were gravely ill again. Fortunate I was still awake and nearby.”

She sighed and clutched at him. His arms tightened too. “I thought the Stranger had come and you were fighting him from taking you. Frightened Warek too.”

“I have disrupted the entire ship,” she groaned. “I can only imagine what the others are saying now.”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself about,” he said firmly. His lips rubbed up and down her neck and shoulder. She quivered from the familiar rush of desire. “I was frightened too, if I may say. What on earth did you dream about?”

“Please.” She shook her head. It was still all too vivid. She wondered if the blood she tasted was because she’d bitten her tongue or a foreboding. “Jaime, don’t. I-I can’t. It’s too. . .” Her fingers fluttered to his lips.

“It might help—”

The door creaking open brought their conversation to a halt. They stared at Peck standing in the doorway, frozen in apparent surprise while clutching the saucer holding a cup of steaming beverage. When his eyes fell south of Brienne’s mouth, he flushed and quickly turned away.

The breeze from the sea slipping inside lashed at her breast, exposed due to the shift fallen past her shoulder. Jaime muttered a curse and quickly pulled it up. As she turned away to hide her burning face, he snapped, “Why are you here, Peck?”

“Forgive me my lord, my lady. The captain thought tea might help the Lady Brienne sleep when she’s calmed. Shall I—shall I come back?”

“There’s no point to tea if it will just be served cold when you return. No. Come in and put it on the table. I’ll take care of it.”

She listened to the young man hurry to the table and then back to the door. When it closed, she slowly turned back to Jaime. He sighed, reached for her hand and kissed it. As her palm opened from the presses of his lips, she leaned forward. He breathed her name and kissed her.

It had been days since their last, but it felt like a long time since. She had missed his mouth: warm, bold, firm, faintly tasting of spices and wine. He kissed her as he fought: full-on, thrusting, and sure. When he took her hand and brought it to his chest, she quickly loosened the ties to touch bare skin.

He suddenly pulled away. “Brienne—”

She nodded, understanding quickly. “I apologize.” Reddening again from embarrassment, she stammered, “I-I asked you to leave me and. . .and I’m not making it easy.”

He kissed her knuckles. “I only want to respect your wishes. I was summoned because you were screaming. I should go.”

It was the right thing to do. With the nightmare she’d just had, they were courting all of hell if he didn’t walk out the door. She swallowed, reminded of the rawness of her throat from her screams. “Will you fetch the tea, please?”

“Of course.”

As Jaime took walked around the bed to get it from the table, Brienne adjusted the pillows behind her. They were damp. As was her shift. She murmured her thanks as he handed her the drink.

“I should change,” she said, taking a sip of the hot, delicately-spiced brew. It smelled of something faintly floral. “Might there be something in a trunk or drawer here?”

“Warek is a tad smaller than you, wench.” Jaime’s smile prompted her to smile back. “You’ve been wearing my clothes. I’ll have one brought for you.” He looked at her bandaged cheek. “You’re covered in sweat. You need a rubdown, at least. And the bandage—Warek said it should come off tomorrow. It’s already tomorrow, only darker before it recedes slightly. Do you trust me?”

“What exactly are you going to do?”

“Remove it.” Seeing her look unsure, he leaned in and kissed her. “Wench, I promise it won’t hurt.”

“No, it’s not that.” Brienne licked her lips, a little lightheaded either from his kiss or the tea. Her heart seemed to skip too as she thought of getting rid of the bandage at last. Without another word, she carefully put the cup away and left the bed.

She managed to find the small looking glass on a shelf cluttered with Warek’s personal belongings. Her hand grasped it but halfway raising it to her face, she paused.

A monster, Cersei had called her. Little of Brienne disagreed. She had failed to defend Tarth. Trusted the wrong person. Endangered Lyonel. Had Jaime. Blame lay not in her heart but in her. I could have done better. Been smarter. Her breath sped as thoughts of Evenfall Hall a heap of ash hit her. She clutched at her heart. Her handmaidens. They protected me from the worst and I repaid them with the gift of destruction.

“Brienne?” Jaime was still sitting on the bed.

She put the looking glass away and looked at him. “Please don’t think me ridiculous. I. . .dread it. Seeing the scar.”

“But it’s healed, wench. I can tell you it is no longer ghastly—”

“When I chose sword over needle, I knew it would be a life of pain. The soreness in your body will never go completely away. Skin to be a canvas of battles you survived and fights that ended you. Long before that my septa made sure I knew that the mirror would never lie. It would always tell the truth. I know I’m ugly. I have been called that and other names because of what I lack significantly in looks all my life and am used to it. But Lyonel—”

Her son. He would know her failure. One look at my face and he will know. Just the thought of never having Lyonel’s eyes light up upon seeing her caused her pain. Meanwhile Jaime got up from the bed and went to her, taking her by the waist before a hand climbed to her bandaged cheek.

“Who knows if he’s heard what has happened to Tarth. He will see me, Jaime. My failures—this—” she pointed at her cheek. “And then he’d hate. If he sees me again he’d hate me—”

“When.” Jaime was firm. “You will see him again. Both of us. And he will not hate you.”

“W-When.” She whispered, clutching his hand. Wishing so much to believe. Needing to forget what had happened in the dream. “When.”

“Yes.”

“I love him so much. I don’t know how I can face it to have him ashamed of me.”

She broke down then, surrendering to tears because Jaime was there to take her in his arms. Between the violence of her dream and the future she both hoped for and dreaded, it was too much. A dam had shattered within and there was no stopping her tears and sobs.

Somehow, Jaime put her back in bed. As she heaved and folded into herself, he curled up behind her, taking her again in his arms. She turned and buried her cries against his neck, his chest. He swept the hair clinging to her wet cheeks until she felt only his hand, saw only his eyes. Emerald orbs looking right into her, the stare of a man once broken and slowly building himself piece by piece. Despite his despair, she saw love in those jewel depths.

Perhaps she kissed him first. Or they both reached for each other to kiss at the same time. There was relief sinking her tongue in his mouth, and comfort in the heated press of his palm on her bared breast. Inch by inch the damp shift was pulled down her body, the icy breeze from the sea causing the flames in the fireplace to flutter helplessly against its might. Cold settled like a blanket on her, pinching her nipples into painful points until Jaime got between them.

She clung to him with arms and legs, needing his mouth on her, the hardness of his clothed body on her. Linen and skin covered in rough hairs abraded and pulled at her nipples. Against the growing pool of desire between her thighs, he rubbed his hardened cock, the leather between their bodies squeaking from every movement.

His lips warmed her bandaged cheek as she caught her breath. She couldn’t stop touching him—pushing the tunic off his shoulders to finally have his warm, supple skin all to herself. As he nibbled on the tip of her ear and made her quiver, she licked him, awakened by the burst of very faint brine that flavored his skin. As their mouths met again and each tried to push tongue as deeply as possible in each other’s throats, his hips rocked against her cunt. Begging. Asking for permission. Wanting. She moaned from.

“Don’t ask me to leave,” he panted, taking her face in both hands. He looked desperate. “Brienne, don’t. I don’t want to.”

“S-Stay,” she stammered, her heart so full of love. Fear had deserted her for now. She was determined to enjoy what peace its absence offered, no matter how fleeting. “Stay. Fuck me.”

He kissed her first on the cheek then her mouth. “Brienne. I love you.”

Together, they went for the laces of his breeches. She pulled, he pulled, but neither could resist taking another kiss, then having to resume the remaining work on the laces before the need to fuse their lips struck less than a breath later. He laughed, the sound warm, happy, before taking her face fully in both hands to kiss her thoroughly. She managed to smile through her response, going by touch in finishing the rest of the laces before the placket loosened enough to free his cock.

He let her go then, but only long enough to pull the breeches down, take his cock and push inside her. She grunted, eyes widening from the force and size of him inside her after so long. As her cunt slowly stretched around him, she sighed and pulled him down for another kiss.

Jaime with her. Inside her. It was bliss and beyond. With every dip of his tongue in her mouth, every thrust of his cock back in her cunt, she felt herself more alive. More hopeful. Braver. She let him pull and spread her arms above her head, moaned his name as he spread her thighs wider with his knees to thrust deeper in her.

She was the least deserving of such pleasure, of a man such as Jaime, but by the Seven, when did she ever get what she wanted exactly when it was needed?

“Seven, I’m close,” he gasped, fucking her faster, kissing her harder, sloppily. She embraced him, matching the frantic rhythm of his body. The headboard thumped rapidly against the wall.

“Don’t leave me. Please. Please, Jaime—"

He spilled inside her right after she spoke.

She caught him as he fell heavily. As sweat poured from every pore of their bodies and hearts beat as one, they caught their breath. The high of their fucking began to dissipate and the clouds came rushing in. She held him tighter, blushing from the loud squelch of their joined bodies. He clutched her hand.

Neither had to say anything about the sticky wetness between them. Each knew what it could mean. Brienne was still very much afraid, but she feared losing Lyonel and Jaime more.

“It’s the last thing you are,” Jaime told her a short while later. Nude and crouched before the fireplace, he was tossing fresh wood in the fire. Brienne sat on the bed, resting her elbows on the shelf made with her knees.

Even with his hard, warrior’s body, in the light Jaime was more beautiful rather than rugged. His tousled hair was more golden than the sun, and the light and shadows showed his chiseled features to perfection: the emerald eyes tilted up slightly at the corners, giving him a cat-like appearance, the firm, high cheekbones smooth still despite the lines, his slim, straight nose. And those lips. Slightly pink from kissing her, slender with the suggestion of restrained fullness at the bottom.

He stood up, the muscles in his ass and thighs flexing. The vision stole breath from her lungs for a few moments. I will never get used to this.

She was taller, bigger and more muscular but her mouth watered looking at the lean bulge of muscles on his arms, his wide chest matted in golden hair that arrowed towards a flat stomach. Between corded thighs was a cock thick and long even at rest. It still shone from their joining.

A warm ache bloomed in her cunt, causing her to shift and blush. His seed was wetting her thighs. Despite her torment, she wanted him again.

He sat before her in the bed, a hand cradling her wide foot. A thumb stroked the instep.

“You will never be a monster, wench.” Eyes golden from the fire reflected in them looked at her.

“I made a vow to protect Tarth and all of the Stormlands. I trusted the wrong person. Innocent young men and women killed because of my mistake. My failure. I lost the two men I’ve had closest to a father in the worst of ways. This scar—I don’t want to see it because it will always remind me.”

“You had no way of knowing Goodwin’s thoughts. And your soldiers. . .they knew what following you entailed. They could have chosen to die peaceful deaths in the same corner as they were born but they didn’t.”

“There was no glory in how they were slaughtered.”

“They died believing in something true.” Brienne watched him take her hand and grasp it firmly. “You survived. Their deaths were not for naught. If they couldn’t save the Stormlands from Daenerys then, there’s still hope because of you. This scar—” he touched her face with the other hand. “It’s a badge of your bravery. When death was inevitable, you made another, harder choice.” She saw a new sheen in his eyes then. “You returned to me. To Lyonel.”

“I wish to have your faith.”

“You must, Brienne. I am sorry but there was no other choice. Even if I knew then he’s mine, they would still be only choices to make. I didn’t make them foolishly. Trust me. Believe in me.”

“I do.” She said, looking in his eyes. “I give you my word.”

“He has your face.” He said after things fell quiet between them for a few seconds. She looked surprised and he nodded. “He has my eyes, but he has your hair. Your chin. I’m not so sure yet about the nose. Freckles. I remember he has them.”

Thinking of Lyonel from the last time she saw him, her heart warmed. “He hates them. I hope he’s not as cursed as I am to wear them for life.”

“I don’t know. . .” he teased. “I like them a lot. Infinite places to kiss on his mother.”

“What were you like at his age? He’s nine.” She asked without thinking. The smile fell from Jaime’s face, and she could have kicked herself. “I’m sorry. Don’t. . .forget I asked.”

“You have every right to ask. But you will not like the answers.”

He didn’t look upset but sad. Still, she voiced her thoughts. “Do you think of her?”

“Yes,” he admitted, looking at her. “I think of the innocence we lost early on in choosing each other. That perhaps. . .if mother hadn’t died as she had, we might have a chance at happiness. I wish I thought only of her as my sister and not a lover who just happened to be my sister. But I don’t long for her.”

It seemed a shadow fell on him then, taking all the light from his eyes, even the warmth in this room. Though he still looked at her, held her, she felt something in him withdraw.

“I thought it was the happiest day of my life when Cersei finally let the world know I was her choice through marriage. All my life I wanted only her. I was ready to leave everything, the gold, the name, if it meant we could live and love freely elsewhere. She refused me. Many times. I’ve lost count. I believed myself to still care for her after my return from captivity. I wanted her. And every time I had her I thought of another.”

“Another?”

“You. We would kiss and I remembered your mouth. I slept next to her smelling her sweet lavender perfume but was haunted by your scent. I had her again and again to forget you. You persisted. And when I saw you. . .” His voice drifted off but edged with gentle surprise and wonder. “When you came to King’s Landing heavy with child, I was floored by how much I desired you. You were pink. Your breasts ripe. You smelled like honey. And wheat. I dismissed it. You’re the only one I’ve had besides Cersei, so I thought what longing I had for you was the result of confounding sentiment towards my captor. At that time, I also struggled with Cersei seemingly turning into something different each day. I now realize that it wasn’t that she’d changed. I began to see her. Really see her. Still, I loved her. I wouldn’t hesitate to break holy vows to end madness, but I would keep the one I made to the person I love.”

She grasped his hand in both of hers and kissed it. He watched her do it, his gaze soft.

“I tried to love her. I willed myself blind to her cruelty but grew tired of, among other things, trying to convince her regarding who she perceived as enemies. She refused to believe and accused me of betrayal many times. The last time we were together was just before she sent me to you. She forced herself on me.” The statement seemed to take everything from him then, his hold on her tightening as if for strength. “She threatened the life of another who was nothing but loyal to her, forced me to take part in the abuse before taking what she wanted from me. Taking, never mind my refusal.”

“Jaime.” She moved to take him in her arms. “I’m so sorry. She had no right. I am so, so sorry.”

He sank against her, and she held him. Now she was his pillar. His rock. Dropped kisses along his forehead as she rocked him—tenderness despite the fury building inside.

Humfrey was a memory best forgotten but he would always be part other, much as she despised it. She had healed but scars remained deep under the skin. As she rubbed Jaime’s back, she could only hope that one day would be the same for him.

“You wonder how I can still have hope. I am gone from her. Gone. Before she ordered me to, I was gone. Then you were there.” He sat away and looked at her. “And I got you back.”  

She nodded. “I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere.”

Night deepened but the cold failed to crack through the shield of warmth from the fire and their embracing bodies. Perhaps it was the tea or his hand on her breast but for the first time since coming to this ship, Brienne slept through.

She woke to the familiar sound of voices and work in the ship. The furs fell from her shoulders as she sat up, discovering she was alone. At the foot of the bed was a fresh shift, so she put it on. After putting on the robe, the door opened and there he was, strutting in with a lightness in step, his eyes shining.

He smiled as she blushed before him. Her hair was all over the place and her face could use a wash. “It’s good to see you first thing in the morning, wench. But I would prefer something more modest on you.” She chuckled despite her embarrassment at his heated look.

“Good morning,” she whispered before he kissed her. “What’s that?”

He had a bundle of clothes swathed on an arm, boots in the other hand. “I had Captain Warek help and he had one of his crew make my clothes to better fit you. He says the lad is the best in repairing torn sails.” As she hugged the clothes to her chest, he held up the boots. “My biggest boots, wench. Garret and Peck kept them stuffed with linen, so they’ll stretch.”

“This is very kind. I’ll be sure to thank them, and also the captain’s man.”

“Will you put them on? Now?”

The spark in his eyes gave him away. She swatted him in the arm. “You just want me naked again.”

“My sweet wench,” he said solemnly while taking her in his arms, “I always want you naked. If I were king, I’d forbid clothes on you. On pain of never having my cock again.”

She grinned as he loosened the robe. “What a sad life that would be. But you—” she put a palm on his chest to stop him from doing more. “Are going to behave and sit over there. We both know once my clothes are off it would be a while before I’m dressed again.”

“I don’t mind. As you wish,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. He went to sit by the table. As she shrugged off the robe then the shift, she heard him lift the lid. “Wonderful. Hard bread and fillet of salted fish again.”

“What’s wrong with fish?” Free from clothes, she went near the fireplace where there stood a small set-up of basin and a clean towel. She rinsed her face and rubbed the sleep from her eyes vigorously. More alert now, she put on the first of Jaime’s clothes.

The hose ended a few inches below the knee, but they were thick and would keep her warm. The leather breeches above her ankle. The thighs were a bit tight but the leather would fit her over time. As she made sure not a single strand of her bush got caught in the laces, Jaime spoke up.

“Would you like smallclothes?" His eyes were on her cunt and there was a dreamy quality to his tone. "I didn’t get any because I remembered you don’t wear them.”

“I never got used to them, to be honest. And it was often too warm in Tarth. Do you have smallclothes?” She couldn’t recall him wearing one but they were always quick to get rid of clothes around each other.

He smiled and picked up an apple from her tray. Taking a bite, he declared, “No. Never liked them either.”

She looked at him as she finished lacing the placket closed. There was no mistaking his lust for her at that very moment. His gaze never kept darting back and forth between her breasts and mouth. It felt almost like a real touch because her nipples tightened. He smirked, likely having read her thoughts. She kept her eyes on him as well as she picked up the tunic next.

Through the rest of the process of dressing, they stared at each other. His eyes followed every movement of her hands lacing the tunic closed, the vest. Watched her pick up the first boot so she may slide her foot inside, pull up the rest of supple leather up her long leg.

By the time she reached for the coat, the collar of the tunic clung to her nape. She stood gaping wordlessly at Jaime, still not used to be wanted in the way he wanted her, but surer even more of her heart.

“Breathtaking,” he said softly.

“You’re beautiful.”

He smiled. “Then we’re well-matched.”

She joined him at the table, and he urged her to eat. He’d eaten far earlier, thus why he was able to see about getting her clothes. As she swept up chunks of the hard bread and fish in the fragrant, spiced oil, he sighed. “I have to admit that soon I’ll be longing for sausage more than your cunt. All this fish and hard bread.” Shaking his head, he added, “What I’d give for something sweet. Perhaps a lemoncake. Or something heartier and more delicious like boar roasted in the spit for hours.”

“I’m a lot more used to fish. Father preferred meat too, but mostly poultry. He loved duck stuffed with chestnuts and draped in thick gravy.”

“Hmm. That sounds like heaven too.”

Her tongue warm from the spices, she said softly, “Lyonel always preferred his fish on the fiery side.”

“You don’t say?” Jaime laughed. “My son. My son who eats fire for breakfast.”

She loved hearing him say that. It was as right as the harmony of musical instruments and a sweet voice. “He’s complained quite a bit in the letters that there is little fish in Ashemark.”

Suddenly remembering, she paused in her meal. He saw the change and put a hand on her thigh. “Brienne?”

She chewed on her lip. “They’re all gone. His letter to me. I kept them all in a trunk near my bed and. . .and they’re gone.” The paintings. Books. Maybe even the crypt that housed all dead Tarths.

Her appetite suddenly gone, she returned to the lid to cover the half-eaten meal. She looked at Jaime before taking his hand away. But she kissed it to reassure him she just needed a moment. He nodded and stood up, brushing his knuckles on her bandaged cheek before leaving the room.

She sat for a long time, every thought lacing the next and branching out to others. Selwyn. Orlyn. Dyrna. Santi. Sorelle. Her shoulders slumped from the weight of their memories. Jaime was right. Her handmaidens knew what it meant to fight at her side. It didn’t make the pain of their death easier but now, she was learning that in their sacrifice they had secured hope. One little spark in the darkness.

She stood up and found the looking glass again. This time she put it close to her face. There it was. The bandage.

Without another thought, she pulled it off. The momentary sting caused her eyes to water, but it was done. Blinking rapidly, she stared at the scar.

It took up nearly half her cheek. Wrinkled like crumpled mesh on the smooth surface, raised and slightly red. Gently, she pressed a fingertip on it. The skin was rough.

She put the looking glass on the shelf to better see herself. All her fears about looking like a monster turned out to be unfounded. Indeed, she was nothing like it. In her eyes was a hardness she had not seen before, in the purse of her mouth a new resolve. She lived because she chose to come back. I am hope.

Now that she could see herself, she saw the rest. The tips of her hair were jagged, uneven, the result, Jaime had confessed, of having to cut it so they wouldn’t get in the way of her burn wounds as they healed. She touched them, knowing what needed to be done but unsure if she could do it. Surely cutting hair was not as difficult as cutting into bodies?

So, she looked in the drawers and shelves until finding a pair of shears. Standing before the looking glass again, she snipped the uneven tips. When she finished, her pale hair was a boyish crop.

“Brienne—” Jaime had returned, bursting in as usual instead of knocking. She gasped but there was nowhere to hide. When he turned towards the bed where she stood by, he stopped in his tracks.

“I—I removed it. The bandage. I-I also had to fix my hair.” Her hand shook in her hesitation to touch the trimmed strands. “It’s so much shorter than I intended but. . .but it’s done.”

Jaime stared at her shorn hair and the pale strands littering the floor.

“Hair grows. Soon it will be long again, as you like it,” she said, forcing herself to speak lightly. “Jaime?”

He said nothing. Instead, he crossed the last few inches between them. In her shock, she didn’t realize right away that he’d seized her face in both hands before kissing her scar fervently. As she gasped from the heat of his mouth, he turned to take her lips. She moaned and threw her arms around him.

“I told you.” His whisper was hot. “Breathtaking.”

His hand returned to her cheek, and she cradled it there. “I have something as well. To remind you all is not lost.”

“What is it?”

He seemed hesitant to let her go but did. She watched him remove reach for one of the swords hanging from his belt. As he withdrew the blade, she glimpsed the familiar black and crimson ripples on its surface. Her heart thudded in recognition, in disbelief. Even when he held it out to her in all its beautiful, dark beauty, she still thought it all a dream.

“H-How?” She was riveted by the rubies winking from the eyes of the lion at the pommel.

“It was recovered close to where you were found. I kept it until I knew for sure you’re ready. But you are ready, Brienne. You were born ready to fight. But I know now you would struggle if you think you’ve lost everything.” He offered it to her. “Go on, sweetling. Take it. It’s yours. Not all has been lost. Not when you live.”

So, she reached for it, fingers slowly closing around it. It was as warm as yesterday, and her hand curled around it as if they’ve never been apart. With one finger, she traced the steel from base to tip. “It’s like it’s never been in the water at all.”

“Valyrian steel doesn’t rust. Nor does it need sharpening.”

“Jaime.” There was nothing else she could say. He had given her everything. Had fought to give every single thing to her, no matter the odds. He smiled, his hand returning to her cheek.

In his touch was peace, certainty, and love. She had no idea what the future would bring but she was ready now. Ready to fight.

Ready for everything.

Chapter Text

It was a world of fire.

Crying out in rage, Lyonel spurred the tired horse into the fastest gallop. He shouldn’t, but kept looking behind at the jagged columns of crimson fire eating up every tree and spreading like a molten river on the once-icy ground. He hunched forward, gripping the reins as the beast charged forward with all its might. Ahead, he saw the mountain on which Evenfall Hall stood. A burst of green in the ring of fire, crowned with the white marble of the castle.

Mother. She’s safe. And with her I’m safe.

He chanted the words in his mind through the stench of smoke and ash filling the air and clogging his nose. Seeing was becoming difficult. Breathing even more. The horse was beginning to weaken, having already been pushed to the last of its strength.

Lyonel wasn’t giving up.

But the horse did.

It had begun to weaken, to slow down, until it suddenly fell and pitched Lyonel forward. As pain sprang from the back of his head all the way to his legs, the fires came for him. A scream was ripped from his throat, and just before his eyes exploded from the heat, a black dragon flew right above.

Just before the blood burst from his eyes and the fires ate him at last, he saw the dragon open its mouth and unleash fire on Evenfall Hall.

It was his own cry that roused him. Still tasting the ash at the back of his mouth, Lyonel could only stared in stunned confusion as the clear white puffs of air leaving him with every gasp. The familiar burst of crimson at the periphery of his vision filled him with dread but he forced himself to look, and to realize for himself it was only the flames from the fireplace. Small now and close to receding into embers, a cold mist had taken over the chamber.

His heart still raced but it was only a dream. Another bad dream. There was relief in that. Waiting for his heartbeat to resume its calm, steady rhythm, he remained in bed, silently counting with his lips every breath taken and released. At ten he stopped.

But he didn’t get up.

Since finding out about Tarth, he had been plagued by dreams of fire and destruction. He dreaded having to leave the bed. Leaving the bed meant not only the day had begun but it could be that day.

News was slow trickle from the beginning of the long winter. Nevertheless, a traveler now and then somehow made it to the Westerlands to narrate about what was going on in other parts of Westeros: giant walls of ice melting and drifting across the sea, jagged and sharper than swords that they’ve split ships in two, the mountains shaking off the same icy crowns that resulted in avalanches burying towns and cities at their feet, the once-frozen rivers and lakes melting and spreading to flood settlements.

In King’s Landing, a strange disease had seized the smallfolk, a disease believed to have come from the Daenerys’ spies that have infiltrated traders from Essos and settled in the capital. Cersei was said to not have only forced the smallfolk out through a bloody purging, she had also ordered all foreigners burned at the stake.

It was horrific just hearing about it. Lyonel was grateful to be far away but nightmares had a long reach. Hardly an hour passed without his thoughts going to his mother, still missing following the attack by Daenerys to seize Tarth and all of the Stormlands. Winter had spared that region from snow but bombarded it with worsening storms, famine, and the deluge of dragon fire.

The only thing constant besides the cold was the darkness. There was little difference between day and night. Lyonel finally got up from the bed and pushed aside the silk drapes of the window to look out.

Below the endless horizon of heavy indigo and dark gray, mists so thick almost hid the mountains that led to Ashemark. The Sunset Sea seemed a giant land mass of glass because of its stillness. At the harbor, ships stood as still as death, the frozen ice that have dripped from sails looking like icy fingers.

I can’t think of Mother gone. She may be alive. She may be hurt but alive. He leaned on the glass, wincing as his breath fogged it quickly and cold took hold of his face. She’ll come back to me.

He turned to go to a desk on the other side of chamber. The need for an item hidden in one of the drawers made him forget the cold seeping through the thick carpets under his bare feet. Setting aside letters, parchments of writing activities, some books, he finally found that piece of paper he had come to treasure above all.

He pulled out a chair while staring at the sketch. Mother.

Charcoal was all he had, and he had to render her as best remembered: the long braid slung over a broad shoulder, with wisps framing her freckled her face, the roundness of her eyes—his mother had pretty eyes—no, the prettiest. Of a blue that shimmered like the sea in the summer sun, with a kind, warm stare.

Away from home to know more of the world, he had come to realize that his mother was not as beautiful as the women Ser Addam liked to bed. Lyonel felt quite proud of that—it meant Mother was unlike most women, and she truly was, wasn’t he? He had yet to meet another close to her height and she was already taller than most men and built strongly too. Her thick arms—he missed being engulfed in her embrace and swung around swiftly that he seemed to fly.

And her hands, he thought, having to release his grip on the parchment lest he tear the only image he had save for what was in his head—she had big hands. Really big hands. Hands that were always gentle in stroking his hair or turning a page in the book she read to him. The same hands that held his face when she saw him off in a ship bound for King’s Landing.

“You make me proud every day,” she had told him, looking right in his eyes. She had dropped to a knee, uncaring for the dirt that would stain her skirts. “You are stronger than you think, my love.”

Lyonel stared with growing helplessness at her portrait. Father, give her strength. Mother, protect her.

Do the gods listen? Have they ever listened? How many other children like him had made the same plea?

Perhaps, the gods wished to punish him for hardly remembering his father. Ser Addam had put a hand on his shoulder when he broke the news about Lord Humfrey’s death. To this day Lyonel still did not know if he felt any sadness for his passing. Humfrey had not been unkind but he struggled remembering exact moments when he had been kind. All Lyonel could do after being told was to light a candle for what little memory he had and begged the gods for forgiveness.

For his mother, he had yet to light a candle.

I can’t. He put the sketch back under the pile. She wouldn’t wish me to give up, not without proof. And she was a soldier. It still shocked him upon being told by Ser Addam that he was a prisoner during the war because his mother had not only captured him but also Ser Jaime Lannister. The Kinglayer! The best swordsman in all of Westeros.

Surely—surely a soldier who did those things was not easy to kill? His mother had to be better with the sword than the Kingslayer too. How else did he get captured?

I can’t lose her. Not when I’ve only just begun to know who she really is. He didn’t think her gentleness a lie, but sensed she’d had to keep away parts of her old life from him. She must tell me why. Did she think it would bring me shame? Or was she ashamed?

Lyonel put the sketch back in the drawer and got ready for the day. A quick wash of the face, a change of clothes. On his way to a door that adjoined his room to the much bigger, grander chamber where Ser Addam slept, he picked up his lord’s polished boots.

Ser Addam was still sprawled sound asleep on the bed. Long used to the sight of women warming his lord’s bed, Lyonel now had to get used to him alone in it.

The bed, like everything in Casterly Rock, was a masterpiece. It was a four-poster piece of art in dark, blood-red wood, crowned with rich, gold velvet studded with rubies, sheer crimson curtains, smooth, polished silk for pillows and a huge blanket made entirely of fur from shadowcats. The thick carpets quieted Lyonel’s footsteps as he laid out the boots before ducking into the dressing room to retrieve clothes for Ser Addam: a thick black coat, leather breeches, silk tunic and hosiery. The clothes were fine craftsmanship but looked plain in a chamber crammed ceiling to floor with everything that winked and sparkled even in the weak winter light.

He fed fresh wood into the fire too. It would be another hour before Ser Addam rose for breakfast but that was still just enough time for Lyonel to get some food for himself before having to return here. As soon as the chamber began to warm, he returned to the door connecting their rooms so he may leave through the other door leading to the hallway.

Yet her found himself frozen at the door. Flickering torches reminded him of the dream. Though they gave much light to the hallway, he couldn’t help but think that the darkness they tried to fight off was no different from a crypt. The floor was carpeted, of course in crimson once again, woven with golden lions.

He saw a rippling river of blood golden lions flailing before getting dragged in its dark depths.

He walked quickly, hand out to grasp a door in the wall that led to a passage and winding stairs to the kitchens. His footsteps quickened upon hearing the loud voices of servants and the clangs of pots and pans. Finally reaching the door, he caught his breath to watch the frenzied dance of cooks and other servants chopping, slicing, putting food in the oven, meat roasting in the spit. The air was warm with the aroma of fresh bread, butter and smoked meats.

Winter didn’t seem to exist.

“Your lord’s meal will take a short while. Do you mind waiting?” Asked a cook as she shut the door to one of the ovens.

“He still sleeps. But it won’t take too long, I hope?”

“Don’t worry, young lord, he won’t starve long. Get yourself some food and maybe the wait won’t be too long. Go on, you.”

On one of the tables was a modest buffet: an assortment of hard and soft breads, butter, cheese, chewy-looking salted meats, a few jars of fruit preserves. He took two slices of bread, slapping butter on one slice and a cherry preserve on the other. Meats were ham and sausage, both a gleaming red brown. The ham was a robust pink at the center ringed with fat, the sausage studded with spices.

Having grown up with simple but flavorful fare in Evenfall Hall, Lyonel experienced some shock upon finding out that in the Westerlands, riches did not mean an assortment of flavors in food. Venison, pork, poultry, would be covered in spices but they were too mild for him. He missed fish too. Salted, smoked, or even just fried, it always went well with bread. The soups on this side of the world were on the heavy side too, often made with cream. He preferred the simple yet rich flavors of mummer’s turtle soup.

He helped himself to a sausage and went to sit at one of the tables, where other workers of the castle were eating before their masters awakened. The same cook who’d spoken to him noticed the meager contents of his plate and complained.

“What’re you looking so glum for?”

He shook his head and took a small bite of the buttered bread. “Nothing at all, my lady.”

“My lady,” she scoffed. “You don’t like the food here? What do you eat where you’re from? Gold?” At her remark, much laughter rang throughout the kitchen. Lyonel’s ears turned red, and he bowed his head.

“Listen, don’t mind them,” the woman continued. “But you should be thankful we can still eat quite well. There’s no use to gold if there are no animals for meat now, is there?”

Lyonel just nodded, choosing to say nothing. As soon as he finished eating, the woman called him over to a table and pointed at a tray. “There’s your lord’s meal. Best you hurry.”  

Back upstairs then the hallway leading to Ser Addam’s chamber, the crimson carpet didn’t look like a river of blood anymore, and the walls no longer seemed to close in. He balanced the heavy tray with one hand while gently pushing the door to the chamber open.

Ser Addam was sitting up and yawning hugely when Lyonel slipped inside. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Lyonel.” Addam acknowledged, pushing his long auburn hair away from his face. His face was creased from sleep. As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, Lyonel carefully put the tray on a table by the fireplace and went to fetch his robe. Addam got up nude from the bed and slipped his arms through the sleeves. Lyonel placed slippers at his feet.

“Feels like Seven Hells froze over,” Addam remarked, shivering as he looked out the window. Lyonel arranged the covered dishes on the table before pouring warm wine into a goblet. “Look at that. Come over here, Lyonel.”

Lyonel obeyed and went to stand at his side. Addam swept the drapes further aside. Little had changed from when Lyonel had looked out earlier. The sky still looked heavy, ready to crash any moment.

“It used to be that at this time the sun was so bright it was all you saw. I used to count the ships at the harbor, and watched fishermen coming in with baskets overflowing with fresh catches, the merchants already negotiating with importers about the price of spices, candied fruits. Jaime and I would race to the harbor on days the Dornish ship came.”

“You mean Ser Jaime, my lord?”

“Yes.” Addam was still looking out and Lyonel suspected he was thinking himself as that boy with the Kingslayer. “We liked the candied fruits best. We would get a small sack to share between us. He always got another to bring to the queen. That was hers alone.”

Something in Lyonel’s stomach tightened. It was hard to imagine someone like the Kingslayer doing something he would do if life were an eternal summer. Harder still to think of the queen as a child who could be happy with something as simple as candied fruits.

“Well, that was another lifetime ago.” Addam murmured to himself.

Lyonel agreed though he was only nine. He hadn’t had much of a life yet.

Addam sat down to have his meal, removing the lids and staring at the assortment before him: two sun-eggs, smoked ham and a piece of bread. “Ah. Will you look at that. I never thought I’d see an egg again but here in Casterly Rock, I get two.”

“Glad you’re pleased, my lord.”

“Indeed.” Addam took a few bites before asking, “Are they feeding you well, lad?”

“Oh, they are, my lord. Don’t worry.” Lyonel assured him.

The man smiled. “Did they have fish?”

“Er. . .” He felt his cheeks warm. “No. No they didn’t, ser. But it’s all right, my lord--” he added quickly. “I have gotten used to eating meat. Sometimes, I even like it.”

In an effort to hide his burning face, he turned to the bed and started straightening it.

“I won’t be reprimanding or lecturing you in any way, lad. Out of all the squires I’ve had, you’re the only one so far to not give me a headache. Still, with what’s gone on. . .” Addam paused and looked at him. “I just thought it might comfort you somewhat to have something that reminds you of home. Perhaps something you enjoy eating and miss. Of course, it’s nothing to. . .to what’s happened. I can only imagine what you must be going through now.”

Lyonel said nothing, determined to focus only on smoothing creases on the silk. It had been a week since they’ve arrived in this Lannister stronghold and known of what had happened in Tarth for that long.

“Will there be. . .my lord, do you think there will be a war?” He asked in a low voice, needing to know. At his own question, the familiar tightness took hold of his stomach again.

Addam sighed and sipped the wine. “It’s more unlikely for there not to be. But it’s winter. Only the foolish would dare risk even a skirmish. The only victor will be the Stranger.” Seeing him look troubled, he reached out to take him by the shoulder. “Lyonel. Look at me. I should have told you sooner what happened in Tarth. You had the right to know right away. It’s just that. . .you’re just a boy, Lyonel. A child. I only wished to spare you.”

“But I’m not like most children, my lord.” He straightened the crimson pillowcase embroidered a single golden lion. Patting it then smoothing the surface, he added, “For one thing, I’m a squire. And I’m going to be Evenstar one day.”

But he remembered suddenly. Staring at the golden lion, he murmured, “Was going to be Evenstar.”

Seeing his downcast eyes, Addam said, “You have much ahead of you to be consumed by the darkness so early in life. Have you—Have you been to the sept?”

“No, my lord. Is there reason I should have?”

Addam cleared his throat. “I would like you to accompany me when I light a candle for my father.”

“You need not ask, my lord. I’ll be there.” He can’t be suggesting I do the same for mother, is he?

“While I eat, why don’t you ready the swords and shields for today’s lesson?”

A good idea, Lyonel thought. Nothing distracted him more by swinging a sword all day and taking blows on a shield. The exhaustion should put him right into bed and no time for nightmares. But as he finished with the bed, he turned back to Ser Addam.

“My lord, may I. . .may I ask a question?’

“Go ahead. I’ll do my best to answer.”

“Why-Why does Ser Jaime Lannister want us here, my lord?” Lyonel asked. “I remember from your conversation with the Lord Kevan he requested for us to come here.”

When Addam didn’t answer right away, Lyonel flushed in embarrassment. “I apologize, my lord. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my place.”

“No. You have every right to ask.” It had taken Addam another before answering. “Why don’t you pull up a chair so we can talk properly. It won’t be long. I won’t keep you from your duties.”

Lyonel took a chair from a desk and placed it next to where Ser Addam sat. He sat down, noticing for the first time that Addam seemed at a loss for words.

“In truth,” he began, “I don’t know Ser Jaime’s exact reasons. But he asked me as a friend and a brother. He is the closest I have to a family. I love and respect him greatly.”

“Do you think he wanted us safe, my lord?”

“Lyonel—” Addam paused then continued, “Lyonel, what he asked of me is to keep you safe by bringing you to Casterly Rock.”

“I-I don’t understand, my lord. Why would the Kingslayer—”

Addam suddenly shot him a stern look. “He may not be around to hear you, but you’ll be respectful. Especially as we’re in the lions’ den.”

It was the first time Addam had spoken to him roughly, and it distracted Lyonel for a moment from what had been revealed earlier. As Addam stared at him expectantly, Lyonel thought to tread carefully.

“My lord, why would. . .why would Ser Jaime concern himself with me? He knows nothing of me. Except for that one and only time back in King’s Landing, we’ve never met. Nor has mother even mentioned him.”

“I don’t claim to be of any authority with regard to him but one thing I’m sure of is he will never resort to unjustified violence.” As Lyonel mulled this over, Addam added, “As my squire, you are in my confidence. I trust not a word of our conversation shall ever leave this chamber. Is that understood?”

“I won’t breathe a word to another soul, my lord.” Lyonel spoke truthfully. “I give you my word.”

“Good. I have no reason to doubt you. I wish I can tell you more, truly, but what he has asked. . .and he’s not asked for blood, Lyonel.” Addam seemed to hesitate before asking, “Do you know why you squire for me? Not with one a knight in the Riverlands, perhaps, which is a lot closer, or even among the knights in the Stormlands?”

“Mother says it is the duty and honor of every House in the Seven Kingdoms to serve wherever the Queen desires without question.”

Addam sighed. “I believe it is time you know the truth. How well do you know your histories?”

“I’m not much for reading, ser. The words no longer jumble and it’s not the great hardship  it used to be. But I still prefer the sword and to ride and hunt than to read. Unless it’s stories. I quite enjoy stories about knights. I do promise I’ve memorized all the Houses great and minor from Dorne all the way to very tip of the north, my lord. Their sigils, House words, the heirs.”

“Very well, but what of the last war?”

Lyonel thought of Brienne. “Mother lost her father in the last battle. Forces allied with House Lannister crushed the Baratheon armies led by Stannis. He was never found. Stannis, I mean. Why. . .why did he take up arms against the crown, my lord?”

“Simply put, to regain the power he believed to be his.” Addam looked like he wanted to say more but seemed to change his mind. “Were you taught which side House Tarth fought?”

“Yes, my lord. We lost. My maester said we chose wrong. Do you think we did?”

“There is no wrong or right side in a war, lad. Carnage is guaranteed on both sides. It’s only a matter of luck why a side wins. Of course,” Addam’s smile was rueful. “Not that everyone would agree. Do you think your House chose wrong?”

Lyonel thought to answer but realized something. “It’s why I’m here so far away from home, is it not, my lord. Because we lost.”

“It is a part of it, yes.”

“But I still don’t understand why Ser Jaime would wish to have me brought here.”

“Neither do I, lad. Like I told you, he will never support unreasonable cruelty. Among the many conditions decreed by the queen on Houses that rose against her is that a failure to guard and protect her borders is immediate death to the eldest son.”

Lyonel was sure he stopped breathing. Addam sighed heavily and deeply as well. “I had my orders, lad. It arrived almost as the same time as Jaime’s request. It has weighed on me heavily since reading it.”

“What-what do you mean, ser?”

“House Marbrand supports the Iron Throne. My father certainly did.” Addam stood up, looking suddenly weary despite the early hour. He headed for the window and once again looked out into the sea.

“I have always been in awe of my father. Sons will always admire good fathers. And he is. Was. There were few things we did not see eye to eye, however. The queen.”

Lyonel had glimpsed Damon Marbrand only a few times—perhaps less than the fingers he had in one hand. He couldn’t recall if Ser Addam took after him in looks, if they were somewhat alike in character. What was clear to him was almost as soon as he’d arrived in Ashemark, Lord Damon fell ill.

“The queen’s letter was addressed to my lord father. Because. . .because he was ill and the night it arrived was when he took the Stranger’s hand. The letter was given to me. Had things been vastly different—” His shoulders slumped. “I love my father. I always will. But you should know that had he been well and still functioned as lord, neither of us would be here right now.”

Lyonel didn’t realize he was gripping the crimson velvet armrests until hearing the soft rip of stitches giving away. In his palms were curling tendrils of red threads.

“Will you look at me, Lyonel.”

So, he did.

His tawny skin looking ashen and his eyes reflecting pain, Addam said, “I want you to know, Lyonel. I give you my word that I don’t regret my choice in bringing you here. Whatever Jaime’s reasons, I believe he meant for me to keep you safe for as long as I can. Even without his request, I’d have taken you away from Ashemark myself.”

“My lord,” Lyonel said when he finally found his voice. “But I am. . .I am merely a squire. A boy from a minor House.”

Addam shook his head. “Not since the war. You forget your lady mother was made Warden of the East.”

“She’s still Warden of the East.” Even Lyonel was startled by his harsh tone. Addam merely gave him a look but said no more.

“Is that the reason why Ser Jaime asked you to bring me here, my lord? Because of my mother?”

