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Chapter Text

Brienne Tarth was not Brienne’s legal name, though she did not listen to men or women who called her anything but. She had named herself again after leaving her husband, and decided to reclaim her father’s name for use as a public figure. She wanted to belong to herself for the foreseeable future, and it comforted her to know her name was her own.

So it was a minor annoyance when a letter arrived at her door bearing the name Brienne Baratheon in bright green ink, the envelope sealed in wax with a golden rose.

She opened the letter hesitantly, looking over her shoulder to ensure her home’s other occupant was not skulking nearby. He liked to surprise her while she was about her work, especially sensitive work that he was not supposed to know about.

She broke the seal with a swift motion of an engraved pocket knife, a gift from her father. She saw the handwriting before she saw the words, and noted it as rushed, agitated, and unorderly. Whoever had sent this had not done so calmly. Then she saw the name of her correspondent, and it began to make a certain sense.

“Loras,” she spoke out loud in surprise, eyes now scanning through the letter. Her blood ran cold as she came to its conclusion, and she grimly folded the letter and put it away. Heavily, she sat down on her kitchen chair and sank into herself, letting the grief sap away her iron will for the moment.

Renly, her first, former, and only husband, was dead.

By the time Jaime Lannister came about the kitchen, Brienne had already written a letter to Loras promising to come as quickly as possible, and thanking him for the invitation of staying at Highgarden. She had also requested a separate room for an assistant, though had neglected to mention just who her assistant was.

It would not do for Loras to know too soon. Although he had no reason to hold much ill will against Jaime himself, the Lannisters as a whole would not be outside his suspicions. Nor could Brienne say they were definitively not involved in Renly’s death, as they and several other families were in attendance at Highgarden manor in preparation for young Maergaery’s wedding to one of Robert Baratheon’s boys. The eldest, Brienne believed. She would not know who had committed the deed until she had had time to investigate, and then time to think. A long time to think.

Jaime liked to compare her to the tortoise in the fable. Her mind was slow and steady and thorough, and that was enough to win against quick-minded criminals who thought themselves safe in their cleverness.

“Must I always make breakfast myself, wench?” Jaime said, passing behind her so he could boil water for porridge. “You should be doing the woman’s work.”

Brienne ignored his teasing, as she usually did. Jaime picked up on her mood, frowning at her thoughtfully. Already he knew something was wrong. Brienne wondered at that sometimes, that he bothered to notice. They had not long been friends, though he had been shackled to her for going on a year now. It had been an unwelcome acquaintanceship when it began, and although they had slowly grown to like each other, it was hard to know where she stood in his estimation.

“Renly Baratheon has died under unusual circumstances,” she said curtly. Jaime breathed in sharply, more out of surprise than any strong emotion. At one point he would have known Renly well enough, though she did not think they were ever friends. It was not surprising that he would not be bowed with grief the way she was, and yet it made her feel very alone that there was no sadness in his eyes.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, and left it at that.

“As was Loras,” Brienne said. She handed him the letter Loras Tyrell had sent, and watched his face as he read through it. He was slower at reading than she was, and misliked going through files or typing paperwork. He only had the one hand, and the typewriter reminded him of this more so than other tasks in his life which he had adjusted to.

“Tell me you politely refused his request,” Jaime said, eyes flashing up. Brienne said nothing. “Brienne, you cannot be serious.”

“If our positions were reversed, I would expect Loras to come to my aid,” said Brienne.

“No, you wouldn’t,” he said. Brienne said nothing again. It was true that Brienne would not expect him to do so, but she would like him to nonetheless. It was a matter close to both their hearts. “This is going to bring you nothing but unhappiness. You’ve wasted enough of your life on your husband’s affairs.”

Jaime liked to speak in double meanings, something Brienne hated. She had married Renly knowing he did not love her. In fact she had married knowing that no man who wanted her hand loved her. They wanted her stately family home on Tarth, the legacy that went with it, and the small, but not inconsequential, lump sum of her inheritance. Her first engagement had been with a man who Brienne knew had a vice for escorts, and no intention to stop once he was married. He had left her at the altar, saying no money in the world would allow him to overlook her ugliness. The second had no sooner heard her acceptance before asking whether his mother’s maid might stay under his employment. Brienne had been willing to weather this as well. That engagement had ended when he attempted to hit Brienne, and she broke his collarbone in retaliation, an event that polite society had somehow spun into a scandal in which she was the villain.

It had been a relief to marry someone richer than she was, someone kind and gentlemanly and decent and handsome. Someone with royal blood, even if he would never sit on the throne. She cared little for crowns, in any case. She only cared that it had set still the wagging tongues that had taken delight in her misfortunes, and that was enough to bear what disappointment she might have had that like the men before him, Renly could not love her. Renly had at least been discreet with his extramarital intentions. And he had been her friend and let her live as she wished, something Brienne was grateful for.

It was not as if she hadn’t known the particulars of his appetites. She was not half so dim as people thought her to be.

“Even so,” Brienne said at last. By the expression on his face, Brienne knew Jaime could see no way to talk her out of it. He enjoyed talking his way out of things and into things, and he was truly most skilled at it. Brienne was simply wary, and always had been. Especially of men.

“I will of course be coming with you.”

“You are still my responsibility for the next six months. You will have to,” said Brienne. She suspected she would not have made arrangements for him otherwise. Jaime had the bad habit of picking up on her weaknesses and pointing them out to her, and Renly, well… Renly was a great weakness of hers.

“I would have come in any case,” he said, confidently.

“And if your family is involved?”

“Tywin and Tyrion would not be so stupid,” he said.

“And Cersei?”

“Cersei is a mystery to me,” he spoke, voice gone quiet with barely restrained malice. Brienne did not like to speak of his sister. She knew too much and too little of their relationship at the same time, and it deeply discomfited her. It was worse now that Brienne and Jaime were truly friends, and she had to reckon that she had befriended a man who had done things she could find much fault with. And yet they were friends, even still. “What goes on inside her head I have not known for a long time. But no, from what little Loras wrote to you, I do not think she is involved either. There is none of her style about it.”

“I cannot be so sure.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “Part of you half suspects Loras, even. Your good opinion is hard won.”

“It is hard won,” Brienne allowed, not commenting on the state of her suspicions.

“I would know,” Jaime said, smiling again at her. He was teasing her again, trying to lighten her grief. Brienne allowed a small smile back so he would not worry about her. “I’m still not sure you trust me.”

“I trust you enough for you to be a help and not a hindrance,” said Brienne. She kept her cards close to her chest, but Jaime had grown on her. In part because it was difficult to spend so much time with another person and not come to a stable kind of understanding, and partly because she knew things that painted him in a different light than when she had first considered him. It was important to take further evidence into account, she knew.

“Well, if you do trust me, trust this,” said Jaime. “I can think of more than a few reasons someone might want Renly dead. One of them is as revenge for how he behaves as a husband.”

“Margaery won her annulment with Renly’s blessing and is already to be married again. What ill will would she bear towards him? And she’s Loras’ sister besides. Surely she would never-”

“I am speaking of you Brienne,” he said gently. Brienne frowned, trying to work out his meaning. He knew she would do no such thing. “Think of this invitation with your standard suspicion. I wouldn’t be surprised if Loras suspects you, even if he will not say so openly.”

This advice gave Brienne some pause. It was not something that had occurred to her. Despite what Jaime thought, Brienne knew Loras loved Renly too much to be involved in his death. She had not suspected him of the crime for a moment. But would Loras think the same of her? She supposed, unlike him, her affections had never been returned. Of course there was more than enough proof that her involvement was impossible, but Loras was at times impulsive and certain he was right. Renly had been the same way.

“I will be careful.”

“You always are, wench,” said Jaime. And he returned to the task of making their breakfast.

Chapter Text

A few weeks earlier, and Sansa would have been bitterly angry to have been passed over for a marriage proposal in favor of Margaery. Margaery who had already been married, and who was older than Sansa, and who looked at men with an appetite that was not at all ladylike. Now, however, she was only relieved.

It did bother her a little that they had to stay in Highgarden to attend the wedding, which had not been called off even when news had spread of the King’s brother’s sudden death. Loras had found him dead one morning, and a maester had been called. The maester told the Tyrells and Baratheons that Renly’s heart had simply given out, and there was nothing that could have been done to save him. Sansa was sad to learn of Renly’s death, but she knew her sadness was mostly of the polite sort. He had not spoken to her often, and she had not had time to decide whether she liked him, though she supposed he had been very handsome. Then again, it was a truth she would not soon forget that handsome men’s pretty faces could hide wicked souls. She had learned that when Joffrey had turned his hunting bow on her when they had been deep in the forest, and he had thought he could pass her death off as an accident, so he could marry a different girl he did not find so repulsive as she. Or that was what he had said to her, at least, having given little warning of his disfavor before this incident. If Arya had not been near, Sansa did not know what might have happened then.

Or rather she did, and she chose not to think about it. There was winter steel in Stark bones, and hers as well. Even if no one but she knew it.

So she was not angry with Margaery, but she felt desperately sorry for her. Sansa’s father, Ned Stark, had told her not to worry any longer about the matter, but she suspected he was just relieved he could deny his friend the hand of his eldest daughter without causing offence, now that a more auspicious match had been made. The Baratheons may be royalty, and Joffrey a princeling, but they were not so rich as other houses and they did not dare risk their power by increasing the taxes on their more powerful vassals. Attaching the throne to the affluent Tyrell family was in the best interest of the crown, even if Robert Baratheon’s personal loyalties would have led him to prefer Sansa as his daughter in law.

Sansa had tried to explain some of this to Arya, who had not cared one whit for Sansa’s lectures on politics or tact. She was still angry that Sansa had refused to tell the king or their father that Joffrey had attacked her. She had even told their father Arya was lying when she had gone to their father over Sansa’s objections. Arya did not understand what it meant to accuse a prince. Arya paid attention to the stories of the great histories of Westeros with rapt attention, but she listened to the glory of battle and the power of the righteous to strike down those who had wronged them. She did not listen to stories of pride and tragedy, and knights who had stolen women away from their kings out of love, and been punished most severely. Sansa had. She did not want a prince’s retribution, a trial of her word against his. She wanted to survive him and take her pleasure in a life he could not threaten ever again. That would be more triumph than Arya’s bloodthirst could ever give her, though she found affection in her heart somehow that her sister cared for her deeply enough to feel Sansa was due retribution. She had not thought her sister liked her overmuch.

So, it was partly out of guilt and partly out of guileless ambition that she sought an audience with Margaery. And it was with great shame she did so without speaking to her father first, but she knew if she had informed him of her plans, he would insist on treating her as a child she no longer was. He would want to negotiate for her, but Sansa still felt the sting of her first match under his guidance. She would not shame him by marrying without his consent, but she knew there were ways to sew threads of intention around oneself without compromising one’s modesty. Now it was only a matter of trying to do so for herself.

Margaery’s tea table was laden with imported teas, lemon cakes, cinnamon spiced breads, and delicate pastries, some savory and some sweet. No expense was to be spared for the princess-to-be and, despite herself, Sansa felt a moment of envy as she saw how the servants doted on their mistress. Sansa’s own family employed men and women who loved them, but no one could love so blindly as Margaery’s people loved her. Power could be as intoxicating as any drink, and the small folk gathered around to lap at Margaery’s heels, hoping some of her good fortune would be theirs, if only they served her well enough.

Perhaps that was not a life she was meant for, Sansa thought as her envy began to fade. She would deny any crown if it meant she did not have to marry Joffrey. Margaery owned nothing that was not first her husband’s. She would soon see the mistake in this. Sansa would tell her, even though she knew she should not.

But she would speak out of the side of her mouth, in case someone was listening. She was not skilled at politics, her father had ensured that. A Stark’s first lesson was in honor, not in cunning. And Ned Stark had raised all his children as if they were men, her included, perhaps without even realizing it. Arya could behave as a man could, even though she was not a man and no one treated her very well for it. She had strength in her arms and fire in her belly and ice in her eyes, and even if no one thought she was proper, Arya was too ill-tempered and stubborn to care. Sansa was none of those things, had none of those things. And she was not good at fighting in the way powerful men and women did, the ones who never needed to pick up a sword. But she knew she could learn to armor herself with words, delicate though they may be, even as she knew she too would never lift a sword, no matter what Arya thought of the matter.

Her mother might be proud, Sansa supposed. But what did it matter what her mother thought? Catelyn Stark had died of fever years before, along with her three sons, who she had refused not to care for even as her own body had weakened. Sansa would have said her four sons, but she knew her mother had not really counted Jon as a son. He had been treated separately, by a friend who had been studying to be a Maester at the time, and lived while Catelyn and Robb and Bran and poor little Rickon had wasted away. Sansa had never really known how she felt that he had survived the fever, while her true brothers had not. And Jon had not been the same afterwards, and only seemed to take joy in teaching Arya how to use a sword. Her half-brother had little time for Sansa, and little time for even their father anymore. He had wanted since he was a boy to join the black cloaks, but he was the only heir left to Ned Stark, and so he stayed out of duty. Sansa had always thought he would be happy to be naturalized, and no longer a bastard, but that did not seem to be the case. Sometimes, Sansa suspected that Jon wished she or Arya had been born a boy so the responsibilities of their house would not fall to him.

It was this she was thinking on as Margaery made small talk, and drank tea, and made merry about her upcoming ceremony. Sansa smiled at all the right times, though she knew her eyes were vacant. Margaery tired of the niceties after a while, and waited for Sansa to speak candidly. She was no fool, Sansa thought, and wondered if all the niceties had been for her own benefit rather than Margaery’s.

“I’m glad you’re happy in your match,” Sansa began. “I only hope that I can find someone that makes me so glad to be wed.”

“Oh Sansa, do not fret,” said Margaery gently. “I didn't mean to upset you with my boasting. Joffrey speaks highly of you, but it was not for the best that you were married.”

Sansa furrowed her brow, trying to puzzle out if Margaery understood her or if the girl thought she was honestly disappointed in losing her engagement to Joffrey. It was difficult to decide from the expression on the other girl’s face, and Sansa chose to tread more carefully, lest Margaery proved to be a new enemy she had unwittingly made for herself.