“I do not know, Lyonel. But I don’t condone having children pay for the failure of their parents.”

“My mother did not fail, my lord.” His voice cracked despite his conviction.

“I didn’t mean—”

“She lives. I know she does. She’s strong!”

“Lyonel—”

“She will take me away from here. I don’t wish to be here. Everywhere is red. Like blood.” Lyonel forced himself to stop saying more although his heart still raced like a thousand hoofbeats. Blood pounded hard in his ears too.

“I made a vow to your mother, Lyonel. I gave her my word to keep you safe. I admit this is not. . .well, it’s a bit much here, isn’t it.” Addam glanced at the elaborate canopy of the bed and the rich silks. “But we’re safe. More importantly you’re safe. The queen will not get to you.”

The queen. For the first time since he started asking questions, it hit him: in obeying Ser Jaime’s orders, Ser Addam had committed treason. And by harboring them. . .Lord Kevan had gone against the crown too. Against Cersei. His niece.

“I’m not afraid, ser.” He looked up at Addam. “I give you my word.”

“I never doubted your courage, lad. But for as long as you remain my squire, you remain under my protection. Do you understand? Believe me when I say I will keep you safe. Not only because Jaime and the Lady Brienne asked. But because I don’t believe in slaughter, let alone of the most innocent.” Addam finally left the window and returned to his seat. His eggs had gone cold, but he still broke off a piece off the toast to dip in the wiggly sun. Lyonel noticed he didn’t eat another bite afterwards.

“My lord. . .if I may ask one more question.”

Addam seemed to brace himself but nodded. “Ask.”

“Do you think. . .do you think other Houses. . .in other Houses where boys like myself are squiring. . .do you think they’re safe?”

“A lion. . .a lion is king, lad. Stags and wolves have bowed to the lion a long time ago, and they can be just as mighty, if not in in strength then in spirit. There is little chance in surviving when faced against one and you refuse to bow. Your best hope in seeing the sun again is to have another lion at your side.”

Chapter Text

“A week.”

“Yes, milord.” Warek said, tapping the map. “We are approaching Old Oak but against the wind. The even darker skies hint at a storm.” He looked up to see Jaime looking out at the sea. The wind whipped at his cloak and hair, rustled the thick beard framing his cheeks and jaw. “Milord, given that we’ve had more than a generous bout with storms when we sailed for Tarth, I advise we drop anchor. But not in the open sea.”

“No. We can’t be out as we are.” Jaime looked up. Black clouds clumped tightly into each other in the horizon, as if they themselves were huddling for protection from the inevitable storm. He sniffed, noting that the scent of the salt was not as strong, nor ice. He smelled something wet; it clung, reminding him of when the mountains crushed the stone houses in Tarth. Strange to smell land when there’s nothing but water and sky.

“Judging from the lingering concern on your face despite my agreement with you, I sense there’s more you’re not telling me, Warek. Speak.”

“We still have a week. If the storm doesn’t think itself a most entitled houseguest, milord. But even I can’t declare with absolute certainty how long it will stay. If it does go on longer than expected, we will need to drop anchor at the nearest port. And replenish the supplies as well.”

Two things likely to fuck us right in the ass. Jaime stood beside to look at the map, seeing places of his youth, his innocence. His finger paused right next to spot that indicated Crakehall.

“We should be assured of safety given milord’s order in changing our sails before we returned to the sea,” Warek continued when Jaime didn’t say a word. “And we have removed from the ship itself any markings that tell we serve the queen.”

“I’d rather we steer clear of Houses and lands that support the queen, nevertheless.” Jaime moved his finger down. “How far are we from Old Oak?”

Warek looked surprised. “We arrive before nightfall. But milord, that would mean we’re in the Reach and the region is held by House Tarly—”

“I am well aware of geography, the borders and Houses, even the heads of such Houses. I give the floor to you in matters concerning the water and the sky so do tell me, Captain. Why do you give me a lesson in geography?”

“Milord, we may not carry visible signs of serving the queen but it is known that Lord Randyll Tarly is not—what I am trying to say, milord—”

“Yes. You are trying so keep at it.”

“It’s an unnecessary risk dropping anchor in a region where House Lannister doesn’t have the most vigorous of allies, if I may say so. We can’t even pass ourselves off as a cargo ship in order to evade the slightest suspicion.”

“That’s why we can easily be the ship of some indulgent rich merchant who can’t be warned about the weather until too late. That is how we will pass ourselves as.”

“As milord wishes.”

“I don’t merely wish it. It’s exactly what we will be once we set foot in Old Oak. Gather the men to inform them. Make a list of the foodstuffs and other supplies we would need for the last leg of our journey. That will be all unless there’s more?”

Warek bowed his head. “Nothing more for now, milord.”

“Good.”

Jaime returned to the deck, collecting bows from his own men and the sailors, the latter stopping their work to give him that respect. He found a small group consisting of a couple of sailors and his men sparring, including Garrett and Peck. But as he was about to step in and correct a position, something swifter-moving from the side beat him to it.

“Stop. Stop. You’re doing it wrong.” Brienne was dressed in a cloak fashioned from the Lannister sails hidden below deck and his clothes. Looking so much lighter in hair and skin in the cluster of men who have warmed their cheeks from the little sun, she looked like a beacon of light despite the crimson clothes. Jaime’s eyes fell immediately on her scar, and he thought that while it did little to improve her looks, it made her seem more formidable.

“Hold your sword like this, men. Look what I’m doing,” she was saying, raising both arms high over her head while holding Oathkeeper. The dark blade caught what little light there was, flashing like lightning before she moved it again. “Like this, yes. You should always attack on high, and slash quickly. Like this,” she grunted, Oathkeeper swooshing loudly as it cut through the air.

Hardy soldiers and sailors stepped back from her sure swing. “Again. Watch what I do.”

Though she sounded a little out of breath, Jaime thought she sounded quite stronger than the days following her return from the dead. She repeated the action then called on a Lannister soldier. “Come here. Tell me your name.”

“It’s Carson, milady.”

“Come at me as you would in a normal fight. Like you were doing before.”

The soldier looked unsure and looked at the small crowd for some assurance. When he saw Jaime, he immediately bowed. “Milord.”

“Carson.” Jaime acknowledged. “Do as Ser Brienne says.”

“Oh. Ser Brienne, yes.” The soldier looked sheepishly at her. “I, er, apologize Ser. . .Lady.”

“Never mind. Get on with it. Show me again, Carson.”

Carson lunged low, Brienne easily sidestepping it and pretending to sink Oathkeeper in his spine. She bade Carson to stop and addressed her audience.

“Never show your back to the enemy. When you attack low, you make your back vulnerable.

Makes it easier to trip you, relieve you of your sword, and send you prematurely to the Stranger.” That’s why you must always attack high. Now,” she grabbed Carson by the collar to straighten him up. “You may resume as I’ve shown you.”

“Do you intend to divide the loyalties of my men and Warek’s?” Jaime jested when she joined him. Her short hair was wind-whipped and stood at an end, looking no different from the muss created from sleep. His remark drew a quick, shy smile and cheeks turning pinker. Just as well there was something to lean on when she did them.

Once, it had been inconceivable for someone else besides Cersei to make him unsteady on his feet and overwhelm him with desire. Brienne, the unlikeliest of all to ever do such things to him, did so much more. He was sweltering despite the persistent chill around them. It was also quite impossible to stop looking at her appreciatively, especially the snug fit of his breeches around her thighs and legs.

“Sparring is quick to wear me out still, but I’ll build up to it soon.” She confessed, sounding out of breath. “Rather than go back to my room I wanted to be useful. Do you mind?”

“No. Of course not.” He sniffed the air and detected the soft note of her sweat. “I like watching you. And I agree about attacking on high. But you should also teach them about turning their bodies into weapons.”

“They hope to be knights, Jaime. It’s already a strain to them listening to a woman instruct them to fight with a sword but it’s another when a woman yet again teaches them how to fight like, well, like thugs.” She was beginning to stammer, which made him smile. Checking to see first that every person on deck busy and wouldn’t take any interest in them, he leaned in until his lips brushed her ear. He smirked as her hands settled on his arms instantly.

“You captured me fighting as a knight and a very powerful thug, wench.”

She was smiling when he pulled away, but it faltered then dropped quickly. “It was Goodwin who taught me to use my body like that. With my size. . .it called to be a weapon.”

She reached for his hand, and he squeezed it. “It’s going to be hard. You have good memories of the man that betrayed you so horrendously. It will be a while before your feelings for him settle.”

“Have you ever felt the same?”

He looked at their joined hands, thinking back and knowing the answer immediately. I should have left Aerys as soon as my sword was free from his body. Then no one would have known. Ned Stark of all people wouldn’t have known.

Only able to muster a nod, he raised her hand to kiss it. The act pulled her closer, so he took the opportunity to take her with him below deck.

“There’s something you should know,” he said once they were surrounded by the few remaining sacks of food. The stray cat taken from Estermont to feed on the rats was licking her belly while sat on one of the sacks. She stared at him with one fat ginger paw raised before resuming her task.

“There’s a storm. We’re going to have to get out of the open water. We’ll be arriving in Old Oak within the day.”

“Old Oak,” she murmured. “Can we. . .will we be alright?”

“There’s no way to recognize this as a Lannister ship. If someone does, then what of it? Randyll Tarly loathes Cersei’s guts but he won’t murder us over it. He’s not foolish.”

“No, he surely is not.” Brienne muttered. “Just hateful.”

“There’s no need to make a big deal when we’d just be staying there until the storm ends. I don’t think either of us is recognizable right now.”

She lifted a flap of her crimson cloak, the golden lions winking in the little light. “You know no one will miss this color. Even the blind can see it.”

“We’ll get you new clothes.” In an attempt to ease her tension, he gently pulled her by the belt. When she didn’t nuzzle his nose, he cupped her by the nape and looked in her eyes.

“Brienne, even without the storm, we have no choice. Supplies are running low. We can’t chance further stretching our rations until we reach Casterly Rock. Everyone in this ship has done more than expected already. The last thing we need is a mutiny.”

“I’m not questioning it. It’s that we might be delayed.”

“Better late than dead, wench. This is hard.” He leaned his face against her cheek when her chin began to tremble, an indication of tears to come. “I know. I know.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I’m not complaining. As much as I dread it, I’d give my right arm to be in Casterly Rock right now.”

“You won’t need to sacrifice a limb to see our son again.” He turned to look at her. “And we will see him again.”

She nodded and leaned her forehead on his. “I believe you. I do. Truly.”

Darkness swamped the world when the ship dropped anchor at the port. The wind had begun to pick up, from a chilly breeze to swift, icy lashes that seemed to cut through the layers of clothes. The other ships swayed and shook. As Jaime climbed off the gangplank, snow also began to fall.

To Peck, he handed a small pouch of coins to get enough provisions for the last leg of their journey, accompanied by two other Lannister soldiers and one of Warek’s sailors to ensure they get the proper supplies. Garrett, the rest of the soldiers, sailors, along with Warek, headed for the inn to secure rooms and meals.

Jaime took Brienne’s hand. The wind had calmed somewhat but snow continued to fall. Together they hurried through the narrow and tangled street lined with shops and houses. It took a bit of walking before finding the shop Warek had recommended to Jaime. It had the sole flash of light from a lantern dangling from the proprietor’s hand as he was closing it for the night. As Brienne huddled under her cloak, Jaime pressed a few coins in his hands. Soon they were ushered in a small but warm, dry space smelling of leather and lingering warmth.

“Jaime, why are we here?” Brienne asked, wide-eyed at the choices of breeches and boots, other clothes. Jaime addressed the man.

“Your finest breeches and warmest coat, and if you have boots that fit my lady wife well, there’s another gold coin for you.”

Brienne audibly gasped while the man frowned at Jaime before turning his eyes on her. Looking at her from head to toe then back to Jaime, he seemed to flush as he stammered, “Begging your pardon, my lady. I thought because of your manner of dress you are one of us. Milord,” he told Jaime, “I mean no disrespect.”

“None taken.” Having recovered from her shock, she spoke clearly. “Breeches are more comfortable for me when I travel.”

“I have just what you need, my lady. Luckily I’ve had customers as tall as you. Follow me.”

“Good.” Jaime said. “Show us the merchandise.”

When they left the shop, Brienne was wearing a long brown hooded cloak trimmed with bear fur. Underneath was a heavy quilted coat of grey and a brown leather vest. The tunic was the largest the shop had, and her eyes twinkled at wearing clothing for the first time that was quite too large. Breeches made of soft wool and supple calfskin leather boots completed the rest of her new clothes. Jaime carried the old ones in a sack.

The wind had picked up again. With Jaime leading the way, they jogged through the streets, squinting through the snow for the way to the inn. Their faces stung from the whipping wind. Jaime was sure his cock had frozen and bound to fall off. Flashing her a suggestive grin, he suddenly pulled her into an alley. Here the wind seemed a whisper, except for the rattling of the walls and rooftops of the closed shops. As he put Brienne between him and a wall, she shook her head.

 Before disappointment could fully form in his heart, she burst into a toothy smile and surprised him with an open-mouthed kiss that was hotter than a thousand suns. He cupped her by the cheek, around the nape, the action sweeping the cloak off her head. The sky sprinkled snowflakes and in between surges of warm tongues into mouths they tasted ice. As they caught their breath, he looked up at her, moved by the sight of snowflakes dotting her pale eyelashes, her lips.

“I thought winter was ending,” she exclaimed, sweeping the snowflakes from his shoulders, his hair.

He caught a few in his gloved hand, watching them dissolve. “Perhaps what’s coming is a false spring. Do you want to know something?”

“What?”

Nuzzling against her, he whispered, “I no longer hate the cold. Not as much as I used to.”

A deeper blush and a shy smile made her look so much younger and sweeter, even with the scar. As she leaned in to kiss him again, he whispered, “Thank you.”

“What for? I should be thanking you. You’ve done so much.” She touched his chest.

His heart was close to bursting. “You just showed me how it is when only you and I are all that’s left of the world.”

“I love you,” she whispered and kissed him again. When was the last time he’d just wanted to kiss, to be held? This feeling of content was strange and unsettling, so new was it. But he was reluctant to end it. He kissed her the last for now then once again took her hand. Together, they ran through the snow.

The storm picked up just as they reached the inn, the wind shoving them past the heavy doors. Inside, the sailors and soldiers have gathered on a long table and happily eating hot, meaty stew. There were only a few patrons besides them but as Jaime and Brienne stood by the door, felt the curiosity behind their stares before going back to their ale. Warek sat at the head of the table and upon seeing them, he got to his feet, as did the other men.

“Perhaps, it would be better if I retire early,” Brienne told Jaime, bowing her head and turning away.

“I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

“Brienne—”

“Later,” she said. “Come to me later. We don’t want any more attention than we already have. The last thing we need is whispers reaching Randyll Tarly’s ears about strange visitors.”

“I’ll have a meal sent to your room, then. And a bath.” She was right. The beard hid most of his face and his golden hair had darkened somewhat from grease collected since it had been unwashed for a moon. Brienne wasn’t recognizable with her face, but her height would always draw attention. He watched her go up the stairs and went to join the men.

“Milord,” Warek greeted him. “Wonderful of you to join us.”

“Yes,” he said woodenly. “It is.”

Once seated, it didn’t take long for serving wenches to fuss over him. A huge bowl of boar stew was placed before him, with two thick hunks of bread, and ale. Jaime took part in the chatter with his eyes to the door and ears on snatches of conversations between the regulars and the innkeeper. He didn’t believe they were in any danger but something in him, perhaps an instinct for that elusive, strange, niggling something honed from years as a soldier and knight, kept him on alert.

He didn’t have much love for ale yet drained the glass to half. As he spooned more of chunks of the delicious, tender boar meat into his mouth, an idea began to form. He quickly finished the rest of the stew, immensely glad for the hot, real meal, then pretended to stagger to the barkeep.

The Lannister soldiers and Warek’s sailors exchanged looks but without bringing their chatter to a halt. Peck and Garrett looked at each other.

Smiling widely as he leaned on the bar, he waved his glass to a man. “If you would be so kind, my man.”

“It’s no kindness, to numb a man from this world,” the barkeep remarked, taking his glass and refilling it. “But finding ourselves once again on the brink of war, it might be best to be numb.”

Jaime took the glass and pretended to sip. The ale was cheap and foul. Yet as the bitter bilge wetted his lips, his thoughts went to a little brother lost. Dead, probably. It had never ceased to amaze him how Tyrion could put away so much drink in such a little body. He pulled up a stool to keep the pretense of being quite drunk such that balance was a challenge. As he sat down heavily, he affected a squint and smiled even more. His cheeks hurt.

The barkeep frowned. “Are you well? You look like you’re in pain, young man.”

“Young man,” he scoffed, chuckling. “Not so young anymore but thank you anyway. War will age all of us if not kill those unfortunate enough to be forced to fight. You think we have a shot at winning?”

“Is that even a question. What are cavalries and every sharp weapon against a dragon? Let alone three.” The man whipped out a worn cloth and started wiping the other corner of the wooden block Jaime had his elbows perched on. “And Lord Tarly has taken every man of fighting age from their homes to feed to the dragons.”

Jaime blinked. “What about the others? The other Houses?”

“Where in Seven Hells have you been? Have you done nothing but put your face in the ale?” The barkeep didn’t hide his disgust. “Fuck the Houses. They would always survive because their soft lords are the last to fight. They put men like my son in the frontlines because we’re nothing. We bow and pour their drinks, clean their shit and we’re the first they put in the path of fire.” He gestured at the Lannister soldiers. “Isn’t that where you’re all headed to? To fight for some lord who’d use you as human shields once you’ve finished shining his boots?”

“It could be the lord has no choice but to obey the queen.”

“Fuck that bitch.” The barkeep suddenly spat on the floor. Jaime was surprised to find himself about to rise from the chair to slap him in Cersei’s defense. He managed to rein in the familiar, hot flare of emotion whenever his sister was insulted.

“Fuck Cersei Lannister and fuck that Lord Tarly. You know what he did at her orders? Quartered the unfortunate Horpe fella squiring for him. Because that fucking dragon queen took the Stormlands more easily than taking a shit.” Another spittle landed on the floor, and Jaime grimaced from the faint spray on his clothes. “I never cared for lords and nobles and the lot who piss and shit in gold chamber pots but at least, when the Tyrells ruled us, we were assured of an absence of cruelty.”

Horpe, Jaime thought. He knew very little of the House only that one of them was in Stannis Baratheon’s trusted circle in the last war. Brienne can not know this.

Taking another rag to wipe the glasses, the barkeep continued talking. “They say the Tarth woman supposed to protect the Stormlands was burned by dragons. Everyone in her castle burned and their ashes tossed in the sea. Fucking Queen Cersei is a right fool if she thinks merely appointing someone as protector could be a shield against a dragon. Are you going to drink the rest of your ale or not?”

“What?” Remembering the glass, he stared at it before setting it away. “No. No, I think not.”

“If you’re sure,” The barkeep muttered. He glanced at the men. “No one would blame you for refusing to fight. Better for winter to take your last breath than to die in some battlefield. There’s no better death than in the arms of a wife, surrounded by your children.”

“The punishment for desertion is a hanging.” Jaime felt ill. “You’re made to watch as every member of your surviving family hangs from a noose and dies slowly.”

That quieted the barkeep. He took Jaime’s glass and went away. Jaime scrubbed his palms to his face in some pathetic attempt to clear his head of the past and the future. As he turned away, he detected the gentle swish of skirts out of the corner of his eye.

It was one of the serving girls, a full-breasted blond with blue eyes and a dimpled smile. Not very pretty, he thought as he discreetly patted the inside of his coat to ensure she hadn’t slipped her hands there. But a body to keep you warm.

“Will you be wanting more, m’lord?” She asked, approaching him just close enough that he scented her clean scent but without touching him.

Jaime shook his head and began to move away. The woman pressed against him.

Breasts straining against her worn dress did draw his eyes first until they shifted a moment later to her hands skimming his body.  When a palm slid towards the bulge of his coins, he grabbed her hand and very gently, removed it from his person.

“Your charms are wasted on me, I’m afraid.” She chuckled and tried pulling away, so he held it fast, firmly. “You wish to please me?”

“I’ve not seen a man as handsome as you. You have a rough look with your beard but your eyes. Like jewels.” She looked at him closely then sniffed. “You smell like a horse’s piss but your features are fine, under all that hair. You could pass for a lord. I think you even sound like one.”

“You ought to be with a lord, dear lady.” He said. “Over my right shoulder. The man at the head of the table, do you see him? Hair dark as night. A biggish but high nose.”

She followed his directions and shrugged. “I do. But he looks more like someone who would clean the floors.”

“He is a very rich, very powerful merchant. And you’d please him.” Jaime still held her hand as he turned to nod at Warek. The captain glanced at the woman next to him, the look on his face curious but his eyes burning coals of lust. “He’s generous with people who please him. Very generous.”

The woman gave Warek more than a passing glance then. Jaime continued, “He’d want more ale.”

“Does he?” She murmured.

“And you’ll give more than ale, won’t you?”

She smiled and at last, moved away. Jaime watched her go and let out a breath.

He headed for the stairs, guessing immediately what room he’d be in. Still, he knocked on the door at the end of the hall. “My lady?”

“Jaime?”

He opened the door, catching Brienne beginning to sit up. The blankets fell to her waist. Her bright eyes and bare breasts cleared the murkiness one glass of ale had left him. She looked so hopeful, even almost beautiful, bathed in the candlelight from different corners of the room and the brilliant blaze from the fireplace.

He cursed the Seven for what he’d just found out. Nevertheless, the stirring in his breeches told that despite the turmoil, a part of him was very much unaffected by it.

And he needed to forget. She must not know. There had been too much pain already. He refused to be the one responsible for more. And there will be more. In this world, besides death, the other guarantee was more pain.

“I apologize if I took long.” To bar the door, he had to turn away from her with great reluctance. Pleased to look at her again once done, he asked, “You’ve had your meal?”

She nodded, shifting in the bed to a more comfortable position. Her breasts swayed gently, nipples pointing at him. “It was quite good. I didn’t realize how much I missed warm, fresh bead until I had it.”

He smiled at her then went to the tub by the fireplace. The water was soapy but more importantly, still warm. “I think I need a bath. Apparently I smell like horse piss.”

“I can send fresh water—”

“No, wench. Don’t bother. This will do.”

But Brienne got up anyway, distracting him with thick thighs and the wild, thick bush gating her cunt. His eyes lingered there as she took the kettle hanging above the fireplace to pour steaming water into the bath. Raising his gaze to look at her face through the steam, he was reminded of the first time he’d laid eyes on her nude body.

She hadn’t changed much from that first time: arms still thickly muscled, long, powerful legs, a very hairy bush. Though kept away from sword and training for years, she managed to look formidable still. Formidable but with the softness of a mother now. In place of breasts that used to be shy rises of flesh were high but pert swells topped with pointy pink nipples. Her waist was still straight, her stomach flat until she turned to the side, and he saw the very slight bump of skin and muscle softened by pregnancy. Straight hips had now widened.

“Join me.” He took the kettle and put it on top of the fireplace. “I insist.”

He lifted not one hand when she relieved him of clothes but kept his mouth busy with kisses and whispers. Her scarred cheek flexed against his lips as she smiled while unlacing his tunic, giving him a glimpse of her big teeth peeking between her swollen lips when she stood back to pull it off him. Bare in the chest as she was, he marveled at how similar they seemed yet actually so different. He took her face in both hands to pull her down for a kiss while she began removing his breeches next.

They fit snugly in the tub, Brienne offering her body as a warm pillar for his back to rest on while she soaped his chest. He sighed, soothed more by her touch, by her, than the warmish water. As her teeth nibbled on the tip of his ear, he caressed the long, firm line of her thigh, trying to count the freckles there. When the soap she held lowered to his stomach, he gently pried her fingers off it. Her gasp gusted next to his ear when he dragged her hand to his cock.

Together they stroked the stiff column of flesh, guiding her to the soft, almost languid caress he craved: sliding up and down as if time had now gone still, and all the world was the winter storm raging outside and this sanctuary of brick, fire, and woman, whispering for her to circle her thumb on the head, dragging the foreskin over it oh so carefully before slowly, so slowly, pushing it back to the base.

“Bite me,” he rasped, taut from holding back his release. “On the ear. Graze it with your teeth. Please. Brienne. Please. Gods.”

And she did. He saw the sun.

The bath, the ale, the warmth of the room, were comforts he hadn’t had for a long time. Sleep was the next step but with Brienne sharing it, it was the very last thing he wished to do. As the candles melted and the flame in the fireplace slowly began to retreat from the cold, he took her mouth. Licked down her neck. Tongued her nipples. As she moaned and clung, her legs opened. His hand was quick to follow on her cunt, palming the rough triangle firmly before nudging the folds for that button.

He kept his hand there, his fingers playing with her clit, as they kissed and groaned through the rising pleasure. His tongue slipped past her lips as he swept her folds wider, the welcoming squelch of her juices wetting him before pushing inside. Fucking her gently, he nibbled on her parted lips. She gasped and rocked against his hand.

“Jaime Jaime Jaime Jaime—” he lost count quickly, entranced by the clear liquid gushing out of her through the furious pumps of his fingers.

Neither had much sleep for the rest of the night. Sleepy kisses turned to passionate presses in a few breaths, waking them up from the slumber they thought had won over desire. He rode between her legs, fucking her urgently because control ceased to exist with her. She climbed on top of him too, stealing his breath with the sweet, soft look of pleasure on her face, her breasts bouncing as she rode him.

The headboard kept slamming against the wall.

Darkness overtook the room at some point, except for the weak embers from the fireplace that winked like distant constellations. Though only able to feel the hot grip of her cunt around his cock, he knew exactly who was with him. That soapy scent laced faintly with sweat and leather, the bulge of muscles on arms, the hot breath bathing his face that felt like summer—

“Brienne.” He hugged her around the waist, gripped her by the nape as she groaned from her release. “Brienne.”

In her arms, inside her, he didn’t feel the weight of the world. Everything ceased to exist except her. As more snow fell outside the window and buried the world, so did he push his face closer to her cunt, lips fused to her clit in between drinking the juices that kept flowing. As the window rattled from the wind, he dragged her nipples between his teeth and slurped loudly. Her fingers gripped him by the hair, pulling strands from the roots in her pleasure.

 She never stopped moaning his name. Never closed her legs. He rested his head on her cunt, lulled to sleep by her strong musk. When he woke up, he craved tasting her first rather than wine. He kept her pumped full of his seed.

“How will you tell him?”

A while later, Jaime lay under a pile of blankets, a hand tucked under his head. He gazed at Brienne stoking the fire with fresh wood. She had put on her new tunic and nothing more, leaving her thighs bare. In the gray sunlight, he glimpsed the wet streaks of his seed on them.

She straightened up and joined him in bed, tucking herself like a large cat in his arms. She yawned then settled against him. He nuzzled his nose against her neck, groaning softly from the scent of her skin and fucking.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But he has to know.”

“Do you think it will upset him? That his father is me—the Kingslayer?”

The moment he asked, he remembered another child. A daughter. A daughter borne of my squirt. Was she still alive? Cersei refused to speak of her beyond declaring she was gone for good because of the marriage Tyrion had arranged for her.

Jaime knew what she had to look like, having glimpsed her a number of times when she was growing up. She was of him and Cersei yet no face cropped up, not one detail. Had she ever addressed him? He didn’t think so.

He will know too.

“I hope not,” Brienne answered. “I used to think I knew my son but after two years. . .I don’t know him. In his letters, I still imagine a boy of seven who much preferred running and being on a horse to sitting for hours grilled by a maester. I’d like to think he’s still that sweet little boy. Who just happens to know how to hold a sword properly now.”

Nothing more was said after that. She just lay in his arms, no doubt imagining the child. He thought of children. Children forced to fight. How could I have thought punishing the families who have every right to fear death should be made into law?

When he tried to think of the man he had been, the shadows grew larger. Cersei he remembered, and their passion, but the Jaime she had wanted, the Jaime who had vowed to kill everyone who got in between them, seemed quite unreal now.

And ahead of him could be just as unreal, overwhelmed by light yet, there also wasn’t much he could see. But he was drawn, and wished, to go onward. Even if in that journey was a son who couldn’t bear to look at him, much less share his blood. No matter how justified the reasons for Lyonel being unaware, a part of his life had been a lie. Being a Lannister, even as a child, forgiveness would be difficult.

Jaime hoped he had half of Brienne’s good sense.

The snowstorm lasted three days. Except for when he went to check on his men and consulted with Warek, and when Brienne joined them for meals downstairs, he was inside her—her mouth, her cunt, even that dark, forbidden crevice between her buttocks. His lips were often close by to warm her scar. Under the old, worn furs, he kept himself warmer with his hand pressed to her thick pelt and a finger tucked deep in her searing folds.

Their last morning in the room had him between her legs still, fingers fucking her dripping cunt as they kissed furiously. Her throaty grunts from his touch made him burn even hotter, and once his cock was inside her and she was squealing like an eager filly, he was on fire.

They lay in a heap of bliss afterwards. Through the looking glass across the bed, Jaime saw himself resting on her chest, her pale thighs loosely on his hip. He turned to push himself up and off her, smiling at the soft, content expression on her face. Her lips were curved in a gentle smile too.

A crimson smudge on the inside of her thigh and the same smeared on his cock had him reaching for a clean rag nearby. He dipped it in the warm water in the basin then went to clean her. She blushed the whole time but kept her legs spread.

“You don’t really mind fucking with my moonblood?” She asked when he used the rag on himself. She still lay in bed.

“I can never resist fucking you, wench.” He said honestly. “I do have to say I’m glad for it.”

“Glad for it?”

He handed her the breeches. “I meant when I said I wouldn’t mind a child with you. I want your breasts heavy with milk for our child. But I don’t want to make things. . .harder. Not now.”

“Moon tea,” she said, sitting up but not making any move to get dressed. He put on his tunic. “I asked one of the serving girls. It’s not enough so I’ve been saving it. I do hope we get more.”

To his delight, she suddenly turned red. “I-I can’t resist fucking you either. I like it very much. When you’re inside me.”

He sat down to put on the hose then his breeches. When he finished, he knelt in front of her. “Brienne, I—when we get to Casterly Rock.”

She bit her lip, immediately going from a shy, blushing always-maiden to one with downcast eyes and a smile gone. He wove his fingers through hers and kissed her hand.

“If you’ll have me, I wish to spend the night with you. But I understand if you’d rather not while we’re there.” Love shielded you, he’d learned. However, there were times it was not enough. Bad enough Lyonel has the Kingslayer for a father, I’ll not have him thinking I don’t honor Brienne.

“It’s the right thing to do,” she murmured, looking at their joined hands. “Out of respect to Lord Kevan. Lyonel. . .I’m not ashamed of what we have, Jaime. But we’re asking a lot from him if we’re not going to be discreet. I don’t care whatever name I’m called but I don’t want—I don’t want—”

Her shoulders slumped, the words too much. He kissed her hand again. “I know.”

“Would you think me the worst for wanting you inside me every night, wherever we are?” She whispered. “Do you love me less for wanting you so much when I should be more concerned about how I as a mother should behave in front of her son?”

He didn’t answer. The right answer was not in words but in action. He stood up and unlaced his breeches. She groaned and immediately took the entire length of him in her throat.

Back in the ship, in the water, they slipped back into routine. She worked on regaining her strength sparring with the soldiers and even the sailors. She also helped the latter by climbing in the boat to move the sharp shards of ice out of the way with oars. He sparred with his soldiers too, and taught Peck and Garrett the finer points of fighting as well as serving him. Warek kept him updated with the progress of their journey.

At night, Jaime came to Brienne.

One morning he left her still asleep in bed, but not before having a look at her to warm him through the day before their nightly reunion. She was buried under the blanket, with only her eyebrows and hair visible. But his heart was full. He kissed her on the forehead, pleased when she murmured, “Yours.”

The rest of the ship was slow to come to life, the men yawning and shuffling due to the lingering sensation of sleep. Jaime found a deserted corner of the ship, unlaced his breeches then aimed his cock to the sea. The cold slapping his cock drew a hiss from his lips at the pale gold stream. He shivered the entire time, wishing his cock would empty soon but it seemed determine to raise the water level.

Finishing, he quickly tucked his cock back in the breeches. He found Captain Warek at the deck, shouting orders at his men already. “Milord.”

“Captain.” He nodded.

“I thought you might wish to see something in the eyeglass.” Warek handed him the instrument. “There is enough light, but it won’t last long. Yet again,” he added, looking up at the sky.

Jaime pressed the eyeglass to his eye, scanning the dark horizon up close, and what seemed a raven off to the east. Then he saw it.

“Milord, do you see?”

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I see it.”

He handed the eyeglass back to the captain. The morning breeze suddenly seemed the breath of the Stranger. “When would be we be arriving?”

“In a day, milord. We can hurry if you wish but there might still be some of those icebergs floating around. They shouldn’t be anymore, but there still might be since we chanced on more just over a day ago.”

“There’s no need to hurry,” Jaime said, turning back to look at where everything had begun. “Casterly Rock will always be there.”

Chapter Text

As far as the eye could see, there the golden spires thrust high in the sky, tipped with crimson that seemed to drip and shone in the faint gray light.

Word had it that the crimson details of the castle were rubies rather than paint, which was why its glaring gleaming spires could be seen at all points in Lannisport.  

In songs Lann the Clever took Casterly Rock from House Casterly through wit. But songs were what else but lies, beautiful words strung together, sweetened by the notes of a lute and the soaring voice of a singer. Silk dressings over the bleed, in Brienne’s opinion. Yet, who was she to judge of beauty when the looking glass told she had none of it, and for the longest time her heart swelled over the pretty words and wondrous notes of a song before she delved further? Winter will not come for the likes of us, she’d declared to the Lady Catelyn. Songs would be sung of us.

There was no song about mad kings, or how Lann whispered in the ears of the Casterlys while they slept to have them turn against each other. There was no song about fathers torn apart in battles. She had yet to hear of any song about soldiers flooding the battlefield with their bowels as they lay dying.

Blinking from the sting of the icy air, she pulled closer the layers of fur and leather wrapped around her. The horse under her was warm and sturdy, trotting on as if its rider weighed no more than a feather. The bouncing, though gentle, had her squirming but it was due to the thick bulge of her cloak caught between her thigh and saddle.

“Was I too hard last night, wench? Fucking you?”

The man at least had the decency to whisper. She glanced at him, her cheeks instantly hot from his words. However, there was no gleam of play in his eyes, no quirk at the corner of his lips that she’d come to know promised a dimpled smile. He looked at her only out of the corner of his eyes, his jaw set hard. He too was looking at the castle looming over them. What was he thinking about? What memories haunted him? Did he see her?

“No,” she whispered back, eyes lingering on the smooth, clean line of his jaw.

He had fucked her hard last night, but when had he ever not? Their usual pace was rough and quick and last night had been—

It reminded her somewhat of their last night in the chamber of the Moonmaid. She had felt every inch of his cock sliding inside her, every whorl of his finger as it stroked her clit. Hunger still laced their kisses, but Jaime seemed to determine to memorize every taste from her mouth. When he drank her cunt it had dragged every note of a moan that barely managed to slip from her tight throat.

They managed to get some sleep, maybe. That wasn’t too clear. What she remembered was even half-sunk in the dark of sleep, he was in her, he was tasting her. Her legs never closed.

No words were needed for her to know what he felt. In every kiss was a wish to stay in their little room in the ship. Every thrust a plea for delay.

She felt the same. Once the kisses stopped it was over. The moment she dropped one leg off him, they would have to face what lay ahead. She remembered staring up at Jaime, both of them still flushed and trembling from fucking. The ship had already dropped anchor yet he remained fully, and determinedly inside her. They knew what had to be done. With a heavy heart, she lowered her legs.

She had, over time, grew to have the faith he so begged of her but a part of her still dreaded the possibility Lyonel wasn’t in Casterly Rock. Or worse.

Their group went forward, and for the first time, Brienne noticed it. When she did, she’d charged the quiet to the absence of Warek and his men, all having elected to stay in an inn near the port to keep a close eye on the ship. Flanked only by Jaime’s shoulders and squires, she heard only hoofbeats and the breathing of the men. No ribaldry. As they headed towards a canopy of trees covered more in snow than leaves, she thought there would be respite from the crimson spires.

They were still there. Sentinels with swords ready.

Perhaps the soldiers felt the tension as well. She looked at Jaime. He was right next to her, so close yet far. A stranger, suddenly. With his hair freshly washed again, it gleamed golden like the long-missed sun. Gone was the thick beard that had tickled her neck and warmed her between the thighs. She didn’t know whether she wished to touch his clean-shaven jaw out of desire or curiosity, to know a bit of the Jaime that was Cersei’s.

Had been Cersei’s?

A forest stood between Casterly Rock and the rest of the city of Lannisport. Trees that once stood tall and proud bowed from the relentless press of snow, their gnarled branches jostling and tangling around each other as if for warmth. The horses grunted softly as their hooves sunk in the snow.

Yet there it still stood. Golden daggers stabbing the sky and drawing blood. She didn’t know if they were coming to the castle, or it was coming for them.

Jaime’s horse continued to grunt and growl though it trudged forward. When he reached out to pat it in comfort, Brienne saw his bare hand.

“What happened to your gloves?”

He paused and seemed to notice for the first time he didn’t have them. Sighing, he patted the horse firmly. “Looks like they’ve deserted me.”

“Let me.” Past caring the eyes around them, she urged her horse closer to take his hand. She breathed into it, and even dared to kiss his reddened palm. When she looked up, he was looking at her in that soft, gentle way she’d come to know. It was the same look that greeted her first thing in the morning because he’d been watching her sleep. The same look when she talked about the different fighting stances. And Lyonel. More tender when she spoke of Lyonel.

“Take this,” she said, pulling off her other glove. She slipped it on him, and he looked at her the whole time.

“Brienne—”

She smoothed the glove down his wrist, making sure that one hand was covered fully. His utterance of her name sent a warm pillar of breath on her face. “We can’t have both falling off. You can still fight with one hand,” she murmured, burning in her feeble attempt at jesting. He touched her cheek with the gloved hand.

They were slightly ahead of the group. Jaime still looked behind to make sure before turning back to her.

“I want you with me. In bed. For every night we’d be in that fucking castle. Mornings too. I don’t want to see lions first thing. Sapphires. I want sapphires.”

As she opened her mouth, he shook his head. “I can’t accept any other answer besides yes. Please. I beg you not to deny me. You said—you said—” apparently lost for words, his eyes widened and stared at her. “Have you changed your mind?”

“I don’t want to be without you,” she admitted.

“But?”

She shook her head. “I’m all yours. No buts.”

He looked like he was going to kiss her. Instead, he caressed her cheek then slowly lowered his hand. For the first time since leaving the ship, they exchanged smiles.

Due to the thick snow and wind picking up, it took them close to two hours to cover a journey that without the cumbersome weather would only be half an hour on the swiftest horse. All throughout the spires of Casterly Rock seemed to follow them. Jaime also pointed out structures hidden behind the trees, though one had to strain the eye to see.

“Watch towers. We’d be facing a battalion upon arrival.”

“Why doesn’t Lord Kevan support the. . .the Queen?” She dared to ask.

“You mean besides thinking no woman has any business ruling the seven kingdoms and the queen decided to fuck and marry her twin brother?” Jaime pointed out. “Kevan lost his sons in the war. House Lannister won, yes, but the price was too high.”

Brienne thought of her father. The Starks. Renly. Even Margaery. She was her queen despite being responsible for her broken heart. Whipped and torn apart before pieces of her were fed to the fire, the whispers went. No one deserved to die so horrendously.

“I’m surprised the queen. . .that she hasn’t made him pay.”

“How will you have loyal allies if you turn against your own?” Jaime said. “In truth, while it niggled she was only unable to at my advice. One of the few she listened to. Robb Stark lost his allies sentencing Rickard Karstark to die.” He shook his head.

“Kevan’s sons. The boys he murdered,” she murmured.

“A true crime. They were innocent. Do I think that murdering bastard deserved to lose his head? Of course. But he was kin to Robb. The boy was eager to follow in his foolish father’s example. That put him on the path to defeat. If Cersei touches a hair on Kevan, she’d lose sixty thousand fighting men.”

“All of the Westerlands support her?”

“Enough support her. The rest will have to be persuaded.”

She gripped the reins. “And you will be persuading them.”

Hearing the change in her tone, he said, “I’m here on a mission for the queen.”

“You still fight for her.”

He looked at her. “I fight for us.”

Nothing more was said, even when the trees began to thin, and the path widened. Closer to Casterly Rock now, Brienne nearly fell off her horse at its grandeur.

At the castle’s gate was the stone carving in the shape of the lion’s mouth, huge and tipped with pearly fangs. The heavy dusting of snow did nothing in diminishing its fearsome appearance.

As promised by Jaime, a battalion stood at the gate waiting for them. Never had she seen a formation packed so tightly, the soldiers armed from gleaming crimson armor and shields emblazoned with the golden lion of House Lannister, the horses coated in golden barding. At the center was a man, the only one in the group to have his visor lifted to reveal his eyes. Through all the white of the snow and the crimson, there was no mistaking the clear stare of his emerald eyes.

Jaime pulled his horse to a halt, and she did the same. Without being ordered, the squires and soldiers moved to surround them. They were less than twenty against. . .what? She guessed Kevan Lannister’s knights were at least a hundred. At the ramparts stood archers, bows and arrows poised.

“My dear uncle,” Jaime drawled. “Is this a fight you welcome us with or are you just happy to see me?”

“Better to be wary of strangers than to welcome them immediately,” Kevan’s voice was on the thin side and seemed on the verge of a cough, but he sat tall and sure on the saddle.

Jaime looked at the archers then the knights on the ground. “So, this is you wary.”

“Did your raven perhaps get lost? I suppose with everything covered in snow it all looks the same for such a creature.”

“No raven was lost because none was sent. None from me, anyway. But the queen has to have sent word.” Jaime began to urge the horse forward and Kevan held up his hand. Instinct had Brienne shadowing him on the side, one hand already on the sword at her hip.

But Kevan’s signal only meant for his men to stand down. There was no turning back for Brienne, who had to suffer through a flush that spread from the roots of her hair all the way to her toes as her move to defend and protect Jaime was noted. He glanced at her, and she flinched, already expecting a hissing reprimand.

He winked. And pursed his lips as if to blow her a kiss. As her burning face shone brighter than the crimson of the castle and the knights’ armor, he nudged his horse forward. Kevan did the same. As the two men met halfway between, her eyes darted between the archers and the knights.

“Yes. To tell me of Daenerys. That there will be war. Beyond that, nothing more.” Kevan said before looking past Jaime’s shoulder and seeing her and the rest of his men. “There’s no question you’re here on her orders. Forgive my surprise in expressing that I’ve never seen such a bedraggled lot. I’ve seen peasant soldiers dressed better.”

“Between storms, having mountains fall upon us and playing hide-and-seek with dragons, we’re fortunate to be quite unscathed. For most of us, anyway. Are we welcome or not?” Jaime steered the conversation back to the matter.

Kevan did not answer right away. Jaime pressed on. “I have come here in the name of the queen, indeed, to remind you that in spite of what you may harbor against her, you remain her subject. You remain alive at her pleasure.”

Brienne saw him urge the horse closer until he was right in Kevan’s face. He must have said more because Kevan narrowed his eyes.

But being a Lannister, and stubborn, and perhaps foolish, he pointed out, “Is that your only reason?”

Brienne’s heart suddenly kicked fast in her chest as hope sparked though faintly. Distracted for a moment, her head swiveled back and forth, looking at every soldier, trying to see between the impenetrable formation of their bodies whatever may feed that little fire. The sigil of a burning tree. A flash of pale blond hair. Anything.

She was looking so hard she didn’t realize Jaime had called on her until Peck whispered, “My lady, my lord calls on you.”

“Ser,” Jaime was saying, gloved hand extended to her. As Brienne blushed and guided the horse towards them, he turned back to Kevan. “You will not mind a fellow knight joins us, uncle.” His voice was calmer yet still commanding.

Stopping abreast of Jaime, she bowed her head at Kevan. Except for his eyes, there was little of him that fulfilled what a Lannister was supposed to look like. Sandy hair turning to gray at the temples, a jaw that was wide and quite angular, looking to have been hacked from stone rather than chiseled. His armor was entirely of gold with a crimson cape at his shoulders.

 “My lord,” she said.

“A knight you are he says,” Kevan remarked, scrutinizing her from the top of her cropped hair to her nondescript clothes. Then his eyes fixed on the lion’s head at the pommel of Oathkeeper, giving her a harder look when his stare returned to her face. To her scar.

She met his look squarely. The sternness in his expression remained though his next words seemed casual. “You must have performed such exemplary service to be knighted.”

“She has. Despite betrayal she managed to take down quite a number of Daenerys’ men and her ships when her isle was attacked. She also protected me and gave me the honor and respect expected when I was a prisoner.” As surprise took over Kevan’s face, Jaime declared, “This here is Ser Brienne of Tarth, daughter of Lord Selwyn of Tarth, regent to the Evenstar.”  

Kevan blinked a few times before regaining his composure. “Lady Brienne. Word in the Seven Kingdoms is you’re dead.”

“You can see for yourself she’s very much alive.” Jaime retorted. “Now—”

“Forgive me for not giving you the respect and honor expected of me when before a lady,” Kevan continued. He bowed his head then, revealing the bald patch on top of his head.

“She’s also a knight.” Jaime sounded impatient.

“My lord.” Brienne couldn’t wait either. “Please, I have to know. My son—”

“The other matter. Yes.” Kevan said. He cocked an eyebrow at Jaime. “I do hope you know what you’re doing. Impulse has long been your problem and hasn’t diminished with age, I see.”

“Did Addam make it then? With, ah, with his squire, Lyonel?”

“They remain behind these walls and my men, with their men, under my protection. As you ordered.”

Brienne almost sagged in relief. Seeing her reaction, Kevan said, “Of course you wish to see your son, Lady—Ser. And you will.”

“I wish. . .if I may. . .I must. . .” She couldn’t form one coherent sentence and her own words sounded garbled. It was Jaime’s hand closing around hers that stopped the tremors overtaking her body. She looked at him, glad for his presence, his touch. The softness in his eyes calmed the frantic beating of her heart.

Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp when he suddenly brought her hand to his lips. In her shock, she could only stare at Kevan, whose face was now inscrutable. She barely felt Jaime lowering her hand, and the voices of the men were nonsense, disembodied sounds as they resumed their conversation. It was only when Jaime glanced at her again when she felt herself back in her body, on the horse. Years to training prompted her to give her horse a little kick to follow Kevan along with Jaime. Their men followed closely, riding past the gap Kevan’s soldiers formed for their passage.

Out of the corner of her eye, the rest of Kevan’s knights slowly broke from their formation to follow. The archers at the ramparts also lowered their weapons and began putting them away. At the courtyard, Brienne saw the small contingent of knights under House Marbrand, their armor dark except for the sigil of the blazing tree in the center of their breastplate. Again her eyes darted on every face, pausing when she saw the familiar shock of auburn hair.

“Ser—” she stammered, her horse charging towards Addam Marbrand. “My lord,” she panted once close enough to him, seeing the shock on his face. “My son. Please. I must see him with my own eyes.”

“Lady Brienne?” He gasped, eyes taking in her short hair and the scar on her cheek.

“Yes, it’s her, damn the gods,” came Jaime’s impatient reply. “Addam. It’s good to see you. We have come for your squire.”

Brienne slid off the horse and thumped to the ground with little grace, let alone elegance. She looked around, wondering why Lyonel wasn’t among the horsed soldiers, wondering where he was. Finally, the guards opened the heavy double doors. Jaime went to stand behind her, as did Addam and Kevan.

When the doors fully opened, a tall boy who could easily pass for ten and five walked through them. The size of him stunned Brienne for a second, leaving her dumb and mute as she watched him take one step toward her, then another, followed by more. Closer and closer, she began to recognize him: the unruly pale hair, the freckles, the wide shoulders that would mimic the breadth and shape of Selwyn’s someday.

But it was his eyes, round, clear and bright as emeralds, that held her spellbound. Brienne held her breath as he stopped before her. He looked as stunned as she was, flushed in the cheeks too. His eyes lingered on her scar. She lowered her eyes, dreading the inevitable shame.

“Mother.”

There was no question in his tone, now laced with the rasp that promised its deeper resonance soon. She stared at this boy, at her son. So grown now, she thought, not sure whether to touch him to make sure he was real or to sweep him up in an embrace she wondered he remembered, if he still wanted her to.

“Lyonel.”

She realized she didn’t care.

Mother and son took the same step forward but her longer arms reached him, wrapping him in a crushing embrace that he reciprocated. As tears exploded from her eyes, she buried her face on his shoulder. There was the scent of her little boy, still sweet, still soft. There was no stopping her from kissing him up and down the neck and cheek, heedless of who surrounded them.

And he didn’t push her away. Instead, he held her tighter. “My mother. They said you were gone. I refused to believe them. I would know, mother. I would know.”

“Nothing could take me away from you. Not dragons, nothing,” she whispered, her heart bursting. She pulled away to frame his face in both hands. He was trying hard not to cry, with his chin wobbling valiantly. She smiled and he smiled back.

“Your hair—” he reached up to touch it. His face grew somber as his fingers fluttered along her scar. “Was this. . .?”

“I am here. I am alive and you are safe. That’s all that matters.” She declared, taking his hand, now big, and kissing every finger.

Lyonel surprised her this time by throwing himself against her, his grip around her waist threatening to break her ribs. As she held him and caressed his hair, she felt his little, muffled sobs against her chest.

She saw Jaime then. Looking at them intently. She gazed back at him as she smelled Lyonel’s hair, wishing for his sweet scent to remain with her for always. As Lyonel continued to tremble against her, Addam got between her and Jaime.

“Lady Brienne.”

“Ser,” she whispered. He held her gaze for a second longer, perhaps to say something. Instead, he just bowed and went into the castle. She continued holding Lyonel, not sure she’d ever willingly let him go. As she turned her attention back to her son and kept stroking his hair, Jaime moved to follow inside but glanced at her. Then Lyonel.

“I will see you inside,” he said.

At his voice, Lyonel stilled against her. He looked up at her and she gently wiped his tears with thumbs, the cuff of her sleeve. He reddened and she reassured him with a soft smile.

“I believe there’s someone we must thank,” she whispered.

Lyonel nodded and he slipped out of her arms. Brienne’s heart ached from the brief loss of contact, yet felt herself beginning to heal gazing at her son and his father.

With his head just about to brush the top of Jaime’s shoulder, it won’t take long before Lyonel could look at him right in the eye. Brienne watched as they stared at each other, one golden as the sun, the other seemingly with the muted tones of moonlight.

She wondered if she was the only one to see it—the similar angle of their jaw, the smooth, aquiline tilt of the nose. Lyonel was built thick and sturdy like her, but he had his father’s sure and commanding posture.  

“I have heard much about you, lad,” Jaime told him. His tone was solemn as he looked all he could at the boy. “I can see why your lady mother is so proud.”

He removed the glove then offered his hand to Lyonel. The boy was unable to hide his surprise at the unexpected honor but regained enough composure to shake it.

 “Lord Addam tells me it was at your intercession why we are alive, my lord.” Brienne bit her lip at the surprising strength and power of his voice. “We are most grateful.”

“I gave my word to your lady mother.”

She could tell it was Jaime who held Lyonel’s hand for another breath before reluctantly letting go. Clearing his throat, he continued, “You wish to catch up with each other and I don’t intend to stand in the way of that. If I may of further assistance in any way—” this he said to Brienne, his look heated—“it is yours. Without question.”

“Thank you, Jaime. I mean, Ser Jaime. My lord.” Brienne wished for the ground to swallow her whole at the gaffe. Lyonel looked surprised while Jaime grinned.

“Well, then. I look forward to it.” With that, he turned and left. She gazed after him for a moment before turning to Lyonel.

Of course, the boy was curious. “Mother, have you become friends with the Kingslayer?”

“Lyonel.” She flinched from the word.

“I apologize. Ser Addam has reminded me as well.” Lyonel stared at Jaime’s departing form. “I’m afraid I’m quite confused, mother.”

“You will find out all you must know, in time.” Brienne managed to say, taking his hand. Though summer reigned in her heart now that existence was certain, she knew a storm was brewing for what she must tell him. She grasped his hand tightly, for strength, for understanding. Forgiveness.

“You must tell me everything that’s happened to you,” she said as they headed back to the castle. With the horses being herded back to the stables and the knights being freed from their armor, life too was resuming in Casterly Rock. She glanced behind her just before walking past the double doors and saw Kevan.

Though he was in discussion with some of his knights, she knew he was staring at her. And Lyonel. She gripped his hand then steered him inside.

Chapter Text

Torches held by the Unsullied lit the rocky path leading to the beach. Though still some distance away and only hearing the powerful crashing of the waves, Daenerys heard the familiar rumbled breathing of her children. One by one the torches were staked on the sand, and she saw them coming awake. The world shook from the slow movements of their bodies shaking off sleep, plumes of smoke exiting nostrils before each turned to regard her.

Daenerys stood still, locking eyes with each. Then she covered the remaining distance between them, alighting as always on Drogon. The warmth of his body seeping through the scales thawed the coldness from her skin. Once he was certain her hold was firm, he roared, wings spreading. His brothers replied with equally powerful cries and wings unfolding to span nearly the rest of the beach. Drogon ran, the violence of his movements digging deep in the sand, loosening rocks from mountains.

Not her. Never her.

Their first ascent into the sky drew a gasp. The clouds felt like damp whispers on her cheeks and arms, the sensation lessening the higher they went. Soon the clouds were below her. Holding on a spike jutting from Drogon’s back, she used her other hand to shield her eyes from the glare of a golden sun long lost on this side of the world.

The warmth swooped on her as if an embrace, dragging another gasp. Above the clouds, with only her children and the sun, Daenerys found the peace that had eluded her since taking the Stormlands. She may be Stormborn but in her veins was fire.

“Ivestragī's ūndegon se vys rȳ issa dekossa.” Let’s see the world at my feet.

Again, Drogon led the charge, diving suddenly back into the dark clouds of winter. Daenerys gripped the spikes and pressed her face on his neck. This time the damp felt like rain rushing through her, a wall they broke past. Day was beginning and she felt the faint warmth of the sun able to penetrate through the army of clouds. Above, the isle of Tarth looked a dark, blue-gray, its waves resembling tiny facets of a jewel. Daenerys turned her head westward, merely thinking to see the rest of Westeros.

Her children did as she wished.

It had become a habit of hers, looking at the seven kingdoms from the sky. Though the Stormlands were spared from snow, winter brought powerful storms that felled fields and scooped farm animals from the ground to fling them far and away. The Reach, the most fertile region in all of Westeros, dealt with both snowstorms and vegetation rotting from the cold. Many of its areas were also covered in snow.

She whispered a desire to see more clearly, and the dragons plunged lower again, sailing smoothly over barren farmlands then swooping back up to the sky upon sighting trees. The white landscape was dotted with ruins of castles—all that remained of Houses for choosing the wrong side of the war. Cersei has swept the kingdom clean of resistance and in their absence is her mark.

Heading eastward, her mind returned to that one place. That place she had been to only once since her return. Drogon and his brothers must have sensed her thoughts because all together they took a surer turn to the east but kept flying steadily. As if they too felt her uncertainty.

“Dragonstone.” She wasn’t even sure if she’d said it. But they steered their bodies toward it.

The smell of the island told it was near. Smoke, fire, death. Rather than being put off, a calm settled in her, sure and familiar. Even her children seemed to feel the same for they began to simply coast along the sky, sailing like kites unbothered by winds eager to tear them apart.

The wind howled in her ears as they circled the island in their descent. Desolate and lifeless even from the sky, the island had also seen Cersei Lannister’s purges. The sea, though mirroring the gray of a sky that promised another storm, was still. Too still Daenerys thought it dead. Taverns, inns that once jostled at each other near the port, the rows of stonehouses found inland, looked like scattered bones.

The greatest ruin was the gaping hole in the ground where the island’s namesake castle once stood.

Drogon’s landing sent walls of black sand flying, spraying Daenerys. As Viserion was next, then Rhaegal. She slid off Drogon’s back, noting once more the stillness of the island. Even the voice of the wind had vanished, though its presence lingered as it blew at her hair and fluttered the collar and cuffs of her clothes.

She walked towards the giant crater, stopping near the edge. A castle of dragons for dragons, Barristan had told her once. Wherever one looked: at the gates, staircases, statues, the castle itself built to look like multiple dragons.

Now there was nothing. Not even stone. Even the Dragonmont that still stood behind the castle made no sound. There was no rumbling under her feet that told while everything in this island had stopped, the volcano remained in violent flux.

Cersei made the mistake in erasing all traces of previous dynasties. People will always remember. Would she take their voices too? Daenerys didn’t have to think too hard about that.

Her children took her back to Tarth. From the sky, she saw the armed forces of all Houses in the Stormlands in their posts, ready for war. Her own ships also guarded the sea, providing protection to the trading ships from Essos. As she circled the isle, it pleased her to see that despite the continuing hardship of winter the economy was slowly getting back to its feet. People from below saw her.

She didn’t expect their gratitude. Not yet. But she hoped to put an end to their suspicion. Their fears. She was a conqueror but a liberator.

Back in Evenfall Hall, the rest of the castle was slowly coming awake. She watched from the balcony as her children flew off, back towards the beach that had become their home. Then she turned towards the doors and entered the chamber.

Missandei and two of her ladies were already there, quietly putting the various little plates for her meal on the table and laying out her clothes and shoes for the day. They curtsied as she set foot, murmuring gentle greetings.

“I will need a bit more time,” she told them after they straightened up. “I shall summon you back once needed.”

“As you wish, khaleesi,” Missandei said.

She waited until the woman had gone before proceeding to further into the chamber. At a doorway, she swept aside the gauzy curtains that led to the bedroom.

Daario was just getting up, the blanket sliding down his tan chest. “Khaleesi.”

She nodded then, without uttering another word, went to kiss him. He responded passionately, taking her face in both hands and opening his mouth for her tongue. She moaned from the lingering taste of wine and spices from him before suddenly pulling away to stand back. As he stared at her, she started undoing her coat.

“You’ve been out,” he said, watching the coat fall and revealing her vest, then the dress underneath. “You feel warm. I swear I tasted the sun.”

“I was,” she whispered, reaching behind for the ties that held her dress together. A few pulls and it fell.

Daario stared at her full breasts, her small waist. Leaving her boots on, Daenerys climbed into bed. On his lap. He swept the hair from her face then hugged her around the waist. It was a gentle touch that brimmed with want. Looking in his dark eyes, she reached between them for his cock, shifted on her knees briefly then sank back down.

“Ah,” she whimpered, her head falling on his shoulder as her cunt struggled around his length.

“Slowly,” he murmured, tightening his hold then turning to put her on her back. She held her palm to his mouth, and he licked it until it gleamed before she lowered it to her cunt. Quite most now, she tilted her hips and he slid back inside her.

There would always be pleasure in fucking, she thought through the surge of their bodies and the bold swoops of tongue into each other’s mouth. With the right man there was no doubt.

But pleasure was not enough. There were other ways to pleasure. And to be a true queen, in fact, pleasure tend to be the last kind of need, almost an indulgence. Power. That’s what a true queen upheld. Power above all.

But for the moment—

Daario lunged deep inside. Daenerys gasped.

For the moment, while pleasure could be had, she would have it. Giving in, she grasped him tightly and surprised him with the sudden turn of her body. He chuckled at the changed positions and his hands lowered to her hips. She rode him.

She was still thinking of it when he held her afterwards. His hand was a constant, gentle motion up and down her back. Her boots now lay on the floor.

“Is it really the only choice left?” He asked. “You are queen. Shouldn’t that make things easier than most could dream of?”

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve never once faced a struggle standing at my side?”

“No. I chose to be at your side. There was no hardship following that.”

Sighing, she sat up and hugged her knees. His dark brows were nearly drawn together in the center.

“I can’t be queen of a continent that rejects me. Of a place that has determined me foreign despite my blood. My roots.” Her mind returned to that huge, dark crater of where Dragonstone once stood.

Daario sat up then and moved closer to her. “Look me in the eye and swear you truly believe it. On the life of your children. Swear to me that marriage is the only way the people will accept you.”

“A mother doesn’t swear on the life of her children. But I will swear on my life, yes. I do believe it. Not because there’s no other choice. It is the only choice I am willing to make.”

“Do you even know what he looks like, now? I’ve even heard of him as a child. He has to be old. I’d bet nothing makes his cock hard anymore.”

“I’m not marrying him for his cock.”

“The lot of them are mad and burn for war and blood.”

“Isn’t that a charge against me as well?”

He said nothing.

“I wish to marry him to show the people what I’m willing to do. For them.”

“You’d sign your life away for the people who’ve blamed your House for what has befallen them. People who spit at you in the market.”

“Can you blame them? My father’s madness nearly tore Westeros apart, and it wasn’t the first time my House had a hand in it or led the way. I wish to make amends.”

“You’re queen, Daenerys. You do not make amends.”

“Perhaps I should be the first then.”

Daario let out a sound between a grunt and a sigh as he stalked out of the bed. He didn’t bother with his robe as he headed out to the balcony, clearly not caring about the cold. Daenerys remained in bed with the furs but changed her mind quickly. She donned her robe and followed Daario.

He stood by the door, his muscular body already flecked with goosebumps. When she put a hand on his shoulder, he sighed deeply and grasped it but didn’t look at her. 

“You listen to the old man too much. You respect him. As do I. But you listen to him too much.”

“Barristan knows more of Westeros than I ever will. Besides being Lord Commander of my Queensguard, he has also made a vow to fight for me. To protect me. To give me wisdom should I need it. Of course I will listen to him. But you forget I listen to everyone.”

“No. Him you listen to. The rest you just hear.” He grumbled. “Even the dwarf. You listen to the man whose House came near making yours extinct.”

“My father brought war and death upon us when he had the Starks burned just for wanting him to do what they believed was right. A monster butchered my brother’s family at Tywin’s orders, but he wouldn’t have ordered it if not all of Westeros rose against us.”

Daario turned around, his face disbelieving. “Do you defend that monster?”

“No. I would burn Cersei myself if I could. Slowly. Very slowly. Drag it out and let her watch her skin turn to ash. Her. Jaime Lannister. Every member of that House and all that support them. But if I choose that path, the Seven Kingdoms will only be mine by name.”

He still looked unconvinced.

“I have the opportunity to bring change this side of the world needs. I won’t disregard the old ways. Not all of them. But in the new steps I intend to take is the hope that Westeros would heal. We brought an end to slavery. In our hands tyranny will find the same fate.”

“Our hands,” he repeated. “With me at your side.”

He touched her face, and she shook her head. For the first time since he’d vowed to fight for her all those years ago, she saw him broken.

And she would be breaking him some more.

“You swore to fight for me,” she whispered. “Even far away from me, tell me it’s still true.”

“Kings and princes have whores on the side all the time.”

“I don’t see you that way.”

“My mother is one.”

“She’s not you. She may be half of you but she’s not you.”

His hand fell back to the side then, but they still stood very close to each other. “If you wish to leave—”

“No.” He snapped. Quickly contrite over his harsh tone, he looked at her. And touched her again—her hair, her cheek, her shoulder, her lips. “My sword is yours. My life is yours. My love is yours. My blood, my body, my songs, you own them all. I live and die at your command, Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons, Princess of Dragonstone. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I will be.”

He shook his head. “You are.”

His hand returned to her cheek. She wondered if she will be touched with the same tenderness again.

Daario turned away and started gathering his clothes. Daenerys watched him climb into his breeches.

“I would have given you and your men the gold promised if you’d let me finish.”

He smiled at her while tucking his back into the placket, though his eyes were soft with sorrow. “I was yours from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“You’ve said that to others. A thousand women, if I remember correctly.”

“Ah, but none was a dragon.”

He finished dressing and she went to him, allowing herself one final kiss. She trusted his word, she trusted him with her life. But what love she had for him, she thought, listening to the door close behind, that was the girl in her. The girl whose husband had been taken too soon from her arms.

A girl that must perish now.

Missandei and the other women returned to help her dress and braid her hair. Missandei took note that she seemed distracted.

“Khaleesi has much in her mind.”

Daenerys glanced at her through the looking glass. “Isn’t it so easy to choose. It’s what comes after where the work begins.”

“But you don’t choose easily. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

She smiled and twined her hands on her lap. “I suppose that’s a relief.”

“Do you have second thoughts about him?”

For a moment Daenerys thought she meant Daario, but she couldn’t have known. Not yet. Just then one of her ladies’ maids presented her with a heavy coat of blue. “The air is much colder today, khaleesi.”

Daenerys nodded. Missandei finished with the braid and stepped aside when she stood up. As she was helped into her coat, she said, “I trust Ser Barristan to deal with him should he be tempted to betray me.”

“Then he’s a bigger fool than men double his size. He’s a prisoner given a rare honor.”

“Men of all sizes do have trouble taking orders from a woman. It is a truth that knows no borders.”

Ready for the day, Daenerys left the chamber. Unsullied flanked her every step, all the way to the courtyard where her cavalry waited. Ser Barristan stood at the head, bowing when she appeared.

“Your grace.”

“Ser.”

She offered her hand and he grasped it, his touch warm and comforting, before dropping a brief kiss on it. Then he straightened up.

“Though I have said it before, allow me to express once again my gratitude for the honor you’ve bestowed on me.”

“You fought to be at my side and protected me from the moment you found me. I can not imagine any man more deserving, nor anyone as close to honorable as you.” She wrapped his hand in both of hers as she looked up at him.

“Someday, I will earn every word you’ve just said. Your grace—”

“Yes?”

He looked at the men surrounding them then her. “I understand why it must be me sent on this mission. But if you would prefer my sword to remain—”

“And your sword is mine, Ser Barristan. As are the swords of the Unsullied and Daario and his men. My children will protect me as well.” She said firmly. “You are the only one I can trust with what needs to be done. You understand why.”

His expression remained grave, but she sensed him relent, finally. “Your grace.”

He helped her up the horse then climbed on his. With him at her right and Daario on her left, and fifty of her men behind them, they rode away from Evenfall Hall to the harbor. A familiar roar from the sky told the children were also flying with them.

Her contingent easily attracted attention even before reaching the harbor. The farmlands were mostly barren, and livestock close more skin and bones than meat, but they were alive and still need to be fed, can still be a source for a family’s survival in this winter without end. Men and women outside feeding them paused from their tasks at the thunderous sound of hoofbeats. As the dragons shrieked again, Daenerys saw parents quickly gather their children to hustle them inside houses.

At the port, trade stopped as she and her men passed. Daario’s words returned to her: “You’d sign your life away for the people who’ve blamed your House for what has befallen them. People who spit at you in the market.”

She felt their fear, even when they removed their hats to bow or curtsy. Never had she been so glad to see one of her ships.

Everything that could be said between her, and Barristan had already been spoken. But she still went to him and once again he kissed her hand. She watched him board the gangplank, swearing that for one moment, a ray of sun broke through the barrier of dark clouds to shine on him.

“Your grace.”

“Tyrion,” she acknowledged. He was now dressed in a fine travel cloak and tailored, new clothes. He didn’t look too pleased in the colors of her House.

“I may be the only choice for this mission, your grace, but I will not disappoint you.”

“Hmm. I hope you don’t as well. You can tell your niece that Daenerys Targaryen sends her regards.”

Tyrion seemed to pale but gave a brief nod. “When I succeed. . .I have to make sure, your grace. Do you mean it? I will be free?”

“Rather closer to earning your freedom. I will still have need of you. If the outcome of this mission is exactly as I’d hoped, I might even consider a position for you in my small council.”

“Me? You wish for me to be a part of your small council?” He let out a laugh. “Ah, your grace. That’s the finest jest you’ve made yet.”

When she didn’t crack a smile or laugh along, his mirth was quickly snuffed out. Tyrion cleared his throat. “Forgive me. I am not deserving but. . .but I ask anyway. Your grace.”

“Do well. It is your only option.”

“I shall.” He bowed before her. He glanced at Daarion and Grey Worm, the latter having moved to flank her. “The queen is in your hands.”

Fifteen men boarded after the two. Daenerys watched the ship leave. Beside her, Daario spoke up.

“A part of me wishes they will fail. But the other part hopes they will not. And I know they will not. I’ve seen with my own eyes you will fight for every man under you, khaleesi. I hope your people know that. They don’t deserve you.” He glanced at a ship from Lys dropping anchor. “You brokered a deal with all of Essos so we can at least import the wheat and more spices. The people are beginning to have their lives back. Thanks to you. But it can’t be said enough. They don’t deserve you.”

“It’s good you understand,” was all she could say.

“I don’t feel good, khaleesi. I won’t for a while.” He looked at her, seeming to count every braid on her hair. “But I understand. I must know. If I may.”

“Go on.”

“If I’d asked. Would you have agreed?”

He was already broken. She wouldn’t take it further.

“There are questions best not asked,” she said carefully. “Being that there is no answer that will satisfy.”

“That tells me what I need to know.”

“Despite one path closed to us, you are still one of the few men I trust in this world. That will never change.” And she meant it. She’d never considered marrying him even back in Meereen, despite her trust in him being true. Indeed, in their years together she had discovered he was much more than a man guided by gold.

It was not enough.

“What happens next when they come back successful?” Daario asked her, his eyes on the ship as well.

“Then it begins,” she said. “A war unlike anything Cersei had seen before. A war that would take all she holds dear. The pain of a viper’s sting is nothing to the debt I shall pay.”

Chapter Text

Nine days following the wedding, a handmaiden standing behind Sansa pulled the shift from her shoulders. Another kneeling at Sansa’s feet pulled the rest of it down to her ankles. Though the chamber was warm, Sansa shivered for a few moments in her newly-bared skin. While her clothes were put away by first handmaiden, the other placed a step stool next to the tub. Sansa raised her leg to climb in when she was told, “My lady. You’re early.”

“Early?”

“Your moonblood, m’lady.” She turned to her companion. “Fetch the basin and cloth.”

Her moonblood. Shocked, Sansa looked down her body and saw a thin streak of blood sliding down her leg. Basin was quickly put right next to her. The handmaiden dipped then wrung the cloth in the warm before scrubbing her.

Shocked, Sansa hardly felt the quick motions of the cloth on her skin. Nor did she realize she must have been shaking because the woman stopped and asked, “My lady, are you hurt? Did I—”

“You’ve gone quite white,” added the other, sounding alarmed.

She felt her face and discovered her cheeks clammy, or was it her palms? As the women scrambled to keep her warm, she clasped the edge of the tub, breathing deeply. A thick robe was thrown over her and a cup of tea placed under her nose. The steam was welcome, and she took a sip. “I’m not. . .I’m not hurt.” It felt good to say the words but the sticky drip down her thighs, that familiar cramp around her hips were better. So much better. “I am not—I’m just—”

The two women looked at each other then asked, “Forgive our forwardness, my lady, but were you hoping for a child?”

She shook her head. “I don’t mind your asking. As for a child. . .I-I won’t mind one quite so soon.” There was nothing to gain in being honest. While she sensed no darkness in either woman, she wouldn’t trust them no further than getting her dressed and doing the tasks expected of their position. She squeezed the hand of the one who had given her the cloth, finding comfort in the somewhat thick skin. “I was. . .I was surprised to be early, that’s all. But word must be sent to my husband right away that he shouldn’t expect me tonight. Will you see to it?”

“At once, my lady.”

The hot water was perhaps the closest she would ascend to seven heavens, she thought once sunk to her shoulders in the tub. There would be no Harry tonight. She had a break from keeping him filled with wine during supper and his clumsy attempts to fall between her legs afterwards. Sleeps would be blissful. In her own bed.

Peace lasted only until the next morning. As soon as she’d swallowed the last bite of breakfast, Harry was at the door of her chamber.

“My dear lady,” he greeted her, his smile friendly and admiring as she stood before him. “I was told you felt quite ill last night and wanted to check on you. Do you feel well enough for our morning stroll?”

When he spoke with concern and looked angelic and even more golden in his new blue cloak stitched with the moon and falcon sigil of House Arryn, she wished so much for things to be different. But she’d come to know even more of her husband, and herself as well since their wedding. She couldn’t stomach depending her life to one more man, let alone one who had rights upon her that no one would dare intervene with.

“I do. I’m looking forward to it.”

Harry took the fur cloak a handmaiden was going to put on her, doing the task himself. As Sansa pulled it towards the front to cover herself more, she said, “Was your breakfast satisfactory? I was told your fondness for fatty sausage and sugary bread. Other food can be made available should you wish but I thought to have your favorites on hand.”

He patted her hand as they walked down the hallway. “You need not worry. I can be content with simple bread and a wedge of cheese, if you must know. I do appreciate my wife has taken steps to ensure my comfort in this new place.” Pausing, he looked briefly around, eyes lingering on the tapestries and the slightly threadbare carpets of blue on the white stone floor. “It takes some getting used to. But being with you—”

She held her breath as he kissed the back of her hand.

“There is hardly the need for much adjustment.”

Sansa mulled over his words through their walk and down the curving marble staircase. Soon they were in the garden, surrounded by snow and the castle’s towers. There was no sign of the blue flowers that once brightened the garden’s grounds, nor a single strand of shrubbery that carpeted it. The world was a canvas of snow, pristine and desolate.

It should remind her of home.

Nothing felt more false.

The four towers surrounding the garden felt like the bars of a cell despite the wide spaces in between. The thin, cold air was another reminder how unlike home this was still. The air in Winterfell was damp and perhaps not the most pleasant for outsiders but it was what she’d grown up with.

Longing for Winterfell had her dropping her guard for a moment, but it was enough time for Harry to suddenly tug her behind one of the towers and plant his mouth on hers. She stiffened from the cold at her back, her mouth opening just slightly to receive his hard kisses.

He had her pinned so against the wall she could hardly move—could do nothing but accept his kisses, his hands squeezing her breasts eagerly through the bodice. She froze, not from the cold but his fingers pulling at the laces. Winter was a cold bite on her bared nipples. She could only stare as Harry's head lowered, and remained still as his mouth, cool and wet, suckled on a stiff tip. What drove her at last to respond she would never know, but it was not what either expected.

“Stop!”

She didn’t know she had screamed—it sounded nothing like her voice—until Harry was staring at her as if he’d just been knocked hard in the head. She clamped her lips shut while he shook his head.

“What’s the matter?” There was that familiar, annoyed tone. The one he often used on her whenever she willed herself to play coy and bat away his hands when he thought her a bastard.

“Please—” she managed to say. Her heart was racing so fast, it seemed in her throat. She felt like drowning despite the air at her nose. He chuckled and looked at her.

“You have nothing to worry about, my lady. We’re married after all.” He seized her breasts once more and went to suckle another nipple.

“Not here,” she startled herself with her calm voice. “It’s not. . .it’s not proper.”

He laughed now. “Not proper? Sansa, I could fuck you in the great hall in front of all the lords of the Vale and it won’t matter. I am yours,” he insisted, straightening to his full height. She dropped her eyes when he took her hand to press a gentle, cool kiss on it. “As you are mine.”

She would cry at how the very words she’d dreamed of being told to and saying as a child to her prince had been twisted. But she was done ruing her dead dreams and foolish fantasies. They had done nothing to protect her. Lies, that’s what they all were.

“Do you know,” Harry murmured, stepping closer. She kept her eyes lows, hoping to avoid another kiss. “I can’t remember fucking you the first time, Sansa. Or any other time. You’ve made me love wine quite much, my lady. Someone as beautiful as you—it would be an insult to not remember fucking you.”

“You—you did fuck me.” Daring to look up at him, she firmed her voice. “You fucked me more than once that night, my lord. You make sure to fuck me at least twice during the night since then.”

“Hmm, yes. I saw the blood the next day. It was on me. Yet why does it feel I've only now tasted you?”

He swept aside a fold of her cloak and cupped her breast again. His touch was hard. She shook her head. “Don’t.”

“Have I hurt you?”

“No.” You’ve never been inside me, the seven be merciful. “I have. . .I have my moonblood.”

“Oh.” The smile dropped from his face. Snatched his hand back as if burned. He frowned, eyes dropping to between her legs. “I see.”

She could have wept in relief when he stepped back, still looking surprised and appalled.

“I believe I was misled thinking you were better today, Sansa.”

“I have moonblood, that’s all. I’m not ill. But being together. . .being intimate would be messy. I merely didn’t want to inconvenience my husband.”

“You are not,” he said quickly. “But yes, this time. . .taking you.” Still quite flustered, he shrugged. “It won’t be ideal. You’re right to take to your bed alone.”

She was still shaking but managed to right her clothes. When he took her arm and led her back to the garden, she was grateful. He wouldn’t touch or make demands of her for a few days—

“It’s not a pleasant subject but how long does this, ah, how long will you be away from my bed?” He asked.

“A few days, my lord,” she mumbled, feeling her stomach sink.

“You will come to me once it ends. It would be some getting used to, not fucking you.” He turned her around to face him, his arms clasping her around the waist. He kissed her again before leading her back towards the gardens. The snow crunched under her boots as she went to a boulder, sweeping the snow from it before sitting down. As she sat, he crouched on the ground, gloved fingers sifting through snow.

She had watched those fingers wrapping around the goblet of wine in their wedding feast. While the great hall buzzed with the revelation of her identity, Harry seemed more intent on sitting back and enjoying what entertainment could be mustered from their isolation. A man with bells dangling from his hat juggled. There were songs. Beautiful songs, and fine food, the latter a wonderful surprise to everyone but Sansa.

Every bite was bland, and the wine might as well be sewer water. Freeing as it was for the black to be washed from her auburn hair and her true name now on everyone’s lips, she faced another prison: marriage to a man who had treated her as if she were a whore back when he thought her a bastard. There was no truer test for his character. And now—

A hand fell on her thigh, and she just about managed to stop herself from jumping. She turned to look at Littlefinger.

“Smile, my dear,” he urged her, eyes sliding quickly to the side then back to her face. It was clear he was putting on a show of someone concerned and devoted, because what else was he but that in the eyes of the lords around them? To have protected her under all this time in defiance of Cersei—it was no easy feat.  The table hid the hand moving up and down her thigh. “Talk to your husband. Have him look forward to your wedding night.”

Sansa reached for the goblet, but his hand stopped hers. “You should be looking forward to it too.”

Then he turned to Yohn Royce, continuing a thread of conversation as if theirs had not happened at all. Sansa relinquished her hold on the goblet and glanced at Harry. There was a lull in the entertainment.

“My lord?”

He turned his gaze from the empty floor to her. “My lady wife.”

Words that should thrill but no more. She leaned toward him and in return he did the same. The softening in his eyes and the small smile on his lips told he’d scented the oils and soap she’d used. Holding his attention now, she murmured, “It looks like your wine needs refilling. Would you like more? It’s so cold and we will be here a while.”

Harry glanced at his goblet. “Your concern is sweet but I’m still quite alright.”

“You are my husband now,” she said. “I will always be concerned for your welfare though I can see. . .and know your strength.”

It worked. He smirked and held out his goblet for a servant. “More wine then, for my beautiful wife to just enjoy this evening.”

It was all Sansa needed. A whisper to a servant and it was ensured his goblet was always full that night. There was some use having witnessed Cersei robbed of her graceful gait by wine, she’d thought. Harry would have to be barely able to crawl by the time the feast ended.

But she would learn all quite too soon that keeping him drunk was a small victory. She hadn’t counted on the bedding ceremony.

In the expected chaos and excitement of that damnable ritual, she’d not only been separated from any protection—it brought back dark memories of that alley following the Princess Myrcella’s send-off to Dorne. As Joffrey shrieked and screamed as he was yanked, punched, and worse, she had screamed her own helplessness as her clothes were torn.

It took every bit of strength she had to swallow her cries as the men from her wedding feast eagerly relieved her of clothes. As she was turned swiftly over and over such that their faces began to blur, a kiss, wet with wine and sticky from meat, was forced on her mouth while what seemed like a thousand hands groped her breasts and thighs. It seemed to go on before she was suddenly yanked from the crowd and flung in the chamber. Shaken and dizzy, she was barely able to stand.

“I thought to build a castle,” Harry’s voice broke through her thoughts—a rare instance when his voice was a blessing. Sansa turned to him, thinking that his face in the light was at least an escape from such memories. “Would you help me? That is, if you don’t mind your skirts getting wet.”

She got up and gave him a small smile. “I don’t. And I’ll be happy to.”

The cold slush seeped through her gloves, a strange comforting sensation. As she gathered and molded the substance, she thought how that night could easily be different. But she’s succeeded keeping Harry so drunk he’d only been able to put an arm around her before passing out. To keep the pretense of losing her maidenhead, she had found one of the needles from her sewing kit and pushed it deep in her fingertips. The snow drifting from her hands now was like droplets of blood dripping from them. How she had squeezed her fingers to make streaks, she remembered, wiping them on her thighs then Harry’s cock.

Harry reached for her then, telling her by touch how he wanted her to mold the snow. She thought his touch wasn’t as warm as the cock she’d pawed for in the fading firelight of the chamber.

The nights following their wedding had Sansa barely surviving skirmishes of the flesh. Harry’s new liking for much wine meant he only lasted a few kisses before passing out. He still thought her encouragement came from wifely concern.

“It’s much colder these days compared to mere moons ago,” he remarked, watching her make a little hill. “But cold means more snow. I must be the only person in Westeros who wishes for winter to never end.”

The revelation surprised her, and she tried not to look too delighted. “You don’t mind it so much?”

“Snow has a way of making many things more bearable to look at. Things don’t seem so grim. But that’s not how your House regards winter, is it?”

“Winter is coming,” she murmured. Words in the tongue she knew, yet foreign despite the surroundings. Shrugging, she added, “When the sun turns his face back to us again winter would be over. But you can always count on its return. It’s why people don’t like northerners so much. Always casting a shadow on pleasantries. We see doom in every corner.”

He chuckled and went on with the task. It dawned on her she was a child the first time she’d been out here, when she’d made Winterfell out of snow. Missing its walls, the creaky beds, kisses on the forehead from her mother—she would’ve shed a tear if not for Robert’s sudden intrusion. An argument about Winterfell not having a Moon Door had his small feet trampling on her creation.

She glanced at her hand, remembering the slap. It was only memory now, but the sting felt as if she’d just whipped it through his bony face again. He did not deserve the way he’d gone, she thought, but found it difficult to find guilt for what she’d done to him all those years ago.

Now Harry seemed to be fashioning structures out of the snow, though she couldn’t tell if he meant to create a castle or something else. It was still too early to tell.

“Our House words,” she continued, “they imply difficulty but emphasized preparedness too. We live thinking how things could change so drastically in the next breath. The north can be quite wild. Calm one moment and stormy the next. It’s why we have glass gardens. Why we have stores of wheat. Wars have been lost because soldiers were left starving. For any army, you would always need a steady supply of food. And drink.”

“Who taught you these things? Lord Stark?”

“My mother.”

Harry looked at her, brow furrowed in suspicion. “Well. . .she would know of war, won’t she. Though I doubt if she knew the extent of it. It was the men who suffered and lost limbs and lives. She bore her son in the warmth and comfort of home.”

“In a strange new place surrounded by people she had never seen before. As lady of a great house who must not only ensure the survival of her lord’s child while within her but all people under her care while the men fight. It’s no easy feat keeping bellies filled when supplies are low.”

“Good we don’t deal with such a problem then.”

“Not yet.”

He sighed. “Winter has already come. What else is next?”

“I think my lord husband is better equipped in answering that.”

She saw his hands still in the snow.

“Nothing is final yet,” he finally said.

“But you’re planning it,” she pressed. He still wouldn’t say more.

“I may not know what goes on behind closed doors, but I have eyes, my lord. The lords invited to our wedding have remained here. More come by the day. The mountains of the Vale protected me from much of the last war, but I’ve lived through enough to know when it’s inevitable. And you will make it so.”

“You shouldn’t speak of these things, Sansa.” Harry said, looking around. “There’s a reason women are not part of our discussions.”

“Is Lady Anya not one?”

“Sansa.”

“Perhaps men can learn a thing or two from women. After all, sitting down to discuss would spare lives. In wars lay the promise of deaths. Always.”

“You surprise me. After what Cersei did to you, and that Joffrey to your father?” Harry pointed out. “Cersei as queen and on the Iron Throne is a jest that’s gone too far and it wasn’t even funny in the first place. She’s best removed from it.”

Sansa blinked a few times. “That’s. . .that’s what you speak about. . .removing her?”

“Westeros has come to rely on Essos for much food because of winter, and the spices we’ve always needed from them. Cersei blaming the foreigners for dragonfever has traders avoiding King’s Landing.” Harry gathered more snow. “Fortune is still on our side. We can survive on our own. But snow and our mountains will not protect us from a population that becomes desperate. We need someone on the Iron Throne who will rule. Now, Daenerys. . .it’s said the Stormlands is beginning to recover. Economically.”

“But this war. . .” Sansa was still trying to get her head around it. “You can’t. . you can’t think to have it now. Not when it’s winter. You said it yourself, the mountains protect us. Winter can also be our ally.”

“You surprise me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you find yourself in danger during the hunger riots back in King’s Landing? I heard you barely escaped with your life.”

“I don’t doubt the struggle of people who have less than I do. I question why you would willingly leave the security of the Vale. No good comes from starting a war. Not the kind you and the lords seem to want.” Sansa stood up as did Harry.