“You’re right. We have rather different temperaments,” Sansa said, sniffing a little indignantly despite herself. “And he’s as fond of hunting as his father. Perhaps even more so. I’ve found I don’t really care for the practice.”

Margaery’s eyes widened a moment, and then where before there had only been polite kindness, a wicked grin crossed her expression. Sansa did not know if she liked the look of it, but she had begun her plan and she intended to finish it. If only because she had gone so far now she did not know what else to do.

“And did Joffrey’s arrow strike true through your heart?” she asked, as if she were asking a different question. Sansa was unsure whether it was the question she hoped it was. That Margaery knew somehow what had happened in the forest and believed her, even though it was her betrothed she would need to think ill of to do so. She blushed a little, thinking that perhaps Margaery thought Sansa had meant hunting in the sense of King Robert’s thirst for women, and was inquiring as to whether Sansa’s modesty was intact. She did not know how to untangle the doublespeak she had laid out for herself. In doubt of how to proceed, Sansa answered the only way she knew how. With the truth.

“He missed my heart,” she said, softly, her hand fluttering briefly as if to stop an arrow. She pressed both her hands down, feeling foolish when she realized what she had done. “But not for lack of trying.”

Margaery’s expression changed again, this time her face gone soft and thoughtful. Ringlets of curls framed her round face, and the curve of her chin only just sharpened as her lips pursed tight shut. She nodded at Sansa, and Sansa was relieved to see kindness in her eyes. True kindness, not the polite type that could be revoked with a word.

“And not with Cupid’s bow did he take aim,” she said grimly. Sansa nodded helplessly, deliriously glad that Margaery had understood. Somehow she knew. “Poor Sansa. You’re shaking.”

“I’m glad as long as you are happy in the match,” Sansa said, looking down at her tea. She did not want to shake. She did not want to be afraid. And yet she was. Arya never seemed to be afraid. Sansa thought of this often as stupidity, but now she thought she would rather be stupid than fearful. There was a nobility in being stupid. There was shame in being naive, and seeing one’s naivete come to fruition in frightening ways, and to be weak as a kitten against it.

“I am happy, Sansa,” said Margaery carefully. “But I care for your happiness too. Tell me, has your father given much thought to who he might seek as your next match?”

“I think he is relieved he does not need to think of it for a while,” Sansa replied. Margaery nodded, as if she understood. Sansa wondered if perhaps she did. “And once one engagement is broken… The next is harder to secure for a woman.”

“Oh nonsense,” said Margaery merrily. “I will think on it. I like you a great deal. I should love to think of you as a sister. I know Highgarden seems gloomy now, with what has happened. Renly’s death hangs over our halls, and my family’s grief must be difficult to bear. But we are glad in these halls too, Sansa. And our walls are high and our stores are full of grain and gold. Do you think you would like to be a sister to me in turn?”

The question was so plain. Sansa wanted very badly to say yes. She had always wanted a sister who she could share her troubles with. One who would not scoff at her daydreams, but laugh with her and share in the small worlds of fantasy she created for herself. A sister who did not think every battle was best won with a sword. But she had learned the first time what came of her happiness at a proposed match. So she only smiled at Margaery.

“I would be glad if my father were to hear of something,” she said. “If your family were to suggest to him a possibility.”

“I will speak with my grandmother,” said Margaery, and they enjoyed the rest of the meal speaking of nothing in particular. It was only once their tea had been cleared away, and Margaery and Sansa were alone for a moment that Margaery hugged Sansa and whispered something in her ear.

“Do not worry for me too much, Sansa,” she said, brushing Sansa’s hair behind her ear. “I can be a hunter if my husband requires it off me.”

The way she said it sent chills down Sansa’s spine. But then Margaery was laughing again, and Sansa thought she must have imagined her unease. Or perhaps that Margaery had ever even whispered to her at all.

Chapter Text

It was stupid to feel slighted that Sansa had gone to all the trouble of having tea with the the prince’s betrothed and hadn’t even bothered to invite Arya. Not that Arya would have wanted to go in the first place, but Sansa could be incredibly obtuse about such things. It wasn’t as if she had failed to include Arya out of consideration for her feelings. All Sansa cared about were princes and knights and romance. Stupid things. But she had used to care about including Arya in such stupid things, even if Arya had not wished to be included.

Arya told herself she wouldn’t have cared at all if Jon hadn’t refused to duel with her that day, because their father had begun to realize her behavior was reflecting on him. Now he wanted her to behave like a proper lady, and knit and sew and speak prettily like Sansa did. Perfect, lovely Sansa who had stared down a bolt like a frozen doe, and would be dead if Arya had not knocked away the crown prince’s bow and arrow before he could loose it. Sansa had not so much as thanked her for it either.

Escaping her Septa with practiced ease, Arya had taken to wandering the outskirts of Highgarden’s magnificent rose gardens, which weren’t wild enough to suit Arya, but were still better than the claustrophobic halls of Highgarden. Of people all looking at her, as if she were an oddity they wished to be rid of.

Reaching an orchard, Arya clambered up a tree to hide herself for a few hours or more. Her father would find her eventually. Or Jon. Or if they were really desperate, they would send Sansa out and Arya would take pity on her sister eventually and come out of hiding to put Sansa out of the misery of possibly muddying her dress. But in the meantime, Arya would hide and pretend nothing existed but herself and the open farmland around Highgarden. High in the boughs of the tree, Arya pretended she was a scout for the King’s army, and looking out for an approaching enemy. Her eyesight was perfect, and she was small and quick. She would make an excellent scout, she thought to herself.

Only then, she saw someone coming up the road a few miles away. The carriage was not splendid as the others which had brought Arya’s family and the other great houses to Highgarden for the royal wedding between Margaery and Joffrey. It was supposed to have been Sansa’s wedding, but thankfully Joffrey had refused to marry her. Not that Sansa seemed to appreciate her good fortune. She had sulked every day since Margaery was chosen as the prince’ betrothed, and Arya could not fathom why. Another girl had taken her place as the King’s plaything, and Sansa ought to be glad for it. In fact, she should be dancing with relief that it would not be her that Joffrey tortured for the rest of his days.

The carriage was getting closer now, and Arya could see there were two people in it. At first she thought it was two men, as they were both dressed in boiled leather armor, and kept a sword and firearm at their side. But as they grew closer, Arya realized the taller of the two was a woman. Intrigued, she slipped from her spot high in the tree and ran across the fields to intercept the carriage before it reached Highgarden.

She ran out into the road about twenty yards before the carriage, and the driver quickly brought the horses to a halt. He looked Arya over and seemed to realize quickly, that despite the dirt and grime, she was someone of relative importance. Her dress was too nice to think otherwise, Arya thought bitterly. He looked back at his passengers, and then towards her again.

“Is something the matter, Pod?” the woman from the carriage asked. She opened the door and saw Arya standing in the road. She frowned at the girl. “Are you lost?”

“No,” said Arya.

“You’re not with your Septa.”

“No,” said Arya again. “Can I ride with the both of you?”

The woman looked back towards the man in the carriage, who seemed to be stifling a laugh behind his hand. Her eyes narrowed, and with a sigh she nodded and led Arya back towards the carriage. Arya hopped in happily, and with a few words to the driver the three were off again on the short ride onto Highgarden.

“Who’re you?” Arya asked immediately. The woman didn’t seem she would answer at first, but something seemed to soften as she noticed the dirt in Arya’s hair and the rips at the bottom of her dress.

“Brienne Tarth,” she said. The name sounded familiar, but Arya had trouble placing it. Sansa would likely know, but Arya was still not speaking to Sansa, so she would have to figure it out herself. “And this is my… assistant. Jaime.”

“Ward, you mean,” he corrected. This struck Arya as odd, and wondered what he meant by it. Brienne did not speak up to explain further, and the man smiled sharply at her and continued his introduction. “Jaime Lannister.”

This name Arya did recognize. And she did not think it a very good one. Her father had fought a duel against Jaime once, and owed his limp to the flesh and muscle Jaime had cut from his calf during it. Arya had been too young at the time to wonder what the fight had been regarding, but she did know that her father had been tight lipped on the subject of the Lannisters ever since and Jaime had quickly fallen out of the good graces of the houses of Westeros seemingly on the strength of her father’s contempt for him. There had even been rumors that he might take the black, though the last Arya had heard he had nearly gotten himself into a great deal of trouble with some of Roose Bolton’s men and lost his hand in the process. The trouble had not been explained to her, but her father had treated it as something of a given that it was likely his own fault. Arya realized she knew very little of what Jaime Lannister had actually done wrong, but he must have done something to turn the world against him. And truth be told, it was her father’s injury that made her look upon him with an instant hatred.

“Arya Stark,” she replied coolly. Brienne sighed at the both of them staring each other down, drawing Arya’s attention back to her. “He serves you?”

“In a way,” she replied vaguely. Jaime filled in the gaps once more.

“My protector,” he said, though Brienne did not look as though she entirely agreed with that. “She agreed to oversee my reformation as a citizen of the crown.”

“Under duress,” she muttered, but Arya noted it was not without some warmth. She felt a brief stab of disappointment. She had been rather hoping to like this strange woman who dressed like a man and looked as though she might truly know how to use a sword. And there was something that reminded her of Sansa in Brienne too, a kind of earnestness that Arya thought of as girlishness. “And as a punishment.”

“A punishment for arguing for my case in the first place,” he said to her, and Arya had the feeling this was not a new point of dispute between the two. They did not even seem to be arguing so much as bickering just to bicker. Neither were angry, and neither said anything that the other did not already seem to know.

“Yes, if I have one failing, it is that I saw no purpose in the punishment of an innocent man,” she said. And then added under her breath. “Even if he is singularly obnoxious.”

“I prefer to think of myself as simply singular.”

“I am aware,” Brienne replied, and the two were quiet after that, leaving Arya to observe the both of them. While Jaime seemed defiant of her judgment, Brienne only blushed a little under Arya’s scrutiny, her eyes shuttering with caution as Arya’s gaze fell to the sword at her side and then to her broad shoulders and muscled arms. It did not occur to Arya that Brienne was uncomfortable with her observation, nor that Brienne assumed Arya thought her ugly. Arya’s only thought was that she wished she too could dress in trousers and carry a sword and speak to lords as if they were nothing more than a nuisance.

“Are you a knight?” Arya asked Brienne.

“Women can’t be knights,” said Jaime. Arya glared at him. “But she is the most skilled swordsman in all of Westeros-”

“Jaime-”

“Which is altogether more impressive in my opinion,” he said.

Brienne blushed again, her face completely red now. She seemed as though she wished to dispute this, but Arya had already decided in her mind it was true. Jaime Lannister might be an unfortunate man, but he sounded like one who spoke the truth. And knowing that Brienne was the best in all of Westeros made Arya sure that she liked Brienne again. She hoped she could convince Brienne to teach her some of her skills.

“Now Jaime, you shouldn’t say things like that-”

Before they could begin to bicker in earnest again, the carriage drew to a stop in front of Highgarden’s entrance. The driver, Pod, turned to look at them all and softly told Brienne that they had arrived. Arya clambered out of the carriage, sparing one last glance for Brienne. Where before there had been some good humor behind a rather stoic and serious face, now there was only a dour sadness. It was a little shocking, the sudden force of the change and Arya could feel in her bones that Brienne had not come to Highgarden for the celebrations. Something heavier weighed on the woman’s mind.

And at the moment, Arya decided to find out what it was.

Chapter Text

As soon as they entered Highgarden, Brienne knew that she was foolish to think that Jaime’s role as her assistant would escape notice. It wasn’t well known that Roose Bolton had demanded she serve as his keeper. It wouldn’t do for rumors to spread of how Jaime Lannister had won his innocence. Or rather how Brienne had won it for him. There was no glory in being a good swordsman if you were a woman. There was only shame for your opponents. Brienne knew this well.

Still, she had thought perhaps she would have time to settle herself in her room and make certain that Jaime and Pod had also been settled before the whispers would start. Young Arya Stark jumping from the carriage and loudly announcing their presence had not helped, but Brienne found it hard to find much fault with the girl. She wished at the age she’d had half the brazenness. Seven hells, she wished she had it now. And aside from all that, Brienne knew that the whispers must start at some point. Why not immediately? She’d rarely been spared from the attention of gossips before.

It didn’t surprise her when Loras called her to a private dinner with himself, his sister, and Robert Baratheon, the last of which already seemed to be on his second cup of wine before Brienne had even arrived. It took a practiced eye to spot the veiled contempt Loras had for the King, but Brienne knew his face well enough. He had had her husband’s heart for some time, and when she hadn’t allowed herself to indulge in a certain amount of envy, she had liked him. He didn’t lose well in his bouts against Brienne with a sword, but he didn’t lose well to anyone. They shared a great mutual respect for one another. Or at least Brienne hoped so.

“Your majesty,” she said stiffly, greeting the King first, as was customary. Robert frowned at her, uncomprehending. Brienne had the distinct impression he could not place her. She gritted her teeth, willing herself to maintain her patience. “It’s good to see you again, even if you are no longer my brother.”

That seemed to do the trick. Robert chuckled to himself, as if to a private joke, and then his eyes grew a little darker with sadness. He loved Renly of course, even if he had no particular feelings, or in fact distinct memories, of Brienne. She had, after all, only been Renly’s ugly first wife. What was there for a King like Robert to remember about her?

“Lady Tarth,” he said loudly. Brienne should have been glad he used the name she preferred, but could not help but wonder if Robert called her that because he had never seen her marriage to Renly as anything more than the sham it was. It made her bristle to think so. “Are you here for my son’s wedding?”

“I am not,” said Brienne. Robert seemed to wait for her to go on. “I am here at Loras’ request.”

Robert peered at Loras, curiosity slowly clawing its way through his state of intoxication. Brienne knew a much sharper, harder man lay below the boisterous drunk who had ruled Westeros since before she was born. She had heard the stories of his war for the throne and his lost bride.

She had heard stories of how he had treated the wife he had gotten instead, as well.