“War will protect us.”

“War always kills. It destroys families. It ruins lives.” Sansa said forcefully. “The forces of the Vale are the hardiest men, indeed, but you’ll be pitting yourselves against the elements before setting one foot in King’s Landing. You’ll be facing Cersei’s army with a diminished number of men. Greatly diminished.”

“Of course, we won’t be going now. The ice will eventually thaw. Already there are reports about icebergs in the seas. Winter is ending.”

“Even in the summer our mountains are quite impassable. I’m telling you—”

“You’re telling me?” Harry echoed. “You’re telling me? Stupid girl.”

Her hand struck him before she knew what was happening. The surprise on his face was priceless until it twisted into anger. Sansa gasped and tried to turn but he was quick, grabbing her by the arm. Then he shoved her against the tree, kept her face pressed to icy, rough bark with a hand round her throat. He shook her, and the tree shook as well. Her cries rang out as snow rained on them. Suddenly, it all stopped but Harry grabbed her by the hair this time, forcing her into an arch that strained neck and back. His stare felt colder than the world around them.

“You will not strike me again,” he seethed. “You will only speak when I tell you to. I don’t care that you’re a Stark. A wolf may have teeth and the thirst for blood, but it has no wings and can only whimper when thrown to the sky.”

He threw her towards the tree again. She gasped as her cheek slammed against the tree again. Shocked, terrified, shaking, her fingers dug in the bark to remain upright.

“It’s always lovely sharing this walk with you, my dear lady wife.” Harry’s voice was calm and warm. “Come to me when you’re better.”

Her face was still averted as she heard him leave, followed by a quiet marred by the blowing wind. Only when she let herself lean fully against the tree and turn her face to the dark sky did she feel the tears that had cooled on her cheeks. They stung too. She’d been cut.

Hating herself for being so helpless, for willingly entering another prison, she found her numb lips mumbling a prayer to the Stranger.

“Is someone there?” The voice was feminine and sounded quite frightened. Startled, Sansa jerked away from the tree and came face to face with a young girl. Her face was small and her figure was slight even under the heap of faded but warm-looking clothes. She wasn’t very tall but Sansa suspected they were close in age.

Brown eyes widened at the sight of Sansa. Before Sansa could reassure her, the girl curtsied awkwardly. “I apologize so, m’lady. I-I didn’t mean to lurk about.”

“It’s alright. Quite alright.” Sansa sniffed and quickly brushed a hand through her face. “I’m here for some air. That’s all.”

The girl kept looking at her, at the cuts on her face. Sansa quickly covered her cheek with a hand. “I slipped. I fell.”

“M’lady, we must get you help.”

“Please. I’m alright,” she insisted.

“But—”

“I don’t need help.” Her tone was sharp. It startled the girl, but Sansa was not going to apologize.

“Very well, m’lady. But. . .if you could sit a while?”

“Yes.” Sansa returned to the boulder. Because the girl remained standing, she gestured awkwardly. “Go on. You can join me.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t, m’lady. No. You’re very kind but I shouldn’t.”

Sansa took a closer look of her clothes. They were not dirty, just old and a bit ragged. Her face was delicately-featured, and framed by a dark, silky-looking thick braid. Sansa would think her an equal playing at being a servant if not for the way she spoke and how her eyes kept falling to the ground.

But she was beautiful. So very beautiful. Dark hair bound in a thick, silky braid draped over a narrow shoulder. Small-heart-shaped face that came with round, clear eyes the exact shade of brown as her hair, a small, upturned nose and pink, soft-looking lips.

“Please.” Sansa said again. “I insist.”

When the girl’s eyes returned to her face this time, Sansa was jolted by something like recognition But I’ve never seen her before. That she was sure. In all her years here, she’d hardly given her handmaids a second glance though she knew their faces. She only ever spoke with Littlefinger, Harry, and Robert, when he wasn’t seized by one of his fits. Needlework kept her in her chambers all day.

The girl’s clothes told she was a scullery maid—all the more why Sansa wouldn’t pay the slightest attention to her. It wasn’t surprising that the girl knew she was—she’d likely walked past her while she was on her knees scrubbing the floor—but the way those brown eyes bored on her was a stare she knew. A stare right from the past, she was certain, but on a face she’d never seen before.

Suddenly the girl looked away but went to sit on the boulder too. Hands in fingerless gloves clutched at her clothes to keep them away from Sansa’s dress. With little distance between them, Sansa’s nose soon picked up an unwashed, dank smell from her.

Suddenly, the girl stood up. “I’m fine now, m’lady. Really. I won’t forget your kindness.”

“Must you rush back? You’re with me and I might need assistance. Where are you so urgently needed?”

“The kitchens. I work in the kitchens, m’lady.” The girl looked embarrassed. She glanced at the castle behind them.

“You will not get in trouble. You’re with me.” Sansa assured her. “You can always say I felt faint and you helped me.”

A small smile from the girl this time, quick and furtive. She sat down, hands on her lap, eyes on those hands. Sansa thought she looked like a child. Again there was that feeling—no, an instinct—that she knew her.

And the girl knew her too.

“Your face must be hurtin,’ m’lady.” The remark caught Sansa off guard for she had forgotten the tenderness in her cheek. “Best I take you to the maester right away. Nothing pleasant being called Horseface thought your cut is small and won’t scar. Still, wouldn’t you rather make sure?”

Sansa was about to consider her suggestion when she realized something. “What did you say?”

“M’lady, we must go to the maester now.”

“No. Not that. What you said after.”

The girl looked at her right in the eye. “You needn’t worry about the cut. It’s small, m’lady.”

“No. That’s not what you said.” Sansa’s tone was sharp.

“I say a lot of things, m’lady. I’m sorry but I’m quite addled in the head to recall.” She stood up. “I must return to the kitchens, but I can’t leave you here. Not in your state.”

“Horseface.” Sansa insisted, standing up and towering over her. She didn’t cower nor drop her glance. There was strength in the girl, a defiance and boldness she was beginning to envy. “You said horseface.”

“A cruel nickname from my childhoold, m’lady.”

“That’s a little hard to believe. You’re lovely.” There was no doubt under the rags was a fine figure as well. “You couldn’t have been called that.”

“I’ve had many names, m’lady. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what my real one is. Would you like to lean on me?”

“I don’t need help.”

Instead of looking shocked at the harshness of her tone, the girl seemed to stare at her with respect. Sansa stared back. Now she was sure. She knew this girl. We know each other. She couldn’t explain how—she didn’t have the best memory for faces but the maid she knew she’d never seen before.

It was the way those big brown eyes regarded her that was both unsettling and familiar.

“It’s no weakness to need help, m’lady. It takes courage to accept it.” She held out her hand. “It’s clean, I promise. It won’t take much for the maester to treat you but in this cold, in this damp—” she looked around. “Even the smallest cut can kill. M’lady. Please.”

Sansa took her hand. The swiftness of the walk into the castle meant hardly a word passed between them before a couple of guards and handmaidens descended upon Sansa to rush her to Colemon. Though Sansa tried to keep the maid within her sights, the latter managed to slip away.

“A girl must be thanked,” she insisted as she was all but shoved on a chair by well-meaning handmaidens. “She helped me. Find out who she is. She works in the kitchens—”

“They will find her, Lady Sansa,” Colemon was peering through the collection of vials on a shelf. “Let’s see to your wound first.”

“I fell.” The lie sounded hollow.

“And a maid had to help you?” Colemon turned away from the shelf, his chains tinkling softly. “Forgive me, my lady. But I had meant to have a word with your lord husband earlier and I was told he was out on a walk. With you.”

“He had to leave to speak with the lords.” Sensing an opportunity, she added, “Might I confide in you, Maester Colemon? I feel quite ignored. My husband only sees me in the morning and it passes so quickly. For the rest of the day until nightfall, he’s in conference with the lords. I know my duty.” She murmured, bowing her head. “But I wish a bit more time with my husband. Not just at night, if you understand my meaning.”

A quick look at the maester then she dropped her eyes to her lap. She knew without having to look her words had caught him off-guard. A lady such as herself was expected to be more discreet, to speak only of ailments with a man such as the maester.

“Sometimes,” she continued, “I wonder if war is more fascinating and intriguing than me, a woman. Forgive my vanity but I’ve always been told I’m pleasing to the eye. With my husband only seeing me in the little light that morning grants us and night where there is only faint firelight, I can’t help but think—” a deep sigh— “I can’t help but think that perhaps, I’m not too pleasing.”

And then she looked up, lips half-parted and the tip of her tongue slowly tracing the softer, inner, redder flesh. Colemon stared at her mouth with wide eyes. Breath seemed to elude him for she couldn’t see any tell-tale white puff.

“M-My lady.” The air escaping his lips was a giant cloud. He wiped a thin hand across his brow and seemed confused about the little vial he held. Clearing his throat, he took a firmer hold of it and shuffled back to her, the chains once again tinkling. “You have my assurance that you are the exact opposite of what you fear.”

“I wish to give him a child,” she said, letting out another sigh but arching her back this time, thrusting her breasts. His eyes fell there before quickly looking away with a cough. “If this war pushes through—”

“Unfortunately, it will, my lady.” Colemon poured some of the vial’s contents onto a white cloth. “The lords are keen on it.”

This was news. Sansa was still as he pressed the damp cloth to her cheek and began to clean. It stung and she whimpered. Colemon gentled his motions. “You need not worry yourself about scars. I shall make a poultice for you to press to your face before sleep to also reduce the swelling. My Lord Harding should have kept better watch. He shouldn’t have left you out in the snow. Plenty of places to slip, among other things.”

“He has a lot in his mind. And since they are keen on war—” She snared his gaze. “He won’t touch me while I bleed.”

The maester flushed and seemed to stumble, his chains swaying and tinkling loudly. “It’s not—it’s quite messy for intimacies during such a time, my lady.”

She looked disappointed. Colemon was quick to assure her. “It shall pass quicker than you think. And—and during the period you are apart, he would want you more, my lady.”

“It would be such a wonderful gift for his seed to quicken in me.”

Colemon smiled. “If I may, I believe it’s a gift he would only be too happy to give.”

“Is there a chance he may feel. . .more eager to give it to me?” Sansa asked, rising from the chair and approaching the shelf of vials. The different colors of the liquids gleamed like jewels, ranging from bright as a distant star to somber as a night. “Surely there must be something for him to want me despite my moonblood?”  

Chapter Text

Winter was a damp, thick air that clung to the lungs. It also carried a hint of sweat and manure.

Jaime was grateful.

Standing under one of the archways shaped like a lion’s mouth, he watched Brienne turn and swing Oathkeeper, turning only on one foot. Five soldiers surrounded her, all blades slicing toward her head, her torso—any part of her body they could reach.

She wasn’t a swift fighter, he noted. Nor graceful. But she was relentless, huge and strong.

Her weapon wasn’t limited to the crimson and midnight rippled blade arching in her hand as she disarmed one soldier and landed a booted foot in his middle. Another knight tried to take advantage of her possible distraction and lunged from behind. She growled, turning to the side to slam her elbow right on his throat before raising a leg to trip the next who thought to attack her as well. As the man was sent flying to the snow and the other fell to his knees coughing explosively, she seized Oathkeeper in both hands, holding it high above her head.

The two soldiers came for her.

One was disarmed as well, the other given the gift of her skull slamming on his forehead. As the latter crumpled unconscious to the ground, she turned to punch his companion in the face. The sound of bone cracking echoed in the yard.

Then she turned, for the first time revealing her flushed face to Jaime and the rapid puffs of air slipping from her lips as she caught her breath. It prompted a warm twitch in his breeches while at the same time, he wished to pull her away and put her to bed. He understood her need to regain her strength and stamina. He just wished she didn’t think recovery could put her mere steps from death.

He was about to step out and into the snow when a figure broke away from the other soldiers watching. Lyonel.  Jaime’s eyes followed him as he started for Brienne but she held up her hand. The boy instantly stopped in his tracks although he still looked very concerned.

Jaime’s heart went out to the boy. My son.

“In battle, it’s very easy to forget your lessons. The excitement of it. The thirst for blood,” Brienne said, shoving Oathkeeper into the snow tip first. She was breathless. Her voice was ragged. Leaving the sword in the ground, she faced the soldiers with arms hanging down the sides. Her five sparring partners began to crawl away or stagger back to their feet.

“Never be the first to lunge, unless your life is threatened,” she continued. “Fight only within the sphere made right from where you stand and the tip of your sword.”

She pulled it out of the snow then, demonstrating what she meant. “Never lose your sword. The moment you do, you only have seconds before the Stranger comes. Now. Who’s next?”

Hands went up but it was only Lyonel who spoke. “It’s my turn.”

Jaime saw Brienne’s shoulders tense. Not because she will have to treat him as she had the other soldiers, but because the boy had held only a tourney sword. Jaime smiled despite his own misgivings. He had been Lyonel’s age the last time he held a tourney sword.

“Give him a sword,” Brienne ordered after hesitating.

One of the soldiers went to Lyonel and gave him a standard sword. To Jaime’s surprise, Lyonel, who grasped it with his right hand first, suddenly switched to hold it in his left.

“A firm grip but not so tightly your fingers go numb,” Brienne told him. “And always attack on high. Like this.”

“Is it truly advantageous?” Lyonel asked. “I’m not very tall yet.”

“If you don’t attack on high, you’ll have to lunge low. There are many ways for such an attack to be blocked: a shield, the arms themselves, and a sword. You can get kicked in the face, the throat. Arms are also encased in steel. Show me how you’d attack me.”

“On high?”

“No. Attack me as you would, not because I had instructed it.”

Barely had Brienne finished speaking when Lyonel went for her, thrusting his sword to her stomach. She smoothly stepped aside, turned so she was behind her son and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. She pressed the tip of Oathkeeper on his nape.

“Now. Do you see why?”

“I won’t forget.”

“Good.” She shoved him away, making him stagger slightly but without losing his balance. He straightened up, sword still in hand. This time, he held it in both hands, raised it high. Mother and son looked like exact mirrors of each other at that moment, though the latter was much shorter of course.

She nodded and Lyonel came for her. It took less than two seconds for Brienne to disarm him and send him flying into the snow. Jaime instinctively stepped out from under the archway, but a familiar voice called him back. He turned.

“Uncle Kevan.”

“He’ll get up. He always does.” Kevan said, glancing at Lyonel sprawled on the snow and groaning. “Come here. Let the soldiers do what they must. Besides, Addam will be joining them soon.”

Jaime kept his eyes on Brienne and Lyonel, who quickly got back on his feet. She handed him his sword then pointed at his feet. From the way she kept pointing the sword at various points on the ground and stopping his advance when he moved forward, she was teaching him footwork.

“It’s been four days, Jaime. We both know why you’re here yet rather than calling on the rest of the Houses you seem to prefer watching them. Her.”

“It’s a choice between freezing out in the cold again and the comfort of a warm bed, uncle. It’s not really a decision to struggle with, is it.” Reluctantly turning away from mother and son, he turned to join Kevan. “As for Brienne—"

“You mean the Lady Brienne.”

“The Lady Brienne suffered grave injuries when Daenerys took Tarth. Is it wrong to be concerned? She hovered between life and death for ten days afterward. She’s been more than loyal. I’ve taken it upon myself to take her and her son under my care and protection.”

“Quite unusual of you.”

“I represent the Queen. How would it look if I execute a loyal subject for failing to fight monsters?”

“A proper, loyal man of the queen would cleave the lady’s head from her body and have her son quartered. House Frey had their Morrigen squire stabbed in his sleep. Harlan Lefford had the Wensington boy tied to a tree where he froze to death. For the queen you represent, failure is treason.” Kevan said. “A justification to be monsters.”

Jaime dared not look away though he remembered what the barkeep had said about Randyll Tarly’s squire from House Horpe. He wouldn’t even grip the pommel of the sword as if it were a talisman. Kevan was not as smart as Tywin but he was a man who had lost every reason to live. He was not to be crossed no matter what.

“Have you anything to say?”

“You’ve made clear where you stand, uncle. What else is there to say?”

“Casterly Rocks is yours by right. You have choices.”

“No. When I was called to the Kingsguard, this became Tyrion’s as it rightly should have.” The pain of speaking about his brother was almost welcome. Now he turned his eyes back to Brienne, remembering what she’d said during her capture. What she’d seen. Who she had seen. Should I wish my baby brother dead for what Cersei says he’d done to Joffrey or should I wish him alive. . .for what?

Brienne was now teaching Lyonel legwork by tapping the ground with the tip of Oathkeeper. The boy would advance as she signaled, pivoted, went to the side, then backed away. She kept telling him to keep his eyes on her, not the ground but his stare kept falling there.

The paleness of Lyonel’s hair reminded Jaime of Tyrion’s. How many times had he brushed those tangled locks away from his brother’s face after being torn apart by Tywin’s words yet again? He was tempted to go and touch Lyonel’s hair. To know how it felt. To assure him he was doing well.

An instinct for tenderness still felt strange. Memory eluded him of anything where he’d been content to just caress Cersei’s cheek. He’d always been blinded by her golden beauty. He had followed in her steps, lived in her light. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his sister—a choice that he thought all he could make until Brienne.

Brienne. . .it hurt not being inside her for days, but he could watch her from afar and feel at peace.

And now this urge to sweep the doubt from Lyonel’s face with one word, or a brush of his hair—he’d felt nothing close to it with any of Cersei’s children. They were of his seed, just like Lyonel, but he’d never viewed them as his, or anything shared with Cersei. To him they were mouths that stole her breasts from his kisses, took her arms away from him.

With Lyonel, he was still pinching himself to the reality of him. He and Brienne had created something that was much more this shit world deserved.

“I have made choices. I chose the Warrior. I chose Cersei. I chose—” his eyes drifted back to Brienne. He missed her so much. Though they had promised to be with each other at night, Brienne had been given chambers right across from Lyonel while Jaime’s remained in the family wing.

“I choose her.” He said, looking back at Kevan. “I have made choices that brought shit to my name, to my honor. There’s only a kind of path before me from those choices. I have no wish to turn back and change things.”

“He loved you the most.” It was clear who he meant. “He may have loved only you. What was left of him when she died, he gave to you.”

Jaime didn’t know whether to believe him or if there was anything within that wished to believe.

“He loved what he thought I could do for House Lannister. From the moment I was Kingsguard I was no longer his son. Tywin doesn’t know anything of what you claim, uncle. He lived for power and acquiring as much of it.”

“Jaime, you’re not an unintelligent man but your skill with the sword far outweighs your ability to make the right choices. There’s still time—"

“You should stop.” The stare Jaime gave him at last seemed to bring him to pause. “You may be Lord of the Rock and hold the Westerlands and I am only a guest who happens to be your blood and needing your hospitality. You’ve made your feelings for the queen clear but let me remind you that I am her consort. I am here in her name, like it or not. Do not force me to make a decision for the good of the crown if you continue speaking like this.”

“Westeros is bleeding because of Cersei, Jaime. Her minions delivering on her brutal promises has brought more wounds. She has imposed horrendous taxes on anyone wishing entry into King’s Landing. Outside of them families are dying from the cold or starvation. Or the dragonfever. She’s burned and hanged tradesmen simply because they are foreign.”

“Careful, uncle. Do not tell me you support the dragon.”

“Trading ships from Essos only go to the Stormlands. It’s also believed the Bank of Braavos will be calling on the debts the crown has made.” Was all Kevan said. “I bear you no ill intent, Jaime. I have not much family outside of you. My only wish is for you to realize there are still choices to make. Don’t wait until you’re backed into a corner.”

“Will you be one of the people who will put me there?”

“You are a Lannister. If you will be the last of our House, I can welcome the Stranger as I would an old friend. You are welcome here always. But as you stand before me now, proud in the choice you’ve made, I admit it’s hard to look at you.”

“If my presence is a hardship you only have to say the word.”

Kevan shook his head. “The hardship you speak of is nothing to what the gods have given me, Jaime. Perhaps such is why I tell you these things, why I have made the choice to never support your queen. I have lost every reason to live. What else is there for me to lose? But as the last of your elder, and a man who loved and admired your father when he was alive, I have taken it upon myself to make you aware of the choices still possible before the Stranger comes for me. You can still be the man you are meant to be. If you continue to remain at her side, you won’t have the life you deserve.”

I’ve chosen a side. But he couldn’t tell Kevan that.

Not without endangering Brienne and Lyonel.

For the first time since setting foot in Casterly Rock, Jaime realized the danger they were in for as long as they remained in its walls. He looked back at her and their son, remembering their argument in the ship. Now he understood why she had been rightly furious.

Kevan did not support Cersei. But he held Casterly Rock and all the Houses and their soldiers of the Westerlands. He had never craved power, but he could cripple Cersei with one word against Jaime and everyone who was with him. The man was withered and slouched slightly. He wasn’t a particularly brave man in Jaime’s opinion but he had nothing to lose. It made him the most dangerous man in Casterly Rock.

Jaime hated the choice he had to make. What must I do again for love, he thought, staring at Lyonel.

Night swooped in, flinging its opaque cloak over the sky. As the torches alternated between flaring and flickering from the rough, icy winds, a stillness akin to death took over the castle. Jaime found himself freezing in an abandoned tower, sat on rickety furniture. Waiting. The only light was from the lamp on a dusty chest.

The small chamber was crammed with faded, damaged paintings of landscapes, faces of Lannisters he didn’t know, furniture with faded patina. A musty smell permeated the air, making his nose itch and his eyes water. As he blew into his palms for warmth, he heard them. Footsteps.

Footsteps going up the winding stairs. Then he saw the sliver of light under the door. He listened to her catch her breath as she knocked. “Jaime?”

“Brienne.”

The door opened and there she stood, flushed from the steep climb, a torch in her hand. She was dressed in the hooded cloak he’d bought for her. The darkness seemed to retreat as he stared into her bright eyes. “Close the door and come here.”

She closed the door and put the torch on a rusty sconce. A quick move of her hands pushed the hood to her shoulders, revealing her flushed face fully. Jaime stood up, thinking to get right to the point but suddenly robbed of words. All he could do was stare, pleased when the pink of her cheeks turned to crimson. The white puffs leaving her lips tangled in the air as her breathing became rushed.

He reached for the laces of his breeches.

Blue eyes the size of dinner plates regarded him as he pulled them down to his knees before sitting on the moth-eaten chaise lounge. He stared back at her, grunting when his cold fingers brushed his cock.

Nothing was going according to plan, but he couldn’t stop his hand. His cock. Touching himself was both torture and relief.

He opened his mouth to call her, to beg. She didn’t wait for her name to leave his lips. She stumbled and tripped on the scattered furniture before falling to her knees before his spread thighs. They stared at each other, his hand pushing and pulling the foreskin over his hardening cock while she removed his boots. She flung his breeches to the side, licked her palm then started touching him as well.

“Brienne.” He didn’t deserve anything this good.  

She mimicked his slow, careful touch. His own hand had given relief, hers akin to a slow, sweet burn. He groaned and thrust across her palm, pleased to be wrapped in her calloused hand. As she rubbed him gently while keeping her grip firm, his head fell back.

For a few moments, there was little he knew besides the evening air rattling the glass of the small window, her loud breathing, her warm hand. When he straightened up and opened his eyes, her brilliant but soft gaze was quick to snare him.

His cock hardened even more.

“Brienne.” He knew no other word.

She opened her mouth, revealing pink tongue and a few threads of spit. And then she was around him. Warm and pulling him deeper in her mouth. To her throat. Her cheeks hollowed as she slurped slowly. Carefully.

She’s warm. And perfectly wet. His arms falling to the sides, he surrendered to the firm, almost savage suction of her mouth. Loud, slurping kisses echoed in this cold, forgotten corner of an abandoned tower. In the shadows, their bodies thrust toward each other.

Ever so slowly, her mouth slid from the base to the tip, cool air washing over the exposed, swollen column of him. She held him in both hands while he swept her hair back to better see her tongue the leaking head. It was a hot wet lash.

Then her lips circled him again. Moved so slowly to reclaim all of him.

“Yours,” he ground out, gripping the back of her head. Holding on for his life. Again, his head fell back, stunned by the searing force of her kisses. Devoured by fire. Yet whole. And getting harder.

Her lips tightened and he thrust, bumping the back of her throat. Enclosed in the warm furnace of her mouth, her moan sent a tremor he felt from head to toe.

He was going up in flames.

Refusing to be parted from her especially in pleasure, he clung to her—pushed hands through the gap between clothes and her body to touch warm, damp skin. He thrust faster, his breathing quick and unsteady, his heart a rapid throbbing that threatened to burst. He grabbed her by the hair and plastered her face to his body, fucking her mouth desperately.

He heard her gag and whimper from the first squirt of his seed. But she clutched at his hips instead of pulling away and opened her mouth wider for his thrusts. His fingers kept her hair away from cheeks hollowing sharply through her slurps. She moaned between his spills, the seed and spit escaping her lips plopping loudly on the floor.

Sighing, feeling soft from release, he sagged against the chaise lounge. His fingers fell from her hair and his arms flopped boneless to the side. She sat back on her heels, revealing big eyes with dilated pupils and a mouth swollen from his cock. Threads of his seed dripped from the corners of her lips to her chin. Though he doubted his own strength, he reached up to touch her cheek, cupping the warm, flushed surface before threading his fingers through hers. A quick pull and she was straddling him, her cloak falling over them. He took her face in both hands, licked himself off her chin then kissed her long and hungrily.

Night deepened. A cold breathed right from the Stranger’s lips seemed to swath every surface of Casterly Rock. As the flames in the lamp and on the torch flickered from the constant swish and sweep of the wind in the tower, two bodies writhed on top of a moth-eaten crimson curtain.

Brienne gripped the nearby legs of a rickety desk and chair as Jaime fucked her. Her thighs hefted over his arms kept her open and helpless to his thrusts. But each release fed into a craving for her that it didn’t take long before he was spreading her legs wide apart again or pushing his cock in her mouth. The light in her torch and his lamp had gone out by the time exhaustion claimed their bodies. Shivering, he drew the dusty curtain over them, and she pulled him to her breasts. He hugged her around the waist and thrust his leg between her thighs.

As the darkness softened to gray outside the window hours later, Brienne moaned as Jaime’s tongue plundered her cunt. Her folds gleamed with his seed and she tasted richly of him. He thrust three fingers in her cunt and she sobbed his name. He tongued her clit while hooking his fingers deep in her sodden passage. Between the loud squeaks of his fingers fucking her in a frenzy, the the sticky droplets of her juices sprayed his cheeks. She shattered against his tongue moments later.

They lay spooned against each other, curling into the warmth their bodies offered to the other. Over her freckled shoulder, Jaime glimpsed the cobwebs draped on more pieces of furniture Lannisters of old had used: a massive chair of wood and faded velvet, the back and arms carved with faces of lions, a desk topped with little ships and navigation equipment, a cradle. Brienne's shaky sigh drew his attention away from them. As the faint white puff of her breath danced in the air, he cuddled closer, warming her nape with kisses. His hand lowered from her waist to her the sticky cluster of her bush, cupping her possessively. She was still wet and sticky, warm and honeyed.

“I-I’ve missed you.” He took her admission as an invitation to slide a finger inside her. She gasped and squeezed tightly, trapping him with a moan.

"I'll be inside you in any way for as long as we're together," he whispered. "So you'll remember to come to me next time."

Her shoulder warmed against him. "I wanted so much to come to you, but I was too afraid.”

“Caution will keep you alive longer, wench. Recklessness is ill-advised in the lion’s den. I’ve missed you more than you’ll know.”

“Then send for me. You're braver than I am. We can come back here. I'll go wherever you need me, Jaime."

He smiled. “I’ll summon you to the stables if need be.”

She turned to look at him. Soft and flushed, she was almost sweet to look upon. He kissed the scar on her cheek, loving the rough, raised surface of it because it was part of her. As he shifted away, his hand lowered to the slight dip of her waist before dragging her closer. Her hand roamed up and down his chest, gently ruffling the hairs.

“Jaime, you can ask about him.”

“I saw. I watched you teaching him how to fight with the sword.” Lyonel’s footwork still needed improvement. His preference for a left hand could be an advantage, he thought. “He works hard. Eager to learn. I saw his determination even from where I stood. Don’t go easy on him,” his smile was proud. “He doesn’t want you to.”

 “He doesn’t think he’s very good with the sword, though. He prefers the bow and arrow.”

“No one is a master in the beginning. And he would come around to the sword.”

She looked in his eyes. “You could teach him.”

The prospect should elate him. Instead, he remembered what Kevan could do should he find out the truth about Lyonel.

Remembering why he had summoned Brienne in the first place was an icy slap to the face. He stilled his caresses. “Brienne—”

“I thought to tell him who you are once we have a moment alone. You have my word I have a plan already. That’s why I hope you would teach him—”

“Don’t.”

Confusion met his answer.

“Don’t tell him,” he insisted.

“W-What? Jaime—”

She smelled of fucking and her thighs were still wet. Hearing his name from her lips another hurdle. Hurting already from the separation that came too soon than expected, he removed himself from the cocoon of their bodies and the worn velvet. It exposed her cunt, drawing his eyes to the gleaming, dirty-blond tangle and the streaks of seed around her thighs. But he got up and after some hesitation, picked up his breeches.

“You were right and I the fool thinking he’d be the safest here because Kevan doesn’t support the queen.” He stepped into them. “It’s too dangerous.”

“What did you find out?”

When he turned back to Brienne, she was sitting up. His eyes fell to her breasts of course, mouth watering at the sight of her tight, red nipples. He forced himself to the other side of the chamber.

“Nothing I didn’t already know. I was blind to the truth. I want Lyonel safe, Brienne. I won’t risk him getting hurt or worse because of my selfish need to be known as his father.”

“There’s nothing selfish in that. You deserve. . .Jaime—” She stood up, grabbing her cloak and putting it on. Her eyes brimmed with hurt. “All your life you’ve loved in the shadows. Don’t you want to be able to love in the light? Don’t you think you deserve that?”

“I want nothing more than to hold him,” he admitted. “I’m ready for his hate because of what I’ve done but I’m more than ready to love him. I already do. I just don’t—”

He hung his head.

“Jaime?”

“I’m afraid of losing him.”  He looked at her. “I won’t have him hurt in any way because of me.”

“Cersei will never know—”

“Fuck Cersei, Brienne. She no longer matters. Kevan. It’s all Kevan. While under his roof we’re protected by guest right but there are ways to exploit it without incurring the wrath of the gods. I want nothing more than Lyonel to call me father. But if Kevan were to find out—”

“He will not!”

“The Westerlands has the largest army. If he finds out, he could exploit that into forcing us into a war to remove Cersei from the throne. House Marbrand was one of the few to support her but the rest—” He swept a hand through his hair. “They make sellswords look loyal.”

He brushed past her and sank on a chair, sending a cloud of dust flying. She kept her back to him but he didn’t have to see how she was taking this all in. She would be thinking how to remove Lyonel from Casterly Rock. He was. She would realize it was between the Rock and the savage winter beyond the gates. He had.  

“Did he tell you wishes to go to war against her?” She asked a few moments later.

“He might. If it meant removing her from the throne he might.”

“You will gamble your chance at some happiness over a possibility of some man’s decision? A man who doesn’t have a smidgen of the Blackfish?”

“Daenerys holds the Stormlands and every access into King’s Landing and the rest of Westeros. It’s only a matter of time before the lords will rise against Cersei.” What in seven hells had she been doing?

“Fools,” Brienne muttered. “The enemy is Daenerys.”

“Would you die for her?” He pointed out. “Tell me the truth. If not for me, if not for our child, would you die for Cersei?”

When Brienne turned to face him, her face was white. There was genuine fear in her eyes.

“Don’t think that your death would keep our son alive. Yourself, Brienne. Would you die for my sister?”

“My answer doesn’t matter,” she finally said. “She will not give me a choice.”

“Daenerys has thousands in her slave army. Sellswords. She now rules the Dothraki as well. Dragons. She has the firepower. She has trade in a stranglehold. Loyalty. Three of the things Cersei doesn’t have.”

“Lord Kevan will not side with her. What does he have to gain? A Lannister upholding anything a Targaryen believes herself entitled to?”

“If he’s convinced Westeros under a dragon would survive, yes. Without a doubt. He can force us to fight if the truth about Lyonel were to come out. I don’t care if Cersei finds out about him. But while dependent on Kevan, we can’t risk Lyonel knowing.”

“I trust him to be discreet. Why can’t you?”

“I don’t know him,” Jaime reminded her. “Also, no child dreams of having the Kingslayer as father. What makes you think he won’t lash out? How certain are you he won’t hate me?”

“Well, I do. Better than you do right now. Will he like it? No. Will he be happy? No. Not at first. Will he come around? In time, I hope so.”

“That’s helpful.”

“Jaime,” Brienne went to kneel before him. “I’m afraid too. The open water is a sanctuary compared to the lions and crimson around us. But-but if you—if you wish for Lyonel to never know—”

“No. I just—he just can’t know for now.” Every word was an effort to speak.

“If you will make that choice, do it because you love him, not because you’re afraid what the truth could do to us. In every choice is the inevitable. That is the only thing certain. You can’t. . .you can’t be a slave to the possible actions of a man that rests on finding out a truth that’s not his to know.” She took his hand and kissed it. “However you decide, I’m with you.”

He closed his other hand around them and squeezed. “I can’t remember being afraid like this. If I’ve ever been afraid.” Spreading her palm to rest his cheek there, he whispered, “Everything in me screams to take you and Lyonel far and away from here.”

“Oh, Jaime.” Big teeth clamped on her lip as her chin wobbled. “I think the same. I’m also very afraid.”

His arms opened at her admission, even when a voice nagged from within that she would scorn the meager offering.

Brienne threw herself in them.

Chapter Text

“Though icebergs were spotted in our waters in the west, the Citadel has yet to send word if winter is indeed coming to an end. I have also received reports that many lakes and rivers remain frozen, and winter storms continue to plague the northern provinces.

Qyburn’s whispery drone was one of the few voices Cersei tolerated, especially with men. She stared at him from the other end of the table, giving the impression of someone listening with intent and concentration. Her hand clasped one of the arms, the movement reminding her of the little paper kept between the carved wood and her palm.

“Lord Peter Baelish has also sent word that snow has buried much of the path back to King’s Landing—"

Cersei’s thoughts were not on the maiming she’d promised Littlefinger. Not now. Her mind was on a spring day from what felt like a very long time ago.

Green had begun to sprout on earth bathed in crimson. Flowers trampled by boots and battles returned to bloom, velvety and silken bits of rainbow to be touched and sniffed. Doves had taken the sky back from vultures. Gone were the cries of soldiers as they died bleeding and helpless while their bowels loosened, the metallic scent of decay and death thickening that one could taste it.

Cersei had stood countless nights by window of her chambers in the Red Keep, smelling and tasting that smell and wondering if Jaime’s scent had lent a note in that air of devastation. Within her was a pain unlike any other at just the mere thought of his death. All the rage and despair poured into the children she had lost now went to him.

Thus, when he had returned alive, she had held him with a need unmatched by anything. Smelling him, seeing him, feeling him warm and hard, the shattered parts of her began to come back. That first kiss after so long was the only antidote to her grief. In opening her legs, she desired to be whole once more.

Jaime inside her was perhaps the only thing, seconded only by her children as they nursed, that she felt with every ounce of her being. She lay on the cold stone floor of the sept, staring up at monolithic statues of the Seven as Jaime fucked her. Through the stink of shit and mud, she still detected that familiar, secret note that she and only she knew to be Jaime. She held him tightly, refusing to lose one more person.

He trembled against her afterwards and she held and kissed him. Flanked by the dead bodies of Tommen and Tywin, she knew they were the last of the Lannisters.

She vowed not to lose him again.

She married Jaime on a sunny spring day. Under the same monolithic structures of the Seven, she at last uttered the vows to the union he had long begged of her. How handsome and golden he’d looked: bathed in the rays of the sun, golden hair trimmed and swept back, that horrendous beard shaved off. Unlike her wedding to Robert where she heard only the beating of her heart and the faint echo of her voice as she recited the vows, with Jaime she heard silence. A silence broken only by the heavy swish of the Lannister cloak he threw around her shoulders in symbol of his eternal and sworn protection.

A feast grander than her first wedding had followed, with ninety-two food courses. They sat on the high table, smiling and feeding each other bits of tender boar meat sweetened by apples and exotic spices from Essos. Light radiated from Jaime on that day, she remembered.

He was handsome no matter his expression—the most handsome man in all of Westeros—but with the way he looked at her, and his smile—Cersei tried to mirror it. It shouldn’t be an effort because they were each other’s image. She tried. Tried to match the warmth of his smile. The happiness in his eyes. She was glad to love him in the open after a lifetime of stolen kisses and hurried fucking.

But for every smile on Jaime’s lips, she found herself faltering.

The one thing she was sure she would never falter, and she did prove herself right, was taking him in her mouth.

Though Robert had been a more muscular warrior, his cock was only skinny though long. He always tasted of leather and smelled of the forest. She found out he hadn’t been faithful because she tasted the woman from his cock. Once past the shock, fury had her biting him. His shouts had been sweet but it felt so much better snarling she was never spreading her legs for him again. She would never forgive him for whispering Lyanna Stark’s name as he fucked her on their wedding night. But as his queen, she refused to be just another cunt that warmed him.

Robert didn’t have to say much in reminding her he was king. Despite her screams and vows to kill him, he’d thrown her to the floor and forced his cock in her. Repeatedly. Never had she hated herself for being a woman until then. In every scream she’d unleashed and found ignored, she felt herself die.

She had felt everything, each sensation a reminder of her weakness: the cold floor Robert pinned her on, the painful yank and pull of her curls trapped under her shoulders, his thrusts into her and the spray and spill of his seed on her thighs and under her hips. His dark hair whipped at her cheeks, and his sweat soaked through his clothes and eventually her. When he finally rolled off her and climbed on the bed to snore, she remained on the floor. She had not given herself to tears. The air she could finally breathe, instead of relief, felt like a curse, a mockery. She knew then this night would not be the last. The realization sweetened the air at last, and hate began to course through her veins.

No, he would never have her body again. Nothing of his would have her again—even that child that bloomed in her for only a moon and a half before she had it cleansed and purged. For her refusals Robert smacked her many times but she was unrelenting. He would have her mouth, but it was only a mouth. In her mouth the seeds of his sons would find only death. She may be on her knees, but she was the victor.

So, when she took Jaime in her mouth as wife that first night, she felt that familiar wave of sureness again. The Iron Throne was hers, but it was really only a symbol of her power. True power, one that was hers alone, needed no throne but being on her knees. This was how she ruled.

On her knees she convinced Jaime to be her Master of Laws. On her knees when pressed him a final time, after a number of rows, for Houses that had lost against House Lannister and their allies to pay repatriations and sign off their heirs to be wards to the very Houses they rose against to ensure loyalty. She was licking his cock clean when he finally, breathlessly, agreed that the moment the renegade Houses stepped out of line, their heirs would be slaughtered.

Her dear, sweet twin, she would think following another bout of flesh and bone, staring at him with love and the satisfaction of knowing he was no different from most men. But he did things for her out of love.

He had uttered those very words before pushing that boy. Cersei had been horrified and moved at his words and rushed to turn him away from the sight of that fall. She had kissed his still lips and pressed her trembling self against him, willing him with more kisses and touches to come back to her, that he had been right to choose her. She had not wanted him so much until that moment, needing his eyes, his lips, for his life to be only for her, towards her. Days passed before her passion burned, leaving in its wake embers of a fear that steadily grew to fires of something terrible it threatened to choke her.

For had he not loathed the children, had he not looked at them with resentment whenever their mouths took her nipples, when their cries called for her arms? Perhaps Bran Stark would never understand what he saw in that tower. Perhaps he could have been threatened into silence. But he was a child. A Stark, yes, but still a child. If Jaime could choose her over an innocent boy, how many more times would he make that choice if it promised her?

She never found out if he would. The gods chose for them. The ultimate price for the right to finally be with each other out in the open. Whispers and wagging tongues she never cared about, and with Jaime at her side, they didn’t exist.

Qyburn paused, perhaps to catch his breath. Cersei turned her hand to look at the raven scroll there. It was all of Jaime she had now, the first in the nearly four moons they’d been apart. Delayed by storms and having to hide from the dragon but have finally arrived in Casterly Rock.

She had been reading it over and over since it was handed to her two days ago. Surely this could not be all he meant to say? What of concern for her? What about calling on the other Houses to rise against that dragon slut? Scroll warming in her hand, she remained standing in the middle of the ballroom, now a vast space of gray. Only memory told that the place had not always been so desolate. Just as it was only memory that stood against the world outside still deep in winter.

“Your grace?”

She looked up at Qyburn. Willing all her senses to return to the Tower of the Hand was an assault from every direction: the dry and also damp smell from Qyburn’s clothes that brought to mind sewers, the smoke from the bodies burned that stubbornly stained the air weeks after the fact, the mustiness of the very chamber due to the windows sealed shut to keep what little warmth inside.

 “Is there more?”

“I apologize because the next words I speak will be encroaching on another Small Council member’s duties, your grace. But as your Hand, you charged me to not merely act in your name but also to oversee fellow members of the council. Specifically, duties that might be left remiss during their absence.” Qyburn gestured at the stack of sheets next to him. “Lord Baelish has yet to return and the date you’ve given for it is due in a few days. In his absence, I have taken charge of the kingdom’s expenses. Right down to that made by the household, your grace.”

“Littlefinger,” Cersei mused, one corner of her lip lifting in suggestion of a smirk. “How many days has he been gone? When is his supposed return?”

“Four days, your grace.”

“Your little birds in the Vale, Qyburn. Perhaps they’d like to rustle some feathers other than their own.” She looked at him. “A reminder that a cut today will be a loss tomorrow.”

“As you wish.”

“Now, your concern regarding taking over some of that little man’s duties. We still have gold, do we not? Lord Rosby did not let his sickness get in the way of his duties. Much as Lord Baelish is an annoying twit, he does know magic with numbers. What of our expenses, then?”

Qyburn coughed. “Your grace, due to the challenge of acquiring certain imports we heavily depend on, some within the Red Keep have taken of imports on which we’re heavily dependent on, some within the Red Keep have taken it upon themselves to go through. . .alternative channels to secure necessities.”

“Necessities.” Cersei frowned. “What would the Seven Kingdoms need beyond its borders that smuggling has become the default choice? Just say what you mean, Qyburn.” Annoyed, she muttered, “Diplomacy only delays the inevitable.”

“Very well, your grace. Spices. Because we are still wrestling with winter, we don’t have enough natural sources for spices in order to preserve our food. Thus, why we have to import. And pay.” The Hand coughed again. “Why we must pay quite heavy sums, your grace.”

Cersei’s hand tightened around the lion’s head carved on the arm. “Damn her.”

“Your grace?”

“What are my armies waiting for? Daenerys Targaryen shouldn’t have been given the chance to warm that blasted seat in Evenfall Hall. Where is Randyll Tarly?”

She was suddenly out of her seat and pacing rapidly back and forth, fists curled. Jaime’s scroll was crushed in her palm before fluttering unseen to the floor when she glared at Qyburn. “I want the lords of the Vale to reminded of their sworn duty to me, the queen. Now my Master of War—what of his absence? Why is he not here?”

“I’m afraid Lord Tarly has been taken ill, your grace.”

Cersei was so startled by the news she could only stare at him.

“It is another matter I thought to bring to you. An outbreak of sickness right here in King’s Landing.”

“Of course, there is,” she chuckled darkly. “Dragonfever. An illness you fabricated to rid the city of unwanted elements and turn the continent against that bitch.”

“Your grace, I regret to say that it is a fever of another nature, not something fabricated from my study. It is swift to spread and by all means, collectively, appears as the usual discomforts one feels during winter but then. . .builds up.”

“You are going to tell me what you mean by that.” She said slowly, her jaw tight.

“My study is ongoing, your grace—”

“Now.”

“The dead kept out of our walls were burned in order to prevent an outbreak of the Dragonfever, your grace—”

“Which is false. Yes.” She was impatient. “Go on.”

“Indeed. Nevertheless, it appears another kind of illness is taking hold of King’s Landing. Including Lord Tarly himself, and some of the lords and ladies with their servants living here, the infected number close to a hundred and two your grace. As of today.”

“There are half a million here, and with the poor we’ve purged that leaves us with a quarter. I find it hard to believe that one hundred and two ill people concerns you enough to bring it up to me.”

“It’s today’s number, your grace. The number who have fallen sick are closer to six hundred since it was noticed. And half of those who have been sick died.”

“When did this begin?”

“It’s hard to say, your grace. Because the symptoms are the usual discomforts that come with winter, it has been quite impossible to pinpoint who the first patient was. Coughing, colds, fevers—by themselves and together, nothing out of the ordinary. But for some reason they build up and that’s when the sickness takes hold your grace. Recoveries are close to the number of the dead, but they remain bedridden for at least a fortnight.”

“Those that died. Tell me how they died.”

“Survivors report of extreme pain in their head, their entire body. Those who do not were reported to begin hemorrhaging which lasted for hours to days before dying.”

Cersei recalled the previous High Septon as she continued to stare at Qyburn. He looked small and quite withered seated at the other end of the table. On a calm, lined face were eyes so dark she wondered if light had ever passed through them.

For the first time, she didn’t like so much what she saw, or rather didn’t. Was there glee behind the scratchy voice, concern behind those eyes? He sat straight and so still she wondered if he was even breathing.

“It’s dragonfever,” she declared. “Dragonfever in a more aggressive form. Clearly small folk infected with it managed to hide from the Gold Cloaks. I want them purged from King’s Landing. All of them.”

“Your grace.”

“Ensure the cleansing doesn’t come close to our walls.”

“It will be done, your grace.”

“Good.” She nodded. “As for that whore in the Stormlands, I want her and her armies of slaves purged as well. I want her burned. I want her dragons butchered and roasted in a spit. Where are the armies of the lords sworn to me? The Freys? The Boltons?”

“Lord Tarly has given assurances that the Houses have been called. But roads remain impassable, your grace. Ice melting from the mountains and rivers continue to flood and obliterate towns, further making passages impossible to go through.”

Qyburn’s voice trailed off when Cersei came to a sudden stop in front of the fireplace. The crimson flames pointed like a dozen spikes.

“Harrenhal was thought impregnable due its monstrous size and the blood and bones that mark every tile and brick in it. Thick walls and towers that touched the sky.”  She raised her hand to the fire, finding comfort in the heat that seemed to pierce skin. “The day it was completed dragons crossed the sky. Burned Harrenhal.”

Pulling back her hand, she continued. “Daenerys is a fool to think that taking all the waterways of our trade would give her power. Her armies don’t know the difference between pitchforks and swords. People only bow to her because of her monsters. She’s nothing without them. Only a fool. A bitch made of flesh and blood. Fitting prey for a lion.”

Turning to Qyburn, she said, “Has there been no whispers or flutters from your little birds from that side of the world? In other corners of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I have no choice but to think that the little birds in Tarth were killed during her attack, your grace. Storms and starvation have taken hold of the rest of the Stormlands as well and the numbers of the dead are high. I have to count my little birds among them. I apologize, your grace.”

“I have no need for apologies. I want whispers. I want her dead,” she repeated.

“She will be, your grace.”

Cersei returned to her seat. Planting both hands on the arms, she said, “A Small Council should not be reduced to just you and I, Qyburn. With Lord Tarly taken ill and my husband far, it’s even smaller.”

Qyburn coughed. “We have promised a seat in the Small Council for Dorne, your grace. As part of the agreement of the Princess Myrcella’s betrothal.”

“She is no longer a princess.” Cersei said. “The Martells have no doubt made a whore of her as she’s been there for seven years and remain unwed. No daughter of mine should even breathe the same air as they so I shall always have Tyrion to thank for that. Any word of his whereabouts? Perhaps of his dead body?”

“Unfortunately, your grace—”

She held up her hand, wishing to hear no more. “Give me a list of lords who may suit my Small Council. Someone who thrills in the hunt for prey, Qyburn. Who regards blood as wine to be sipped. A shark, perhaps. Speaking of counsel, what of the new High Septon?”

“He arrived three days ago, your grace.”

“Three days. And he’s not yet requested an audience with me?”

“As a matter of fact, you grace, he has requested your presence at the Great Sept at your soonest convenience.” Qyburn didn’t look happy.

“He wishes for me to go to him?”

“Indeed, he does.”

Cersei smirked. “The City Watch will have much to do cleansing every corner of the city of the diseased. As for my guards, they have new orders. Have them bring that man to me. He will join me for supper tonight.”

“A most generous privilege he would be a fool to refuse.”

“He is already a fool, Qyburn. He just needs reminding I have little tolerance for it.”

When the hour of supper came, the double doors opened. Cersei Lannister sauntered in, golden curls spilling to her shoulders and held by golden combs. A full-length cloak of ivory fur swaddled her, keeping her warm from the walk that began from her chambers to this dining hall. Handmaidens stepped in after her, each taking hold of a side of the cloak she shrugged off to reveal a dress with a fitted bodice of velvet the color of gold and silk skirts the color of snow. The doors shut behind the departing handmaidens. Two Lannister guards quickly stationed themselves there.

She folded her hands in front while regarding the High Septon. He was soft in form like the previous one and stared back at her with a defiance that was both infuriating yet she also relished. As she approached, several mice scurried between them, nearly breaking her stride. She continued moving forward but not before giving The Mountain a glance.

She was standing right in front of the High Septon, who remained seated and wrapped in his silk robes crushed during a clear struggle against her summons, when the unmistakable splat of The Mountain’s boot on an unfortunate mouse gave the floor a slight tremor. The High Septon jumped and stared past her, his defiance shifting to shock and fright.

“Your High Holiness,” she murmured. “You may rise.”

The man shuffled to his full height. He was not very tall, and the robes that had billowed around him seated fell limp on a narrow form. His beard was a mix of brown and gray. A plain face, the sort to get lost in the crowd.

She looked at his exposed foot. One nail was dark.

“I have received your invitation. I plea for your forgiveness for I was remiss in opening the doors of the Red Keep to you first.”

“Your grace, if I may,” the man spoke, startling her with a voice that was clear and sure. There was a faint, melodious lilt to it. “It is highly unusual to be in your presence, within these walls. After all, men bow to their lords, and lords to their kings. So. kings and queens must bow before the Seven Who Are One.”

“Such is why I offer the warmth of my home to the gods. Through you.” She smiled. “Should I not share a wonderful meal through you so the gods may partake?”

The man seemed to hesitate then nodded. “I thank you for such a blessing, your grace. And the privilege.”

“The privilege is mine.” Eyes on his exposed foot again, she added, “I do hope that you will be more open working with me. I only wish to serve. And to honor the gods.”

She walked around the table, pleased to see it laden with the finest morsels of food. She took her seat. Smiling again at the high septon, she gestured for his chair to be pulled so he may sit as well.

On the table, the fat of sliced boar winked like stars and the honey drizzled on them curving paths of liquid gold. Boar medallions and carrots had been tossed together in heady, thick butter in the next platter. Trout fat and quite long was laid next to it, adorned with slices of lemon and sprinkled with precious pepper and salt. An array of sweets, from little cakes crowned with curling cream and breads shaped like flowers and studded with cranberries, to pears unadorned except for the thick honey bathing them, rounded the meal laid out for the queen. Cersei waited as wine was poured in her goblet.

Mice once again scurried past their feet, their movements bringing scratching sounds that echoed. The High Septon glanced at the squashed, bloody bits of the mouse The Mountain had stamped the life of. Cersei sipped her wine.

“Something bothering you?” Her question surprised him and his head quickly swiveled back to her.

“There appears to be quite the population of mice in King’s Landing. Likely due to winter.”

“Disgusting little pests, aren’t they.” Cersei forked a piece of the boar from the platter and took a bite. It was velvet on the tongue.

Now he smiled. “But they were created by the Seven. It’s a pity that such hard-working creatures are fated to live in sewers and settle for crumbs.”

“You almost sound like you love them. Were they aplenty where you’re from?” She asked. “Forgive me. I forget such inquiries are hardly welcome.”

“We are required to discard all that links us to our past, including the name given at birth.”

“Quite the tradeoff, then, wouldn’t you say. Silks in exchange for a past of roughspun clothes.”

“We are taught to have no attachments to the things of this world. We are here to strengthen the Faith. To be the vessel of the Seven. To honor and protect all, big or small.”

“Including mice?”

“Yes.”

“How you must love them. All creatures big or small.”

“Yes. All that is created is beautiful.”

Cersei looked at his plate. His goblet. “You do not wish to partake? The boar is very tender. And the trout—” she took a piece and sampled it. “Well-spiced. Unless you have another food preference and if so, I’ll make sure the servants acquire it.”

“I have yet to be invited to partake.”

“Begging for your forgiveness again. Perhaps the food is too rich? No? You would prefer something simpler, then?”

“Many are suffering because of this winter, with very little to eat or none, and hardly any warmth. I believe it is only right to eat as they would, although this is a beautiful, delicious-looking spread.”

“It is. But I don’t wish for your to renege on your principles. A simple meal more to your liking can easily be arranged.” She looked at the guards by the door then the Mountain.

“You need not bother. I refuse to put anyone out—”

“Good.” Cersei sat back as the guards by the door moved and The Mountain silently moved behind him. At her nod, his huge, gaunleted hands grabbed the septon by the shoulders, pinning him to the seat. As he sputtered and struggled, a guard peeled the mouse off the floor and headed for the table.

Chapter Text

Lions. Crimson. Blood. Snarling beasts. Pensive, maned golden faces.

Brienne smelled Jaime’s hair. Snow, herbs, woodsmoke, soap. His scent calmed her but the restlessness refused to abate.

She’d struggled with sleep following their first night together in the tower. Helpless and only able to cling to each other, they couldn’t even rage or pummel any surface with fists.

Jaime had been the one to name the disturbance plaguing her since setting foot in Casterly Rock.

She’d seen castles built for the purpose of casting a giant shadow over the land, for the people to always remember who held it in a tight fist. She’d seen structures meant to defy all that man knew. Casterly Rock, built on the gold mines that made the Lannisters golden, with its crimson spires thrusting straight and sharply in the sky, columns of marble streaked and splotched with natural stains that resembled bruises and spatter, was an architecture of might and promised debts will be paid.

Within the walls was just as inhospitable. Evenfall Hall had been constructed with the smoothest, whitest marble—whiter than clouds, whiter than snow. It shone in the sun. All castles would always have tapestries and paintings of unsmiling, grim ancestors, carpets, drafts. Evenfall Hall’s colors inside the castle had been varying shades of blue—vivid, bold shades, streaks of turquoise, indigo, sapphire. The sun slipped through every window. It was a castle of light. Casterly Rock was an explosion of golden opulence and crimson promise.

The tapestries were of hunting scenes and conquer. Hanging and stretched tautly across walls, in their stillness they seemed to shimmer and move—galloping horses woven seemed to pound the ground with their gleaming hooves, spears seemed to fly.

Also on walls were sconces of gold, their shine rivaling the light of the torches kept ablaze at nearly all hours. Despite these pillars of quivering light and the castle’s wide, open spaces, there were more spaces sunk in darkness. Thus, when one didn’t take care and simply thrust a torch to light the way, a scare was inevitable from the seats, thrones, legs of tables and decorative pieces on surfaces featuring the carved, maned faces of snarling lions.

Even when Brienne knew there was no beast waiting for her in the dark ready to tear at her throat, her hand was never far from the sword at her hip.

She thought her unease was from the newness of the place. The vastness, the richness—silk and velvet everywhere, goblets and utensils of gold, even the chamber pot was rimmed with gold—was a constant assault. Used to the gray of the sky and the sea, the narrow, tight confines of the ship and the rocking motions despite having dropped anchor for the night, she had felt safer being a slave to the elements.

In the last war she had used rocks for pillows. The ground was no feather bed, but she had managed to sleep. Her restlessness on the first few nights in the lair of lions she thought came from not being used to an empty cold spot next to her in bed. She had tossed and turned in bed, drifting to sleep for a little while so long as she thought of Lyonel safe and warm. In the space before she completely fell under the spell of sleep and her mind could no longer think of Lyonel, that was when she came wide awake again. Wide awake, heart racing, her hand curled on the side of the bed where Jaime would have slept.

Their reunion in the tower had given her peace. But only for that night. And not even for the entire night. 

She pressed her nose against Jaime’s hair. She needed more. Another night without sleep would be a step closer to madness. Though she felt the hard tiles under her boots her body felt adrift, floating—hardly different from a ghost. She thought she was hearing things too. Seeing things. Danger in a goblet of wine. Danger in the rustle of the wind outside the window. She stroked his tousled, silky waves. This, him, he was real. And Lyonel too. When he spoke, he silenced her fears.

As a piece of log cracked and splintered in the fireplace giving off sparks, her lips traveled up and down Jaime’s face. She brushed kisses on the perfect crescents of his slender eyebrows, traced the high ridge of his nose before coaxing his lips to kiss her back. She missed his beard but loved the press of their skin to each other, that she could easily feel the muscles in his face tensing and flexing as he responded.

His sigh was warm. Palms ridged from holding a sword found her shoulders. Her waist. His eyes remained closed. No matter.

This time she would worship him. She rarely got the opportunity because he knew how to overwhelm her, how to take her. He was a swift marauder of her body, her mind.

He smelled of herbs and soap but laced still with the faint notes of leather and sweat, especially under his hairy arms. She rubbed her nose against the thick cluster before covering his chest with kisses next. Thicky-haired, rough, they scraped her kiss-swollen nipples.

She burned.

She moaned. “Jaime.”  

“Brienne.” When she glanced up, his eyes were open. Watching her. He had sounded sleepy, rougher, but saw her clearly. “Come here. Don’t go.”

Instead, she trailed kisses around his navel before dipping her tongue in the small indentation. Tight muscled tautened even more, and her name a ragged plea. She approached his hard thighs, already drawn by the warm, familiar secret musk. He was hard. Hard and a fat pearl gleamed from the plump head.

A sound that seemed like a purr left her lips, startling her. Desire was still so new to her, let alone the pleasure of fucking. Her mouth watered as she took his cock, realizing that even before touching it she already knew how it felt, how warm it would be. Her eyes drifted back to Jaime’s gaze as she opened her mouth to lick him.

Salt and man. Delicious. A drop of goodness. To taste Jaime was to take the sun. Her mouth opened wider as she took more of him.

When he thrust in her throat, she wouldn’t have to speak of the fears he’d named.

She licked and sucked him, gently, just as he liked. Grasped him in both hands and rubbed while her mouth slid up and down, thick threads of spit dripping from her mouth. He watched while holding her short hair away from her face. Her eyes began to close in pleasure.

“Don’t,” he pleaded. “Give me your eyes, Brienne.”

So, she kept them open, gazing at him as her mouth slid up and down the length of his cock. He was always warm, a dream for her mouth to wrap around in. He’d told her many times he couldn’t look away when she kissed him like this. That she took his breath away when he was inside her.

She didn’t know if it meant he found her beautiful—she knew she will never be that. But she understood what he meant.

When he was inside her, she felt right.

“Come here,” he repeated, gently yet also more urgently. A tug at her hair and his cock was freed. Emerald eyes burned gold as he seized her face in both hands, pulled her up and kissed her with a violence that had her melting: his mouth pushing her mouth wide open, his tongue thrusting deep and tangling with hers. Tasting every drop of himself she’d collected in this latest bout.

Hands moved from her face down her body, urging her to press fully on him. Chest to breast, stomach to stomach, cock to cunt—she kissed him to escape. Kissed him because she was afraid while loving him so much.

He moved, quickly changing their positions. A hand swept the hair from her face before caressing her cheek—her scarred cheek. Reminded of how it happened, her eyes filled with tears.

“Brienne, gods,” he murmured, caressing her. His eyes burned bright despite the sympathy. “Someday. . .I swear to you I will not only bring you back there. Lyonel will be the Evenstar.”

She nodded, stifling a gasp—not of surprise but dread. To bring her back, for Lyonel to be the Evenstar, they will have to take Tarth from Daenerys.

Her eyes closed as his lips brushed kisses there before following the trail of a tear down the scar. Then his mouth was on hers, a soft, slanting press sweetly coaxing her to respond. He clasped her hand to drag to his chest, toward his beating heart. Her fingers curled there as if to cup it before spreading them instead to feel the strong beat of him. His song.

She spread her legs and his body pressed even more intimately to hers, the rustle and tangle of the hairs below their navel a sweet, searing burn. He rubbed his cock between her spread folds, the head digging and dragging the stiff flesh of her clit a few times before he pulled back and pushed inside.

“Jaime.” Nails dug in his shoulders. She raised her hips. Dug her feet deep in the mattress.

There was hardly a part of their faces or bodies that ceased touching as they fucked. Lips kept brushing, tongues thrust until she just opened her mouth and let him in. His hips rocked swiftly between her thighs though his cock always remained halfway inside her before he lunged deep and stretched her. Her gasps filled his mouth as thrust repeatedly into her, burying himself deeper each time.

Warm, at peace, smelling only him, feeling only his mouth, the rough hairs of his chest, his cock, hearing the slaps and squeaks of their flesh when joining, she no longer felt the thick furs underneath, ceased to see the innumerable lions snarling at her from the ceiling, the corners of the bed. She turned her head slightly to take a long lick of the line of sweat glistening on the side of his neck.

Her passionate kiss caused Jaime to shatter fast. His body shaking harder than hers, his thrusts picking up a furious pace that stole her breath, she barely managed to fling a hand to his mouth as he cried out.

His roar shook against her palm but she held on, her eyes wide from the growing panic that perhaps, tonight, they will be caught. But the thought only crossed her mind for a moment. Only a moment because as soon as the scream left him, he was kissing her again. Lips pressing firmly on the pulse in her wrist to the next on the inside of her elbow, her shoulder, a swoop of kisses on the arc of her neck before their mouths fused once more. He was only half-hard now but made no move to pull out.

She still burned. Throbbed. His kisses were as fiery as they were soothing but she needed to fly. Needed to fly in order to fall. For some peace.

Slowly she turned away from his kisses. His kisses traveled all over her face, stoking even more the fires raging within her. Their hands were joined, and she pulled him to her lips, taking the long length of his middle finger in her mouth before releasing it. He paused from kissing her to watch as her tongue circled the tip before guiding it down to her body. Towards her cunt.

“Jaime.” His name was a breathless spill as his spit-slicked finger burrowed deep inside. Her eyes closed from the sweet intrusion. “Oh. Jaime.”

He licked her cheek before laving it with more kisses. She sighed, then moaned when his finger pulled halfway out and thrust back inside, a thumb now rubbing her clit. His kisses and touches made her head spin, and her legs melt while everything in between quivered and went taut. He was barely touching her—his kisses airy, fluttery touches, his thumb almost-strokes—but for the finger that drove in and out of her cunt. The folds squeaked wet as his finger parted and pressed and plunged in between. Her eyes opened wide and immediately saw the rich crimson canopy stitched with golden lions.

Lions in a field of blood.

Before that fear could take her, Jaime’s face loomed over her. Golden hair spilling down his cheeks and tickling her face, emerald eyes ringed gold staring at her. She seized his face in gratitude and joy, burying her tongue in his mouth as she came sweetly, happily, apart.

“I don’t want you to go.”

They lay in bed facing each other when Jaime said those words. She held his hand this time and kept it on her beating heart.

She stared at him. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Let’s not fight. Let’s just go. Run away. I have gold. We’ll raise Lyonel in a large stone house in Braavos. A large house where he can spar with us and play his brothers and sisters.”

Braavos. Warmth. Sun. Distance. She kissed his knuckles. “Brothers and sisters, huh?”

“A Lannister with golden hair or the color of wheat every year. All with sapphire eyes. I’m a twin so you’ll likely birth twins at one point.” A small tender smile touched his face. “Twin girls. With wheat braids, freckles, and your eyes.”

He meant nothing by the mention of twins but the reminder he was part of a pair of another in blood and before the Seven cast a cloud. He caught on immediately despite Brienne knowing she’d not betrayed herself with a flush or the smallest twitch. As his lips began to form words of apology, she shook her head and pressed a kiss on his hand. Then held it tightly.

“She can’t know.” She looked at him while whispering. Her heart beat fast and heavy in her chest. “Your uncle can’t know. I care not for losing my head for loving you but it’s Lyonel they can’t know about.”

“You won’t lose your head,” he declared. “Neither of us will. But Brienne. . .do you still think he should know about me?”

“He has the right to the truth.”

Jaime sighed. Surprised, she stammered, “You—you really don’t want him to know?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I want him to know about me. Just not within these walls.” His eyes drifted to the canopy. “Lions wherever you look. Lurking. Listening. Waiting. Lions tear everything apart. Anyone who isn’t us an enemy.”

And a Lannister always pays his debts. Brienne tightened her hold on his hand once more, remembering how Cersei had gone after all the other Houses that had fought on the other side.

“Lannisters are their own worst enemy,” Jaime continued. “My father dreamed of a dynasty. An Age of Lions for all time. Look where his children are now. And children I had with Cersei. It’s not our enemies that will destroy us. We’re masters bringing doom upon ourselves.”

“You have a daughter that lives.” Brienne thought she would be a young woman now. Not much older when she herself had been in Renly’s Rainbow Guard.

“A daughter I can’t even remember the face of,” he admitted. “A girl I’ve seen so many times but never really remembered. Meanwhile one glimpse of Lyonel during his visit and I still remember the pattern of freckles on his nose. The one brother I have—” his voice tightened. “My love did nothing. He sits at the right hand of the dragon.”

“Don’t,” she moved closer and brushed her lips on his cheek while hugging him. He turned his head to her, his eyes giving a glimpse of a broken man he so often hid away well and deeply. Shaking her head, she insisted, “you had nothing to do with that. You did not send him away. You did not put him at her side.”

“She’s always hated him. Because of what happened to our mother.”

“How could she? He had nothing to do with that.”

“You and I know that. But to Cersei—” he suddenly paused.

“You can say her name,” she said after a moment. “She’s queen but also human”

“I never had her in this bed.”

She had been wondering but didn’t want to ask.

“I always went to her. She never came to me.” He grasped her by the arm to put it across his chest. “However she summoned me, whether she needed me as a lover or someone to spew her fury at, I went to her without question. My sworn duty was to protect whoever was king but Cersei was my choice. The only choice I thought I could make for as long as I could remember. She was all I had, Brienne. And when my mother died, she was the only one I had.”

She watched him stroke her arm, fingers seeming to strum a secret song on the muscles and fine though thick hairs. “You don’t have to explain what you had with her. She will always be a part of you. I’ll never hate you for that.”

“You should,” he said. “I knew how she was but didn’t do enough. She abused Tyrion even when he was still in the cradle. Because she blamed him. For our mother.”

“She was a child. . .she didn’t how to mourn. She was hurt, angry—”

“But did you grab an infant by his cock and twisted it until he cried? And twisted it some more to make him scream? Perhaps an animal you tortured until it died.” As her breath stilled from the horror, he told her, “Because that’s what she did. One of the many she had inflicted on Tyrion and the only one I remember so clearly. We had visitors that day. The Martells. Oberyn. Elia. They believed my mother had given birth to a monster and Cersei stoked their curiosity.”

She didn’t want to imagine it, but his words were more than enough in conjuring the image of an infant shrieking in pain. She pressed her mouth on his shoulder, not because she felt like screaming to make him stop but because she might speak of another fear, one buried so deeply.

Lyonel. What if Humfrey had hurt Lyonel in the cradle as well?

“Cersei has always been hateful yet I loved her. I loved her.” He sounded surprised and disbelieving. “And Tyrion. But in loving her is the failure the protect him. I may not have threatened his life. I never accused him of having Joffrey murdered in the riots. But I loved the woman who hurled nothing but anger and hatred toward him his whole life. I was in chains when she had him thrown to the dungeons but I still loved her then. I did it too, Brienne. I pushed him to her side.”

“No. No. No. You will not blame yourself for anything that Tyrion has done, let alone Cersei. No. I won’t let you. Your loving your sister should have taught her of another choice besides hate. She chose to cling to it. Tyrion is grown and can make his own choices as well. You had nothing to do with his support of Daenerys.” She touched him by the chin to get him to turn back to her. “We are not responsible for the choices people make.”

“If it affects who we love, we are.”

The idea was on her before she could stop it: what if every time she defied Humfrey or he perceived an action of hers as a deliberate slight he hurt Lyonel? She looked at her wrist, her arm, remembering the red welts that she thought would always mark the skin. She still remembered the deathly ache in her breasts as they swelled and grew heavy from milk when Lyonel was kept from her. Delirium hardly numbed her from the pain and terror that Lyonel was starving and on the brink of death.

“We have to get away from here, Brienne.” He repeated. “It’s our only chance.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But. . .”

“What?”

“I can’t—I can’t accept a world where Lyonel only has one chance. That is not why we fight to survive and live, Jaime. We fight for there to be choices.”

“We don’t have plenty of choices. Would you rather I fight for Cersei knowing how I feel?”

“I will stand by you in any choice that ensures your life. And Lyonel’s.”

“And what of yours?” He sounded annoyed.

Suddenly he let go. Then swiftly turned away. She stared at the smooth, muscled surface of his back.

“When the truth of Goodwin’s betrayal finally dawned on me, I knew there was only one outcome. I refuse to be in a world without Lyonel. That still rings true. But my soldiers fought to save me. So, I willed myself to fight. And as I killed every soldier between me and Goodwin, as I watched him murder my handmaids, I knew I had to fight. I realized I couldn’t bear for Lyonel to find out I gave up easily. Though I knew the cruel fate awaiting him, I wanted him—I needed for him to know I tried. That until I breathed my last he was in my thoughts. And in thinking of him. . .I thought of you.”

Tentatively, her fingers pressed on his back, waiting for him to recoil or worse, fling her hand away. He didn’t move. She spread her fingers then and touched him firmly. The tension in his body hummed under her fingertips.

“There was fire from the dragons, and something blew up. As I was flung from the ship, I felt myself break even more. I was bleeding, some of my clothes were on fire. But what broke me was the realization that with the Stranger waiting in the depths of the ocean, the secret would die with me. I thought. . .with my death, I would deprive Lyonel not only of his true father but also you of the chance to love something beautiful and pure. A miracle we’ve made despite everything.” She continued touching him, not to entice him or to get him back but to keep her head clear. “I know exactly what you mean when you speak of choices affecting the ones we love. I knew with my death there was only one choice for Lyonel. For you. I thought then—”

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to go back to that night. That moment when her body plunged into the water, and she saw the world above ablaze. “I thought, that after everything I’ve been though, it wasn’t right for the ones I loved to be given no other choice. You saved me,” she whispered. “And I firmly believe the reason it was you who got between me and the Stranger is because I must tell you the truth. As should Lyonel. You deserve to love each other. I can go, Jaime. I can go knowing you have each other.”

And then, still facing away from her, his hand reached around to catch her by the fingertips. A slight tug was all it took to have her pressed to him, and then her lips on his mouth. “Don’t go,” he whispered. A hand slipped through her hair as he looked right into her eyes. Into her soul.

“You have me,” was all she could say before he pulled her on top of his body.

Pushing away the short strands of hair mussed around her cheeks, he repeated, “You can’t go. I won’t allow it. You deserve better but I’m yours.” Then he took her mouth.

Fucking was quicker yet also more tender this time. He cupped her face and breasts, flicking a tongue on a stiff nipple when he wasn’t taking her mouth. Her cunt was sore but never ceased to drip for his cock. It didn’t take long for him to spill inside her.

Once again they lay entwined, wrapped in the mess of sticky seed, sweat, and fur. Sapphire and emerald stares gleamed soft and golden. As her fingers fluttered over the smooth, firm line of his jaw, he kept a hand on her breast. A thumb stroked circles on her nipple, keeping it pointed and her breathing quick. He squeezed the mound gently. "You've grown quite plump here, wench."

She was used to his touch now, and his words, spoken in that tone that was between a growl and a purr. But a warmth still crept up her cheeks. "Have I? I have not noticed."

"I know." The declaration was spoken softly but with a sureness that should not be questioned. "If I can't put cubs in you to make them rounder I'll make sure to keep meat on the table for you." He smiled. "More to kiss. More for me."

Then he dragged her close, tilting her just enough to lower his head to her breasts. She closed her eyes as spikes of pleasure went through her with every lash of his tongue on her tender nipple. His hand lowered to her cunt, cupping her tightly before parting the still-slick folds to push a finger inside. God's but she couldn't take his cock inside, not for a few hours but she burned constantly for him, for this. She crossed over to dreams listening and feeling the wet, possessive drags of his lips on her nipple and a long finger curling in her warmth.

But the sleep didn’t last as long as she would have liked. She lay awake in the dark, still feeling the sweet aftermath of getting fucked by Jaime: nipples aching from his kisses that they burned from the cold of the chamber, that wide sensation in her cunt of having been thoroughly used, his seed drying on her thighs. When she decided to leave the bed at last, she was careful. Quietly, she gathered her clothes, guided by the faint light of the fireplace.

Dressed in her breeches, tunic and coat, she picked up the cloak from the chair and pulled it on.

She tiptoed back to Jaime to kiss him.

“Yours,” he murmured when she brushed a lock of hair from his face.

The hallway was dark except for the weakening columns of fire lining the walls. She raised the hood to her hair and hurried down the path. There was little warmth despite the shut windows and carpets, the torches. It didn’t take long for her lips and cheeks to stiffen, and she could have sworn there was ice at the tip of her eyelashes. She moved swiftly but with care, quick to still or hide behind a pillar when a yawning sentry shuffled by.

The last hurdle was running up the wide staircase. Her boots made soft thumps on the carpeted steps. Just before she got to the top, she heard the clank of metal and the heavy footsteps of another guard. She slipped behind a pillar, plastering herself on it to be mistaken as part of its structure. Her breath froze as a Lannister guard walked mere inches from her that she could smell the touch of ale in his breath. Her eyes narrowed as they followed him down the stairs. Only when he disappeared around the corner did she make that final sprint back to her chamber.

Her hand was at the door when she heard a cry.

Then silence. She looked around. I am going mad.

The next cry told her she was not.

“Lyonel.”

Brienne burst into his chamber, sword half-drawn. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness before finding the faint dying light at the fireplace and then Lyonel in bed. She drew her sword fully out, stance and mind alert for an attack.

“No.” Lyonel.

When it was clear there was no one else in the chamber, Brienne hurried to his side. She put a hand on his chest. His shirt was soaked in sweat despite the cold. As his heart thudded under her palm, she tried to wake him. “My love. Lyonel, it’s a dream. Lyonel.”

She had to put Oathkeeper back in the scabbard before sitting at his side, rubbing his chest and urging him to wake. But whatever nightmare Lyonel was having had a stronger hold. A much stronger hold. Eyes squeezed shut, his body still except for the movements of his lips as he made groaned and grunted, “No. No.”

The whine and soft scrape of wood brushing against wood drew Brienne’s attention to the side of the room. As a door opened, she pulled out her sword and growled, “Stop!”

“It is I,” the person answered from behind the half-open door. His voice was familiar.

Brienne glanced at Lyonel, who was still asleep. She thrust her sword in the air. “Show yourself. Come away from that door very slowly or I’ll take your tonsils.”

A pair of hands emerged first, then a foot covered in dark hose. Brienne didn’t relax her stance even as Addam Marbrand stood before her, heavy brocade robe flung halfway up his shoulders, his sleeping shift open at the chest.

The man was covered in hair: a thick tousle of auburn piled on his head, his darker beard, and the curls peeking from where the sleeping shift had loosened around the chest. One side of his face was lined—a crease from being pressed on a pillow too long.

“Lady Brienne,” he said, his tone clipped and formal.

“Lord Marbrand,” she murmured.

He looked at her sword. “Will you be lowering that soon? You can see I am unarmed.”

“Why are you here?”

“I—My chamber adjoins Lyonel’s. Sometimes he has bad dreams and I look in on him.” Addam explained. Taking notice of her clothes, he remarked, “You’re dressed.”

“I heard him.” Brienne lowered the sword. Pushing it inside the scabbard, she continued, “And I don’t wander anywhere without clothes, my lord, except within the privacy of my chamber.”

“I meant you are dressed for the day. I believe I still have a couple of hours before I wake for my first meal. My squire would be up earlier than that.” He looked pointedly at Lyonel.

“Oh. Yes. Your squire.” She glanced at her son. He was quiet now, brow no longer furrowed from the dream. But she touched him on the cheek, and he seemed to smile.

Was he truly calm now? Brienne hesitated to withdraw but did it anyway. Addam was now at the foot of the bed.

“Does he have them often?” She asked, glancing at Lyonel even as she walked away.

“I don’t know for certain if he has them nightly. It is rare he makes noise.” Brienne thought he did look concerned. “I do try to wake him, but he doesn’t. He seems to be able to leave whatever plagues his mind during sleep. He’s very self-reliant that way. One of the many ways, if you’d like to know.”

“He’s never had bad dreams before he left.”

“Do you know that for certain?”

Brienne frowned. “He’s my son. I know him much better than you do, my lord.”

“I don’t mean to question your authority in any way, my lady.”

“No. I know that’s not what you mean.” She sighed. “I also did not mean to lay the blame on you for his. . .dreams.” She’d like to stay with Lyonel until he woke but it wouldn’t be wise. The last thing he needed was for word to get out that his mother liked to coddle him.

“I should go.” Brienne walked past Addam, catching the subtle note of something like honey from him.

“Let me walk you to your chambers.”

“There’s no need.” When she turned to address him, he was standing quite close. She sniffed. He did smell of honey. Or was it sugar? “That’s very kind of you, my lord, but I don’t think I would be in any grave danger during the seven steps I’d be taking to return to my chamber.”

“For my own peace of mind then, Lady Brienne. If you’ll indulge me.”

She nodded and opened the door. He followed her into the hallway.

“Forgive me for speaking of it again, but you are already dressed. I admire people who begin the day with the sun but if I may, you are up earlier than the sun, Lady Brienne.”

“Oh.” Brienne muttered. “I do like an early start. I don’t like to get in the way of soldiers and guards when they practice in the armory during the day. So, I sneak in early.” She hoped she didn’t sound as breathless as she thought she did. Glad for the sight of her carved wooden door, she said, “We’re here. Thank you, my lord.”

Her cheeks flared as she struggled through a quick, awkward curtsy. Addam’s slight bow was flawless.

“Lady Brienne, before I go, a word about the young Lord Lyonel.”

“Of course.”

“This is not a reproach but an observation. I’ve noticed he has a preference for fish rather than meat, though he has gotten quite used to poultry. He has a liking for duck with spiced apples. And crusty, salted bread to sweep it all off the plate.”

“I see.”

“Now Casterly Rock has a very fine kitchen—it rivals that of King’s Landing. Fresh produce is much closer, as well as the meat. The cook here makes very good duck with spiced apples. The meat is so tender.”

“I’m glad he’s eating well, then.” Brienne was beginning to get confused.

“Lord Jaime has two squires and I’m certain, being the generous fellow he is, he could loan me one of them to take care of my supper later. That way, you can have supper with Lord Lyonel.”

“Oh. I—I don’t know—he has duties, my lord, to you—” Brienne stammered but Addam shook his head.

“Lyonel has never disappointed me. He works hard. He’s humble. Very smart. He’s taken a liking for books now after his struggles with reading although he much prefers maps. The boy needs to only look at a map once to remember all the boundaries. I wish to reward him for such exemplary service. And outside of sparring and training the other lads, I have noticed you have spent little time together.”

“We haven’t, unfortunately.”

“Then you shall have supper with him tonight. I insist,” Addam declared when Brienne tried to protest again. “I can not imagine the time you’ve had, my lady, with escaping Tarth and doing whatever it took to lay eyes on your son again. Allow me to extend my appreciation of my squire, and to express my gratitude that you stand before me. Blessings have become so rare we might think they no longer exist. I see you, I look at you and—” eyes boring into her, he added softly, “I believe.”

“You are very kind, ser.”

He smiled. He also had that deep indentation on his cheek that appeared when smiling. But only one. Jaime had two. Big ones. Brienne did have to will her eyes from it, though.

She pushed open the door and only then did he turn to head for his chamber.

 It was right across from hers.

“My lord,” she called.

“Lady Brienne?”

“Thank you. Thank you for protecting him.”

Chapter Text

Winter had spared Tarth of snow, though the days remained dark and the nights starless. The winds blew with might of a hundred giants and could scoop up the strongest stallion from the sand and fling it to the sea. Against such elements Evenfall Hall had been near-indestructible, even from the fires rained by Daenerys’ dragons. It stood proudly at the highest point of the isle, a beacon scarred and streaked black from the fires.

At the bow of the Drogon stood Tyrion Lannister. Small feet spread apart, wide little hands closed into fists to stop himself from reaching for something to brace on through the swift but violent bouncing and swaying of the ship through the sea. He was almost relieved when night closed around like a fist. Through the strains of chains holding the anchor as it was lowered, he finally turned away, rubbing his face. The air had slashed at his cheeks with the sureness of a dozen flying swords. The floorboards continued to creak and squeak through the flurry of men preparing for the night. Above, the sails groaned from the wind intent on making them bow.

“Do you see the battle that awaits us in our destination, my lord?”

Tyrion smirked, glancing up briefly as Barristan fell into a step beside him. “It must kill you inside, slowly, at having to speak to me this way. I won’t have your head if you’d rather spit at my title, Ser. Or my name.” He fixed the tie of the cloak around his neck for it was quite tight. “I’m not Cersei.”

“I have no ill will towards you, if you must know. You had no choice in the House you were born into.”

“True. A choice out of my hands that’s kept me alive, to my father’s disappointment.” His laugh was without mirth. “The hour is late, Ser. How will you protect me from vipers and their spears if you don’t get a good night’s sleep?”

“My hair is white and the lines in my face deepen by the day. But if I so desire, I could cut at an army like cake.”

Tyrion nodded. “I have no doubt. But would you do it for me?”

“I am here at her orders, my lord.” Barristan said without a moment’s hesitation. “Thus, should I have to make the choice to put myself between swords and you, I do it in her name.”

“I can always trust you to speak the truth, Ser Barristan. Tell me, do you look forward to our destination with the same thrill as I do? It would be my first time to set foot in Dorne. But not yours, is it?” He turned to the knight then, trying to glimpse his face through the faint light of lamps.

He failed.

“I bid you good night.” Barristan said,

It took close to a week to put behind choppy waters and the sky-high waves sent by a sudden storm. Tyrion kept to his chambers, having seen the wisdom in Barristan’s fury in keeping as much protection around him. The storm had taken five armored soldiers. Only when a strange quiet seemed to have fallen like a cloak and an odd bead sliding down Tyrion’s face did he remember the latter was sweat.

It seemed winter had not touched Dorne at all.

The sun and heat were glorious, to say the least. He joined the others in the ship, squinting at the blue sky that had turned away from them for years. He sniffed the air, welcoming the salt and even the taint of fish.

These smells grew more pungent when they dropped anchor at the docks. Aromatic smoke spiced with something peppery and citrusy was a welcome perfume, as was the steady ground under his feet. He immediately handed a scroll to one of Daenerys’ guards.

“Best we warn the Martells of our coming,” he said. “They will spit venom before a Lannister breathes the same air as they do.”

“No.” Barristan suddenly spoke up. Tyrion raised an eyebrow at the old knight.

The other soldiers looked quite rough in their dented, winter-appropriate armor and their fur cloaks scraggly and stained. Barristan seemed to have been untouched by the calamities that had plagued their journey, though there were bigger circles under his eyes.

“No? Ser, do you have further thoughts, then? Besides it being common sense to inform a host in advance of our arrival, it may also keep our heads on our necks.”

“Our arrival has been noted.” Barristan looked ahead so Tyrion turned.

He counted more than a dozen soldiers in tan leather, dark boots and a breastplate of steel emblazoned with the sigil of a spear piercing the sun. Gathered around their shoulders was sunsilk that seemed several yards long and the color of the sunset.

To a dwarf, the soldiers seemed tall though when Ser Barristan took the first few steps toward them it showed he had significant height over most of them. The Dornish soldiers all wore trimmed, dark bark beards. Round eyes that ranged from the color of dark sand to a black night stared at their bedraggled party.

A man met Barristan halfway. Unlike the Dornish soldiers with their rich, olive skin, this man had a leathered, heavily-lined face, a tan acquired from the son rather than through ancestry. His hair was as white, his build as powerful. Barristan had to raise his head slightly to look him in the eye.

“We have been waiting,” the man told Barristan outright. He cast a knowing, slightly amused glance at Tyrion and the other men. “The sea has not been kind.”

“The weather has been cruel for years.” Barristan offered his hand. “You are Areo Hota. I am—”

“I know of your name.” The man grasped his hand. “Ser Barristan.”

“And I am Tyrion Lannister.” Tyrion declared upon joining them. The utterance of his name was enough for the soldiers to cast dark glances on him. Areo did not offer his hand, nor did Tyrion expect him to. “But if you know of our arrival, then you know who to expect, did you not?”

“We know you come in the name of your queen Daenerys, as she has written to our prince. Prince Doran sent us to meet you and bring you to Sunspear. Our red sands and great sun have no mercy on the foreign. It is perhaps nature’s way of removing the unwelcomed.” Areo told Tyrion. “You will not survive without us. At the orders of our prince, we are to be your shield.”

“Which does not please you,” Tyrion couldn’t resist pointing out.

Areo’s stare sent a chill through him. “We serve. Obey. Protect.”