“My brother means to ask for the crown’s justice on the matter of my former husband’s death,” said Margaery, drawing the King’s attention. She spoke well, with a casual charm that infected everything she said, no matter the subject. “We’ve spoken with several maesters. The cause of Renly’s death is uncertain, and Loras-”

Margaery broke off suddenly, looking toward her brother. But it seemed practiced. An act, to introduce the idea of foul play to the King without drawing his immediate denial.

“Renly was supposed to seek an audience with you the night he died,” Loras finished emotionlessly. “He told me it was vital that it happen, though he wouldn’t tell me the matter he wished to discuss. I think it’s worth looking into when men drop dead minutes before they intend to take someone into their confidence. Especially when that someone is the King.”

Robert’s face became thoughtful, and he seemed to sober a fraction. The Tyrells had played him masterfully. As much as Brienne knew they believed what they said, they had framed their speculations in a way that both flattered the King’s vanity and ensured their request was something Robert could take credit for. Brienne might lack the instinct for such methods of persuasion, but she could still appreciate strategy when she saw it. Robert’s face slowly became a ruddy red, anger overtaking what good spirits with which he seemed to have begun his dinner.

Brienne realized she had not yet sat. The whole world seemed strange and distant to her. And then she thought suddenly this was the first time she had seen Robert angry without Renly’s bright laugh to ease the tension. Without his reassuring presence, there was little to mitigate the King’s wrath. Brienne was unimpressed with Robert, but she knew it was unwise to be dismissive of the power of a King.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, the crown’s justice. I will have Varys-”

“That is,” Loras interrupted, looking towards Brienne and back towards the King again. “That is what Brienne is here to do. She has had success in ferreting out the truth in difficult situations before. She makes a living with it.”

Robert’s eyebrows raised at this, and he looked at Brienne again. It was as if Loras had told him that she hopped about on one leg while belching like a toad as a profession. In fact, now that Brienne reflected on it, Robert might be more likely to believe that. She saw as his brow furrowed in disbelief and the flickering of suspicion in the back of his eyes.

“Why would I trust her over advisors who have served me well for decades?” he said. Loras met his gaze, unflinching.

“Why wouldn’t you trust someone with nothing to gain over advisors who have a vested interest in staying in your good graces?” Loras asked. “Brienne is uninterested in court life, or she would have remained married to Renly.”

“I can speak for myself,” Brienne said, albeit quietly. Both men’s eyes were at once resting on her, and Brienne felt herself freeze for a moment. But she was not the timid sixteen year old who had married Renly all those years ago. She was still young, mind you, but she was firm in her own being now. She was not interested in impressing men who thought themselves impressive. She had her mind, and her skill with a sword, and her purpose. She did not need anyone’s approval. “Renly was my husband. More importantly, he was a great friend of mine. You won’t find a better ally for your brother. I don’t intend to do my work with the goal of pleasing you. Only serving his memory. If you cared for your brother, then I hope you understand that entrusting me with the matter of his death means learning the truth. And I will find it whether you will it or not.”

Slowly, Robert nodded. Brienne held her breath as he seemed to come to his decision.

“Varys will advise me, and take you into his confidence,” he said at last. Loras opened his mouth to argue, but a sharp glance from Robert quelled him. “Brienne Tarth. I’ll admit I don’t remember you well. But you did love my brother. That is not meaningless to me.”

A man gone to waste pining for Lyanna Stark would not underestimate the force with which one could be affected by love, Brienne supposed. But it did not feel the same, Robert’s obsession and Brienne’s own sad loyalty. He felt cheated out of his great love. But Brienne had known, from the very beginning, that she had lucked into hers. She had known to be grateful for what little of Renly she had to call her own.

She’d known to protect herself and not grow bitter. Only wary.

“I need to make arrangements,” said Robert. “My wife’s family has been preparing to take their leave and prepare for our return to King’s Landing. No one shall come or go until such a time as I am satisfied that we have found the cause of my brother’s death.”

He spoke forcefully, something in him seeming to liven. He was a bored man, Brienne supposed. That was why he liked to hunt so well. And why he went through women with such remarkable speed. Yes, Robert was a sad, bored man who found more pleasure in the thought that he might, at last, have a new cause that required his righteous fury than he did in serving the people he was meant to be king of. And how despicable she found that.

Brienne wondered if she had always hated the King. She suspected she had not felt any particular way about Robert before she had spent so much time with-

“Brienne?”

Brienne was drawn from her thoughts by Loras. They were the only two in the room now, and Brienne only just caught the swish of Margaery’s skirts as she exited through the door. Robert must have swept out as soon as he had announced his leaving. Margaery’s exit meant that Loras had planned to speak to her alone.

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” he said. “For coming.”

“Of course,” was all she could say in return. And then to her surprise, Loras laughed at her.

“I wondered,” he said softly. “I wondered if after all this time you still felt that same affection for him. Or if you hated him. Or even if it was you who had somehow…”

He trailed off, only laughing bitterly to himself once more.

“No,” Brienne said softly. “I never could.”

It was strange, the wall between the both of them. Such similar grief they shared, and yet there was a division that remained uncrossable for a myriad of reasons. They liked each other, certainly, but they would never be friends. They shared a sense of mutual understanding and a great discomfort at the source of that understanding. Brienne did not know how to begin broaching the topic of that discomfort. So she didn’t.

“When the sun has set, no candle can replace it,” said Loras at last. Brienne still said nothing. He sighed and turned from her, staring out a nearby window into the cold, dark night. “I’ve heard whispers of who you chose to accompany you.”

“Have you?”

“Jaime Lannister is a difficult man,” said Loras. “What holds him to you?”

“I don’t see how that is any concern of yours,” said Brienne, which seemed to surprise Loras. “I’ve lived a life since I left Renly.”

“I realize, but what the Kingslayer-”

“Jaime,” Brienne corrected, seeming to further startle Loras. “Is none of your concern either. He is here to assist me. He has long since renounced his titles. He’s a Lannister in name alone.”

“Regardless, he is still a lion,” said Loras. “And loyal to his kin. If they had anything to do with Renly’s death, do you trust him not to keep it secret? I hold nothing against the man himself, but his family brings nothing but grief to Westeros. They are interested only in power. Jaime tried to take the throne himself-”

“If one were to believe Ned Stark,” said Brienne.

“As anyone who knows the man would,” said Loras, incredulous at her insinuation that Lord Stark was anything less than honest. “He values his honor over his own skin.”

“He values his honor as I value the truth,” said Brienne. “Something I know, and you do not. You can choose to trust my judgment, or to doubt me. One will help bring Renly’s killer to justice. The other will not.”

Loras openly gaped at her now. Brienne was not sure how she had managed to so surprise him.

“What happened to you, since you left King’s Landing?” he asked.

Brienne had no answer to this. She wanted to say nothing, but she knew she had changed in the intervening years. And especially in the past year. Perhaps she was stronger now than she had been. Or perhaps she knew a little more of her own worth than she had before. It was hard to know.

“Am I excused, Loras?”

Hesitating a moment, Loras finally nodded his assent.

“By your leave, my lady,” he said. He paused a moment. “And you did ask for two rooms, for you and your… companion?”

He seemed to take her meaning by the glare she aimed at him over her shoulder.

“Only checking,” he murmured. But he still seemed perturbed by her. As if he could not fathom her anymore than Robert could. Perhaps he had understood a woman like her when she knew to be ashamed of herself. Now that she was not, he had no way to comprehend her.

“Goodnight, Loras,” she said stiffly.

“Goodnight, Brienne,” he echoed back. And for a moment the ghost of Renly seemed to stand between them, laughing and merry, and always distracting them from the truth. That Loras was a man Renly could love, but never marry, and Brienne was a woman Renly could marry, but never love. But it was worth it to them both, to be near to the vitality of him. And then the ghost was gone, and Brienne felt a part of her old self slip away with it. Not completely, but enough that she realized at least part of how she had changed was that she no longer thought of Renly as the sun, as Loras had so eloquently put it. He had been her Northern star when she had needed it, but she had known brighter light since.

And it was then that pity filled her, for what had been taken from Loras. It hit her with a certainty that her own grief was a drop compared to his. Renly had not meant the same thing to them both, even if Brienne had once very much wished that he was. She felt almost stupid for not allowing herself to realize the depth of what Loras must be feeling sooner.

“I am sorry,” she said gently. “For your loss.”

Loras’ face softened, for the first time since Brienne’s arrival. And Brienne knew it was enough to leave it at that.

Chapter Text

It was only yesterday that Arya had been resentful that her siblings seemed too caught in their own thoughts and troubles to pay her any mind. Now it was something of a blessing, since she knew neither of them would pay her enough attention to catch her at spying on the newcomer. Not only that, but the rest of the castle would be busy with other thoughts as well. At breakfast, their father had informed Arya, Sansa, and Jon that the King had made an announcement that no one was to leave the grounds of Highgarden until further notice. Furthermore, anyone who did not need to leave the manor to perform some duty was to stay indoors. When Sansa had asked further about this, Ned Stark had said the King wanted to look into the matter of Renly Baratheon’s death.

“Why?” Jon had asked, looking up from his meal for the first time that morning. It had been a long time since Jon had taken more than a token interest in anything their father had to say. It struck Arya suddenly how strange it was for the King to declare no one could come or go. It was a show of power, and one to be used sparingly, she suspected.

“Renly’s death may not have been natural,” said Ned Stark. And of course that set Sansa to fretting, even more than she had been recently.

“How dreadful,” she said. “I was supposed to see the grounds with Margaery today…”

Or perhaps Sansa was only upset that she wouldn’t have more time to yap at the heels of Margaery Tyrell, Arya thought sullenly. Sansa had told her that one day Margaery would be queen, and it was never a bad idea to be in the confidence of a queen. But Margaery was marrying Joffrey, and Arya had no desire to be in the confidence of anyone who spent so much time with such a rotten, evil excuse for a man. The North was far from King’s Landing, and the Starks rarely came to court. Why couldn’t Sansa simply bear their proximity for the moment, and return with their family to where it was safe without stirring up more trouble for herself? The Tyrells were not their friends. They were pretty but thorn-laden as their crest, and Arya did not trust any of them.

“Sansa,” Ned Stark said sharply, and she drew quiet, seeming to realize what she had said. But Arya saw that Sansa’s worries had not really faded, she had just understood she shouldn’t voice them out loud. Anger bit through Arya, sharper than wolves’ teeth. It was one thing that Sansa had called her a liar in front of the King when Arya had only been trying to help her, but it was another that she had convinced their father of the same thing. And despite it all, Sansa still seemed lured by the false promises of her silly songs, clinging to Margaery’s two-faced sweetness as if it were a lifeline to some other world where maidens were fair and princes were kind and true. As if she could wish away what the prince had tried to do to her.

“Maybe she thinks Prince Joffrey will mistake her for Margaery and marry her anyway,” Arya said viciously, not caring when Sansa’s face went white. “She cares more about being Queen than her own family. Why would she care about Renly Baratheon?”

Sansa rose from her chair suddenly, but gracefully. She did everything gracefully, as if the world itself bent to her dignity, and sometimes Arya hated her for it. Hated the way Sansa drew others’ eyes and admiration, and all without having to lift a finger. Hated how she used politeness as a weapon and a shield, never minding how Arya was hurt by the expectations she set. Hated how careful Sansa was never to openly speak her mind in case she might offend. Unless she was arguing with Arya, of course.

Arya had never felt so cold in her life than as when Sansa looked down at her then. And suddenly all her hatred fled. It wasn’t right, Arya thought to herself. Sansa, who had a kind response to every cruelty, shouldn’t be capable of that furious stare and heartbroken iciness, and certainly not aimed at Arya.

“I wish you weren’t my sister,” Sansa said softly, as if it hurt her to say it, and Arya would have liked it better if Sansa had simply hit her. Both Ned and Jon tried to make Sansa apologize, but she ignored them in favor of walking swiftly out the door. To go visit with Margaery again, no doubt, Arya thought, feeling a burning at the back of her eyes. She blinked it away furiously, and ignored her brother and father the same as Sansa had done, going back to her food.

Arya finished her breakfast quickly, but the food tasted like ash and hung heavy in her stomach. It was only when she remembered Brienne Tarth that she was able to dismiss her hurt and anger at her sister. She excused herself quickly then, declining a half-hearted offer from Jon to visit the armory. She knew her brother was trying to cheer her up, but she could also tell he was distracted by something else weighing on him. Besides, she wanted to find out what Brienne Tarth was up to, and she had a feeling Jon would put a stop to that if he knew.

It was no effort to evade Septa Mordane once again and leave the old woman searching the halls for her. Arya allowed herself a small smile of triumph watching her Septa angrily run the wrong way down a corridor before she began to creep about Highgarden, keeping to the shadows and startling some of the Tyrells’ servants when she needed to abandon her cover and run to her next hiding place. Some of them bothered to yell after her, but she knew they would give up soon enough. The entire manor had quickly learned that there was no one and nothing, save Ned Stark, who could tell Arya what to do.

She wound her way up the servant’s staircase and found a small window no one had bothered to close and lock, or to guard, as every other way in and out of the manor Arya had passed had been. She wriggled through the open window, barely fitting, and managed to pull herself up onto the roof of Highgarden. She had followed Brienne Tarth the day before to her room, and now tried to picture where she might find the window of that room from the outside of the manor. Carefully plotting her route, Arya made a small leap from the roof to a nearby tree, and shimmied down until she found purchase on a narrow ledge that ran the length of the manor’s outer wall. She had to stand on her toes to keep her balance. From there she edged her way past several windows until she reached the one she thought must be right.

She peeked through, delighted to see her instincts had held true. Pod, the driver, was assisting Brienne in putting on her boiled leather armor, while Jaime Lannister watched the both of them from an armchair. Unlike Brienne, he was dressed in chainmail and finer threads than he had been sporting the day before. As he sat, he spun a knife in his left hand absently. He was not uncoordinated, but the motion was still awkward. It gave Arya a sting of savage satisfaction that were Jaime to duel her father today, he would have little chance of winning. It was clear the hand he had lost, for whatever reason he had lost it, had been his sword hand.