He didn’t give time for the dwarf to weigh in on his words for he returned to his men, commanding for supplies be ready and their visitors be outfitted in attire suited for desert travel. The sunsilk was a cool press on Tyrion’s face as he was given a boost up a sand steed. It was the finest animal he had ever been on, its very breath the promise of strength and endurance. Barristan steered close to him.

“You will do us a huge favor keeping most of your thoughts to yourself, my lord, if not all of them. You are only aware that your House is hated in these parts. You don’t want to know what they will do with that hatred when provoked.”

“How touching,” Tyrion remarked. “You worry for my safety.”

“I do not wish to fail my queen, my lord. Nor do I intend to waste the lives of her soldiers who left the world they knew purely on faith in her. I will not get in the way of spears thrown in their direction but a loose tongue I can put a clamp on.”

Tyrion smiled. “I expect no less.”

The ride through the arid, rocky desert made their sea journey almost a dream. The sun beat hard on their heads during the day, and the wash of sunsilk pressing through the face was little relief. Oases were far and few, so the water they offered were drunk as if there would be no tomorrow.

The air was so dry that Tyrion couldn’t even muster one drop of saliva to swallow, for relief, during those long, arduous rides through rocky mountains. The sun was bright he had never been able to see straight, though the sand steed knew just where to go. Through his squinting, he made out sand the color of blood, and that of snow. The heat was constant. It beat them like a silent, persistent, battering ram.

Nights brought winds that screamed in his ears, and with them a chill that had him shivering despite the protection of a tent. The extreme contrasts between night and day made both a torture to face. During a respite, Tyrion, his head seemingly crammed with wet cotton despite the absence of wine, dismounted from his steed with no grace. He all but crawled to the edge of a cliff to heave the souring contents of his stomach.

“It would please you to know we would reach Sunspear by noon tomorrow, my lord,” said Ateo Hota. He stood next to Tyrion as he continued relieving his stomach. “We could ride through the night and be there by sunrise, but it would be reckless.”

Catching his breath then wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Tyrion said, “Our arrival would be blessed relief. I fear I’ve ceased to know the days from nights and nights from days since we rode the first time.”

“Tonight would be our fifth in here. And tomorrow the sixth day.” Areo suddenly thrust a flask to him. Tyrion murmured his thanks and drank the sweet, sweet water.

“You surprised me,” Areo remarked. “I thought you would always expect a silk pillow for your bottom. Your men are Dothraki and Unsullied, so they are used to harshness. But a little lion such as you. Even the threads of your clothes are true gold, no?”

“Not for this lion.” Tyrion stood up and handed the flask back to him. Areo took it and kept looking at him. “You have further remarks?”

“I have little doubt that Ser Barristan is here in the name of your queen.”

“But you don’t trust that I do.”

“There is little to trust in a name that calls for the murder of women and children. There should be no trust at all.”

“I know of the rumors—”

“Careful, my lord. I am merely a sworn shield to my Prince Doran. But to utter such words in the presence of the Prince Oberyn would have your head severed from your body before you can finish the sentence.” He glanced around them. “You would pray for the mercy of one of his poisons. We are here on the orders of our prince. But know that you are surrounded by enemies.”

“Even the rocks?”

“You are surrounded, my lord.” Areo turned and Tyrion called him back.

“Why do you warn me?”

“Why, because you are the guest of the prince, my lord. The Dornish are hot-blooded and not be crossed. Something outsiders often underestimate and learn too late.” Areo turned away, muttering, “Always too late.”

For the first time since leaving Tarth, Tyrion slept through the night. But he dreamed. He dreamed of a battle. A battle that turned the white, snowy mountains of Westeros as red as blood. In his hand was an axe as tall as he was but he swung it with ease. He stood at the line with Ser Barristan, the Dothraki, the Unsullied, while around them mounted knights and other soldiers charged at the unknown enemy. A scream through the sky dragged his eyes from the battle. There he saw them: three dragons wheeling through the sky, breathing fire on the ravaged land.

“Hold the line!” Barristan yelled, sword swinging, enemies slashed to bloody ribbons. But Tyrion, hearing the enemy charging from the other side, broke past. His blood was singing. He was a small man, barely considered a man in this world, but he was going to fight. He would fight and win. He raised his axe to strike again and through the smoke and fire, a white horse broke though. A glorious, white steed, pure as light.

And astride it was—

“Jaime.”

He stared at his brother. His protector. The only family had ever loved. The only one to love him back. Jaime, golden and untouched by the carnage, stared at him. Tyrion felt his heart torn, first in halves, then more.

“Jaime,” he said again. “Jaime.”

Then Jaime began to move. Fast. Toward him. Tyrion, his heart now crumbs, gripped his axe and swung—

His woke just then, wide-eyed and shocked at the multicolored canopy he had seen countless times since riding through the dessert. A hand fell on his heart. It beat steadily.

“Jaime,” he murmured. His brother was going to kill him in the dream. No. It couldn’t be. It was only a dream. Jaime would never. Not his brother who always protected him.

The brother who had now married Cersei. Tyrion closed his eyes. Hatred and anger at his sister had put him in the path of Daenerys, and now in her service. If he hadn’t though then that the marriage between his brother and sister signified who Jaime loved more, then he knew now.

Jaime was never going to choose him.

He thought of nothing else as the sun rose higher and higher. Again the heat beat upon their covered head and shoulders with the persistence of a battering ram. Water was offered to him and he barely murmured thanks, tossing the drink quickly down his parched throat before thoughts hounded him again. Jaime and Cersei. Golden. Beautiful. Lannister perfection made flesh, and now bound.

During his imprisonment at Cersei’s orders, he had counted the days of his dear brother’s return. Jaime was unkillable, the most talented and skilled knight of the realm. A swordsman few could beat. He will return and set this to rights, Tyrion had thought as he lay in the narrow, worn pallet that was the only bed allowed of him.

Jaime would know of my innocence. Of course, Tyrion wished he had a hand in his cunt nephew’s death. Had it been under his orders, he would have shoved Cersei’s face in the pool of blood. Perhaps even made her drink it. Fate had taken the gift from his hands. And now he was going to lose his head. Jaime, you must return. Soon. Only you can save me. It is only you that stands between our mad sister and the realm she intends to rule.

But things never turn out as wished.

Thoughts receding from his mind at last, Tyrion was able to look ahead of him.

The color of sand in the sun, the Old Palace looked as bare and arid as the desert they stood on. When Tyrion’s vision cleared, however, glimpsed water canals that flowed into groves where trees of blood orange and lemons stood tall and abundant. Ringed around the palace was the city.

“A true oasis, if I may say so,” Tyrion murmured.

They rode past the city gates and through what felt like a spiderweb of roads and streets before finally reaching the Old Palace. The prospect of several nights in a feather bed tugged a smirk from the corner of Tyrion’s lips. He glanced at Barristan and the other soldiers. They all looked to be as pleased as he was.

“Your men will find quarters for them to rest on, and food and drink for feasting,” Areo told Tyrion and Ser Barristan. “My prince is still resting but you will be welcomed nevertheless. If you will follow me.”

The Old Palace as unlike any other place Tyrion had set foot on. There were the usual rich carpets, vividly designed but thin, due to the climate. Where there ought to be walls and tapestries he found carved columns that framed sheer curtains, now swept to the side to let the air in. Despite the open spaces where anyone, it seemed, could just slip inside then out, was an abundance of gold, silver, and even precious stones studding tables with curling legs. The chairs were large and looked as soft and clouds.

Two armed soldiers flanked the entrance to the throne room. Each held a spear. Areo nodded at them, and they stepped aside. Tyrion felt the dagger in their stares digging in his back as he followed. He kept his eyes forward, seeing a woman waiting for them at the end.

Even from afar, it was clear to Tyrion she was not Dornish. Blond hair flowed to her waist, and her skin was lightly tan. Her dress seemed a floaty, diaphanous cloth that gleamed gold, red and orange, depending on where the sunlight fell on her. She stood in front of twin chairs.

Areo bowed before her. Barristan and Tyrion hastened to do the same.

“Princess,” he said. “I present Lord Tyrion Lannister and Ser Barristan the Bold, here in the name of their Queen Daenerys Stormborn.”

“Thank you.” The woman had a soft, velvety voice but with the sweetness of a young girl. Tyrion straightened up and his heart stopped.

For one moment of pure horror, he thought his nightmare had come true. But this woman was not his sister. She was an exact image, indeed, from the curls framing her high cheekbones, the clear emeralds eyes, and the tall, lithe frame.

And then he remembered. After all this time, he had forgotten. The alliance he’d made. A decision that made Cersei even more determined to wipe his face off this earth.

“Myrcella,” he whispered, staring.

She smiled. And there it was, the difference between mother and child. The warmth of her smile also shone in her eyes.

“It has been so long, Uncle Tyrion. I bid you welcome.”

Chapter Text

Morning found the squires Lyonel, Peck, and Garrett in the armory. Along with their own swords, each also made the time to sharpen the weapons of their respective knights or hammer out the dents in the armor and breastplate.

Lyonel enjoyed this task particularly. He liked the quiet, rhythmic song of honing the blades sharp. The armory was a place of refuge too. Ser Addam was hardly a demanding knight but being a squire kept Lyonel busy at all hours of the day. So, he looked forward to that hour where he had the armory to himself, where he could sit and just get lost in the task.

He had little memory of the armory back in Tarth, if it had one. But he supposed that its size was similar to the one in Ashemark. Even combined together, they would hardly match the size of the armory here in Casterly Rock, let alone the number and variety of weapons. Sword and shield was all a knight needed, he once thought. But in Casterly Rock, the soldiers were also armed with broadaxes, morningstars, spears, clubs and daggers, bows and arrows.

Bows and arrows were his favorite. For an hour a day, Ser Addam taught him its finer points, since he was quite the marksman himself. Then there was also swordplay, which he was also quite good at but nothing close to his mother. Nor Ser Jaime.

It had taken all of Lyonel’s self-control to not smile when watching his lady mother spar with Ser Jaime. They were the perfect study in contrast. Ser Jaime moved with the elegance and swiftness expected of a knight. Brienne, on the other hand, was rough though she was just as quick in swinging and on her feet. What scandalized the Lannister soldiers and some of Ser Marbrand’s was her push for them to use their bodies as weapons too.

After all, it was peasants who fought on the ground, with farm tools swinging mindlessly at foe. Knights fought on horseback, with skill. Punching people in the gut, bruising them in the eyes—this was the way of the smallfolk. Pray tell, what was the point of being squire if this was a lesson?

There was much grumbling as a result, but Ser Jaime, Ser Addamn, not even Ser Kevan had put an end to Brienne’s unusual lesson. The fact that she was a highborn lady encouraging soldiers to punch her in the face made learning even more difficult. No decent fellow would willingly punch a woman, after all.

But Lyonel was proud of her. Unlike many women, she was as strong as three men, and had the courage of ten. She was taller than most men too. The scar on her cheek was horrific but he thought it told the world that the Lady Brienne of Tarth, his mother, was not to be messed with unless one had a death wish.

His dear mother. Thinking her dead had not only taken what little light was left in this dark world. It had also taken his heart. Seeing her alive had made the long, cold days easier. She was the only family he had. And as much as he tried to remember his father, he was all but a shadow. Lyonel wondered if forgiveness was possible for that.

“Say, you really have the talent for it,” Garrett said, glancing at the dagger Lyonel was examining with a critical eye. “I can tell just from looking just how sharp and deadly it is.”

“It would never leave my conscience if my lord had only this weapon for his use and it turned out dull,” Lyonel replied, carefully slipping it back in its leather scabbard. “We don’t just serve their meals and lay out their clothes. This task we do may just keep them alive.”

“Do you think it will happen?”

The question came from Peck. He was working on the far corner of the armory, quietly removing the dents of a breastplate. Hunched, he looked small, almost child-like. He was the oldest among them.

“The war.” He turned to them, blinking through mouse-brown hair that had grown too long and now hung almost to his nose. “Do you think it will happen?”

Garret shrugged. “Who knows. It would be foolish to engage in even a battle in this cold. You will not find death at the end of the sword.”

Lyonel watched Peck resume his work before thinking to ask. “You were there, weren’t you? At the Battle of Blackwater?”

It took a moment for the young man to answer. “Aye.”

“What was it like?” Garrett asked.

The two boys looked at each other when Peck didn’t answer. But then he suddenly put away the armor as if it carried the weight of the world. He looked at them.

“There are no words. All that you’ve been taught will be forgotten. It’s nothing like sparring. Nothing like anything we’ve been taught.” He seemed to want to say more but thought better of it. Picking up a helmet, he said, “Ser Brienne is right to teach combat with fists. In battle it just becomes mindless hacking at the enemy. All you can hope for is you’re quicker and the Stranger doesn’t favor you. Knowing another way to fight should you lose your sword may just save you.”

“But you slew two knights,” Garrett suddenly interjected after a moment’s silence. “And I heard you captured two more.”

Peck scoffed. “I had little choice. It was either kill or be killed. Capture or be captured.”

“What was it like?” Lyonel wanted to know. “Killing a knight?”

“I suppose no different than when you kill a man for sport. Killing is killing.” He suddenly stood up. “I’d best get these to Ser Jaime. Garrett, you won’t take too long with his arms, I hope?”

“I shall follow shortly.”

With a nod, Peck turned to leave. As he opened the door of the armory, five Lannister soldiers swaggered in. One gave Peck a shove, laughing, before turning to the other squires. Garrett bowed his head low and resumed sharpening a sword. Lyonel sighed and picked up wax and bow. He opened the jar, dipped the cloth in it. As he was about to take the bow, somebody picked it up. It was the Lannister soldier who had shoved at Peck.

“That is my lord Marbrand’s.” Lyonel said calmly.

“You mean the Lord Addam Marbrand who defied the queen’s orders?” The man pointed out. His smile did not reach his eyes. He had the blond, elegant looks of someone whose roots were within the borders of the Westerlands. As the other soldiers surrounded them, Garret started developing an intense fascination with his task.

“Hardly surprising,” the soldier continued. “Bow and arrow are a craven's weapons."

Lyonel shot to his feet, startling Garrett into a cry. “You will take back that insult—”

He didn’t manage to finish the rest of the sentence because the soldier slammed the bow on his knee and threw away the mangled pieces. Immediately, someone from behind locked him around the neck. "He's a lot bigger than we thought!" The man grunted at Lyonel's ear as he struggled. "Stronger than an ox too, seven hells--"

“Or you’ll what? Set your mother upon me? You think I would fear the Kingslayer’s whore?”

“Lyonel, no!” Garrett suddenly shouted but it was too late. Despite the arms around his neck. Lyonel wrenched himself free by slamming the heel of his boot right on the other man’s toe. A pained yelp rang in his ear but Lyonel was able to grab one of the swords to thrust it towards the soldier’s chest. The man appeared stunned for a second before breaking into laughter.

“You mean to kill me? You? A mere squire?”

“Killing is killing,” Lyonel declared, turning his wrist to better aim the sword at his heart. Symon froze. “You will take back the insult against my lord. And my lady mother.”

“Or?”

“Symon,” one of the soldiers suddenly spoke up. “Enough. We just wanted to give him a teasing, that’s all.”

“Did you see how ill-tempered he is?” Symon demanded. “Lord Marbrand will not tolerate such behavior.” He spat at Lyonel's boots. "And his whore of a mother-"

“I believe you should see yourself in the looking glass first before accusing the lad,” somebody drawled. All heads turned to see Jaime Lannister in the doorway. Nothing in his face betrayed anger or any emotion but it was clear to every soldier and squire in the room they were on thin ice. Immediately, the soldiers surrounding the two boys stepped away, their heads down. Symon's eyes were the size of dinner plates.

“Symon is your name?” Jaime continued, taking a step into the armory. His spoke softly. Too softly.

“S-Ser,” Symon nodded.

“I asked for your name, you dolt, not if you know the proper way of addressing me." Jaime Lannister may as well have whipped him given how the soldier suddenly jumped. "Has winter addled the minds of soldiers? Too much ice in your head, perhaps? So let’s try this again." Another step, this time falling right under the shaft of pale light that had slipped through the window. Garbed in a leather coat of deep crimson, trousers of fine leather and boots that shone like the tip of a dagger, the Kingslayer looked exactly the kind of man no one would wish to face across the battlefield. He tossed his head, the gold of his hair shimmering so and the beauty of his face taking on a rugged but still elegant quality as the sun momentarily fell on it before his eyes returned to the soldier. A hand tapped the hilt of his sword. "Is your name Symon?”

“It is, ser. Symon be my name.”

When he said no more, Jaime looked impatient. “Lyonel, lower your sword. You, " he snapped back at Symob. "Do you come from a House? Or was your mother a whore and your house is a mere pile of straw and wood, then?”

As Symon blanched, Jaime continued, “It’s not a good feeling, is it, for your mother to be insulted. But unlike you, my words have as much weight as gold. Your mother may have spread her legs only for your father but all it takes is one word from me and all the Seven Kingdoms will think she’s a whore. Would you like to see me try?”

“I apologize, my lord—”

“I asked," Jaime enunciated each syllable. "If you would care for me to try?" When Symon could only shake his head, he continued, "Such insult will not to be tolerated within these walls. You will apologize to young Lyonel here. And later in the day, I’ll see to it that you volunteer first to be pummeled by Ser Lady Brienne of Tarth. That’s right,” Jaime grinned until he was within breath of Symon. “The lady you insult is a knight. A better knight than you will ever be, which you will be not. You can rue this day for the rest of your life because anytime a lord intends on making you a knight, I will make my disapproval known. Now, get out of my sight before I change my mind and smash your ugly face on the ground.”

The soldiers hastened to leave but Jaime called them again. “Do you forget something?”

Lyonel saw the fury in Symon’s face. But the soldier said the words anyway. “I am sorry," he told Lyonel.

“Symon,” Jaime added. “Should you lose against Ser Brienne, consider this as your last day as a soldier for House Lannister. I will not have your face and breath souring the walls of Casterly Rock past sundown, is that clear?”

“But my lord—”

“That will be all. If you are smart, you will hope this will be all between us.”

The soldiers left in silence. Jaime turned to Garrett and Lyonel. “Garrett, Peck said you will take a while long with my weapons. I see you’re done.”

“Yes, my lord.” Garrett put them in their respective scabbards and left.

“My lord—” Lyonel started to say but Jamie’s sudden glare cut him off.

“Next time, you boy, you will know better than to take on five men at once. They may not be knights but they’re soldiers. They have killed before. Some probably even enjoy it. Do I make my meaning clear?”

“He insulted my mother, ser,” Lyonel protested. “And Ser Addam.”

“I have it on good authority that Marbrand and your mother will say exactly what I’m telling you now. You are a strong lad. No one questions that. But five against one are never good odds. Be it man and especially a child such as yourself.”

“I don’t care. His insult was unacceptable.”

“Why? Do you think there’s one insult that’s acceptable?”

“It wasn’t right,” Lyonel insisted. “Even if mother wasn’t highborn, any insult to her honor is unforgivable.”

“I don’t disagree. But you miss the point I wish to make. Strong as you are, when you let your emotions get the better at you, all your strength, whatever training you have, even having right on your side, will be gone. You seem unable to get it through your thick skull that these soldiers can and will kill. What would have happened if I hadn’t just happened to walk in when I did? No doubt you've only read about the so-called honor of knights. The selflessless of soldiers laying down their lives for their lord and king. Whimsical tales at best, my lad. Foolish songs. The truth of them is the exact opposite.”

“With no disrespect, ser, but what do you expect me to do? Just let them say those things about mother? And Ser Addam? Mother—they are not the first to insult her within my hearing.”

“And did you beat the men each time?”

Lyonel turned red. “I couldn’t. I was little. But I’m not little now.” He glanced at the sword in his hand. "And I have some knowledge in fighting now."

“No." Jaime scanned him from head to toe. nodding to himself. "No, you’re not little. And you do have skill," he nodded at the blade."But you’re a green boy. A long way still from becoming a knight."

“Forgive me, ser. I refuse for wrong to rule when I have the chance to make things right.”

“Dear lad,” Jaime looked at the ceiling then back at him. “If only you know how many wrongs are committed by the hour. Do you intend to right them all?”

“I was not raised to be quiet, my lord. Nor to warm the sidelines.”

Something seemed to spark in Jaime Lannister’s eyes at that moment. It was gone before Lyonel could think much more about it. He continued to look up defiantly at the Kingslayer.

“Your heart is indeed pure,” The man muttered, sounding exasperated. “I don’t know whether to fear for you or the world.”

“Mother would draw her sword had she been in my place, ser.”

Jaime suddenly laughed. “She would. And beat them all. But you’re not her, Lyonel.” He suddenly paused and seemed confused. “Look, no parent could be prouder of what you just did but it’s not right. You can’t right every wrong. You have to choose your battles.”

“There’s no point in fighting if I know I’ll win.”

“That is exactly the reason to fight.” Jaime suddenly took him by the shoulder. For the first time Lyonel realized how tall he was. Of the power he held just with his stare. People said he stabbed Aerys in the back. Did he manage to turn and glimpse his eyes? Did he know who killed him?

“It is not foolhardy to choose your battles, lad. You don’t fight to make a statement, to make things right. You fight to win. It is the only choice you can make when you pick up the sword. Someday you will be head of your House. And you will see, oh, you will see the sense I am trying to make here.”

“All I understand is from what you mean to say, ser, is that I should never stick my neck out unless I can still keep my head on it. No one wins all the time. And if the Stranger takes me sooner than desired then I shall go knowing it was for something I believed in.”

“You're too young to be foolish, Lyonel. You have no idea of the pain your mother was in thinking you dead until she set eyes on you here. I can tell you with much certainty she will not be pleased if you tell her those same words."

Lyonel was silent. He could imagine what it had been like for her. "Then she will not know, my lord."

"Good. Lyonel, it doesn't make you craven nor less honorable if you only pick battles you can win, if that be your thinking. You will not always win. The Stranger comes for us all. But winning many times means you not only get to keep your life but also your children’s. Your soldiers. Anyone who serves and will fight in your name. That,” Jaime squeezed his shoulder hard before letting go, “is what I mean by choosing battles you can win. Every choice you make will not only have a consequence in your life, lad, but also those around you. Never forget.”

The Kingslayer then stepped back and looked down at him through his nose. Lyonel thought he looked very much like a lion now, with his arrogance and golden hair framed around his head like a mane. “I won’t breathe a word of the incident to your mother and your lord. Symon won’t be the last idiot to utter such words, Lyonel.” That startled look again. “I doubt he will survive a pummeling by your mother, but you’d best hope he is gone from these walls before sunset. He’s a fool who will always think himself right. That’s not the kind of enemy you wish to have, let alone one who has the power and experience to corner you.”

“Do you think I am frightened of him, my lord?” Lyonel demanded in disbelief.

“No. There is little doubt that you can best him, even with the little skills you have. You are your mother’s son.” He cleared his throat. “But you are too young to know how it is to take a life. It is one of the few things in life where it is best done later rather than sooner. Now,” he picked up the pieces of the broken bow and handed it to him. “You have work to do. You must go to the bowyer at once and give him the specifications of your lord’s bow. Waste no more time, lad. The day advances despite your idleness.”

“I am not and never idle, ser.”

“No.” Jaime smiled at him. “You are not. Forgive me.”

He turned and walked away. Lyonel started gathering the arrows that had also been upset. But then a question hit him, and he asked it without another thought.

“Ser Jaime, how old were you?”

The golden light in his eyes vanished. Lyonel’s heart stilled as Jaime Lannister looked at him. Each knew what he meant.

“I was ten and seven. Old enough.” Jaime said. “Is that your only question?”

Lyonel bowed his head. “That was thoughtless of me. Forgive me, my lord.”

“There is nothing to forgive. But the next time you ask a question, be ready for the answers. You will not always like them.”

Chapter Text

It had been less than a moon since she had vacated her apartments in the Maiden’s Tower yet it already had the air of long abandonment. Signs of the life she had here have been moved to her Aunt Lysa’s apartments because she was now the Lady of the Vale. The bed she had slept on had been stripped of its canopy and sheets, the table that held her combs and brushes empty. Plain sheets of white lounged on the furniture like ghosts.

The heavy wooden doors leading to the balcony had the screech of a witch in the tomb-like silence of the chamber. Slivers of icy air stabbed through the widening gap as Sansa pushed against it. With every strain she gasped, and every gasp misty but icy swords slashed at her lips and tongue. When she finally pushed it open wide enough, she leaned against the door as if it were a knight come to take her.

Through the thick gray and white mist clouding the day, she saw the snow-choked summit of the Giant’s Lance. She stepped away from the door until her hands rested on the stone balustrade. It was ice. Everywhere was ice. Waterfalls she once glimpsed pouring gleaming water now hung like giant, jagged teeth. Trees that used to be green and sparkled under the sun like clusters of emeralds were either covered in snow or bared of leaves. She was hundreds of feet above them. The distance made them seem like flailing hands clawing through the ice.

She heard only her breath. No falcons, no gust of wind, nor the distant voices of life below.

It didn’t take long for her to start shivering. Dressed in only a gown and a cloak more suitable for indoors, she couldn’t have her handmaidens know where she was off as they dressed her. The heavy pounding of her heart suddenly seemed loud, much like the sound of heavy footsteps. She glanced behind her.

All she could do was trust.

Fingers of the night were stretching across the gray horizon when the sounds came. She turned as the doors into the chamber squeaked and scraped across the floor as someone from the other side pushed. She hid her relief as the doors revealed him.

“Lady Sansa.” Petyr Baelish gave her another of those slow looks that made her feel as if a mare assessed for breeding. Glancing around as he stepped away from the doors, he added, “You have chosen an interesting place to meet.”

“No one will look for me here. No one will find us.”

“No one will find us?” He smirked. “Interesting choice of words from a married woman.”

“I hear you will leave soon. You will not be here when my marriage reaches a moon.”

“Cersei grows more cross the further I delay. And she has made threats. If I stay away completely she will suspect things.” He joined her at the balcony, drawing his plum cloak closer around his body. The mockingbird at his throat flashed as what remained of the day’s light fell on it, like a flame point. The slight movements of arms as they adjusted the cloak had the embroidered mockingbirds fluttering as if mad flight.

“The queen is not the most clever in King’s Landing, let alone a tea party, but she holds the Seven Kingdoms. It is best to keep placating her and demonstrating the loyalty she expects from her Master of Coin.”

“Do you think it wise? Or even safe? To go back to her still despite the threats?” Sansa asked. “She can not touch us here. Even when the ice melts.”

“Someone has to make sure of things.”

“What things?”

“You summoned me.” He reminder, avoiding her question. “I’m quite curious about the send-off you wish to give, Sansa, that it has to be far from prying eyes and ears. They already know the truth. My dear, you have been unmasked.” A smile, warm but only on the lips. “At last.”

“Harry is a mistake,” she declared. “And as we speak, he and the other lords intend to fight Cersei. You would know. He has done nothing of what was promised with my reveal.”

“He is making a mistake, indeed. But a mistake he surely is not.”

Sansa shook her head. “He-He—”

She turned away, taking a deep breath to halt the sudden rush of tears. “He’s difficult. He won’t listen to me. He only sees me in matters he thinks only my gender suits.”

“Of course, he does. He’s young and virile and you are young, beautiful and fertile.” When she looked back at him, he looked amused although there was a coldness in his eyes. “He has been cross for days because he hasn’t been between your legs. When will you put him out of his misery? And the council? Are you still bleeding?”

“How do you know?” Sansa realized she was no longer shocked, but his knowledge of her body was still startling. “As horrid as Harry is, I refuse to believe his tongue would be so loose before the likes of you. And the small council.”

“Ah, Sansa.” He stepped close until a hand could push her hair from a shoulder. “Have you forgotten?”

It seemed all of the world plunged into deeper silence as she stared at him, realizing what he meant. Ice found its way in her belly. “They still spy for you. They all spy for you.”

“Hmm.” Was all he said, looking at her. “You look very much like your mother in this light.”

Perhaps in a futile gesture of protecting herself, her hands crossed over stomach. “Do you know everything?”

“Nothing less. I have to anticipate an attack in all directions, knowledge from everywhere. Knowledge is power. Especially knowledge people do not expect you to have. I will not always be around to remind you.” A hand wrapped around her nape then. “So, it would be best for us both if you do not forget these lessons.”

She stilled, expecting his kiss pressed on her mouth again. But it did not come. Instead, he just kept looking at her.

“I will remember,” she whispered. “Trust on that.”

He nodded and let her go. But his eyes looked further down her body. “You have ways of making him see and listen to you in ways the council can’t. Tears will not move him.” His eyes returned to her face. “Harry can be cruel but will not be the monster Joffrey was. But you have played the game longer than he has, Sansa. And I expect, are playing still. He is only heir because of a decree. You are more because of who you are.”

“But you’ve put me in another cage. I want to go home.”

“Not a cage, my dear. It’s another step up the ladder.”

She shook her head. “No. It’s a cage. You tell me I’m more because of who I am but I’m chained to a man who sees my name as a hook to get more on his side for a war hardly anyone this side of the seven kingdoms believe in. I am no use to anyone, even a husband such as Harry, if all I’m good for is my name.”

“He is one man.”

“He is heir!”

“You are Sansa Stark. If you don’t forget that and see your marriage as a step closer to power instead of an obstacle, imagine what you can do. What you must.”

“Do you mean for me to fight? Then why not just give me sword and armor?”

“Because not everyone is built for the battlefield. But there are other ways to fight. Other ways to make them pay without shedding your own blood. Do you think I would have given you to Harry if the opposite were true?”

“My lord, you do not know everything,” was all she could say after a moment. If he looked surprised, he didn’t let her see it.

She started to move past him when he suddenly put a hand to her face. “Did you ask me here to air your grievance?”

“I no longer know,” she answered truthfully. She tried to move away again but another arm went around her waist.

“Then this is goodbye.” He whispered, leaning close. “Who knows if we shall lay eyes on each other again. But give me a memory to remember this parting, Sansa.”

She did not but he took her mouth anyway. Seizing her lips in a kiss that was schooled in taking. When it was over, there was nothing she could see of this world. But he was still there. Minty breath caressing the tip of her tongue. Hand still pressed on her stomach. She moved and he let her go.

As she opened the door to let herself out, she said, “I should thank you for keeping me alive, Lord Baelish.”

“Because you are a sweet child. Because of your mother.”

“Indeed,” she said. “Because of mother.” Turning back to look at him but finding only a shadow, she added, “My gratitude is sincere. But no more beyond that. Goodbye.”

Two days later, she stood with Harry and the other lords and ladies of the Vale to see him off. She barely spared him a glance, staring instead at his servants and soldiers all packed and ready to take on the world beyond the walls and mountains of the castle. A familiar face passed between the people securing the packs and ensuring the horses were saddled rightly but before Sansa could look even more closely at her, Harry suddenly took her by the arm. Eyes of a bright summer sky bored into hers.

“Tonight,” he said.

She looked at him and nodded.

Night deepened and Sansa found herself standing on bare feet on the cold marble floor of her chambers, the choice that had plagued her became clear. As the other handmaidens took away today’s used clothes and put order in her jewelry, brushes, and scents, one of them swept the robe off her body.

There was fire and the drapes and glass kept most of the cold out but still it filled the chamber. Sansa felt her nipples tighten into taut points under her shift. She watched every maiden putting her things away, even the one that was readying her chamber pot. They had told Littlefinger, she thought. And now they would tell Harry.

“Put the wine by the fire,” she ordered one of the women. “My husband would like a glass as soon as he’s past the door. It’s colder tonight.”

The women obeyed and moved the bottle to a table close to fireplace, while another put a little dish of fruits and cheese next to it. Satisfied, Sansa sent them away.

She waited for their soft footsteps to fade away before heading for a desk. There she pulled at a drawer, pawing through ribbons for the little vial.

Colemon, for all his years and experience, had seemed embarrassed when Sansa admitted wanting to stoke her husband’s desire even more. He had barely hidden his shock that she wished to lay with him despite her moonblood but Sansa knew just the right words to say, and how. What new bride did not wish to please her husband? And was there ever one who was not eager to give him children?

The maester had relented, giving her this vial meant for Harry to be more desirous of her. “A drop in his wine and no more, my lady,” he had instructed, holding it up before her eyes. “More than one and your lord husband may not. . .well, my lady, he will not be likely to please, or even satisfy you in the slightest if you get my meaning.”

“Do you mean it will slow him?” She asked as he handed it to her.

“In every way, my lady.”

 Sansa did not know if this would genuinely work, and she was far from eager to have Harry close, let alone between her legs. But things as they are now can not be how things will be. She looked at herself in the looking glass. There was no mark on her cheek now.

Despite her request to see her husband days ago, he had sent notes reasoning work with the council that left him tired and of little use to a wife wishing for seed. Having no choice, Sansa finished the course without having tested if the drops within the vial worked. But there was still use of it. She held it in her fingers, catching how the fire reflected in the clear liquid turned to a color between sun and blood.

And then she heard them. Him. Harry. When the doors opened for him, he saw her standing against the light for the fireplace. The heat in his eyes was not the reflection of fire but what he saw through her shift. Sansa gave him a soft smile. “At last, my lord. I was beginning to think I will have to pass another cold night alone.”

She then moved towards the table. “Would you like for me to pour you wine?”

If he was surprised by this turn in her manners, he did not show it. He smiled back at her, looking most like a man coming home to a wife who had spent the day preparing for his arrival. He strode toward her wile loosening his cloak.

“I’ve always known you are a sweet one, Sansa. You just needed to be given time.” Flinging the cloak to a chair, he told her, “I have missed you.”

She glanced at him turning to have a seat. Quickly, she tipped the vial in to the goblet and poured the wine. “You chose to miss me,” she said, going to him with the drink. “You did not want me.”

He made a show of taking the goblet but took her by the wrist instead. “You were soiled, Sansa. I like blood in the battlefield, not on my person.” Loosening his grip to take the wine now, he continued, “But seeing you now, perhaps I can have a new liking for it.”

Sansa lowered her head, turning so the fire would reflect on her cheeks as if they were blushing. She turned to sit elsewhere but a hand closed around her wrist again. “Do you wish to be so far away from a husband that made the mistake of refusing you?”

“Yes,” she replied, catching his hand just before it cupped her breast. “So, he will not forget.”

Harry chuckled and let her go. Sansa went to sit facing him but making sure the firelight made her shift more sheer than it was. Harry sipped the wine without taking his eyes off her.

“This is new,” he remarked.

Sansa swallowed. “What is? The wine? It’s from our cellars.”

“Not the wine.” Harry lowered the goblet. “You. You look very pleased. And agreeable. A wife I would hardly refuse anything. Not the wife who mewled and stuck her nose into matters too complex for her mind.”

“Well, my lord. I may have missed you too.”

“To be missed by a wife as beautiful as you.,” he mused. “I can’t tell if all is right in the world or if I have walked into a different realm.”

She smiled and then added a little laugh. Because she must laugh. As the sounds of her mirth made him smile and finish the rest of the wine, she asked, “Would you like more wine, my lord?”

Harry seemed to hesitate and then said, “I don’t see why not. You say this is from our cellars?”

“Yes,” she said, getting up to take the goblet. Keeping her back to him, she refilled it and then put the last drops of the vial in the drink. “We have a fine collection.”

“It seems sweeter. Not that I mislike it.”

She returned to hand him the goblet again. But this time, Harry stopped her from moving away. “Let me look at you.”

“You have missed me.” Sansa murmured as his fingers traveled up her wrist, then higher. She looked at him, thinking how beautiful he was. And how that beauty was only matched by his meanness, arrogance, and entitlement. Less than a moon married, she thought, watching him finish the wine and taking the goblet away. It should be nothing more than this.

This was her hope when he drained the second glass. But the drug would take a while to slow him down, she realized as he pulled her down for a kiss. He kissed her mouth as sweetly as the songs have described kisses between heroic knights and grateful maidens. Palmed her breast. As she squirmed in his lap and tried to match the passion in his kisses and make the soft sounds that were supposed to mean pleasure, he tugged at the ties of her shift.

She lay in bed dressed in her pale, goosebump-riddled skin, and Harry. Harry whose kisses seemed to have slowed but still came at her like assaults. He murmured about her cool skin, that he was going to make her warm. When he started slobbering at her breasts and resting quite heavily on her, she wondered if this was it. The drug had at last reached his heart.

He seized her hand to wrap it around his cock. “I shouldn’t. . .” he said, frowning. No doubt he heard the slur in his voice as she had. “There should be no more wine the next time, Sansa. Now, get to work.” He had her grip him. “Do what you must.”

And then he rolled to his back, breathing heavily, deeply. Sansa’s fingers remained still around his limp, pink flesh.

“My lord,” she thought to say, suddenly feeling worry at his flushed face. “Is something the matter?”

He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them, fixing right on her face. “No. But the wine is a lot more potent than usual.” His hand closed around hers, urging it. “Go on. I don’t wish for my seed to waste.”

It was enough to remind her what she wished, what must be done. So, she stroked his cock, slowly pulling the foreskin over the head then pushing it back. Gradually gaining pace because preferred to build up to the rush rather than a steady pace. “By now he should be hard.

“Come on.” Harry sounded cross. “What is taking you long?”

“I am only doing what you taught—”

“What I taught,” he mocked, pushing her hand away. “You daft woman.”

No more of this, Sansa thought, deciding at last. No more.

As Harry, slow in his movements, grasped his cock and gave it a stroke in which leisurely could be mistaken for vigorous, Sansa grabbed the pillow from her side of the bed. He had no awareness of her actions the pillow was pressed on his face. And pressing harder.

Gritting her teeth, Sansa flung one leg over to the side of his body, straddling his waist tightly between her thighs. He fought. Tried to shake her off. Groaned from beneath the silk and goosefeather pushing him into the eternal darkness. He squirmed and turned, like a fish caught. She locked her knees tighter around him, whimpering and wailing herself as she put all her weight and what little strength her body into this battle. His arms flailed, hands trying to catch her by hair, arm, breast. But the drug, the wine, made it seem as if he were moving through water.

Sansa cried out, unleashing in that sound of release all the pain, anger, fear, and helplessness that had dragged at her soul from the moment Ned Stark’s head was sliced off his body. In the long wail was the cry for her mother, throat slit and her body dumped in the river in mockery of her house sigil, for her brother Robb, for Rickon, for Bran. As she croaked out the last note of her anguish, she thought of her sister. Arya Horseface.

She had no idea how long she was weeping. The realization hit her like a blast of icy air. As she gasped for breath and tried to blink through the tears, she saw that Harry was still. Her arms, trembling from the effort, barely managed to pull the pillow away from him.

There. The Stranger keeping him still beautiful, and for all time. She waited for some sliver of remorse, even affection, for what she had done. What she had to do.

A wolf was never meant to be caged, even alone.

She pressed his eyes closed. Funny how they felt, his eyelids and eyelashes. Like wings. Like a tickle. Perhaps, wherever she had sent him, he would find summer. She could not wish him the darkest of halls despite everything. All that mattered was wherever he was now, they no longer treaded the same earthly realm.

Sansa, her body suddenly devoid of strength, just about managed to crawl under the furs. She pulled them over her shoulders.

As her husband’s body cooled, she slept warmly.

Chapter Text

With torches ablaze in their sconces, the hall was bright and as golden as a summer day. Windowless, it just about kept the claws of winter at bay. Jaime felt them scratching at his cheeks. There was hardly any wind but a stubborn draft and chill, and the fire flickered and swished as if swung by a child.

There was nothing of Kevan that should remind Jaime of Tywin. Whereas Tywin had been trim and tall, Kevan was wide and quite portly, with features that were humble and homely rather than striking and chiseled. Lannister men were known to keep a full head of hair even as they aged, though the golden sheen of their waves faded. Kevan broke this rule: the top of his head was now devoid of hair, the lower part covered in a shock of white that curled like clouds at the ends.

Jaime would think him one of those faceless lords if not for the crimson wool of his cloak and his firm stance. Kevan stood with his hands clasped low behind him. He was staring at the stone figures carved in the likeness of his children.

It was his face, devoid of any expression or even the flicker of emotion, that called to mind Tywin. His face hardly betrayed a twinge of emotion though the inflections of his iron tone, as Jaime remembered, foretold of doom because of his displeasure. Jaime’s eyes wandered towards the figures of the two boys. White and pure in their rendering, he saw, as if they did not leave the world bathed in red. They had been nine years old.

In the next breath he found himself back in the doorway of the armory, furious at the scene before him. He couldn’t distinguish when red spilled as witnessed the scene: when Brienne was called the Kingslayer’s whore or the guards seizing control of Lyonel, their smiles twisted and their laughter without humor.

His fingers curved around the hilt of his sword.

“I make the time for a visit each day,” Kevan suddenly spoke. He was still staring at them. “The dead will always be dead, and I need no reminder. I have looked upon their stone faces more now than when they were flesh.”

He turned to Jaime at last and the latter approached. Kevan looked up at him. The old man’s stare looked like fissured emeralds.

“This winter. The world seems to have stood still. But my bones tell me of the days that pass. Too many days, for a man my age. For a man who has lost much.” He glanced at the figures again. “A loss that I would take with me until the Stranger comes. The world has been wrong for so long. I have always thought it would be my children who would bury me and look at my stone face. In that, I envy your father’s fortune. He was most fortunate. In the end, he was still spared.”

Jaime’s jaw stiffened. “Is there no end to the lectures regarding my marriage?”

“You are a Lannister.”

 “So is she. And my father. And mother too. Did he get as many lectures from you?”

Far from his sister, the farthest he had been in their lives, and it seemed there was little escape from her, he thought with impatience. The only moments he lived and breathed without her was when with Brienne. A pity she had to leave his chambers before dawn. Bold and reckless it was to fuck her in his bed here but Kevan’s lectures against Cersei summoned her into his thoughts with an ease that made his blood stop cold. His only shield was the warmth of Brienne.

“You have a liking for showing that your mind understands no more beyond arms and fighting and battle. Your father’s ears always rang from complaints from the maester about your resistance to reading our history. But we both know you are more than your sword. More than someone chained to her.”

“How highly you think of me, uncle,” Jaime snapped, annoyed at having to cut short thinking of the wench. “Hard as it is to believe, Cersei just happened to be my twin. She could have been anyone else and I would still marry her.” He couldn’t remember the last time a similar utterance had left his lips. The words and inflections were familiar yet felt strange.

“You speak as if you don’t have choices.”

“Must we do this again?” He would take storms and torrential rain if it meant never having to think of Cersei again. Probably even face one of Daenerys’ dragons alone. If it took all three beasts he would do it.

 It had become a sweet dream to take Brienne and Lyonel away from this castle and perhaps, even Westeros. They could sail east, to one of those islands where his name and face mattered not. A humble shack to live in, but with a doorway and ceilings high enough for the wench to not always hit her head. He would teach Lyonel to hunt. Love the boy. Be a father.

“Indulge your elder, Jaime. You have much time left.”

“An illusion.” He scoffed.

In the light, every line and crack in Kevan’s face was visible. His expression remained inscrutable as he spoke, “You will find disappointment.”

There was no stopping the old man. Jaime turned away and made his way out of the hall. Over his shoulder, he addressed him. “I did not think I had a choice for a long time. No disrespect, uncle, but I am not here for my marriage to be dissected. Whatever your feelings, I advise you to set them aside. I am her consort, the Master of Laws,” he said, something within him twisting hard. “Do not force me into a choice I will not enjoy making if you keep speaking ill of the queen.”

“I don’t care for her. You are what concerns me, Jaime. You who come here in her name. Wanting my two hundred knights and the thousands of men the Houses here would give her at my word. My answer has not changed, if you wish to know.”

“I don’t need to be told twice. But you do need to be told you play a dangerous game.” Jaime pulled at his cloak. The warmth did not go beyond the hall they had just left. More torches surrounded them, but the wide spaces and high ceilings gave the cold room to play.

“What’s there to be afraid of? That she would have me dragged through the streets by horses? Strip me of my lands, my gold? Such losses would be a drop to what I have truly lost. And death, in whatever way it comes, I will welcome like an old friend.”

“Have you seen death?” Jaime demanded, pausing to give him chance to catch up. “It’s not pretty.”

“What does it matter if I’m dead?”

Resuming his pace, he changed the subject. It was the only way to save Kevan. “How well do you know the men that serve you?”

“I know not all their names but expect their loyalty.”

“Then know this.” Jaime declared. “A soldier of yours by the name of Symon. I have it on good authority that he would fight for the queen.” He had to stop himself from saying more.

Because Kevan only stared at him, Jaime wondered if he had been heard. He was about to repeat the question when Kevan asked, “And what about you? Who do you fight for?”

“My loyalty is not the issue here.”

“No? You say you are here in the name of the queen. Yet you have with you the Lady Brienne. Who as that hateful decree dictates should have her head on a spike now for failing to protect the Stormlands from the invasion. Whose son was brought here, by the young Marbrand, at your orders.”

“I don’t need reminding.”

Kevan continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Marbrand whose lord father was not yet cold in his bed before calling on his most loyal and trusted men to bring the boy here. A boy who would come to only little power once old enough.” He seemed to stare at every inch of Jaime’s face, noting how the shadows of the flames flickered and danced on his features. “Do not make a fool of me, Jaime. Not in my dominion. Not when I have seen everything.”

“Is it not enough that I find the execution of an innocent child senseless?” Jaime demanded. “That I do not support the needless murder of a loyal subject?”

“But only one child? The son of Lady Brienne?”

“Ser Brienne.”

“Oh. Yes. You knighted her. You never hesitated to use the pointy end of the sword but this woman. You gave her a knighthood.”

“Was I supposed to let sharks feed on her when my ship stumbled on her half-dead body in the water?” He was never forgetting the sight of Brienne half-dead and barely clinging to driftwood. How he had thought the gods brought her back just to have him lose her right before his eyes. A vise-like grip squeezed in his chest, forcing him to stop and draw breath.

“You sent that scroll to Addam Marbrand at the very moment dragons were burning Tarth. Either you knew what was going to happen or it was mere coincidence. I never trust coincidence.”

“I gave my word,” Jaime said through gritted teeth. “I gave my word to a lady who had known nothing but cruelty at the hands of men. From her father, the false king she fought for, her husband. I refused to be in that list.”

“A lady who has nothing to offer the crown.”

“A person,” he snapped. “Who this world has always found lacking yet never fails to give her heart and perhaps, if needed, forfeit her soul.”

“Whom you brought here. Further putting this House and those who serve under me at risk.” Quietly, Kevan asked, “What is this woman to you? The truth, Jaime.”

Refusing to make that final step that would seal the fate of Brienne and their son, Jaime said calmly, “These questions you ask. I seem to be disappointing you with the answers I give. You do think much more of me than I deserve, uncle. So why don’t you tell me who you think she is to me? In fact,” he said, “why don’t you tell me why you did not turn away the Marbrand host? You could have refused my request. You who are so keen to keep the heads of those who serve you?”

When Kevan did not answer, Jaime continued, “You had every right to turn them away. Given your displeasure with the queen, and my continued association with her. Why did you not have them thrown out upon knowing I had the boy brought here on my orders? Why didn’t you turn me away?”

He was walking through fire. But he won’t be outsmarted by Kevan. Lyonel, Jaime thought. It can’t be known.

“As I have told you much during this visit, Jaime. If the Seven grant us enough mercy for this House to still be standing after everything, I want you to take your rightful place. Here. I want people of this land to fight in your name. I had willingly lived in your father’s shadow. I would not hesitate for there to be another path for you besides the one you’ve chosen. Even should it require sword. Or my life.”

Jaime shook his head and turned on his heel. Kevan continued to speak.

“Do not convince me that you’ve made a different choice. The presence of the Evenstar’s daughter and the strange favor you show her son are not just signs. They are answers. Your orders to have the boy sent here are in violation of what House Marbrand has stood for since your sister took the throne.”

“Took the throne,” Jaime scoffed. “You speak as if she came upon it falsely.”

“You know very little of the sister you took for a wife. I refused to believe it myself but what kind of father would I be to mistrust the word of his son?”

“What do you speak of?”

“You are always her choice,” Kevan said. “For as long as you are within her sight. Away from her claws, she chose another.” For the first time, Jaime saw a glint in his eyes that called to mind the tip of a sword. “Lancel.”

Jaime should shake his head. The denial there, ready to fall from his lips. But no word was uttered.

Neither was there pain.

“Tywin lost you to the Kingsguard. I lost my Lancel to her.”

Jaime understood every word, but it took some time before he understood what they meant together. He waited for the surge of fury at Cersei’s betrayal. Braced himself for pain.

There was nothing. If a sudden tiredness taking hold of his body could be nothing.

“Why,” he managed to say at last, “why do you tell me this?”

“I am loyal to our House. That it be strong. That it endures. Our House would be nothing but a footnote in the future histories of this realm if you refuse to open your eyes.”

“So, what is it you wish from me? Kinslaying?” Jaime roared. The flames from the torches reeled back from his outburst.

Kevan was calm. “The right thing, Jaime. Only the right thing.”

Jaime could only watch as Kevan overtook him. He looked at the old man’s cloaked form making its slow way farther and farther, until it seemed he vanished in the light. Confused, enraged, his heart racing, he didn’t know what to do next, let alone where to turn. In the home he had grown up in, where no corner was a secret and he could find his way in the darkest of nights, he was lost.

Somehow, he must have managed to move his feet and walk. One step at a time. He still waited for pain—any feeling—with regards to Cersei’s betrayal. Had it been a long time ago when he would have forgiven her anything? How could he no longer remember wanting to be her only choice, and she his? Perhaps the leagues between them blurred what fondness remained for her, if it was still that. It might also be the reason why, search as he did deep within for any pain about her betrayal, he could scrape nothing.

The jagged edges of the blazing fires were almost like the gold of Cersei’s curls, and the crimson of the tapestries and drapes that of her lips. It was easy as breathing summoning her face, for after all she was his mirror. But he only saw her. There was no longing for the press of her mouth on his, no desire to wrap his fingers around her neck. She was still flesh and blood, a part of him for always. Yet somehow, a ghost.

He must have wandered to the other wing of the castle, the realization startling him at how long he must have walked. Standing at the entrance of another hallway, he saw a door opening and a tall form stepping out.

And just like that, everything came back—all his senses, himself. He stared at Brienne standing at her door. Limp strands of her pale hair had fallen over her eyes, but he still saw the clear, bright sapphire orbs despite the distance between them. The crisp air sending the fires and tapestries fluttering brought the faint note of her sweat and musk to his nose. Immediately, the cloak and coat shielding him from the cold felt heavy and hot.

Every time, he thought, now familiar with the stirring in his breeches and the calm within that only came when she was nearby. And when she started to move towards him, he felt becoming even more aware of her: how her pale eyelashes fluttered, the pink slowly blooming across her cheeks, her big, gloved hand grasping the ruby-eyed lion pommel, thumb stroking it gently. His breath was a rush the closer she approached, and when she was finally right in front of him, he found both relief and torment.

And she must have known, or maybe felt the same. She cast a series of glances around them before taking his hand. Taking it to press her lips on it. He moved then, closing his eyes as she pressed her forehead on his. Between their bodies their hands remained joined.

But they had touched only a moment, shorter than a breath. Wary as always of eyes that might stray in their direction or ears pressed to the walls, they put themselves apart. A span wide enough to let a man pass through.

As far as Jaime was concerned, it was the other side of the world.

“Off to feed the soldiers snow again, Ser Brienne?” He asked, turning to start walking. Brienne easily fell into a step beside him. “I worry about the teeth they will lose trying to crunch through ice.”

“You need men to be hardier, not just in winter but for the war coming for us, my lord.” It pleased him to hear her a little breathless. As they left the hallway and approached the wide landing of the grand stairs, she turned to him. A huge pillar painted in gold ringed with crimson lions hid them.

“I will be telling him.” In her face was worry but her gaze was resolute. “Tonight.”

“Kevan is beginning to suspect,” he had to tell her. “If he doesn’t already know.”

Brienne went even whiter. As she swallowed and seemed to stagger, he caught her wrist to steady her. “Are you sure?”

She stared at him, not answering. As a stray strand fell over her eyebrows and tempted for the flick of his finger, he said, “We are not unwelcome here. But it is clear Kevan will not give Cersei the military support needed when the war begins. He would rather the realm burn to the ground than even consider wavering in his decision. There will be no need for surrender once the ice thaws and Daenerys comes with her dragons and armies. There is only decimation. Of us. Westeros will not stand a chance without the Westerlands.” His fingers loosened from around her wrist to weave between hers. “If he becomes sure about Lyonel, he will use it against me. And then where will he be? I know my uncle. He will promise silence as long as I don’t press the issue of soldiers.”

Brienne looked about to protest so he spoke swiftly, “I don’t fight for Cersei. Believe me. I beg you. But for us to have a chance, we can’t have the truth about Lyonel known. We need the strength of the Westerlands.”

“More men will only delay Daenerys. More to feed her dragons with. How are you so willing to sacrifice so many for that one frayed thread of hope that we might survive and tell him the truth?”

“Those men are not my blood. We will survive.” They must.

“Lyonel and you are all that matter to me. But more innocents, Jaime? How can you not even think of the debt the gods will collect? What if we are to pay? Both of us?”

“They’re not so innocent,” he snapped, remembering the encounter in the armory. “Perhaps in not knowing Lyonel will have a better chance of staying alive.”

She shook her head and pulled away. “You wish for him to continue living a lie? To wonder why the man he knew as father hardly cared for him when the one who sired him lives? You had to be silent with the truth of your children with her. It doesn’t have to be that way with Lyonel.”

“I will always choose his survival.” How can she not understand him? “So, I don’t get to love him freely. So what if he never knows of me? He lives. That’s what matters.”

“And myself?”

“What do you mean?”

“If we survive. If the realm is saved. And the queen lives. Will it mean I can no longer love you freely as well??”

She was looking at him, as if to catch the slightest tick or flinch that would give him away. At that very moment he realized that he had just dealt her a truly painful blow. One he had not ever thought about.

“I don’t love Cersei,” he said every word firmly, his jaw tightening at every syllable.

“I never questioned it. But you do have a duty. She is the queen. Your-your queen.” She looked away but not fast enough. He saw her lower lip tremble and the muscles in her neck tense and tighten. “You made vows before the Seven to protect her.”

“I made vows to protect Aerys too.”

“You were not married to him.”

“Brienne—”

“I will not make apologies for thinking only of our son,” she declared, looking back at him. The sharpness of her stare made him take a step back. “I am only sorry you erred in making me a knight. A knight will always choose the welfare and good of the many. I cannot.” Eyes dropped to the floor, but she suddenly grunted under her breath. Returning those eyes to him, she growled, “I will not.”

He tried to say something, thought to stop her but couldn’t. All he could do was watch her walk away. When she turned towards the stairs, she did not even spare him a glance.

And he did not see her for the rest of the day. For some peace, he retreated into his apartments, confronting the raven scrolls that had begun to pile up despite being in Casterly Rock for less than a fortnight. All seals were intact, but he already knew what they contained. Little would have changed from Cersei’s summons.

He was staring out of the window, only able to listen to the distant sounds of swords clashing at each other and the occasional cries of a soldier tossed to the ground when someone knocked on the door. He sighed. It had to be Kevan again. There was only one choice to make and nothing else. That was easy. Seeing it through was treacherous.

Resigned, he spoke. “Enter.”

“My lord.” It was Peck, carrying a tray for the midday meal. Garrett was right behind him with the pitcher for the wine. Both paused at the doorway seeing the pile on the desk. “Shall we come back?”

“No.” Jaime stood up and gestured at the table placed by the fire. “You may set up the meal here. But get rid of these.” In one hand, he took all the scrolls and put them in Garrett’s waiting palm. While Peck quietly arranged the dish on the table and took the pitcher from Garrett, the latter fed began to feed each scroll to the fire.

The boy glanced at Jaime. “My lord?”

“What is it?”

“The seals, my lord. They are. . .they the queen’s. And intact.”

“Yes,” Jaime snapped. “Do you find difficulty in the task?”

“No.” Garret’s face was close to the color of his hair. “I will see it through, and it will be to your satisfaction, my lord.”

“That’s the only outcome I expect.” Jaime remarked as more scrolls were thrown. The fires ate at the crimson seal of a lion, distorting the face as it melted. As they burned, he thought he caught the faintest hint of lavender in the air. “It seems quite stuffy here. Garrett, as you’re finished, would you get one of the windows open?”

The boy mumbled his assent and quickly moved to do as ordered. Watching the squires see to the meal and the business of bringing fresh but stinging cold air in the room, he thought to ask.

“I will need the truth from both of you. You often run into the young Lyonel seeing through his duties as squire to Lord Marbrand. How often is he accosted by soldiers such as Symon?”

Garrett and Peck looked at each other. They seem to be waiting for the other to grant permission. Finally, Peck, who was older, answered him. “It is. . .it’s quite a regular thing, my lord.”

“The same group of soldiers?”

Again, they shared a look. Garrett answered this time. “It varies, ser. They do keep away when one of the Marbrands is close by or with him. But-but sometimes Lyonel is alone. And it’s usually us three. . .”

“They taunt him, that is all,” Peck added. “They don’t lay a hand on his person. Not until this morning. And often. . .often Lyonel just walks away.”

If Peck thought this would ease Jaime’s worry, the younger man was mistaken.  As cold air whispered at the back of Jaime’s neck, he demanded, “What about insults to the character of Lady Brienne’s?”

This time the boys hung their heads.

“I need an answer,” Jaime demanded.

“We are ashamed, my lord,” Garrett mumbled. “We did nothing.”

Taken aback, it took a moment for him to come up with the proper response. “It is not your concern to get into fights with experienced soldiers. But I do expect that you will not take part in any so-called ribaldry that besmirches the honor of a lady—especially Lady Brienne’s. Go on, now. Both of you.”

The lads bowed and headed for the door. Garrett was the first one out, but Peck lingered behind.

“My lord, if I may,” he said. “Since you asked about the soldiers. . .and about Symon.”

“What of him?”

Peck burst into a smile. “The Lady Brienne used him as a shovel for the snow, ser. Before he left.”

Jaime kept his face impassive. “Do you the lady’s whereabouts?”

“She means to fish in one of the rives that had begun to thaw, ser.”

“By herself? Tell me she has company.” He knew Brienne could take of herself. She was hardly foolish. But she had never been to Casterly Rock before. The warmth of his pride in her victory was soon replaced by a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I-I am not certain, my lord,” Peck stammered. “I merely overheard she intended to take a horse and go fishing. She had been talking to Lord Marbrand.”

“Have my horse saddled.” For Brienne’s sake, he hoped Addam was with her. That was one person who knew his way around this damned place. “If we’re not back by nightfall, have my lord uncle send a party.”

Peck could only nod before hurrying out the chamber. Jaime meanwhile fetched his fur-lined cloak and replaced his boots then left.

Garrett was securing a pack around the stallion that Peck held when Jaime arrived at the stables. As he climbed and swung a leg over the beast, Addam Marbrand arrived on his horse.

“Where’s Brienne?” Jaime roared, startling him with the ferocity of his tone. The horse Addam was on and whined and reared back. As Addam steadied the animal, he snarled, “Where is she?”

“What concerns you so much? The lady insisted that I return.”

“Fool,” Jaime muttered, yanking the animal towards the gates. “What river? Where did you take her?”

“Goldmane,” Addam still looked confused. “Should I not have left her?”

Jaime didn’t answer and ignored his calls as the horse galloped towards Lion’s Mouth. Guards at the gate wisely moved out of the way as he thundered past. The cloak’s hood fell from his head as wind whipped right at him, making his eyes water. Gripping the reins, he and the beast hurled down the steep, snowy hill that led into the forest.

It had been light when Peck was given orders. As Jaime swept past through trees sunk and curving from snow and icicles, darkness began to spread. It had been years since he’d ridden this path and doing it fast in the snow his first. He kept his eyes to the front, never flinching as sharp branches and ice scratched at his cheeks and clothes.

Bears were not known to roam the forests here, but wolves and foxes did. As the mantle of night spread across the sky, Jaime felt the glowing eyes of beasts watching him, already anticipating when to start the chase for their meal. Winter had made men desperate for any food available. He did not want to imagine the hunger of animals that had by now scented him and the horse.

And Brienne.

Something, perhaps a prayer of thanks, left his lips upon spying the clearing leading to the river. In the graying light of the fading day, the river was dark silver. He pulled at the reins to slow the horse down due to the rocks, snow and uneven ground all around.

“Jaime?”

He all but sagged on the horse at sound of her voice. He turned and there she was, fastening a net basket on the saddle. In it were two pieces of stout fish gasping. As she continued putting away the rest of the fishing equipment, he slowly climbed off the horse and walked to her.

“How did you—” she started to ask but his kiss was swifter. She sighed and parted her lips, her tongue meeting his bold thrust. She tasted of snow, even in her mouth. But she was alive. Their kiss deepened and their hold on each other tightened. Yet it went no further as Jaime fell on her chest and gripped her around the back.

His mouth against her cloaked shoulder, he muttered, “You stupid, fucking fool.”

“What did I do now?” She growled but made no move to push him away. He sighed and nuzzled against her neck, pressing his nose to the warm sliver of flesh exposed. Her fingers on his hair could make him purr if he was a weaker man.

“Never go alone in the snow. I expected you to have more sense.” He kissed her between words, the press of his lips and his whisper taking the sting out of the delivery. “You shouldn’t have ordered Addam to leave.” Tilting his head back to look at her, he swept pale hair from her cheek. “What in Seven Bloody Hells were you thinking?”

Then he pulled her down for another kiss. Her lips moved against his. She’s warm.

It was Brienne who ended the kiss this time. With her pale hair and paler skin, she seemed lit from within despite the darkness around them. Her eyes glowed like the jewels.

“I-I wanted to do something for Lyonel. On my own,” she explained, biting her lip. “Lord Marbrand was. . .he was annoying me. Oh, he was helpful. He was. But the man talks too much, and I needed to be alone.” As Jaime’s gloved thumb traced the thick curve of her lip, she kissed it and continued, “I needed to think.”

“And you needed to go fishing?” Jaime tried to his exasperation.

Brienne bowed her head. “Lyonel will be having supper with me. Lord Marbrand was kind enough to release him from duties tonight so we may spend time together.”

“I see.” Jaime dropped his hand from her face. “You intend to tell him tonight.”

“Do not try to sway me. I have made up my mind.”

“It’s a losing battle.” He admitted. “I don’t like defeat.” He looked up and saw night advancing quickly. If he had done it in some desperate hope for an answer in the stars, there were none. He took her hand. “Let’s get you home.”

“Jaime—” she grasped his hand. “Please. He needs to know.”

“I understand in spite of what you think. I know how secrets can gnaw at you. Chip away until you hardly recognize yourself. I just—I want him safe, Brienne. Unlike most bastards there is danger should the truth about him come out. I don’t want him hurt.”

“It’s a shit world we have to create for ourselves whatever good that can still be had. We. . .we don’t know when the Stranger will come for us. I have been given a second chance but for how long? Lyonel has the right to truth. Better he knows now from myself than otherwise.”

He looked at her. There was fear in her eyes but also that stubborn set in her chin. “I trust you,” he whispered. “It seems it’s my turn now to have faith in you.”

She cupped his cheek in one hand then leaned down to kiss him. When she started to pull away, he continued to hold her close.

“Someday, and I give you my word,” he declared, looking in her eyes as the night began to fall on them. “You and I will love each other in the light, and our children.”

He helped her up the horse though there was no need to. She held the reins of his horse as he climbed up afterwards. Together, they rode back to Casterly Rock.

Chapter Text

There was little room for finery, or anything deemed ornamental for a squire, whether his House be great or a shack. Most of the clothes Lyonel took when he left Tarth had become small. A squire then had to depend on his lord for clothing besides a roof to keep him dry, a hearth to keep him warm, and food to keep him fed.

Ser Addam was generous though sensible; he had for Lyonel three pairs of boots, one of them for riding, and had sent a tailor to measure him for a few breeches, tunics, a cloak. A squire’s belongings were modest at best, since a good part of his life at this stage was in service of his good lord.

And his good Ser had been more than generous.

By now it was clear to Lyonel that their sudden departure for Casterly Rock was for his survival—him a mere squire. All of Westeros, including rodents, knew of the queen’s edict for more blood. Cersei knew no forgiveness. Houses that fought against the Lannisters would pay with what gold they manage to scrounge up and until the last drop of blood was shed.

Comparing his life these last two years to the one he had in Evenfall, he now possessed some clarity on some matters: the simple fare in Evenfall Hall that he had happily tucked into while servants, who thought a child would make no sense of their words, whispered of the juicy, thick cuts of meat at his lord father’s table; the worn and old furniture and rooms that made the modest though elegant interiors in Ashemark grand. The few horses in the stables back home more skin than muscle when compared to the powerful steeds of Lord Damon Marbrand’s.

House Tarth was at best tolerated by the Queen, and one she would erase from the face of the earth when given the right chance. Lyonel wondered if he would ever understand damnation but at his young age, suspected he had more knowledge of forgiveness—that no amount of reparation and castigation, maybe even self-flagellation could earn it. No suffering would be enough for some people and the Queen. . .the Queen was above them.

As Lyonel picked out a tufted jacket to go with his shirt, he remembered the first few days in Ashemark. Near enough to the sea and perched on a hilly terrain where trees stood so close together that they hid the sky, he heard the rustle of leaves more than the gentle waves of water. The air smelled of leaves rather than salt.

Casterly Rock smelled of leaves and the promise of the sun.

Dressed, he strode to the window to pull the heavy drapes closed. Night had fallen, and with it came a sharper, bone-piercing cold.

The Westerlands—Casterly Rock, was nothing like Tarth.

Gray stone rather than smooth marble were the castle’s walls. Within was the persistent shaft of dampness, making the temperature ice-cold deeper into the night. Servants lit the fireplaces of the occupied chambers, but their fires hardly lasted through the night.

As a squire tasked with service to his lord, one thing in particular stood out to Lyonel: the food.

Used to fish with spices, he found the new fare strange despite having tasted some before. Chicken, he knew, and even duck, which he was not particularly fond of. But the cuts of beef, the pork! And venison. Their juices were sweet and coupled with perfectly boiled potatoes a glimpse of Seven Heavens. No wonder his father wanted them for himself. But he still longed for fare from the sea: fish drenched in spices and oil, clams cooked over fire.

In Ashemark, he also saw for the first time people in robust health. The old Lord Damon was strong in build rather than fat, despite his age, and Ser Addam was tall and lean instead of bones. Their soldiers were pink in the cheeks and the servants, down to the stable boy, were meaty in the wrist and bright-eyed. Of course, the cook was often sour in the face, but his orders were quick and could shake walls. It seemed the kitchen knew no peace; there were always pies in the oven, the aroma of cooking meat a rich, savory note mixing with the butter and spices in the air, and servants chopping and slicing, tossing food in a pot to stew. The frenzy had left him dumbfounded for a while until, as it went when resigning one to a fact, he got used to it.

However, since his lady mother’s arrival here, in a place whose strangeness refused to dissipate, the gold that seemed to cover every inch of Casterly Rock was beginning to feel something like home. His first experience of the grandeur of this castle had not been pleasant: the gilded chairs down to the utensils were of gold. It felt wrong to use the latter just to eat.

And with his eyes accustomed to days where the sun kept its face turned away and night came too early, too dark, the fires in sconces and what seemed like hundreds of fireplaces, the walls reflecting their brilliance and the crimson of the carpets, on tapestries—it had felt too much like being in the sun itself. He worried about toching anything because everything shone so brightly.

It did little to ease his anxiety that the Lord Kevan tend to look at him hard when in the same room. As if he was waiting for Lyonel to pocket a goblet or even for the sleeve of his jacket to brush on something precious. Though it was whispered among the soldiers that he did not think much of the Queen, perhaps the man did not believe in defying her orders. He clearly had no desire for the presence of his good Ser. It was only the parchment signed by Jaime Lannister that kept them alive.

He knew gratitude must be expressed to the Queen’s Consort soon and it was no hardship. Not so much. The Kingslayer had saved his dear mother. But what was the reason behind it? What kind of prisoner would save his captor?

And how could a man without honor bestow that gift he himself had pissed away to his mother? Why? What was she doing with a man who had broken a vow to the gods?

The questions refused to leave him even as he was sitting across from her a while later. In the candlelight, Brienne’s eyes looked rounder and even more blue. The color of her gaze reminded him of jewels and the sea back in Tarth. Their brilliance almost took attention away from the large, raised scar on her cheek.

Seeing the mark almost made him forget those questions. Daenerys’ dragons have laid waste on the isle, and with it Evenfall Hall. Ashes and sand, the whispers went.

He was nine, almost a young man. Yet seeing the scar and the others that peeked through the high collar of her clothes—he had to stop himself from darting to her side and flinging his arms round her neck and crying. She was all he had of home.

He had to be strong. Tears had no place in that effort.

Except for her eyes, Brienne’s appearance had changed quite drastically, and not only due to the scars. Gone was her long braid, in its place cropped hair with strands the stuck out in all directions. She wore a coat, breeches and tall boots instead of dresses, so she looked taller than he remembered. Her shrunken cheekbones and bony fingers were now filled with supple flesh. She looked older, and tired, especially in the eyes, but she was healthy. It still surprised him how she took on five men with sword and fists. He hoped to have her strength someday.

Lyonel leaned back a little as a servant lifted the cover from his food. Unveiled, he looked down.

“Trout?” The plump fare on his plate was a welcome distraction. Pleasure tugged his lips into a smile. “Mother, how is this possible?”

“The rivers have begun to thaw.” Brienne’s smile was sweeter than he remembered. “As soon as word reached me I set out to try catching some for our meal.”

“You caught them, truly?”  As she nodded and turned pink, Lyonel cleared his throat. “I-It’s not that I don’t believe you, Mother. I did not know.” He looked at the fish again, drizzled with the golden sheen of oil and surrounded by tomatoes and onions. “I-I was not aware you knew how to fish.”

“I would be glad to teach you. Ser Goodwin—”

Color left her face then and a dark, haunted look came to her eyes. As she dropped them and she hastily straightened something on her lap, she murmured, “Goodness. To dredge up the past like that. . .we should just look forward.” Looking at him, her gaze now gentler, she added, “We have been blessed when so many are not.”

“I am so glad you are alive,” Lyonel confessed. “Even more that you are here, mother.”

“I feel the same.” Because she had a long arm, it was no trouble for her to reach across the table for his hand. Lyonel squeezed it. As he regarded her, she took a deep breath and sniffed.

“Why don’t you have a taste and tell me if you like it?” She told him, patting his hand. As they awkwardly pulled their hands away from each other, she said, “Ser Addam told me you liked duck. It surprised me because I remember very well that you took to it much like a cat in a bath. But if you’ve grown to like it, then it’s perfectly fine. I thought. . .I thought you might want something quite special.”

“I only pretend to like duck because of Ser Addam,” he said, feeling his cheeks burn. “I am a squire. If my lord deems such food fine, then it should be good enough for me, no matter my feelings.”

“You never cease to make me proud, Lyonel.”

Warm from her words, he happily spliced a sliver with knife and fork. The meat was tender, made even more silken by the delicate touch of oil. It did not have the heat of plentiful spices but the salt and a few crushed peppercorns came close to his liking. When he took another bite of the flesh, he declared, “This is the best meal I’ve had.”

“Mine as well.”

They started to eat, marveling at the burst of flavors and the heat of spices that gave every bite a more delicious note. The water was cool and had a freshness that made him think of spring, though he had little memory of it. Brienne asked hm about his travels and Lyonel eagerly told her about being in the sea and the longish ride on horseback to get to Ashemark. The talk then moved to his training.

“You must practice your swordfighting even outside the training yard,” she told him. “That is the way to get better. To put more work than is expected.”

“There are so many blades,” Lyonel felt compelled to say. “Each with a different way of using it.”

“Do you need me to teach you more about them? Which blade?”

Looking at her, he admitted, “I admit that I am not too fond of the sword, mother. But I want to get better at it. And I will, I promise. But I. . .I like the bow and arrow more. And the morningstar.” Blushing, he looked down at his plate. “It’s not very knightly, I know, as a knight is expected to fight with his sword and on horseback. . .”

“The measure of a knight is not on his weapon of choice,” she said. “But his honor. Of the things he does despite the difficulty of choices before him. You will get better with the sword. But if bow and arrow are your choosing, then those are your weapons.”

“You don’t think me cowardly?” He had to ask. “Because I heard. . .”

“What is it?”

He took a deep breath and stared at her. “I have heard that the Kingslayer is not too fond of marksmen. That he thinks they are not. . .they are not as brave.”

Brienne seemed to take a moment before answering him. “That is well-known, yes. But you cannot let the opinion of one man affect your weapon of choice. You are not less brave just because you prefer bow and arrow, Lyonel. Bravery is measured by what you choose to do, hard as it is.”

“You are not upset?”

“Why should I be? It’s good to know where your strength may lie early on. And despite that you still wish to get better with other weapons. It’s always good. To have choices. What happens if you do not have bow and arrow suddenly? But a knight has more than those. He always has other weapons. So, you must know how to use and fight them well even when they are not your favorites.”

“I will get better at the sword, Mother. I want to.” He glanced at his feet. “I just wish I didn’t trip so much. I can’t get my feet straight.”

She beamed. “I will be more than glad to help you with that. If you wish me to instruct you.”

“Indeed, Mother. Please.”

Relieved, he resumed eating. Brienne, he noticed, despite still having a half-full plate, seemed to have lost interest. “Mother?”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Lyonel. . .please do not call him the Kingslayer.”

“Mother, he broke a sacred vow. Put a sword in the back of the king he swore to protect.”

“No one questions it,” Brienne declared, betraying a brittle edge in her tone despite its softness. “But Ser Jaime. . . do you think it right to hold it against him for the rest of his life? When he has done other things?”

Lyonel couldn’t understand why she was defending such a man. “He married his sister.”

“Targaryens did the same for centuries.”

“It was their custom. Their way. No one else’s. But what he did to Aerys—”

“Is in the past but not forgotten. It has marked him, indeed. An indelible stain to his character. But while Ser Jaime lives and makes choices that may not truly atone for that betrayal he is. . .he is a good man, Lyonel. Neither of us would be here if not for his intervention.”

As he tried to understand her passionate defense of the man, she added, “I want your word. Your word that this will be the last time you call him that black name.”

He was used to her harsh instructions to soldiers, at her growl when she sometimes reminded him to keep his shield arm up. This tone she used now had a harder edge. A warning, it seemed.

But he understood. He owed his life to the Kingslayer. Jaime Lannister kept her alive. “As you wish, Mother.”

“That word will never cross your lips again even in my absence. Is that clear?”

Her eyes would not leave his face. Confused with the urgency of her demand, he could only comply. “I swear it, Mother.”

“We live because of him. And by the Seven will continue for as long as he protects us—” To his surprise, Brienne’s voice cracked. “Jaime—He is much more than you believe him to be, Lyonel.”

“Mother—”

“Yes?”

Lyonel put his utensils down. “I don’t know what to think. All of Westeros knows you captured him in the last war. And the Queen. . .” he struggled to form the words after it. “His sister. The woman he married. . .she wishes our House decimated because we fought against them. So forgive me because I have a hard time thinking the King—that a man who would wed his sister and break sacred vows to protect his king. . . does not have darkness.”

“Your doubt is not unfounded,” she said after a moment. “He is not the easiest of men to know, and I believe, has little interest in changing that himself. But you have my word that Jaime Lannister is a man to trust. There is honor in him.”

Lyonel could only nod. There was little to question in her words. She knew the Kingslayer—Ser Jaime—and despite his own feelings, they remained alive because of him.

To put your life in the hands of one man—it was a prospect he imagined would only be faced when he was in the battlefield, standing with his fellow knights.

Suddenly, Lyonel felt his youth. The burden it had become each day brought the war closer to them.

He was a squire. A boy. But it no longer mattered once dragons came with their fire and blood. Watching Brienne spear the trout with a golden finger that gleamed like fire as it mirrored the flames in the fireplace, he realized too that she was not just his mother. She was a knight.

And it was her godly duty to protect the Seven Kingdoms.

Or die trying.

He forced himself to eat but found the flakes dry as dust rather than moist and topped with spices. Was it dust or ash? Were they the same?

As he took more bites and managed swills of water in between, an icy mass spread in his stomach. He must have made some gesture of discomfort because Brienne suddenly asked, “Is something wrong, my love?”

Lyonel was about to shake his head but words spilled out instead. “What was it like, Mother? In the last war?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I can’t help but think—” He took a breath then blurted it out. “Winter is ending, and Daenerys has taken Tarth. The Stormlands. I worry that instead of the sun of spring there will be fire.” Setting aside his plate, he said more firmly, “I need to know how it was in the last war, Mother. I need to know. . .so we may have a chance at surviving. Tell me no tales for once. I need the truth.”

“Lyonel—”

“I must know.” He insisted, his eyes flashing. “It is the only choice to make.”

Brienne appeared to consider his plea in the silence that followed though there was little to glean from her face. He searched her eyes, stared at her scar, looking for a twitch, anything, that told what she thought. He waited for her swift command to shut his mouth, but she said nothing of the sort.

She took the goblet and sipped. Lyonel’s nails dug into the carved armrests carved in the shape of a lion’s head.

“There are no words to fully describe the scale of it,” she said softly, as if speaking to herself. “Songs with their sweet notes take away the horrors of it. Books tell you which side had the most men, the most horses. The most dead. Numbers shock but can also numb because you can not imagine how many. Even I can’t and I have been in the thick of it.”

“You and my lord father.”

“Yes.” Brienne let out a cough. “With your father. The last decision anyone makes is to go to war. After that, there is only one choice.” Round, clear eyes looked at him. “Making that choice is why I am here. With you.”

“I hope to be as wise as you are in the choices I will make.”

“Lyonel—”

“Mother?”

Her thick eyebrows came close to meeting due to her frown. But it was not irritation he saw in her eyes. Something akin to worry, rather. Whatever grave news she was about to share, he would be ready. At least, appear ready, he thought, straightening. He would not disappoint her by showing weakness.

“Having only one choice seems easy but when you speak of it in regard to war, it’s not so.” Brienne said. “I did not always make the right choice. Let alone much that could be construed as wise. However questionable are some of the choices I have made, I find myself struggling to summon any regret.”

“Do you. . .do you regret choosing the Warrior?”

“No. Never. I am built for it. Although the path. . .it may have diverged. Which I also do not regret. Remember that, Lyonel.”

She seemed to beg though there was no desperation in her tone, nor in her eyes. Lyonel nodded. “As you wish, mother.”

“Good. Good,” she murmured. He continued to watch her, seeing in the wrinkling of her brows once more as she gave serious thought to her next action. When she turned to him, there was a flash of resolve in her eyes.

“You asked me to tell you no tales of the last war. So that you will know your chances of survival. Truth you will get from me, my love. What comes with it. . .I am not too sure. But you deserve to know. You must.”

Instead of continuing, Brienne suddenly grabbed the wine. She tipped the goblet to her lips and glugged the drink loudly. There was no suddenness when she returned it to the table. Her hand was steady and despite the redness of her face, looked more determined than before.

“Humfrey Wagstaff, the man you know as your father, was not the man I wished to marry. I never wished to marry, I have to tell you. I see your love for me, and I am grateful for the Seven that there is at least a person in this world who looks at me as you do. Your mother is no beauty—a truth that has been made clear to me even as a child. I grew up hearing cruel japes more than encouragement. Only when I chose the sword did the insults recede, somewhat. But they were never gone. They will never truly disappear.”

Lyonel lowered his eyes, remembering what had happened earlier. How he had burned with anger. He hated to admit to himself that the Kingslayer’s words had sense but what did he know? Had he ever heard someone he loved insulted so undeservedly? What did he know of pain such as that?

“But I had to marry him.” She said, the crack in her voice drawing his eyes back to her. “Perhaps the one time I had been bested. My father offered me escape and how different things would be had I listened to him, if I had been a coward. King Renly had already given his blessing and to have followed my father would not only be treason but lead to his hanging.” Biting her lip, she seemed to whisper to herself next: “My lord father deserved better than me. He deserved a son. What glory or courage I had shown in battle counted little because I am a woman. Marriage to whoever was willing to have me was all I could do.”

From across the table, she suddenly grasped his hand. “I married Humfrey with my eyes wide open.”

At the mention of his father, Lyonel once again tried to summon a memory of him. His face. His build. The sound of his voice. A gesture he had made. At the periphery of his mind was the shadow and figure but he was never clear, never a full sketch.

“I don’t wish for you to hate the man you know. Because despite everything. . .who he was, what he had done. . .he did not deserve what-what I had done.” At that, she let him go. Lyonel glanced at where she had gripped him, feeling a strange kind of loss. Brienne seemed to sag in her seat, resting against it heavily. She took a few deep breaths.

She was not done.

“Mother,” Lyonel spoke. “Whatever it is you, it does not matter. Do not ask my forgiveness. Do not ask for me to understand. I am with you no matter what.”

She shook her head and murmured over and over, “Don’t. Don’t.”

“I speak the truth,” he insisted. “I swear before—”

“No.” Her voice was just above a whisper, but it was firm. “Lyonel. Don’t make an impossible promise.”

“Mother—”

“Humfrey Wagstaff did not sire you.” Brienne told him. “Your father. . . your real father. He lives. All of the realm will never stop regarding him as an oathbreaker. He did break vows before the Seven but he is not. . .there is more to him.”

Lyonel blinked a few times, trying to understand what had just been said. As the words began to make sense, he asked, “He. . .he lives?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t. . .he can’t. . .” Lyonel thought to stand but couldn’t feel his legs. Like a dumb, he could only say this: “You can’t. . .he can’t be here. Is he?”

Brienne nodded.

“Who?”

“The man you call Kingslayer.”

Chapter Text

What Tyrion remembered of the sun was this: warmth and comfort, the promise of life.

In Dorne, the sun was hardly a dream.

Each breath he drew seemed to bring the grit of sand down his throat, into his lungs. The pitchers holding cool tea and chilled wine were never allowed to be half-full yet each sip did little to wet the dryness on his tongue.

His chambers, a sprawling space of high, wide windows covered in gauzy curtains, was always bathed in light. The heat should be a gift from the cold he had endured for many moons yet seemed to singe. When he caught a glimpse of his face in the looking glass, it showed his hair a shock of glaring almost-white, and his pasty skin now stained with a hint of bronze. A monster he still was, just with more color.

Three days had passed since arriving at Sunspear barely in one piece, yet Prince Doran had yet to grant him an audience. He was not certain about leaving his chambers either, having heard the shuffle of a guard’s boots outside the door even during the day. He thought this to be all in his head until his food was brought in and he glimpsed a hand holding the door open for the servant to enter.

He would find humor in this situation at some point but right now, he was too grim. He slept in a bed of silk, was fed sweet cakes and fine food though too fiery for his taste and could move about. But his freedom was only confined in this square space of much finery and silk. From the finely carved latticework of walls, he was sure eyes watched his every movement.

A lion he was. One who had set foot in a trap and now, he was sure, fattened for slaughter. You are a fool to trust a dragon, he thought. What could be a surer way to lose his head than to be surrounded by Martells? Tywin and Cersei saw no value in him but here, where the earth was scorched, he was very much a Lannister and just as a murderous. A son never seen as a son who must now pay for the sins of the father.

He reached in his jacket, finding once more the sealed scroll Daenerys had handed to him. What was in this parchment? Her orders to strike him off this earth? A plea for support with him as sacrifice?

Voices from outside his door reached his ears. He watched the movement of feet underneath the door, guessing that one person wished to see him. He strained to hear more when the door opened.

“Myrcella.”

“Uncle Tyrion.”

She even sounds like Cersei. Tyrion pulled his hand out of the jacket and stood straight as she slipped into the chamber. Tall with a slim, graceful figure, the curls and waves trailing past her shoulders towards her waist looked even more golden as they reflected the light of the sun. Her skin had the slightest touch of honey, making her look even more striking. The green of her eyes was as clear as polished emeralds.

It may just be his sister standing before him but in many ways, also different. Where Cersei carried herself with arrogance, Myrcella moved with pride. The queen was regarded as the Light of the West because of her beauty but Myrcella, in her gentle look and warm gaze, was the light of the world.

“You have been very patient,” she told him.

“Am I? Then I have fooled you,” he said. When she smiled, he declared, “I do wish I had seen more of you since my arrival. Is there some princely decree that forbids that?”

“If the Martells, Prince Doran has ever forbidden anything, I have yet to know of it. But your presence. . .not truly unexpected. We have knowns for some time you have pledged loyalty to Daenerys.”

“Not so much as pledged as coerced, else I lose my head.”

“Yet here you are, uncle. A whole man.”

“Who knows for how long.”

“Stop this.” Myrcella’s voice cracked. Seemingly startled, she gathered herself first before continuing. “I know very well how House Lannister is regarded, especially in these parts. In my long journey here I had wondered repeatedly what possessed you to have married into a House that would wish me dead.”

“Did they harm you?” He demanded. “Myrcella—”

“No. I was never hurt. Never made to feel unwelcome. No cruelty, uncle. In fact, they let me be a child here. I still remember too well how worry would plague me should mother find a tear in one of my dresses. And there was often. . .because Joffrey. . .”

When her voice faltered, Tyrion, also remembering the casual cruelty of his cursed nephew, asked slowly, “What did he do to you?”

“What had he not done? My dresses always hid their proof.” Myrcella looked at her bare slender arms. “I never had to hide anything here, uncle. Because there was nothing to hide. I am seen here. I am heard.”

“Forgive me.”