Arya felt her legs begin to shake with the effort of standing on the narrow ledge outside the building. At the same time, Jaime began to speak. Caught between retreating to safety and staying longer to listen to what was being said, Arya crouched down beneath the sill of the window, using it as a handhold to help relieve her aching legs. She could remain there a little longer before she needed to retreat.

“I don’t understand why you want to speak with Cersei first.”

“I need to find out who spoke with Renly in the days leading up to his death. Who he argued with, who he snubbed, who he met with in secret,” Brienne answered, though her voice seemed strained. “Trading in gossip and slights is within the Queen’s realm of duty. She’ll know more than most, and we can use her testimony to pressure others into honesty.”

“And how will we pressure Cersei into honesty?” Jaime muttered.

“Why would she lie? What would she stand to gain?”

“You’re asking the wrong Lannister. I’ve no interest in the game of politics,” said Jaime. “But ask yourself this: What does she have to gain from telling you the truth? Why should she confide in you? Do you have anything to offer her?”

Brienne was silent in response. Jaime laughed.

“Aside from me, of course,” he said.

“I don’t want you with me,” said Brienne suddenly, and Arya finally caught a glimpse of her face as Brienne turned to look away from Jaime. Her expression was sharp and conflicted. “When I speak to her.”

“And how do you plan on stopping me?”

Brienne turned back to look at Jaime again.

“Why would you want to see her?”

By this point Arya had gathered enough to realize that Brienne had been called to Highgarden to put to rest the matter of Renly Baratheon’s death. Although that much was evident, the rest of the conversation confused her. She had never heard of a falling out between Jaime and the other Lannisters. She knew they hadn’t protested when he was stripped of his place in the Kingsguard and disallowed from retaking any titles owed to his house, but the way her father and tutors had spoken of it always left her with the impression that the Lannisters endured the indignity of Jaime’s fall from grace with thinly veiled malice. Little as she liked the Queen, Arya didn’t understand what Jaime Lannister had to be wary of when speaking to his own sister.

“She won’t be kind to you,” said Jaime, though he would not meet Brienne’s eyes now.

“Ah yes,” said Brienne wryly, and Arya caught a hint of bitter mirth beneath whatever strange emotion charged the air between her and Jaime Lannister. “Because I have no practice in Lannisters being unkind.”

Jaime scowled at her, and sheathed his knife sullenly. He stood by Pod then, a short distance from where Brienne was collecting her sword belt. Arya noticed from her hiding spot that Brienne was rather taller than both her companions. Jaime somehow still gave the impression that he was able to look down his nose at her, though it made for a rather amusing image from Arya’s vantage point.

“Would you like me to apologize?” he asked. “If you remember correctly, I was in quite a lot of pain those first few months, wench.”

“I remember,” said Brienne. “Pod, do you remember?”

“Yes,” he said. Jaime turned on him, exaggerating an expression of betrayal. Pod was seemingly cowed, though Arya caught the edges of a smile beneath his show of deference. “I remember that you were in pain, ser.”

“I can’t be held accountable for everything I said, is what I mean.”

“Or anything you said, if you’re to be believed,” Brienne muttered to herself, but it seemed to Arya they had subtly put to bed whatever their argument about the Queen had truly been about. They were only ribbing each other now, both careful not to prod anywhere too painful.

Arya’s legs had gone nearly numb by this point, and her grip on the window sill was beginning to fail her. She decided to make her retreat, and straightened up out of sight of the objects of her observation. She flexed her toes, trying to regain some feeling in her calves and thighs, meanwhile plotting her course back to the window at the top of the servants’ quarters. Her eavesdropping would have been an unmitigated success if it were not for the bird that flapped at her head just as she was taking her first step of retreat. Startled, she let out a yelp and lost her footing, only barely able to catch onto the window sill with both hands instead of falling into the courtyard below. Her knees scraped painfully against the ledge, and she knew there was no missing her cry of pain or the thud of her body against the wall of the manor. Even worse, her strength was failing her and her hold on the window sill was slipping.

Before she knew it the window above her had been wrenched open, breaking the lock, and Jaime Lannister was staring down at her. His left hand reached out, grabbing a fistful of fabric at the scruff of her neck and yanking her through the window. Arya fell to the floor, and then scrambled to her feet. Brienne and Pod stared at her in surprise while Jaime looked down at her with contempt.

“Is the honorable Ned Stark sending his daughters to spy on me now?” asked Jaime. “You’d think he had some shame. If he wishes me ill, he could at least send the bastard.”

“No!” said Arya fiercely, offended on her father’s and her brother’s behalf. Jaime scoffed in disbelief, and Arya felt her blood begin to boil. “He doesn’t care if you're here. You’re nobody anymore, everyone says so! I was spying on her, anyway. Not you. If I wanted to bore myself, I would have just spent the afternoon sewing with Septa Mordane.”

Pod stifled a laugh at this, and Arya and Jaime turned to glare at him in unison. Suddenly bashful, Pod lowered his gaze. Jaime turned back to Arya.

“If you think you can get away with-”

“Jaime, leave the girl alone,” Brienne said, exasperated. Arya was surprised, having expected Brienne to be somewhat offended that Arya had eavesdropped on her conversation.

“But she-” exclaimed Jaime, clearly still intending on finishing his tirade.

“Jaime,” Brienne said, a little louder this time. He growled back at her, and returned to his seat in the corner, sinking down with cat-like fluidity, hackles still very much bristled. As soon as he was somewhat settled, Brienne turned the weight of her attention towards Arya. There was something gentle and forceful about Brienne, and Arya shrank a little under her scrutiny.

“I just wanted to know what you were doing here, honest,” said Arya quietly. Brienne stayed silent. “And I wanted to see if I could help. About Lord Baratheon. My father said he was killed and I thought that you… I wanted to do something.”

“I see,” said Brienne, though her mouth remained stern. Arya sighed.

“Should I be on my way then?” she asked, looking towards the door. Perhaps if she found Jon quickly enough, she would be able to take that trip to the armory before their father was able to hear of Arya’s morning exploits. She might actually get into proper trouble for this, she thought to herself glumly.

“I thought you wanted to help?” asked Brienne, frowning down at Arya.

“What?” said Arya.

“What?” said Jaime, a second after. And much louder.

“We’ll cover more ground and hear less idle gossip if we learn what the servants know now. The longer we wait, the more time rumors have to be embellished,” said Brienne thoughtfully. “I was already planning on sending Pod to pick up what he could from the servants. It wouldn’t hurt to have a second pair of ears. Unless you think a fourteen year old managed to catch Renly unawares and murder him?”

This last part was directed towards Jaime. He eyed Arya up and down suspiciously.

“Stranger things have happened,” he retorted. “And I wouldn’t put it past the little she-wolf-”

“Says the Kingslayer,” said Arya.

“Enough,” said Brienne, in a clear calm voice that seemed to cut through the room. Both Arya and Jaime’s mouths pressed tightly closed, neither having had their share of name-calling, Arya supposed. “A man is dead. We don’t know who killed him or why, or whether they intend to kill again. If the both of you don’t treat this with the seriousness it is owed, neither of you are fit to help in any way.”

Jaime seemed unperturbed by this declaration, and with a look seemed to convey to Brienne that he would behave as he wished, whatever she thought of it. Brienne narrowed her eyes at him, and it took Arya clearing her throat to catch the woman’s attention again.

“So you meant it?” Arya asked. “That I could-”

“If it keeps you from scaling the walls outside my windows, I don’t see the harm in it,” said Brienne. Arya felt herself begin to smile. “So long as your father agrees.”

“But- but that’s not fair!” said Arya. “He never lets me do anything. I can’t even practice with Needle anymore, because he worries what people will say!”

“Needle?”

“My… my sword,” Arya said, her eyes drawn to Brienne’s own sword, which lay across her dresser. It was broader and heavier than Arya's, and longer too. It was a marvel Brienne was strong enough to carry it. It would be a feat for any man her size, even.

Brienne followed Arya's gaze and seemed to soften a little, and even Jaime didn’t see fit to poke fun at Arya for wishing she could be a swordsman. If anything, he looked a little sorry for her. Arya wished she could duel him then, show him that she was no one to be sorry for. She was sure she could win too…

“Be that as it may,” said Brienne. “Pod, please can you escort Ms. Stark back to her father? Whether she accompanies you from there is his decision, but it is vital you learn what we spoke about.”

“Of course,” he said quickly. He looked to Arya, and his eyes widened. Arya wondered if there was a leaf in her hair. “I think you’re bleeding.”

Arya looked down at her scraped knees and shins. Blood was, in fact, running down her legs in small rivulets, soaking into her stockings. And now that she thought of it, the cuts did sting a bit. Nothing she couldn’t ignore.

“I’ve had worse,” she said.

Pod looked a little terrified of her. Still, he collected his things and hurried her out the door, efficient if nothing else. Arya barely had time to protest before they were halfway down the hall and only minutes from her having to explain herself to her father.

It was not a conversation Arya was looking forward to.

Chapter Text

It was clear to Jaime that Brienne was still a little unsettled at the thought of speaking to his sister, the Queen, though she hid it well. Brienne was an interesting woman, quick to anger and quick to fluster, but with the steady determination and unerring force of an oncoming wave. With her sea blue eyes came, it seemed to him, the temperament and immovability of the sea itself. He used to think, sometimes, that Brienne was not a woman at all, but the Stranger made flesh for a lifetime. The face of death, and the face of his new life. A woman who could wield a weapon as well as the best of Westeros, and still no one would sing for her as most did not dare pray to the Stranger. A reluctant champion for the reputation of a tarnished man.

And yet there was also the simple human reality of her. Her strength, her unerring sense of right and wrong, and her strange certainty that she would make her way in the world in spite of others. He had thought her naive and stupid for it, and truthfully he wasn’t sure if he did not still feel that way. And yet, he couldn’t help but admire her.

To be sure, if he found himself admiring her more and more each day, it was a gods send she had yet to catch on. He knew she was ugly. Seven hells he had called her ugly himself, and spent weeks taunting her for her looks. And yet somehow her crooked teeth had begun to charm him. Her many times broken nose spoke of her strength. Her formidable height, while still unfeminine, only added to the sheer might of her. And while her blonde hair was straw colored, coarse, and short, it was all he could do some days not to reach out and stroke it.

And her eyes, of course, were lovely. Of that, there could be no disagreement.

And yet, it was not her features that drew him to her. There was something between them that he lacked the ability, and perhaps the courage, to explain. A promise of truth and honor and everything else that others had denied the both of them. What was beauty compared to that? Jaime would trade his own handsomeness for a chance to live his life again, knowing what he knew now. Knowing how his name had been stolen from him, how his honor had been sacrificed to make the names of men like Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon.

His thoughts grew bitter at this, and he briefly thought once more of Arya Stark. She took after Ned more than her mother, the late Catelyn Stark, but there was something about her that was all her own. It reminded him a little of what Cersei had been like as a girl, and the vitality that had been stolen from her when she had been married off to a king. Before she had been raped and humiliated and made to feel as if her only power lay between her legs.

His sister had never been kind, he could admit that to himself now. But she had been proud and lively and had inspired something in himself to love her, when they were young. He did not know when that feeling had fled him, and sometimes he wasn’t sure it had entirely. The prospect of seeing her now only filled him with foreboding. He almost wished he had let Brienne keep him away. They would not fit well together in a room, he knew. If only because if Cersei had had a father like Lord Tarth, she might have been very like Brienne. She had loved to use swords, when she and Jaime could still trade clothing and pass themselves off as the other.

He was ripped from his thoughts when Brienne cleared her throat beside him. She had led the both of them to the Queen’s chambers, where they were meant to have a private audience with her. Robert had wanted to attend the interview, but Brienne had convinced him that it worked best for her methods if no one was to hear another’s testimony before giving their own, as impossible as that ideal was to completely fulfill. Robert had agreed reluctantly, to Jaime’s intense relief. He was not convinced that he would not take an axe off the wall and take a good left handed swing at the King if he were to be confined in a room with him for any stretch of time.

“And you’re sure?” Brienne asked him bluntly, her hand hesitating as she made to open the door. He could appreciate her candor, if not her tendency to force him to confront questions he would rather not answer.

“I’d rather be finished with this whole business, wench,” he muttered. In his voice, he could hear that he was taunting her again, as he had used to. He was sure that she heard it as well, because she scowled at him and opened the door without speaking to him again. Perhaps he would apologize to her later, he thought himself, though he doubted he would find the will. He had never apologized for the other slights he had made against her. He was a little afraid if he did there would be nothing to keep him from asking her for more than her forgiveness.

The Queen’s chambers were sumptuously decorated, and Jaime suspected little expense had been spared by the Tyrells for their guests' accommodations. If the rumors were true, Sansa had been meant to marry Joffrey in King’s Landing after the both of them had time to properly court each other during King Robert’s visit in Highgarden. Very suddenly, Margaery had been proposed in Sansa’s place, and the Tyrells had offered to host the wedding and bear the costs of the ceremony. Jaime had suspected the crown must be in more debt than usual, to not take insult at this, let alone accept the offer. And yet, accept the offer Robert Baratheon had, and now the Tyrells had made certain of their access to the throne and the increase in their power. They didn’t need to spare expenses, when their victory was more than evident to anyone with the eyes to see it. For a moment, Jaime smiled to think that his father must be furious.

And then his eyes found Cersei’s, and all good humor faded. She was not alone as she was supposed to be. Tyrion was with her, and Jaime wondered idly which of his siblings had emptied the decanter of wine that sat on the side table near them. It stung to see Tyrion again, after how they had left each other. He did not have to look at his little brother to know he was not forgiven, and he didn’t wish to see the accusation in his mismatched eyes. It was easier to look at Cersei, and to let himself feel the aversion that had replaced his old love for her. To see her eyes fall to the stump where his hand had been, and for her eyes to narrow at him derisively. She was as beautiful as ever, but he did not feel hungry when he saw her anymore. He felt repulsed.

“-agreed that I would be speaking to Cersei Lannister, and her alone,” finished Brienne. Jaime had scarcely heard a word she said. But he nodded in agreement, in any case. It was surprising that Tyrion would be with Cersei, especially in these circumstances. Then again, Tyrion was Tywin Lannister’s son, and if nothing else he knew how to act in the best interests of their family. Years ago, he was more than that, Jaime knew. But something had broken in his little brother when Jaime had told him that terrible secret, one of the few things Jaime had done that he felt he truly deserved to be condemned for.

Jaime could feel Tyrion’s eyes on him, even now. Daring him to look and see what had been left in place of what he had been before. Because he was a dwarf, people had long called Tyrion a monster. The truth, however, was that he had been intelligent, witty, and quick to empathize with even his enemies. If he were a monster now, that was Jaime’s doing. Jaime and Tywin Lannister, at the very least.

“Lady Tarth,” said Tyrion, in an attempt to be placating. “My good sister wants a witness to ensure nothing she says to you is misrepresented in any way. That is all I am here to do.”

“Has our good sister lost the ability to speak for herself?” Jaime heard himself say. For a moment, everyone was silent. Then Cersei spoke.

“Am I beholden to a lesser noble woman and a cripple?” she asked. Jaime caught Tyrion flinching out of the corner of his eye, but his brother did not come to his defense. “Varys will soon learn the truth of Renly's death, and the both of you will be returned to obscurity, where you belong. It’s been years since you were a Lannister, Jaime. You were exiled from the King’s guard and promised to take the black. It speaks volumes of your honor that you-”

“It speaks volumes that Renly Baratheon’s death inspires nothing but indifference in the both of you,” said Jaime.

“Enough,” said Brienne, her voice cutting through what had been the promising beginnings of a very uncomfortable family reunion. “I don’t care what histories the three of you have between you. I want to know very little. I am going to ask my questions, and when I am done, you can shout at each other until your lungs give out. But until that time, I must insist you keep your squabbles to yourself.”

Jaime, who was used to Brienne becoming insistent about such things, gave her only a look which she returned with equal exasperation. Cersei sputtered in open rage, but managed to control herself enough to merely make a veiled remark about Brienne’s marriage to Renly which Brienne somehow managed to steadfastly ignore. Surprisingly, Tyrion only looked intrigued with her. It lessened a little of the weight of his contempt for Jaime, which was an unasked for relief.

“And what do you think Cersei would know of it?” Tyrion asked curiously.

“What doesn’t a Queen know of the house she is staying in?” said Brienne. This seemed to soothe Cersei from her previous dislike of Brienne, though Jaime could tell she still thought of Brienne as an unfortunate woman who was more of an amusement than anything else. It made his blood boil to see the way his sister looked down at Brienne. He had to remind himself that less than a year before, he had looked down at her in much the same way. “Renly meant to take the King into his confidence about some matter or another. I mean to learn what this might have been. Determining who killed Renly will be a much simpler task if I know why he was killed.”

“Why do you suppose he was killed in the first place?” asked Tyrion. “The maesters determined only that his heart stopped. It is senseless, but healthy young men drop dead from time to time.”

“Minutes before they are meant to have a private audience with the King?” Brienne asked. Tyrion frowned, considering the point.

“That is less common,” he conceded. His eyes flicked back to Jaime, and Jaime quickly looked away from his brother. “Though I can’t think of anything strange in Renly’s behavior before his death. Or anyone who would want to cause him harm.”

“I can,” said Cersei, surprising Jaime and Tyrion both. But not Brienne, Jaime thought to himself. She had been right to interview Cersei first. He shouldn’t have doubted her instincts, he supposed. It was a mistake he made often, though one he was beginning to make less. In his own defense, he had been right to question her instincts a time or two, and had saved her the danger of underestimating the cruelty of men who wished her harm. “Renly was spending more time in Highgarden’s libraries before he died. Lord Tarly’s eldest son has been a bookkeeper there, since he chose to discontinue his studies as a maester, and Renly has been seen speaking with him by some of my servants. Renly and Lord Stark have been at odds for the past fortnight, since Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey had been broken. The night before Renly died, he and Stannis were heard arguing loudly late into the evening about whether Renly deserved to be appointed as Lord of Storm’s End, a disagreement they have had more than once. And I believe the Hound escaped his cell the night Renly died, though I am less certain of that.”

Cersei thought a moment longer to herself.

“And Stark’s bastard has been out at night when he has no reason to be. He’s been spotted with Tarly often, and disappears at odd hours to God knows where.”

Jaime could practically hear Brienne sorting through the deluge of information, nodding to herself when she had it in order.

“The Hound?” she asked. Cersei frowned at her as though she were stupid.

“Yes, what about him?”

“You mentioned he escaped his cell. I thought he was guard to your son, the prince, and loyal to house Lannister?”

“He was,” Tyrion agreed, breaking into whatever cutting remark Cersei had meant to make. “Until he killed his brother.”

Brienne and Jaime exchanged glances. This news had not spread to the small town they lived in yet. Or perhaps they had not heard because talk of the wedding had overwhelmed everything else among the smallfolk, who they spoke with more often than those of higher birth in the course of their day to day lives now. If Brienne were not about finding answers to a nobleman’s concerns, she and Pod acted as deterrents to any Ironborn raiders who made their way far enough inland to bother their town, and she was well-liked in town because of it. Noblemen and knights did not treat her half so well as she deserved, as a rule. It was unsurprising that the news of Gregor Clegane’s death would slip their minds as something worth sharing with a disgraced Lannister and a woman knight.

“The Mountain is dead?” said Jaime, thinking of poor Elia Martell. Another one of his failures. “Good riddance.”

This startled a laugh from Tyrion, a sound Jaime had not thought he would ever hear again. It stirred the guilt he had been attempting to suppress, and in an effort to ignore it he looked to Cersei again. He was surprised to find her looking back at him. Her gaze was calculating, but her expression was appeasing. As if she thought after all these years he would take her in his arms again, if only out of habit. It was terrible to know he might have, too, if his life were different. But he looked at her coldly, and she seemed to understand, because the sweetness fell from her face and she merely glared at him after that.

Brienne asked more questions, though Jaime found them mundane for the most part. She wished to know the circumstances of the Tarly boy’s employment at Highgarden and why he had been forced to give up his titles by his father, the state of Joffrey and Sansa’s engagement prior to its rupture, the extent to which Stannis’ anger had festered with regards to Robert’s favoring of Renly, and so on until Cersei began to repeat herself and Tyrion offered no new answers. Once it became clear there was little else they knew, Brienne thanked them politely, if tactlessly, and declared that she would be on her way. She left without another word, looking at Jaime a moment and back at his siblings. Her glance was resigned, but pointed. Although she did not like it, she seemed to have realized that he needed to speak to them.

He didn’t know why he did as she wanted him to. Maybe he did want to make amends, despite everything. Maybe it was the pity he still felt for his sister, and the marriage she had been forced into. Maybe it was the pit of guilt in his stomach when he thought of his brother. But he stayed, and he let himself bear the silence that fell between the three of them.

“Well,” said Tyrion, speaking first, as always. “She certainly is pragmatic. What on Earth is she doing with you?”

“I’ve heard men say any woman will do late at night when there is no light to see by,” said Cersei, grasping on to the subject of Brienne. She snorted derisively at Jaime’s outraged expression. “Is it true?”

Jaime grit his teeth, trying to keep his anger in check. It wouldn’t do to poison them to Brienne, not before she had determined she knew all she needed from them.

“Brienne is my keeper,” he said. “Nothing more, nothing less. My restoration as a Westerosi knight is to happen under her watchful eye, by order of Lord Bolton. And I would be dead if it were not for her interference in my execution. She won my trial by combat as my champion after one of Roose Bolton’s underlings thought to cut off my hand to save his worthless skin from my sword. So I would suggest the both of you think very carefully before you speak ill of her.”

Despite his missing sword hand, he must have sounded dangerous enough for his siblings to listen, despite their ire with him. Tyrion’s even seemed to lessen a fraction, and his brow furrowed as he looked at Jaime, as if he were trying to suss out what Jaime wasn’t saying. Luckily, he did not share his musings aloud.

“What does it matter?” Cersei said at last. “You’re back, and Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon’s friendship has suffered in the years since you were exiled. If I asked him, he would pardon you.”

“Our lord father’s suggestion?” Jaime asked. Cersei’s face went tight, but she nodded stiffly. “And why would I choose to be pardoned? So I could marry some young girl and retire unhappily to Casterly Rock?”

“Sansa Stark is unwed,” said Tyrion, calmly. “She’s not uncomely. And she’s nearly as old as your… champion.”

“Tell our father that I said no to his proposition,” said Jaime, ignoring the suggestion behind Tyrion’s words. “I’m happy to be a hedge knight far from his disappointment. Bolton has assured me that title will be mine, if Brienne vouches for my honor in six month’s time. That is all I want to be.”

And with that, he took his leave. As soon as he left, he wished he had said more. He wished he had told Cersei that he was sorry he had left her alone to Robert Baratheon’s loathsome ministrations, and to tell Tyrion that he knew the wrong he had done him was unforgivable. But he didn’t feel like he deserved to let those grievances go. Not yet. So he would sit with the guilt of them a while longer.

Instead, he sought out Brienne, who he knew would be finishing her breakfast with Margaery, over which she would likely question the Tyrell girl over the information she had learned from Cersei. He was correct, and caught her just as she was leaving, likely off to speak Varys before she considered who she wished to speak with next. Jaime stopped her, and she seemed to see something in his eyes that halted her usual insistence on seeing through everything she set out to do.

“Spar with me, Brienne?” he asked. She hesitated, and then nodded a moment later. She was easier to convince when he used her name. He'd learned that early on.

“I still won’t let you win,” she said.

“When I win, wench, it will be because I’m the better swordsman,” he said. “Until that time, I am only practicing.”

She only sighed at this, but led the way to the empty courtyard. Within minutes, they had both found practice swords with dulled edges and begun to run through some practice drills. Soon enough Jaime felt the sweat begin to collect at his temples and roll down his neck, and they began to vary their fighting styles. It was only a half hour later when Brienne knocked the sword from his aching left hand, a good deal longer than it had taken her to defeat him when they had begun practicing together. But it was still easy for Brienne to best him. He was determined that would change, and Brienne seemed determined to help him.

It was so simple, to tease Brienne, to fight with her, to depend on her. Sometimes, Jaime was unsure how he had known anything else. He had not been lying when he told Cersei and Tyrion that his old life and his former titles held no appeal to him. When he was a boy, he had wanted to be a knight the smallfolk sang songs about. He had wanted honor and glory and duty.

Now he only wanted the small smile Brienne gave him when he knocked her sword arm aside and tripped her. He drew his dagger as he stood over her, just before she brought him down in turn and managed to twist his arm behind his back, winning another one of their bouts.

“You’re getting better,” she told him, letting him go and easily pulling him to his feet a moment later. She seemed unable to meet his eye for the moment, but he could feel her pride in him and somehow that was worth more than a Lordship ever could be.

And yes, he supposed. He had a long way to go. But he was getting better.

Chapter Text

If Margaery noticed that Sansa seemed upset or distant, she didn’t not mention. Instead, when Sansa arrived at her door an hour earlier than they had agreed the day before, she simply welcomed her in and offered to braid her hair. Sansa’s hair had not been braided since the day before. In lieu of an answer, Sansa only nodded mutely, still too distracted by her anger at Arya to wonder if she were being insulted.

Margaery had her sit in front of the vanity in her room, and sent one of the maids who offered to help with Sansa’s hair off, cheerfully insisting she could manage herself. Sansa looked at herself in the mirror, wondering at the expression she saw staring back at her. Her mouth did not curve up in a smile and her eyes did not shine with humor or affection or any other emotion, as far as she could see. She felt for a moment as if she had died in that forest with Joffrey’s bolt stuck through her heart, and now was being forced to live a strange punishment. The world she had taken for granted, the one she had been sure she had a part and place in, had so suddenly grown monstrous to her. She second guessed even her own family’s intentions and it worried her greatly that her father had not made any mention of the Tyrell’s offer of marriage, even if he was distracted by Renly Baratheon’s death and the arrival of Jaime Lannister at Highgarden.

She knew Margaery had already spoken to Lady Olenna, by the shrewd wink the elderly woman had given her in passing in the hallway the night before, and the private dinner she had requested from Ned Stark. Sansa had no doubt an overture had been made, and yet her lord father had not spoken even a word about it to her. She knew he had been upset by her first match, for reasons she had not been able to understand over the years of her distant betrothal, in which she and Joffrey had exchanged letters every few months. She had used to pore over them, imagining meanings into his words, and thinking of the songs that would be written of their love for each other. She had even written a few of her own, though she had never told anyone this. And now, of course, she thought to herself bitterly, she never would. Who wanted to hear the childlike fantasies of a stupid, little girl?

She let out an angry laugh at that thought, disturbing Margaery’s work. Margaery looked at her, inquisitive, but Sansa could find nothing to say. She was a little ashamed of her outburst and did not want to explain herself. To her great relief, instead of picking at her thoughts, Margaery simply brushed out what she had done already and began again. Desperate to find something to occupy herself with aside from her own thoughts, Sansa closed her eyes and focused only on the feeling of Margaery’s fingers running through her hair. It had always been a pleasant feeling, to have her hair brushed and styled. Margaery braided with a smooth precision and gentle confidence that quickly set Sansa at ease. And Margaery hummed while she worked, in a tone deaf manner that still managed to please the ears.

When Margaery had finished with the style, Sansa opened her eyes again and watched as Margaery took a stray lock and tucked it behind Sansa’s ear, pinning it in place. Next, she traced one finger down Sansa’s jaw to her chin, and used it to lift Sansa’s face for her inspection.

“Very pretty,” she approved. There was a fluttering of feeling in Sansa’s chest, a warm thrill at the compliment and the approval. Then she noticed in the mirror that her style of hair was very similar to the style Margaery wore, and the small spark she felt was extinguished. She looked away from Margaery, her anger returning to her.

“I’m not a doll,” she said, wondering even as she said it if that were true.