“No. You were the only one to see and hear me. And Tommen.” She clasped her hands as if in prayer before dropping them. “It is not my wish to revisit the past, uncle. You of all people. . .you should never ask my forgiveness. There is nothing to forgive.”

“You have kindness,” he said after a moment. “I never thought to see it something of it again. You don’t. . .you do not believe the charge against me, then?”

“I have always known it to be the lie it was. With the queen. . .well, to trust a single utterance from her is madness. Or foolishness.” Myrcella held out her hand. “Come, uncle. I am to bring you to Prince Doran.”

Tyrion smiled and took the scroll. As he clasped her smooth hand between his rough palms, he laid a kiss on it. “To have laid eyes on you again is a gift.”

The warmth the brief reunion had stirred in Tyrion was gone by the time he was before Prince Doran. He tried not to squint from the glare of the sun, lest it be regarded as slight. He glanced at his right. “This may mean nothing to you, but I am relieved at your presence, Ser Barristan.”

The knight, who seemed to have grown more robust in the sun, barely afforded him a glance. “But it has loosed now, what you say. Impossible to take it back.”

There was no raised platform upon which the prince sat. It was a leveled floor, with tiles varying shades of sand and the color of the red sun. Flanking him was his much younger brother, the Prince Oberyn, and his children Princess Arianne and Prince Trystane.

Guards were ringed strategically elsewhere, but it was three that made Tyrion wary, and Doran as well. He looked older than his fifty years, and the fine embroidery of his shirt just about masked his frail, narrow shoulders, the high collar hiding the strained veins in his neck. His black hair was striped with gray and under his dark eyes were hollowed sacks of skin. The wheeled chair he sat on was carved to resemble a throne. His expression was unreadable as he regarded Tyrion.

Oberyn was the direct contrast to his brother. His hair was thick and black as night, and underneath a face with a robust, olive complexion. His brows were heavy yet did not sharpen nor made his appearance stern. He stared at Tyrion as if determining where and how to strike him best without risking much bloodshed.

Doran’s children were just as inscrutable, and shared his dark, striking features. Arianne was slim and taller than most women though she did not tower many men. Trystane was the exemplar of youth: dark hair that was soft and gently curled that girls and women much older had dreamed of running their fingers through, round, black eyes ringed by thick curling eyelashes. He was taller than his sister.

Myrcella, who had stood at Tyrion’s side, made her way towards the prince. Tyrion watched as Trystane put an arm around her waist. He had yet to decide what to make of the gesture when Doran suddenly spoke.

“So, it is true. A lion stands with the dragon. And with it a knight who made sacred vows to protect his king. Women. Children. Ser Barristan, you are a surprise.”

Barristan nodded briefly. “My prince.”

“Quite strange. A dragon should be hard to kill but she has willfully called on an enemy to her side,” Doran remarked.

“Enough for her to trust me with a most delicate task,” Tyrion responded.

“That or she offers your head to gain my loyalty.”

“The queen,” he found himself saying, “is nothing like her father.”

“And you? How much of Tywin Lannister is in you?”

Tyrion spread his palms. “As you can see, there is not much. He was loathed to give me his name. He would have flung me over the side of the cliff had I not been a Lannister.”

“It is a name that is best not uttered in these parts.” It was Oberyn who spoke next. His voice was a slick drawl.

“I would think having some care in mentioning my name is quite pointless as I am already here. I need no reminding of the whispers regarding the tragedy of the Princess Elia—”

“Tragedy?” Oberyn mocked, stepping forward. Tyrion stood his ground as the man known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the Red Viper was in front of him. Regarding him with eyes darker than a moonless night, he said, “A tragedy is to die from illness after a long battle. A tragedy is for a mother to lose her life so her child may live. No. There was no tragedy with Elia. And my niece and nephew. It was murder, little man. Crimson silk cloaks hid the blood from the violence visited upon them but there’s no denying what it is. It was murder. On your father Tywin’s orders.”

“If you wish to put me through a trial I should tell you my entire life has been one. To have another charge upon me is just another day. In the eyes of my father and sister, I am the monster that killed his wife and her mother so that I may draw breath. In the eyes of the queen, I ordered the mob that tore her precious son into pieces. The crypt contains all that they have managed to find of him and there is not much.” He said. “Which speaks of him, wouldn’t you say?”

“He was a mad dog. They were not whispers but cries. Anyone in King’s Landing who mourned for him had to have been promised a bowl of gruel for the day.”

Tyrion glanced at Myrcella. She moved closer to Trystane.

“History fascinates me. I can never read enough books. But the past can be looked into another time, my dear prince, for it is already written. In my alliance with Daenerys Targaryen, I have been given a chance to move forward. Perilous as it may be, not to mention riddled with much uncertainty, it is still a chance. One that I wish to take and make myself useful for my life depends on her whim. Which brings me here.” He addressed Doran this time. “At her orders.”

“Does the scroll you wield as if it were a sword contain her orders, then?” Doran asked.

“Yes.”

A guard suddenly approached and Tyrion placed the scroll in his hand. He watched as it was handed to Doran before shifting attention back to Oberyn. The prince looked at him one more time before turning on his heel to take his place next to his brother.

But Doran did not open it right away. Instead, he exchanged a look with his children then his brother. They left, but the diminished numbers did little for Tyrion. There were still guards in every corner, and he was sure, hidden behind pillars and watching from the balconies and rooftops. They were present everywhere, like the sun and heat.

After what felt like an eternity, the prince finally plucked at the seal and opened the scroll. His face was not hidden but there was nothing of him Tyrion could read. Had Daenerys ordered his demise? Was he going to be the sacrifice? He tried to look at Barristan, but the man hardly acknowledged him.

“The sun beats harder as the day passes. Best we hold a discussion with a roof over our heads.” Doran said.

Immediately, Areo appeared stand in front of him while two guards got behind the wheeled chair to push. Tyrion began to follow when a guard suddenly thrust a spear at him and on his shoulder, a heavy hand fell. He warred between gratitude and annoyance as Barristan yanked him back and the guard lowered his spear.

“Perhaps it’s time you reacquaint yourself with books,” Barristan told him in a low voice. “You don’t seem to grasp the danger we are in.”

“We? The sins of my father had once again been laid upon me. What transgression did your father commit to incur their wrath?”

“I have my orders from the Khaleesi to protect you, much as I mislike it. That association is why we will get swords in our guts if you don’t take care.” Barristan still gripped him by the collar as he spoke but then loosened his hold. “Good. Now we are allowed to follow him.”

“Shall I come after you?”

“Oh no, my lord.” Barristan’s smile was cold. “After you.”

There was no choice. Tyrion swept past the double doors and found Doran on a long, curving seat swathed in silk. A hand gestured that he take the opposite seat, which was its partner. Barristan elected to remain standing.

Doran looked at the protection around him before nodding at Areo Hotah. The guard then ordered his fellow soldiers to vacate. Tyrion only heard them leave, having glimpsed their swift and almost silent movement out of the corner of his eye. Then Areo moved to stand close to his prince and fixed his eyes on Tyrion.

“Daenerys is wise to send him as your shield,” Doran told Tyrion, glancing at Barristan. “You are not golden as the rest of the Lannisters but there is only one dwarf with a scar like yours, hair yours, eyes like yours. You would have put only one foot on the docks before your end.”

“Is it safe for me to assume then that the queen has not ordered my head for this day at least?”

Doran chuckled but reached for the scroll instead. “She has an intriguing offer. And unexpected. In cyvasse it would throw off her opponent. Did she learn of our histories from you?”

“No. She has her own mind. Her intellect is more than sound.”

“Why are you allied with her? Or perhaps, she has allied with you?”

“It is a long tale, Prince Doran. Fate played a hand in throwing us together but from that point onwards, choices were made. Rather she made the choice. She saw more value in allowing me to live than seeing my demise.” Tyrion replied. “It’s unusual, that.”

He affected a light tone yet as he spoke, he remembered another who saw value in him. For a moment his thoughts went to his brother. To the dream.

It felt as if the sun burned in his throat but in his heart was ice. Has she swayed him at last? The brother who has always protected me, the only person to love me? He did not trust in Cersei’s skills with persuasion but beauty, no matter how cruel, would always get her desire.

“She must be forgiving.”

“Not to cast doubt or to question your take on it, but do you really think so?”

Doran once again glanced at the scroll then him. But he gave no hint of an answer or any emotion regarding its contents.

“Do you ally yourself with her merely because she allows you to live, or do you believe in her as queen?” He asked Tyrion.

“She has command and the loyalty of the Dothraki, the Unsullied, and the Second Sons. She now holds the waterways of Westeros, impinging on trade that has forced continuous surges in costs of foodstuffs and necessities to survive. Every soldier, even handmaiden, will fight for her because she will fight for each of them. Then of course, the matter of dragons. Prince Doran, only a fool would question being at her side at this time. Anyone who sides with another will only find doom.” His eyes fell on the scroll. “You have not indicated clear displeasure in its contents. Might I assume you agree with what is there?”

Doran smiled. “She has sketched the dream House Martell has had for a long time. Indeed, she has.” He said. “You will find your way back to her sooner than you think.”

Tyrion tried to mask his relief.

“Send her a raven before nightfall. I agree to her terms.”

“Will that be all? All that I can tell my queen?”

“It is everything.”

Chapter Text

The day began like any other. Brienne rose when the sun, if not for winter, should have stretched its first faint rays across the horizon. Washed her face and shrugged off the shift to replace it with tunic and breeches. Finished lacing up her boots just as a maid came in with the morning meal.

Everything went as it usually had, including the familiar places in her body left sore by sparring. Yet the food set at the table remained untouched. Before her very eyes she saw the exact moment the warm, fluffy, crusty bread began to stiffen and cool. The cheese was the salty kind she liked but couldn’t bring herself to even think of taking a bite.

All she could do was look out the window and listen to the sound of soldiers sparring without her. There was no tiredness in her body. What will she had to teach, to even fight or knock heads together to deal with whatever turmoil there was, was gone.

She was lost in the process of sliding whetstone up and down her dagger when a soft, almost tentative knock came to her door. Her heart leaped as she shot to her feet, thinking of the voice she will hear next.

“Ser Brienne.”

She swallowed. “Jaime. Please.”

She sat down at the foot of the bed. The door creaked open as Jaime let himself in.

They stared at each other from across the chamber. His hair was dark gold in the little light and some of the light had faded from his eyes. From the lines on his face, it was clear he had passed a difficult night as well. Likely had not slept much.

He made a little nod, as if to acknowledge her thoughts. Then he closed the door behind him to sit down next to her. A hand wrapped around hers, stopping its slide down the blade.

“I told him.” Her voice tight and rough. She cleared her throat and looked at Jaime. “It did not go well.”

She waited for reproach. Maybe a sigh of resignation. Instead, he took whetstone and blade away from her hands. Teeth clamped her thick bottom lip as his hand closed around hers. His warmth was enough for her to fall on his hand and press a kiss brimming with need on the palm. “Oh, Jaime.”

And then she was in his arms, slumped heavily on his chest with her face pressed on his shoulder. No sob slipped from her lips. Her body knew nothing of strength now. All it could do was sag against him, let herself be touched by hands roaming her hair, her back.

“It was never going to be easy,” he whispered, rubbing her back. “He needs time. It’s all we can give him now.”

“He hates me.” She mumbled against the cracked leather surface of his shoulder. Even with her eyes closed she still saw Lyonel’s face going white at her words. White with disbelief and horror. She remembered him struggling to form words but could only stammer sounds that was a mix of gasps and whimpers. Words had deserted her too and came out as pitiful yammering.

Mother and son stared at each other wordlessly before somehow, Lyonel found use of his legs and scrambled to his feet. His gait was unsteady as he rushed to the door. She could only think of stopping him but she herself was frozen in her seat.

“Wench.” Jaime’s voice pulled her back and she held him tighter, grateful for the respite. He kissed her on the temple. “He doesn’t. He can never hate you.”

She shook her head and pulled slightly away to look at him. “You didn’t see his face.”

A weak whimper left her as he leaned his forehead against hers. They continued to hold each other, him rubbing her up and down the arms in some attempt to rid her of the anguish. Her hands climbed to his face, cupping him by the jaw.

She did not deserve this: comfort, warmth, kindness. Not when she had lied to Lyonel his whole life. Perhaps it was better he knew nothing of his true father.

As always, regret came too late.

“I should have been with you last night,” Jaime said, cradling her hand against his face and covering it in soft, fluttery kisses that made her tingle. “But when you didn’t come to my chambers. . .I thought you needed time too.”

“I-I wanted. . .I wanted to be with you last night,” she admitted, her face burning. “But I wouldn’t. . .I wouldn’t have been. . .”

She did miss him between her legs last night. His kisses would make her forget this pain, but she couldn’t imagine taking them then, let alone giving them. Her heart stilled waiting for his disappointment.

Jaime chuckled.

Wide-eyed, she stared as he turned her wrist to press kisses there next.

“If you only know the pleasure I get from fucking you. But I also want to comfort you. Give you my shoulder to cry on. If you wished me to fuck you last night, then of course. But I am just as willing to hold you through the night.”

Looking into her eyes, he continued, “I would be content to just hold you for the rest of my days, Brienne.”

Something about his words, maybe in how he said them, or the tenderness in his gaze, broke something in her. Before she could understand what was happening, a floodgate of tears poured out of her. As she sniffled and heaved, she was once again in his arms, hands mapping soothing circles round her back, lips traveling up and down the side of her face.

“I don’t know,” she managed to say.

“Tell me, wench?”

Clinging to him, she remembered a night from a lifetime ago. A night when she had but a few moments to feel beautiful and desired until the first among the many of cruel sniggers reached her ear. She was still very much a girl then despite already bearing the marks of the woman she would be, meager as her bosoms were.

She had stood in the center of that ballroom confused, her heart breaking into tiny little pieces as she caught the whispered mockery about her looks, the laughter that accompanied fingers pointed in her direction. As her face began to crumple from the tears just about to fall, a beautiful boy with dark hair and blue eyes broke away from the crowd and swept her in his arms. Just like in songs.

But she learned that night songs were not true. She tried to struggle from the boy’s hold until his lips moved close to her ear. “Never give them your tears, Brienne. They don’t deserve them,” Renly Baratheon said.

“What don’t you know?” Jaime asked her now, his whisper warm in her ear.

“Like this,” she said. “Letting someone else see my tears. Leaning on someone as I break.”

“Gods,” he groaned after a moment. His hold firmed and the kiss he pressed on her cheek deepened. “Never hide your tears from me, Brienne. I won’t let you break. I’ll always be there to pick up the pieces you’ve lost.”

Tears continued to slide down her cheeks, and then a few moments later, her tongue. As she tasted the salt, so did she find the subtle flavor of wine and spices on Jaime’s tongue. They kissed. Softly. Deeply. His hand gripped the back of her head as she clutched at his shoulders.

He was warm and as she’d thought, made her forget the pain kiss by kiss. She drew his hand to her breast, filling his mouth with her moan as his fingers loosened the ties to paw at her breast and play with her nipple. The rough, calloused texture of his palm on soft, smooth skin made her arch.

She started urging his head down, needing his greedy mouth to suckle her when he suddenly pulled away with a heavy sigh. As she blinked at him, he stared at her open tunic, at her breasts. His eyes were green fire and his stuttered, rushed breathing told he wished to ride her hard.

His hands reached up then.

And began fixing the laces to seal her tunic closed.

“J-Jaime?”

“I want to fuck you,” he admitted. “But you don’t need me this way now. Trust me.”

She started to protest when he put his hand right on her cunt, cupping her firmly. “You’re warm but not damp. And you are quick to slick your breeches for my cock, Brienne. It doesn’t take a lot of kisses.” As her face burned a bright red, he gave her a gentle smile. “There’s no shame in desiring me. It’s a gift I treasure for always. But trust me when I say the last thing you need is to be flat on your back.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, desperate. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you’re right. I should have kept silent. I don’t like feeling like this.”

But Jaime didn’t respond. He stared at his hand between her legs.

“Jaime?” She was breathless.

“I apologize.” His cheeks were turning pink. This time, she found herself trying to restrain a smile. Retracting his hand, he shrugged awkwardly at her. “Like I said, I want to fuck you. And no, you’re not wrong. Lyonel needed to know.”

“I was so sure but now. . .” She shook her head. The pain rushed back. Jaime rubbed her between the shoulders then pulled her back in his arms.

“I just. . .there is a reason the Stranger did not take me that day. But gods, had I known how hard it would be for him, and this hurt, I would have listened to you.”

“Would you rather he never knows? For his entire life be a lie?”

“Wouldn’t you want Myrcella to know the truth?”

She saw the color drain from his face, reminding her of Lyonel. He turned away from her and she once again found herself in a place of regret. As she hesitated between touching or giving him space, he pressed his face briefly in his hands before dropping them. Then he looked at her.

Biting her lip, she said, “I’m sorry. I should not—”

“No.” Jaime put a hand on her knee.

“It’s not my concern.”

“It is very much your concern,” he said after a breath of quiet. “You’re with me. As for your question—”

“You don’t have to answer—”

“But at some point, I need to have an answer, will I not?” He pointed out.

But nothing was said for a while. Brienne took his hand. “It need not be now.”

“Still, an answer is expected,” he said. “And the truth is, it’s not something I have given much thought to. In fact, I don’t think of it. I can only imagine how those words further diminishes me in your eyes—”

“No.”

Jaime was firm. “It should, wench. It should. Because I sired her. Joffrey. And Tommen. Borne of Cersei from my seed. I am Myrcella’s father, indeed. But she has not. . .I have never—I never saw her as mine. Any of them.”

“Because she kept them away from you.”

“Yes,” he said. “But also because I did not care for them. Not so much. I was at her side during the birth and I was the first to see them as they were pushed out. I felt nothing. My only concern was my sister. I loathed them for the pain they put her through. I despised every second their mouths seized her breasts. Cersei was mine and the children took her from me.”

He held her hand fast, likely thinking his declaration would have her pulling away. She lowered her head for indeed, it crossed her mind. But he was speaking only the truth. He was answering her question.

He was not under any obligation to give her answers she would like.

“I was there when they grew up. I may have been there when one of them took their first steps. I don’t know their first words. I was there, Brienne, and though they have my face, they are strangers to me. I will not be able to pick any of them from the crowd. You told Lyonel the truth because you love him. If I were to tell Myrcella the truth, what for? It would render her a bastard and then what would the Martells do to her?” He asked. “I should think more of her. After all, she’s mine. It’s not that I can’t. I don’t.”

“You’ve given no thought to her at all? Even Cersei?”

He shook his head. “If the girl survives to this day, then it’s a blessing. I have always wondered what possessed Tyrion to have her betrothed to a Martell, given what happened.”

It was still whispered in all corners of Westeros what had happened to Elia Martell and her two children. She couldn’t imagine a more horrific ordeal than being forced to watch children slaughtered. Death would be bliss but even for that, Elia suffered through even more hells.

“Do you believe them? The rumors?”

“Animals are animals but at their master’s bidding, they will act.” Jaime said. “And Tywin was master of them all.”

“If Myrcella lives, maybe she has found kindness with the Martells.” When still he said nothing, she asked, “Not a single thought about her at all, Jaime? Truly?”

“Cersei gave no thought to her so I. . .I did as well. I make no excuses, but it is the truth.”

“What makes Lyonel different?”

“I want to be able to love him freely. But I think it’s largely because he is part of you.” He said, kissing her hand. “He wasn’t real to me until I laid eyes on him. I see so much of you in him. I am scared for the boy but also wish to be true father to him. Wench, if I still have the right to hope for more children with you, then I shall. I wish to see you swell with them. Have you scream at me as you birth them. If a cursed man such as myself could still be blessed to see them grow and have children of their own, then I’ll go through seven hells if that’s what it takes. And more. Because they are part of you. Tell me the truth, Brienne,” he asked, “Have I become more terrible in your eyes? Somewhere is a daughter I have sired, who is perhaps love or maybe punished as I speak, yet I have no care.”

“I have seen you at your lowest,” she said. “I only ever saw you as a man with the blackest heart for a long time.”

“And?”

“I’ve always seen the truth of you, Jaime. More than you probably think. But here I am,” she looked at their joined hands. “I refuse to be far from your side. Does that answer your question?”

He nodded and she leaned in to kiss him.

 There is still a choice to make here, she thought. But it is a choice I will never make. She was tied to Jaime, but binds can always be severed. She won’t be the person to take a knife to them.

“Do you think. . .” he murmured, kissing her back. “I can speak to Lyonel. Try to calm him?”

“I don’t believe it would help him now,” she said. “You’re right. He needs time. We should let him breathe.”

“It might take an age, but I am not going anywhere. He’s my son. There is nothing that will take me away from him.” He caressed her cheek while looking into her eyes. “And you. I am yours, Brienne.”

Chapter Text

Perhaps because fire had led her to this path, she was roused to the new day before the sun’s rise. Daenerys had been sat on a chair facing east, clear in her gaze and even clearer in the head by the time the golden orb of the sun graced the sky.

If she breathed just slightly deeper, she could taste fire too.

I have more fire than blood in my veins but had known blood more than fire. Her gaze drifted to the clear, dark sapphire waters, wondering if many a Targaryen had shared the same thought. If for such a thought it came with a surge of glory or regret.

Before she could decide where her heart leaned towards, she heard the gentle patter of feet outside her door. As she turned, she glimpsed something unusual. While the door to her chambers opened, she saw the faintest of movement in the far horizon, in the water. Sails.

Orange sails, black and red sails, lilac, and more. Warmth surged in her heart and when she turned to face Missandei and the other ladies that had gathered in the chamber, her eyes were bright.

“They come, Khaleesi,” Missandei told her.

“Yes. I have just glimpsed them.” Daenerys said, nodding. “We must get ready. Have Grey Worm ready the guards and bring them to the beach.” She moved past them, her thoughts already on the day ahead and further. “I must also speak with Daario.”

“First we must get you ready,” Missandei said.

Daenerys glanced down at herself, at her robe. She sighed. “Of course. Leave the other ladies with me, Missandei. I task you to oversee my requests.”

“Of course, Khaleesi.” Then she bowed and gently turned on her feet to leave.

Due to the quickly developing events, there was little time for a proper bath. The ladies left behind poured warm water into a large basin, dipped silken cloths in it, and began to scrub Daenerys. They were rinsing her when someone knocked on the door.

“Khaleesi.” It was Daario.

“My robe,” Daenerys requested. As she was helped into it, she continued, “I wish to speak to him in private. Stay outside my door, please.”

The women murmured their assent with a bow and made their way to the door. Daenerys watched as Daario waited for each to leave before letting himself inside. Once the door was closed, he turned to her.

There was no arrogance in his dark eyes, and the half-smirk that seemed to never leave his lips gone. Before her was a man whose olive complexion had turned quite sallow, and in his face an expression of need. Daenerys crossed her arms over her chest.

“I thought you had forgotten about me,” Daario said to her.

“There is no forgetting the man I trust with my life,” she assured him. “But you know why you have not warmed my bed. Why you can’t.”

Despite her resolve, the words rang hollow in her ears, especially when Daario moved to her and caught her in his arms. Though she shook her head, she let him kiss her.

Her heart did not lurch with love for this man, but her cunt warmed for what he would give her. As her arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hands went for the knot of her robe. The damp silk was still falling to the floor when he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to bed.

She pulled at the buckles of his jacket through their kiss, moaned through more kisses when he freed himself of the tunic and offered his chest. As she fell on his body, his hands stroked her back, her bottom. Then he dragged her by the hair to take her mouth in a kiss that made her long for love.

After denying her body for so long, she was helpless in what it wanted. She arched her body at him, offering her breasts to his mouth. He tongued the full mounds before dragging nipples between his teeth, suckling to the point of hot, sweet pain. His torment made her body pliant, a receptacle of his kisses.

His beard scratched the soft skin of her stomach and scraped at her inner thighs. When he spread them, she thought of how she could only trust him with her body. He put himself between harm and her but no more than that. As she moaned from his tongue flicking at the aching bud between her folds, she grappled with both fear and lust. Fear that he could easily master her because she would let him, because of what her body wanted with him.

He fucked her from behind, fisting her hair in one hand while keeping one at her waist. Her eyes did not fall close from pleasure but in memory from another life. Drogo had taken her many a night in this manner, and she had relished the repeated slides of his massive cock inside her, begging for more even as her voice became a ragged sound from her cries of pleasure. How her heart raced and swelled even in the aftermath. And in his arms she found safety. Love.

On her back a while later, she looked up at Daario. As much as she trusted him, there was a line her heart refused to cross. Perhaps it was the girl in her that trusted him, and the queen who knew he was not of kings. As he spread her legs once more for his cock, she whispered, “There can be no more of this. Swear to me this is the last.”

He shook his head and she insisted, “Swear it or this ends with neither of us having found some satisfaction.”

“You know I don’t just ride you to satiate my lust,” he told her.

“Swear it,” she repeated.

The man was torn but he nodded. “You have my word.”

She let him take her twice, both times quieting desire until sense pushed her off the bed at last. Her breasts still ached from his suckles and her cunt sweetly sore from his cock. But she dipped cloth into the cooled water in the basin and scrubbed his seed from her thighs. As she washed his scent off her body, she heard him leave the bed.

“You did not summon me for this,” he remarked.

“No,” she faced him, her naked body slick with water. He kept looking at her as he got dressed. “I would ask forgiveness but my guilt would be punishment enough. And I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“Yet my heart and sword are still yours.”

“A knowledge that I will take advantage of.” Since he was staring at her breasts, she thought it best to put her robe back on. “Have you glimpsed the sails of Dornish ships?”

“I have. Your plan,” he said, “it is coming together.”

“Which is why you are here.” Daenerys walked behind a desk and from a drawer, pulled out a parchment. It bore her seal. “You are the only man I trust with this, Daario. I can see how I’ve broken you, your hurt. I regret that, believe me. Yet I will still ask this of you. I ask knowing of the care you have for me.”

He looked at the parchment. “You ask me of this, whatever is scrawled in there, but not of my forgiveness?”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“I can never hate you,” he declared. “There is pain, you are right. But I can not regret loving a dragon. Not yet.”

She walked around the desk and handed him the scroll. He stared at it for a moment then took it.  

“This is only part of what you must do for me,” she continued. “There is another.”

“Another?”

When he stepped closer, she shook her head. He stopped.

“The other prisoner.”

“Jorah Mormont?”

“Yes.”

“What of him? You wish for his head?”

“I command you to take him north.”

He looked puzzled. “But this –” he gestured at the parchment.

“You will protect him with your life, if need be.” At his shock, she persisted, “Do you understand? Only you can protect him, Daario. No one else. You must bring him north.”

“How can you ask this of me? My life for that man?”

Her eyes filled with sorrow, she said, “This is why I never thought to ask for your forgiveness.”

His fist tightened around the parchment but loosened it before causing the seal to crack. As he stalked the chamber with gathering fury, Daenerys could only watch him.

“You would command me this even if I was still warming your bed, wouldn’t you?” He suddenly said, whipping his head sharply in her direction.

“Yes.”

“And from your words, am I correct in gleaning only I will be bringing him to the cursed north? Me, a man of the east, who has never in his life known of winter until setting foot here. You charge me, my life, to protect the man who betrayed you through armies of that mad Cersei Lannister and the flaying Bolton bastards?”

“A mission likely to bloody roads,” she admitted. “But I see no one else who would fulfill this. Nor can I trust anyone else.”

“Grey Worm. Dothraki.”

“Who with their dark features will be known as foreign immediately and be killed.”

“There it is,” Daario suddenly said. “Now it’s there. Regret.”

Daenerys could only stare at him.

“If only I could hate you, if I could slash at your throat, it would be much easier. But you are in me.” He sat on the bed. “Fuck this world, but you are in me. It’s not mere craving of your flesh that I have. Or the thrill of riding the dragon that you are. You are in me,” he repeated, his tone bitter. “You tell me to jump and the words out of me will be how high. I wish to drag you from the very heart of me because perhaps then, then I will be able to breathe again. I won’t be a fool. But you are in me.”

Suddenly, someone knocked. “Khaleesi. The ships are almost ashore.”

“What would you have done if I refused you?”

“You can not refuse me.”

They looked at each other and Daario nodded, as if having just answered something within himself. She watched return to his feet wearily, the parchment in the firm grip of his gloved hand.

 “Is this all you ask of me, Khaleesi?” He wouldn’t look at her.

“It is my wish.”

 “Then it is done.” He turned to her, giving her a glimpse of the hardened warrior he was, and the harder man he had become. Then he dropped on his knee.

“My sword is yours. My life is yours.” The rasp in his voice told of a man with great thirst, perhaps for love, perhaps for blood. “My love is yours. My blood, my body, my songs. You own them all. I live and die at your command, fair queen.”

When she gave him a nod, he rose. “I wish you safe travels, futile as it is. Should this mission of yours come to an end, be it in fulfilment of my command or for any other reason, I return your blood, your body, your songs. You will cease to be mine.”

No more was said between them. Daenerys kept her eyes on the horizon as she heard him walk out of the chamber, the soft tread of his boots trailing into silence.

The silence yawned longer when the women returned and helped finish her dressing. The dress was almost similar to the one Viserys had put on her when she presented to Khal Drogo, but this was blue and bared not just her arms but also her back. The women offered a cloak but she refused it.

“I am warm now.”

Grey Worm and a contingent of fifty men awaited her. She climbed on her white horse and with a firm kick in the ribs of the animal, burst forth to lead the charge. They were quick to follow her.

The air was thick with the scent of sun, sea, and smoke, yet there was still a hint of ice. But she felt a fire within her unlike anything she had ever known. It seemed she was fire itself, untamed and surging. As she headed for the beach, she glimpsed the approach of Dornish ships surrounding the lone ship with the sails of a crimson dragon in a black field.

Anchors were dropped, followed by boats slowly lowered. As Daenerys drew her horse to a halt, her eyes veered to the boat in the center of it all that carried the cargo on which the destiny of her kingdom lay. But a boat ahead of the others was the first to reach shore and she watched the soldiers disembark, followed by a knight and a dwarf.

“Your grace,” Barristan Selmy, whose age was never a hindrance to his statute and gait, also appeared unbothered by the sea as he made an elegant bow.

“I am pleased with your return,” she told him, bidding him with a hand to rise. Her smile dropped at the other man next to him. “I see that your head remains where it is, Tyrion Lannister.”

“An incentive that would inspire a man to ensure no other outcome but success,” he quipped while making a bow. “You are a vision in blue, if I may say so, after seeing nothing but sand and sun.”

“Flattery might get you somewhere,” she told him. “But with this queen might demand a strike at your face. Yet you already lost a bit of your nose, and you are worthless to me without your eyes.”

“Then you have my eternal gratitude for being allowed to keep them.”

“I wouldn’t be too quick with thanks, if I were you.” She said, turning her attention back to the other boat fast approaching the shore.

The man who was the first to step off the boat was unlike any other she had ever laid eyes on, despite having an abundance in her armies and in all her travels. His skin was a smooth, darker shade of olive. His hair was a black as night, save for a few silver strands that oddly did not hint of age given his years on her.

His build was narrow but fit, and when he walked through water his legs smoothly cut through the surface with hardly a slosh or splash. He was dressed in robes of gold and orange, further emphasizing his tan skin. As he approached, she glimpsed black eyes underneath the narrow arcs of his eyebrows.

He was neither handsome nor far from ugly. But there was nothing ordinary about him. Not in the way he moved. Not in the way he looked at her. There was an arrogance in him, but this was hardly surprising given who he was. And what he was known to do.

But she was almost surprised when he took a bow once before her. As she climbed off her horse, she kept her eyes on him, waiting for any tremor or some faltering as he kept his head down. She barely felt the sand under her boots as she regarded him.

“You may rise, Oberyn Martell, so I may see your face.”

He straightened up. He was not much taller than her but gave the impression of immense power.

“As you wish,” he uttered, looking at her right in the eye. “My queen.”

“Just your queen?”

He smiled. “My bride.”

“Indeed,” she said, offering her hand. As he pressed his lips on it, the familiar cries of her dragons pierced the sky and seemed to set back the sun as their winged forms cast shadows over them. “Very much, indeed.”

His kiss was warm and much too quick and when he released her, his eyes sparked with the knowledge that he knew her exact thought. “The Seven Kingdoms are all but yours, yet you have chosen me to be at your side as you reclaim what is your divine right. It is an honor I will never forget, and trust that it is not only my body through which you will have a shield and sword but also the armies of Dorne. We have a debt to pay.”

“Shall we begin then?”

Chapter Text

Sansa III

All the fireplaces and every column in the hall was golden with roaring fire, chasing with their light the darkness that it seemed like day. Yet its occupants were huddled in the heaviest of furs, grim from the cold and their eyes even more grim from the Stranger’s last visit.

Except for the eyes of Sansa Stark. She stood by one of the fireplaces, the grandest and biggest in the room. Stone carved in the shape of the falcon, the edges boasting the intricate details of its feathers. Lit by fire, it seemed a phoenix rising. As she turned to address the people seated at the long marble table, she stood at the center of the fireplace.

“It appears the desolation of winter will continue, darkening the passages of this castle and further breaking out hearts,” she began. “I wish for the right words for the promise of spring, that our hearts will sing again come summer. Alas, this remains a desire. I have lost a husband who has given me warmth and love in a span of less than a moon. But this loss is not just mine. We shall all miss. Will always miss him. Our hearts hurt. My heart hurts. I can not imagine the torment of you who have loved and known him much longer than I.”

“He was the future,” said Lady Anya Waynwood after a moment of silence. Her face now had more lines than the bark of a tree. Because her eyes had always been filmy, it was hard to tell if she had shed tears for Harry. Sansa wouldn’t find fault if she had.

“Had fortune blessed the young boy a year in Runestone, then winter will just have come.” Yohn Royce’s tone, no more quiet than it was usual, seemed to drive a spike into the quiet of fire and ice.

“The past is already written, my lord.” Sansa had to tell him. “As bleak is the road forward, we have our breath, we have all our limbs. We owe it to the dead to live. For every being the Stranger has taken that is not us, we must honor them with our lives. But you have my word that such words are easier spoken than fulfilled.”

His eyes, gray as the winter sky, met hers as she spoke. “My lord husband would wish me to take the mantle of the duty he has sworn to uphold.”

“Even a skirmish against Cersei is a great risk,” Lady Anya told her. “He was most insistent.”

“He was merely testing which of you will challenge him.”

“But-but my lady,” it was Colemon lending his voice for the first time since everyone had gathered. “Lady Sansa, he was challenged. By all of us.”

“You did not challenge him enough,” Sansa insisted. “A source of great frustration from my dear beloved Harry, who only wished to rule and give you the leader you deserved. He trusted himself but was not sure about this council.”

“And will you be echoing his thoughts?” Lord Yohn told her.

“Harry never ceased to look for challenge, my lord. Even in our chambers.”

As the three older adults tried to school their expressions into something more vacant and unreadable, she continued, “I was the voice that diverged from all others. There was never a need for me to raise it for my husband to listen. He trusted my whispers.”   

“He never gave any indication of this. Of your. . .of your thoughts,” Yohn pointed out. “Of his need to be challenged.”

“You never reveal your intentions to an opponent, do you? My Lord Royce, you are a tourney knight. Surely you will never reveal to the man you face your secrets lest he best you. . .or worse?”

“I am not questioning his trust in you, my lady.”

“No. You are questioning what I know about my husband. You doubt his spirit.”

Lord Yohn’s mouth fell open. “That is not—”

She shook her head. “Debating which of us knew him best is a waste of breath. In that I have lost, but I love him. Truly I do, short as our time is together. And he loved me too. He shared with me his most secret of yearnings. His ardent wish. He trusted me.” Turning to Lady Anya, she said, “He was your ward. Do you intend to honor him truly? As do I. We all do.”

To the room, she continued, “Cersei was a test. Not of your loyalty. When a soldier goes to battle, he needs not only the truth and loyalty of his men. He also needs their thoughts. Harry was never a fool. He pushed you to challenge him but was dissatisfied. I have no lesson, no teacher, in what to do when challenged. If my mother were with us she’d lock us in this hall, knock our heads together until we remember we are brothers and sisters. At least, that’s what I believe she would say. We are not blood. There is no need for us to be locked together to be forced into an agreement.”

She approached the long table and took her seat. It was the warmest chair in the room, as if the slab of wood and supple leather had been never left without a body for long. As she stroked the carved arms in the shape of the wings of falcons, she said, “Harry is the tie that binds us. That is all we need to know. And thus, know what must be done.”

“The histories of House Royce and House Waynwood are as old as the mountains that guard us. Storms and fires have never shaken a single stone from these mountains. We are all our Houses, but we are of the Vale in our core, Lady Sansa. I mean no dishonor nor any slight in my question but your ties to this region are through your aunt. A tie that is not so deep as in the north. We don’t doubt Harry’s trust in you. But we need more to give you a listen.”

“You have it. I have no interest in bringing winter to Cersei Lannister. In which my husband was vocal in his support.”

“But the north remembers,” said Lady Anya.

“Yes. And right now, I am all that is left of it.”

“It is not her head you want,” Lord Yohn said.

“I have no need for anyone’s head or hands or hearts. The mountains shield us from Cersei but when the snow melts, with her men, with all those Houses. . .there is not enough runes to protect even the strongest and bravest of knights, my lord.” Sansa stood up. “Harry wished to retake the north as it is my birthright. With the Vale and Winterfell together in arms. . .what are lions? What are archers? Towers can always be taken down. A flayed man is just that. A man.”

Yohn looked at her. “You wish to lay siege on Westeros?”

She met his stare. “I wish to protect us from brewing storms, my lord. Mountains protect us and while a stone has yet to be dislodged, a man, while merely a man, can do much damage. The Vale and the north must stand together. That is our only hope of survival once winter thaws and Cersei calls her armies.”

“But many men will mean more for dragons, my dear.” Lady Anya said.

“We can’t fight everyone at once, and perhaps we might not have to, should we be so fortunate. But while we can, as my husband desired, we need to build our strength. Mountains and allies. Cersei is no strategist, but she has some matter between her ears. We need not bring war to her doorstep. She will come for us once she gets finds out about our renewed strength. And renewed strength we will serve her.”

“As hardy as our knights are, we are no match for winter.” Yohn remarked. “Nature and the Stranger renders courage and sword useless. Many of our men are young and all are strong, but few have fought let alone seen war.”

“Perhaps if all are made strong when it happens, there would be hope. I may have never set foot in a battlefield, my lord. But war is not just fought with swords.”  

Sansa never expected them to be swayed the first time. Hours after her first council, her thoughts were already on the next.

War, war is the last choice that should be made. Perhaps she was a fool to think such, surrounded by thick stone columns and the impenetrable passes of the Vale that hardly yielded even in summer. She knew nothing of the sword, let alone fists. But she had been in a war.

At least starving knights had their swords to swing should they be attacked at some point. As a hostage back in King’s Landing, she had been in fear wondering which of the Kingsguard or any man would burst through her door and perhaps rip her apart. When Joffrey ordered her beaten and stripped in court, she had been ready to die. In his madness and cruelty, she saw that should her death be ordered the road would be bloody, perilous, and long.

Indeed, war is not just fought with words.

She was on the ground shaping snow into what she could still remember of Winterfell when she heard soft strides behind her. A glance over her shoulder told her who it was.

“Maester Colemon,” she acknowledged, rising to her feet. “I hope you bring good news.”

She said this more out of habit though his face already foretold failure. Winter had taken what little fat there was in his narrow face, and his neck seemed longer, like a straw in the wind. The man wore thicker cloaks now, and looked even smaller.

She knew him to be young, and not cruel, and knew him to have a head for his potions were the only ones that calmed Sweetrobin when alive. He had also concocted the mix and inadvertently told her what to do to with Harry.

“I apologize for disappointing you, my lady. But the servant you speak of…she has been gone a while. I told the kindness you wish to bestow on her, in the hopes that word would reach her. But she has vanished. It is believed she had joined Lord Baelish and his men.”

“Hardly true but if that is the tale being told, I’ll let it be,” Sansa told him, turning away to hide her frustration. It had to be her. She lives. A different face but she lives.

“It’s a pity,” she said, facing Colemon again. “Though I find it strange that she would leave the household and gamble on a journey where only hardship awaits. Have we not been generous with wages, food? Their comfort?”

“Why, more than we should be. It is an honor down to the stable boy that it is a great honor to work in such a Great House.”

“Perhaps she found little satisfaction, then. That is a feeling I know quite well.” Sansa glanced at the half-formed Winterfell at her feet.

“My lady?”

Sansa dropped to her knees once more and started molding shapes in the snow. Colemon started to protest. “The hour grows dark and even colder, Lady Sansa. Perhaps we should return—”

“Have you always lived here? Were you born here, in this region?” She asked.

“Ah, yes, my lady.”

“Did you ever wish to be anywhere else?”

She glanced at him and saw his head bow. “I was in King’s Landing for a time, purging the dear Lord Arryn of his ills when the Grand Measter Pycelle sent me back here. I have always wondered if he thought my methods wrong or questionable.”

“Do you regret it? Leaving?”

“I regret not doing enough to help heal my lord, Lady Sansa. It is not my place to say and yes, it is a betrayal of the king but it was Lord Jon Arryn that kept the Seven Kingdoms together until his death. Robert won us the war against the Mad King but there was little he did for the Seven Kingdoms once the crown was on his head. May the Seven forgive me. May Lord Arryn forgive me.”

“You are a good man, Maester Colemon, if I may say so.”

He looked surprised but pleased. “I give you thanks, my lady.”

She resumed transforming ice and slush into the Winterfell she could remember. The maester must have been watching her because he said, “You must long for home.”

“Everyone does. But I’ve little knowledge of what it is now. My marriage puts me here, this home, and while the snow is familiar, I wonder if it will truly be home for me. I dream of Winterfell yet even I know the home I think of is no longer there. I believe in going forward but surely, there must be a point that we return to. To remember. To not lose our way.”

She had wanted the sun and its warmth and in return it burned everyone she loved, put iron in her heart. If there was still that could be called a heart within her.

“The Lord Harry had you in his confidence. Perhaps his trust will keep guiding you even in his absence.”

“I do mean to keep his light burning long. But I also need to be heard.” She examined her work and smoothed the shape of a domed rooftop. “I don’t expect it to be immediate but I am all that is left of my House, and married to the heir of my cousin. I am the North and the Vale. But I can not be the only one. I shouldn’t be.”

“Northmen are as stubborn with sticking to their borders as the Knights of the Vale in a fight, my lady.”

“But I am proof that both can be together. Can be one,” she pointed one. “An occurrence no one expected. I am not well-versed in histories or tongues, let alone war. I can not tell the difference between a dagger and a sword, perhaps. But I do know that more than once in history, victory was guaranteed to the army that knew how to fight to and to surprise. My lord husband saw that in me, Maester Colemon.”  

“He is not alone, my lady.”