“I wouldn’t like you if you were,” giggled Margaery, not sounding the least bit offended at Sansa’s sudden petulance. If anything, this unsettled Sansa more than if Margaery had been angry. And yet the assurance did make her feel a little better, even so. “Would you like me to finish?”

“Finish?” Sansa asked. Margaery nodded, and took out a case of pearls and gem encrusted flower hair pins, which she began to expertly place within the folds of Sansa’s braids. Sansa could not help but notice these pearls were likely meant to match the ones sewn into Margaery’s light blue silk gown. When Margaery finished placing the pins in Sansa’s hair, the result was nothing less than stunning. Margaery stepped back again to admire her work and Sansa could understand a little more why this time. The added weight of the gems was noticeable, but not unmanageable, and somehow the effect managed to be simultaneously eye catching and subtle. Sansa reached her hand to touch them, admiring the smooth coolness of the pearls. “They’re very beautiful.”

“I know. I’m glad you’re happy to wear them. My hair is so fine, I’m afraid the pins poke into my head,” Margaery said. Sansa winced in sympathy. Margaery considered Sansa a moment before speaking again. “My grandmother spoke to your father last night.”

“I thought as much,” said Sansa. “What did he say?”

Margaery frowned at her.

“He refused to entertain thoughts of a second match for you until after my marriage to Joffrey,” she said. “Did he not tell you?”

Sansa did not answer this question.

“Why are you being so kind to me?” she asked instead. Margaery’s frown lifted, but her brow remained furrowed as if she were still wondering at Ned Stark’s intentions instead of thinking seriously on Sansa’s.

“In a world of vipers, it’s a pleasure to meet a song bird,” she said. Although her tone was teasing, Sansa felt certain this was the truth. Or at least a version of it. The comparison rankled against something inside her. She was a wolf. As much as her father or her sister or her brother, she was a wolf.

“And which are you, Lady Margaery?” she asked, as politely as she could manage. This comment cleared whatever distractions Margaery may have been entertaining, and her attention shifted entirely to Sansa once again.

“Why Sansa,” she said with a grin. “I’m certain you’re clever enough to know that for yourself already. Now, I know we can’t go to the grounds, but I’ve thought of something else for us to occupy ourselves with. If you’d come with me?”

She held out her hand for Sansa to take. After a moment’s hesitation, Sansa lifted her own and placed it in her mercurial friend’s. Margaery whisked her to her feet, and excitedly led her through the halls of Highgarden until they reached the kitchens. There, Margaery handed Sansa a basket, and filled it with bread and cheese and dried meat and fruit. She chatted amicably as they gathered the food, and took a second basket for herself. Somehow, Sansa found herself lulled into the easy conversation of mild gossip, and even began to enjoy herself. It was such a relief to whisper about which men they found handsome and which fashions they thought garish and who they thought would be marrying whom in the next few years.

As they walked from the kitchens, Sansa did not spare one thought to wonder where they might be going with baskets laden with more food than the two of them might have eaten in a week’s time. Margaery had begun to tell her about Willas, who Lady Olenna thought would make a good match for her. One of his legs had been twisted and crushed in a tourney, so he walked with a limp and a cane, much as Sansa’s father did. Where once she might have found this disappointing, it soothed her now to know that, if she wished, she could always outrun her husband. Margaery went on to describe Willas as kind and scholarly. He was no prince, and not even a knight because of his accident, but Sansa found that did not lessen his appeal. He sounded safe, and after what had happened with Joffrey, that quality was more romantic than any other could be in a husband.

Though she did find herself wondering if he was as handsome as she found his brother Loras to be, or had the same wide, bright, deep brown eyes as his sister. Not that she mentioned such thoughts to Margaery.

In any case, Sansa knew the significance of this marriage proposal. If she married Willas, she would be Lady of Highgarden someday, and while that was not quite as romantic as being queen, it was not an offer to be sneered at. When Margaery had said she would like Sansa to be a sister to her, she had not thought her friend had meant it quite so literally. It worried her even more, now, that her father had refused to even begin entertaining the offer of marriage. Surely it would be taken as an insult? The Tyrells' wealth was no secret, and marrying into their family was a highly sought after prospect. They had offered Ned Stark perhaps the second most prosperous match in Westeros for his daughter. Margaery’s confusion made a little more sense now. Ned Stark should have remained open to the idea, even if he thought it was proper to wait until after Margaery and Joffrey’s marriage to solidify the agreement. Rejecting it wholesale until a further date meant there would be no dishonor in offering the match to someone else…

Sansa almost confided these fears in Margaery, until she saw they were approaching a stone staircase, leading down from the first floor. This managed to derail her thoughts entirely.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To the dungeons,” Margaery said, airily. “I like to make certain our prisoners are fed. You never know when an act of kindness will be rewarded.”

“I’d rather come under the impression that in general, acts of kindness aren’t,” said Sansa.

“That is unsurprising,” said Margaery, lightly. “Yet, you’re still kind in any case. And that, dear Sansa, is why I like you.”

Despite herself, Sansa felt a blush coloring her cheeks. Margaery smiled at her mischievously, and started down the steps to the dungeon with a sole glance back to make certain Sansa was following her. And what could Sansa do, but follow her? It felt less like a choice and more like an impulse, and Sansa felt a little giddy hurrying down the steps after her. She wanted to keep Margaery’s good opinion. For practical reasons, but also because in a short amount of time Margaery’s good opinion had grown quite dear to her.

The giddiness faded when she saw the cells, and the men and women kept in them. Some of them called hearty greetings to Margaery, and even those that didn’t said nothing rude, though some looked as though their thoughts were less than savoury. Margaery stopped by the first cell, and passed food through the bars, speaking quietly to the man there. Sansa stood a few feet back, uncertain what she should be doing.

“And I asked after your wife,” Margaery said. “She’s managing the farm, though Ellis has been helping her.”

“He should be looking after his wife, not his mother,” the man muttered, eagerly taking the food Margaery offered him.

“I told him you would say that,” Margaery said. “He told me it made no difference to him.”

The man grunted, and began to gnaw on one of the bread rolls Margaery had given him. Margaery turned to look at Sansa.

“Well,” she said. “I thought you might help me?”

“Why is he here?” asked Sansa, looking around Margaery at the dirty man sitting in the cell. “What did he do?”

“He killed a little girl,” she said, without hesitation. Sansa gaped at her. “He’s still a person, Sansa. With a mother and a wife who loved him, and a son who thought the world of him.”

“Who thought the world of a murderer?”

“Your father killed men, as did mine,” she said.

“But that’s different than killing a little girl-”

“Yes, our fathers killed for honor and glory,” she said. “He did it because he was offered money, and the harvest was bad that year. One seems rather more useless than the other, doesn’t it?”

Sansa felt her lips purse, and Margaery seemed to soften again.

“I can finish here and meet you back in my rooms,” she said. “Though I was rather hoping you would take my place, when I am gone to King’s Landing, and hopefully you are living here. Take my place seeing them, I mean. It means something, Sansa, to see the best in the worst among us.”

“Is that why you’re marrying Joffrey?” Sansa asked, not knowing where she found the courage.

Margaery’s eyes widened, and she hushed Sansa, stepping close to her and whispering so no one in the cells could hear.

“No,” she said sternly. “I want to be Queen. Much as you did. Have you noticed what Westeros has become since a lovelorn drunk has been at its helm the past few decades? The weaknesses and corruption that has been allowed to flourish? What will happen if the Seven Kingdoms are subjected to a second king of that temperament? And with Winter coming, as you Starks are so fond of saying. I can temper a tyrant. Can you say the same?”

“I apologize,” Sansa said, her words coming with uncertainty. “I shouldn’t have said that. Forgive me, I want nothing but the best for the both of you. I didn't mean to imply that Prince Joffrey is anything less than a gentleman-”

“I accept,” Margaery said, easily appeased. Sansa let out a startled breath as Margaery reached out and touched her wrist, offering to take her basket from her. Sansa shook her head, and held the basket of food closer to her instead.

“Where should I start?” Sansa asked. Margaery beamed at her.

“Start towards the front, opposite of me,” she said. “Visit each prisoner and offer them three rolls of bread, a wheel of cheese, some meat, and a piece of fruit. Talk to them.”

Sansa nodded, set her shoulders, and went to work. She found it surprisingly simple, to put the courtesies she had spent her life memorizing into speaking with prisoners. Some were kind to her and some said things that made her shrink away from them, but on the whole she found what Margaery had said was mostly correct. The prisoners were simply people, no better or worse than the nobility Sansa had spent her life among. She had always been gifted at remembering names and faces, and it took little to commit each prisoner to memory. Although she made sure to speak with each person she gave food to, she had less to talk about than Margaery did, and Sansa found herself finished with her row of cells far before Margaery had finished with hers. Unsure what to do, Sansa looked around and noticed an archway that led to another set of cells. There was only one prisoner in these, and seeing Margaery still deep in conversation with a waifish Wildling called Osha, Sansa slipped through the archway to deliver the last of the food in her basket.

The man behind the cell bars was tall and broad-shouldered, powerfully built. He rested with his head turned against the wall, but leapt to his feet when he heard Sansa’s footsteps. She froze in place when she saw the horrific, mangled remains of the left side of his face, and felt sick at the small stretch of jaw bone exposed from beneath his blackened skin. He seemed to sense her revulsion, and laughed at her discomfort.

“Come to stare?” he asked her, his voice rough and deep. “You must be one of Margaery’s little friends.”

Sansa said nothing, unsure what there was to say.

“No,” he said to himself. “You’re the Stark girl. The little bird that dumb git Joffrey was going to marry.”

“You shouldn’t speak of your prince that way,” Sansa said, falling back on her propriety, as ever. She recognized the man now as the Hound, who she had in fact seen accompanying Joffrey about for the first few days of her family’s stay at Highgarden, until he had very suddenly been replaced with new guards for the young prince. He had worn a helmet then, and she had not had the misfortune to observe his ruined face. Now that she had, she found it difficult not to look away, even as she spoke to him.

“Fuck the prince,” he said. “And the fuck the Queen and the King too, while I’m at it. And fuck little twittering fools like you.”

Sansa lifted her chin in vague disgust, but remembered what Margaery had said of seeing the best in the worst of Westeros.

“I came to bring you food,” she said, as calmly as she could manage. “Did you want it, or not?”

“Hand it over and leave me be,” he said.

She walked closer, and began to hand the bread through the bars of the cell, as she had done with the other prisoners. But when she did, he grabbed her wrist instead and pulled her arm through the bars. Sansa cried out in fear, but he loosened his grip as soon as she dropped the bread, and she quickly snatched her arm back, stumbling away from the cell.

“I don’t want the scraps of a Lady who can’t even bear to look at me,” he said to her, proud and cruel, tossing the bread back at her through the bars of the cell. He sat after he spoke, turning his head so his scars were hidden once again.

“Why did you do that?” Sansa asked. He looked at her, and she forced herself to remain looking back at him. He did not seem to like this any more than when she had looked away.

“Only to give you a fright, Lady Stark,” he said dismissively.

“I offer you bread, and you return the favor by threatening me?”

“You offer me nothing,” he said. “My life’s done. Feeding me will only make it longer.”

“And you’d like to spend the rest of your life frightening people you think are beneath you?” asked Sansa. “No wonder you were never a knight.”

“And proud of it,” he growled back at her. “Only, I expect if a real knight gave you a fright you would wish it were only me.”

“A true knight defends and protects those weaker than him,” she said in return. “And doesn’t use his strength to frighten women for his own amusement.”

“If it makes you happy to think so, little bird,” the Hound muttered. “Your whole life has been nothing but a pretty song, so you keep repeating the words and think that makes them true.”

Sansa was not sure what about this statement so frustrated her. Perhaps it was her recent brush with death, or that she feared that what he said was true, or that she sometimes wished with all her heart that she was still the same girl whose life had been nothing but a pretty song. Why shouldn’t it be? What right did men like Joffrey have to take that from her? And what right did a man like the Hound have to spend his life serving a man like Joffrey, and then to condemn her for her love of songs?

“Why concern myself with the truth?” she said to him. “It’s always either terrible or terribly uninteresting.”

The Hound ignored her, seemingly fit to sit against the wall and wait for himself to die. Sansa was unsure what drove her to do what she did next, but she walked up to the bars of the cell once again, and carefully placed each piece of food through the bars of the cell, eyes never leaving where the Hound rested with his eyes closed. When she was finished, she stood up straight again and smoothed out her skirts, picking up her basket and retreating back through the archway.

“Oh there you are,” Margaery said, finishing the last of her basket. “Don’t go any further, Sandor Clegane-”

“I’ve already seen to him,” said Sansa. Margaery looked surprised.

“He won’t eat since his last escape attempt,” she said. “He plans to die. He asked Loras to kill him the night Renly died, so that he wouldn’t be brought back to King’s Landing after the wedding and be left at the mercy of the King.”

And the King’s son, Sansa thought to herself, a surprising burst of empathy flooding through her. It did not matter that the Hound had served him for years. She had no doubt Joffrey was not kind to anyone left at his mercy. The Hound would be no different.

“Sansa?” Margaery said, drawing Sansa from her thoughts. “Shall we go back to the kitchens and make ourselves a late lunch?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

Margaery took her arm, and Sansa felt her nerves calm again. Although she still did not understand Margaery entirely, and she certainly did not trust her, there was something about her that made Sansa’s steps feel lighter. There was something that took note of when Margaery looked at her, and when she laughed at something Sansa had to say, and the way her skin seemed to warm wherever Margaery touched her. It was almost enough to make Sansa forget how afraid she had been every single second since that day in the forest.

Almost.

Chapter Text

It was with great relief that Arya had learned that her father was preoccupied with the King and his council, and had been called away by Jon Arryn earlier that morning. Pod had fretted about what to do, and it had taken very little of Arya’s arguing with him for him to know she would find some way or other to follow him. That settled, she had made him wait as she stole into Jon’s room to take some of his clothes and fashion a disguise for herself. She had thought, as they were walking to find her father, that the servants wouldn’t say anything interesting in front of her, Ned Stark’s daughter, but they wouldn’t think twice about an errand boy accompanying a squire.

Arya was small enough that she could look a little younger than her fourteen years, especially in her brother’s clothing. She also drew her hair back and tied it up as her father did. Hesitating for a moment, Arya then went to where she knew Needle had been hidden from her, and collected that as well, tying the sword belt Jon had had made for her around her waist.

Her face she could do nothing about. She frowned at it, and the resemblance between herself and her father and her brother struck her with a suddenness that made her still. She was supposed to be the spitting image of Lyanna Stark as well, she had been told. Whether or not that was true, she could not say. Taking in her face a moment longer, Arya decided she would have to trust no one would look too closely at a lowly errand boy. Perhaps it helped that there were scrapes on her arms and under her chin, from her near fall out the window. Her hair was still tangled and hurriedly arranged, and although she’d made some effort to clean herself, there was still a layer of grime about her that was not befitting of a proper lady.

Podrick Payne was pacing the hallway when Arya returned, and hurried off as soon as she was in sight, leaving her to follow behind him. He did not comment on her disguise, and Arya had to run after him to tell her what she had planned.

“You can call me Bran,” she told him. “So that the servants don’t hold their tongues in front of a lady.”

“Calling you anything would only draw attention to you,” he said, though he sounded uncertain. “And you don’t know what to ask. Just stay quiet and listen.”

He paused a moment, looking at Arya again.

“And besides, you don’t look any different.”

“I do too,” Arya said to him stubbornly. He sighed, walking even faster as if he hoped to outpace her and leave her behind. Arya didn’t falter, and it was not long until the both of them had reached the kitchens.

Arya hung back as Pod spoke with the cooks, and smiled as they seemed to take pity on him and forced him to eat as he spoke to them. Arya was handed food as well, and treated like a nuisance. It was not the novel experience she would have liked, being treated as everyone else was, she reflected to herself. But, mercifully, her disguise remained intact. The cooks thought she was a small boy Pod had enlisted to help him about his errands.

“It was always difficult to know where Renly was at night,” said one of the cooks in the middle of the discussion. Arya felt herself tense, and then relaxed, not wanting to give away how closely she was listening. “He knows this place almost as well as the Tyrells.”

“One night, Jeyne saw him at the outer garden walls, and five minutes later he was having tea with Margaery in one of the towers,” said another. Pod chatted on about other things, the gossip that had been spreading as of late. A prisoner who escaped late at night, a pointless argument between the Baratheon brothers about whether Stannis Baratheon should get this or that piece of land, and so on and so on. Arya was nearly bored to tears by the time Pod had finished stammering through his list of questions, and laboriously written down their answers.

But Renly being two places at once stuck with her, because she realized she had unwittingly been holding her own piece of Brienne’s puzzle. It wasn’t something she had known exactly, but it made sense of an oddity that had failed to bother her before now. In fact, she hadn’t thought of it at all because the news of Renly Baratheon’s death had seemed so inconsequential in comparison to her arguments with Sansa. However, now that she had thought of it, she was shocked she had not noticed before.

She had seen Renly Baratheon on the night that he had died. But she must have seen him after he had died, as Renly’s body had been discovered in the early hours of the morning, the same time at which Arya had caught sight of him and during one of her late night (and very secret) wanderings into the Tyrells’ gardens.

The thought of it struck a disquiet inside her, to think she had seen a ghost, or some illusion, or piece of magic. Old Nan had loved to tell them ghost stories and stories of the children of the forest, and their last remnants, the faces in the trees. Bran had loved those stories, Arya remembered of her lost little brother. She’d been kept away from their sick beds, but she learned to climb the walls of Winterfell to sit in the window and watch as her brothers and her mother grew thin and weak. Bran had even seen her once, and pointed at her with a strange smile. She’d felt a kinship with him then, one only her sense of family with her brother Jon continued to rival. Because she had known how to climb the walls from watching him, even if she hadn’t known she had been learning until she had tried it for herself.

And now there was Renly, one more life snuffed out, for whatever reason. Death didn’t frighten Arya so much as anger her. The injustice of it all burned under her skin, and gave shape to a nameless frustration within her heart. A frustration she felt in every action she took, every errant breath and astray hair that put her at odds with the world she lived in.

“Y-y-y-you don’t have to look so angry all the time,” Pod said to her as they wove through the hallways, back towards Brienne Tarth’s and the Kingslayer’s quarters. Arya glared at him, though he only flinched a little. “I-i-it makes p-p-people afraid of you.”

“I don’t care,” said Arya, stubbornly exaggerating her expression. Unable to provide a good reason as to why she should care, Pod abandoned the conversation to stare down at his feet. It was for this reason, Pod watching his feet and Arya glaring after Pod, that the both of them missed a very short man stepping into their path.

Tyrion Lannister was a seemingly friendly man, and the Lannister that Arya saw the least to dislike about. Even so, there was something about him that suggested a restrained kind of madness that made her wary of him. Ned Stark likewise regarded him from a respectful and wary distance, even as Jon had expressed a great liking for the dwarf. Sansa had once off-handedly proclaimed him, in one of her fits of kindness, perhaps the cleverest man in the world, and maybe that was true. But if Arya was angry with the world, Tyrion was furious, and she knew the unchecked force of that ire well enough.

Still, there he stood in front of Pod, and if Pod had seemed an anxious wreck before, Tyrion reduced him to something truly pitiful. Arya supposed she ought to be grateful, because the stammering mess Pod had become was distraction enough that Tyrion did not look at her too closely and see who she truly was.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” Tyrion said. Pod swallowed, apprehensive. “I want to know exactly what happened to my brother these past few years.”

“I-I-I don’t know if I should-d-d,” Pod said. Tyrion raised an eyebrow at him, his mismatched eyes twinkling in some mixture of mischief, curiosity, and iron unforgiveness.

“Need I remind you, I sent you with Jaime to see to it he was safe on his journey to the Wall,” said Tyrion. “With a promised reward upon your return. You are still pledged to me, regardless of if I loaned you to my brother for a while. I wouldn’t forget my loyalties if I was you.”

This seemed to decide the matter. Pod spared a glance at Arya and suddenly shoved a paper into her hands, onto which had been carefully scrawled a series of questions. Arya looked to him and then to the paper, and understood what he was asking without saying, lest Tyrion look too closely at her and wonder what Arya Stark was doing running around dressed as a boy.

So, not thinking too hard on the sudden and impulsive trust that had been placed in her, Arya gleefully snatched the paper from Podrick Payne’s hand, and practically skipped away to question the next set of servants all by herself.

Chapter Text

Pod followed Tyrion silently to a smaller room where they could discuss the matter of the past few years privately. Pod desperately tried not to think of Brienne’s disappointment should Arya be discovered and returned to her father before she could complete the task he had been set. But he knew that Tyrion would likely keep him for some time, and he couldn’t risk waiting for the answers Brienne needed.

Tyrion seemed to sense his discomfort, and looked at him with no shortage of amusement. Pod was reminded, as he had had little cause to be in recent years, that he very much liked Tyrion Lannister. He was deathly afraid of the dwarf, too, but there was a warmth to him that Pod was not granted by most human beings. Even his own family treated him as more of a nuisance than a person, and Pod could count on one hand the number of people who saw him in anything resembling a positive light. Brienne and Jaime were among that number. However, Tyrion Lannister had been the first.

“Start at the beginning,” Tyrion demanded, though he did not speak unkindly. Even so, Pod stammered a while before Tyrion sighed. “Pod, I don’t wish my brother more harm than has already come to him. Please, start at the beginning.”

With this small reassurance, something loosened in Pod, finally allowing him to relax. Tyrion was clever, much cleverer than Pod ever hoped to be, but Pod trusted that he was being truthful. Whatever rift had formed between the two Lannister brothers, it was not enough to sever their love completely.

“He was going to the Wall,” Pod insisted, which was true enough. “But we were waylaid in the Neck by raiders from the Iron Islands. Ser Jaime helped to fight off a raiding party in a village near the coast. He was the only man for miles with a real sword. Besides me.”

“That explains the first few months. You were traveling. It isn’t an easy journey, especially if you are as widely misliked as my brother has been,” Tyrion said. “Explain the business with Roose Bolton.”

“We meant to continue on to the Wall, but there seemed no shortage of battles to fight, and Jaime could not be dissuaded. We made glacial progress and would stay in some towns for months at a time, until someone decided we were more trouble than we were worth, and we would move on to the next one.”

“And several more months passed, maybe a year,” said Tyrion, the slightest note of frustration breaking through his voice. Pod swallowed, nervous again. “How did my brother come to lose his hand?”

“That is… complicated,” Pod said, hesitantly. “One of the raiding parties we fought weren’t Ironborn, they were only pretending to be. They were Northmen. They recognized Jaime, and decided to bring him to the Wall themselves. I think they hoped that Ned Stark would reward them somehow. They caged the both of us, and accused us of slander when we told Roose Bolton that we had seen them pillaging and raping. Bolton let us loose at first, in exchange for the promise we would not spread stories of his men's misconduct and so we could continue on our journey to the Wall…”

“Yes, yes, but how did he meet the woman?” Tyrion interrupted a third time. Pod stared at him.

“You and Jaime had met Brienne Tarth before any of this,” he said quietly. “At her wedding. To Renly.”

“I remember,” said Tyrion. “Barely. It wasn’t a marriage that lasted very long, for obvious reasons. She didn’t make much of an impression.”

Pod found himself torn between defending Brienne and not speaking against Tyrion. He did not at all know the right thing to say, so for a while he said nothing. The silence was not comfortable, and it took a while before it seemed to occur to Tyrion he would have to be the one to break it.

“You were let go,” Tyrion prompted at last. Pod nodded.

“And then Roose Bolton’s infant son was found flayed alive and wailing out in the forest, a sacrifice for the Old Gods or the Others, some said,” Pod said, so quietly Tyrion had to strain closer to hear. “Or perhaps to R’hllor, there was some argument around it. The boy didn’t survive, and Bolton lost his heir. Jaime was accused of the crime.”

“On what evidence?” demanded Tyrion, astounded.

“Jaime heard Bolton’s men laughing at Tywin Lannister, whose only choice of heir is…”

Pod trailed off, not wanting to repeat what the men had said. Tyrion only snorted.

“A dwarf.”

“They had not put it so kindly, my lord,” Pod said, which only seemed to increase Tyrion’s wry amusement. Or perhaps it was not amusement, in his dark chuckle. Perhaps it was some emotion more horrific than that, something Tyrion did not give voice to for concern that Pod would once again clam up and struggle to continue his story. It was hard to tell. And yet Pod felt terribly sorry for him in that moment. “They don’t know you, my lord.”

“I’m not concerned about what the Northmen think of me,” said Tyrion, though there was something about his expression that spoke differently. Pod did not mention this. “And so they blamed Jaime, did they?”

“They accused him of seeking his revenge. It would not be the first time he responded violently to his pride being wounded, and Bolton mentioned Jaime’s maiming of Lord Stark as additional motivation. There were no shortage of witnesses claiming Jaime had spent almost the past few years picking fights and injuring strangers, for no better reason than that he could.”

“You said he was defending towns.”

“I was not given leave to find witnesses to defend us,” said Pod. “Jaime asked the day we were recaptured for a trial by combat, in which he would champion himself.”

Tyrion nodded as if this were obvious. Pod wondered if he saw his older brother any differently now that he had lost a hand, or still thought of him as the Jaime Lannister that had been the object of equal fear and envy among many in King’s Landing. He had been appointed to the Kingsguard at fifteen, an incredible feat. He had been perhaps the best swordsman in Westeros, though Pod wondered sometimes whether Brienne might have beaten him, even at his best. While he had certainly had superior skill and experience, there was an incredible ingenuity in Brienne’s fighting he had never had in equal measure. Pod did not mention these thoughts to Jaime, of course.

“That night we were restrained and left to wait until morning in Bolton’s dungeons,” said Pod. “And that is when we were visited by the man Roose Bolton had chosen to fight Jaime the next day.”

It had been horrible, watching as Vargo Hoat, a man whose life Roose Bolton clearly wished to be rid of, had stolen down to the dungeons and paid off the guards to pretend they had not seen him. There was no escape from him, and Jaime had faced him down bravely enough, for what little he could do while chained to the back wall of the foul smelling dungeon they had been left in. He had assumed Vargo Hoat would kill him, and thought he could persuade the man otherwise with mention of gold and threats of consequences. After all, his unjust death was sure to bring down the rightful fury of Tywin Lannister, and that was something no one wished to be subjected to.

But Vargo Hoat had not come to kill Jaime Lannister. He had come to make it impossible for Jaime to win a trial by combat.

Jaime had then tried to argue that he was certain that someone would ask him how he had come to be missing a limb. But Vargo Hoat had only laughed at this.

“It doeth not matter,” he said. “Roothe Bolton hath no interetht in the thtory of a maiming getting loothe. It will only be a rumor. Impothible to prove. Thomething thomeone came up with to defend Jaime Lannithter’th honor after he was defeated in hith trial by combat.”

And with the weight of this conviction making him fearless, and Jaime’s loud-mouthed charisma and deadly precision with a sword having been neutralized, Vargo Hoat had done the unthinkable and taken Jaime Lannister’s right hand.

Pod would later learn- from Brienne, who was also in Roose Bolton’s service- that this was not the first limb Vargo Hoat had hacked from a prisoner, and if things had gone differently it likely would not have been the last. He seemed to enjoy crippling Bolton’s prisoners, a pastime that Bolton tolerated at best. It made sense that Bolton would try to rid himself of an inconvenient servant in a battle Vargo Hoat was sure to lose. And it made sense for Vargo Hoat to do what he knew to defend himself from what was essentially an assassination attempt from his master.

None of this would make Jaime feel any better of course. Were it not for Brienne, he would be a dead man in more ways than one, Pod knew. Even if somehow he had won a fight against Vargo Hoat left handed, he would have been too stricken to truly survive the loss of his right.

“And he cut off Jaime’s hand,” Tyrion said, bringing Pod back to the present. Pod nodded, as that was the shortest and simplest way to sum the story up. “Hours before Jaime was meant to fight him to prove his innocence.”

“Yes,” Pod agreed. “And that is partly where Brienne comes into the story. Only she comes into the story earlier than this too.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tyrion, raising an eyebrow.

“On the night Jaime was released, I think he finally felt the extent to which his name had been… dishonored,” said Pod. “Roose Bolton had taken him captive and been entirely unafraid of the consequences. I think before then he had not really thought he would be forced to spend the rest of his life guarding the Wall. Until then, his banishment had seemed like more of a… suggestion. A punishment made up to soothe Lord Stark, that could be later lessened.”

“Not an unfounded thought,” Tyrion allowed. Jaime’s banishment had never officially been a matter of the King’s justice. Of course, from what Pod understood, behind closed doors King Robert had made it very clear that he expected Jaime’s compliance with his wishes, and his other option was to be removed from the Kingsguard in disgrace. If there was another reason Jaime had been convinced to leave, Pod did not know it, but in the end Jaime had seemed to decide it was in his best interest to take the black. Pod had been sent to make sure he was safe until the moment he spoke his vows as a brother of the Night’s Watch. “My brother has a terrible habit of being an optimist.”

Pod nodded. He liked this about Jaime Lannister. He could be arrogant and cruel, but almost against his will, he largely seemed to like people and saw in others what they did not see in themselves. Jaime would never describe himself this way, but it was a talent that could be very endearing to those who knew him for any length of time. It was also a talent few seemed to truly realize about him.

“So we visited a tavern, and Jaime drank,” said Pod. “More than he should.”

“That we all seem to have in common,” muttered Tyrion to himself. Pod politely ignored this. “Yes, and then?”

“He got in a fight with a woman he saw wearing Bolton’s crest. Only, he thought she was a man at first,” said Pod. "She took offense. She had every right to."

“I see. This woman was Brienne, I presume.”

“She forced him outside and knocked him out cold,” said Pod, smiling a little to himself at the memory. At the time, it had not been the least bit funny. He had tried to square up against Brienne himself afterwards, and she had only frowned at him and asked if he would not rather have her help carry Jaime Lannister to his bed, which Pod had been forced to admit he would. They had carried him there, and Brienne had scowled at Pod and told him to at least try to keep Jaime Lannister from bothering any more of Bolton’s men. There were others who would not be so forgiving as she had been. “Jaime woke up with a headache in the morning, and thought nothing of it. It didn’t occur to him or me to think of her as a witness to our innocence. But it occurred to her, and when she saw what had been done to Jaime Lannister’s hand, she stepped forward to take his place in championing his cause.”

What had followed had been one of the most brutal fights Pod had ever seen. It had ended with Brienne badly wounded, and with Vargo Hoat’s head twisted nearly all the way around. It had also ended with Roose Bolton quietly furious at the spectacle, and knowing there was no way to suppress the news that one of his men had seen fit to maim Jaime Lannister, and a woman in his employment had defied his will to fight on behalf of the same Jaime Lannister he had put on trial.

“And she won,” Pod continued. “Bolton forgave Jaime his trespasses on behalf of the North, and told him that he could serve as a hedge knight in the Neck if Brienne were convinced of his worth in a year and half’s time.”

Tyrion frowned at this, puzzling out the competing motivations of such a decision. Pod had never bothered to put much thought to it all. As far as he was concerned, the only thing that mattered was that it had changed his life for the better. And Jaime’s life, and Brienne’s as well, he suspected. Brienne had been distanced from her role in Bolton’s service and embraced work as a solver of mysteries, something that brought in enough money for her to live on. Jaime had been a sullen and unwilling guest of hers for several months, and yet they had grown on each other with such strange and unwitting persistence that it wasn’t long until Pod had realized they both liked each other a great deal and were too stubborn to admit so.

He could even remember the day when a dam had seemed to break, and they had become actual friends. Or rather, something had happened in one of Brienne’s mysteries that had led to some revelation or other Pod was not privy to, and since then the animosity between the two had lessened into nearly nothing, leaving what mostly seemed to be genuine affection in its place.

Sometimes, Pod wondered if it were more than this, but again he did not voice these thoughts. It was not his business, and it was probably better if he did not know. What mattered was that he had found himself living a life in which he was happy, something that he had long privately thought was impossible. And he feared Tyrion would find some way of taking this happiness away, even if he did not mean to.

“And they became great friends,” he finished. Tyrion frowned thoughtfully, but did not question this. He was deep in thought. Pod hesitated, and then decided to ask another question. “I am wondering if I can remain as Jaime’s squire?”

If this took Tyrion by surprise, he did not show it. Still, there was a tension in the air that had not been there before. There was no hatred in Tyrion’s eyes when he looked at Pod, but there was a distance now that made Pod feel a cold shiver race up and down his spine. It was impossible not to wonder if he had made a grave error.

“I do not see a problem with it,” Tyrion said at last. “So long my brother’s interests do not conflict with our family’s, your service is as good spent on protecting his life as anywhere else.”

Pod nodded respectfully. However, Tyrion seemed to have moved beyond his use for him for the moment. This was not new. Tyrion often called for people when they were useful and dismissed them when they had expended that use. He did this with his friends, his allies, and his enemies, but it had never before felt to Pod like an insult. The reality was that Tyrion’s strength lay in what he knew and how he could use that knowledge, and it was this and only this which kept him in society’s good graces. But this was the first time it seemed to Pod that Tyrion treated him as disposable as a means of letting the squire know that he was beneath Tyrion. And it did wound Pod’s feelings.

Still, Pod let himself be dismissed, because the other option was to let Arya Stark get herself into who knew what trouble. For now, that was the more pressing concern.

Chapter Text

It was with some trepidation that Brienne thought of her meeting with Varys. She had never met him in person before, perhaps with the exception of her wedding in which she may have greeted him in passing. But it was hard not to hear gossip about the King’s Spider. Brienne liked that others knew more than she did. Her greatest skill was the sorting of relevant facts. She was good at making connections and acting on them and thinking creatively on problems that had been posed to her. Meeting someone who knew more than you, about any topic, was a chance to learn and better yourself. Brienne’s only qualm with meeting Varys is that he might know too much about her.

Brienne was stronger than she had been, but she had never developed a thick skin. She could pretend to be unbothered easily enough, but even after so many years of social injury and mockery, she’d found that words still wounded her deeply. She bore those hurts, because there was nothing else for it. And she had, over time, begun to think less of people who were so eager to taunt her and that gave their words less weight. Some days she could even feel sorry for them, and their narrow little world at court, in which the smallest bit of scandal could occupy weeks of speculation. But then she would remember that for a time she had been part of that world, and had enjoyed some of it. And a little of the bitterness would return.

She’d never wanted to be an ornament of court, but it was hard to swallow that even if she had tried her hardest to be what she should be, she would only ever have been laughed at.

It reassured her when Jaime joined her silently as she waited her turn for the Spider’s ear. Although Jaime seemed to be in a foul mood, he managed a smile in her direction as a nod to her discomfort. Were he in a better frame of mind, he would likely be teasing her for being so nervous. Since he wasn’t, he only looked vaguely sardonic in the direction of the door. Jaime, for all his excellent qualities, could be very smug when he wished. He was especially gifted at arrogance when he knew it would bother someone he did not like.

King Robert Baratheon exited the room a few minutes later, two members of his Kingsguard in tow. Even so, he stopped dead in his tracks when he came face to face with Jaime. Brienne found it impossible to believe there was any way the King was not aware Jaime was at Highgarden. Perhaps it was just the force of Jaime Lannister’s single-minded hatred that stunned him. Brienne felt the impulse to take Jaime’s arm, a silent reminder not to do anything stupid. But she chose not to, worried a second later that that would only make the situation worse.

“Your majesty,” Jaime said, with thinly veiled disdain. Robert looked at him a moment longer, and then simply walked on his way. He did not wear his usual boisterous smile, but the message was clear nonetheless. He considered Jaime no more important than a gnat buzzing at his ears, and would show him the same amount of courtesy. And who was to stop him? Jaime was not even a hedge knight anymore, let alone a member of the Kingsguard.

“Don’t follow him,” Brienne said quietly, her eyes trained on the tension in Jaime’s shoulders as he stared after the King. It was impossible not to read the murderous intent there. She couldn’t blame him for it really. Not when she knew what she knew. “Jaime.”

“I am actually able to control myself, wench,” Jaime finally muttered, turning instead to face the closed door behind which Varys would be waiting for them. Brienne breathed a sigh of relief.

“I have evidence to suggest otherwise,” she said. He glanced at her and almost smiled.

“Perhaps there is more to my character than you think.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Good. Because I am more than acquainted with self-restraint,” he said. He gave her an odd look as he said it, as if he were searching her face for some kind of understanding. She looked back at him, frowning. She opened her mouth, as if to question him, but closed it again when she saw his face fall. It had been a long time since she’d felt such uncertainty about another person. It left her off balance, not knowing what Jaime was thinking.

“We should speak to Varys,” she said at last. Jaime’s expression smoothed back into one of bored arrogance. A role he knew well, she supposed. It was hard not to think then that she had somehow wounded him in a moment of vulnerability, but she didn’t have the slightest idea how.

But instead of pausing to entangle whatever she had done, she knocked on Varys’ door. It opened a moment later, and Brienne saw the eunuch standing over a foot shorter than her. He was bald and plump, and smelled vaguely of lilacs. He giggled a little at the sight of her, though she couldn’t tell if he found her ridiculous or if it was merely a quirk of his. He welcomed in both her and Jaime, and walked with a soft-footed grace that Brienne immediately took note of.

They sat on silk-wrapped chairs, and in front of them was a table laden with tea and pastries. Neither Brienne nor Jaime indulged in food or drink. Not least of all because of the sharp eyed amusement with which Varys seemed to be watching them. He poured himself a cup and began to drink, letting the silence settle between them for the moment. Somehow, he managed to look almost obnoxiously pleasant, as if he were about to engage in a conversation with very old friends.

“You know why we are here,” Brienne said at last, wondering if she had lost some sort of game by speaking first. Varys nodded, giggling a little again.

“Of course he does,” said Jaime, sounding bored. “He knows every person we’ve spoken to in this castle and what questions we’ve asked them. He knows what rooms we are staying in and how long we slept this past night. What we need to know is if he knows who killed Lord Renly Baratheon.”

“I don’t,” said Varys. “No matter how carefully a spider weaves a web, the occasional fly might slip through. And my attentions have been focused in the East and the South as of late.”

“And why would that be?”

“Haven’t you heard the tales?” asked Varys, sounding surprised. “All the smallfolk whisper about these days is the Queen of Dragons.”

Brienne had heard these whispers, sure enough. She hadn’t thought they were true, mind you. It was fantastical enough to believe that the Mad King’s daughter had amassed an army behind her drawn from freed slaves of Essos. But that there were dragons again, when the last hints of magic had ceased to be millennia before Brienne was born? When all that remained were tricksters and illusionists and frauds?

“And you believe those whispers?” she asked. Varys nodded.

“But that isn’t what we’re here to discuss today,” he said. “Renly Baratheon is dead. You want to know who did it and why.”

“And you’ve just said you don’t know and can’t tell us,” said Jaime, sounding annoyed. Brienne kept her focus on Varys, trying to read beyond the unctuous, slippery expression on his soft face to what lay below. She saw little enough, but it did not matter. She knew to keep looking.

“I know that there are only a few reasons that could compel a man to kill someone as well loved as Lord Baratheon,” Varys intoned, seeming to take no offence to Jaime’s impatience. “In fact, I would suggest there might be three. A matter of passion, a matter of power, or a matter of secrets.”

Brienne felt a chill run up her spine at the last one. The way Varys said it, she knew which he believed it to be. But she also knew there were few good answers to what kind of secret could drive someone to kill the King’s brother. And she knew at least one which was worth silencing Renly over. She did not look at Jaime, but she could not help but wonder if the same thought had struck him. One of two secrets he had confessed to her, which she had promised never to tell.

She also knew very, very few others knew that particular secret. She wondered a moment if Varys was among them before banishing the thought. Something told her he did not tell what he knew without good reason, and he had no reason to disturb Robert Baratheon’s lineage. Not while he lived at least.

“Do you know how he might have died,” Brienne said. Varys shrugged, and the motion was startlingly graceful. His hands were quick and clever as he made his second cup tea. A thief’s hands, she thought to herself.

“A good question, and a good exercise in wondering who might have done the deed,” said Varys. Brienne thought she detected a hint of approval in his voice, but it was hard to place. She did not react to it. “And a question you surely know the answer to. There isn’t a scratch on Lord Baratheon’s body. It could only have been poison. Something he drank willingly, offered to him by someone he trusted or did not think to distrust.”

“Hardly sounds like a crime of passion,” said Jaime.

Brienne thought a little on those Cersei had been quick to point out as suspicious characters. Stannis Baratheon would be a difficult man to accuse, partly because he had an ironclad explanation for his whereabouts and the unerring loyalty of his men and would bristle to be called a kinslayer. It was true that he and Renly had never gotten on, and Stannis had always been jealous of the good will Renly engendered. Worse, he had motive. With Renly gone, Stannis stood to be named Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, inheriting Renly’s titles. Robert might snub his brother once again, but Brienne didn’t think it likely. After Lord Eddard Stark’s time as an honorary member of his small council had ended in his friend fleeing North a cripple at the hands of Jaime Lannister (and Tywin Lannister had been offered the position in reluctant apology for his son’s disgraceful dismissal), Robert had made few unusual decisions in who he decided to reward and why. Stannis could finally be given what probably should have been his by right of birth. It occurred to her suddenly that she wouldn’t put it past the dour man to kill his brother, if it suited him. And yet… it would be in a moment of temper. She was certain of that at least. It would be an impulsive decision that he would stand behind only because he had to. Stannis was almost as ill-liked at court as she had been, but that had never been cause for either of them to find much common ground with each other. Stannis thought far too much of himself for that.

And of course there was Ned Stark, and his son, Jon. Brienne found it unlikely the father would risk his fractured friendship with Robert Baratheon by killing his brother, not least of all because Ned Stark did not seem to kill without some noble justification or other to use as his defense. The son, though, she knew very little of. He was lean and dark eyed, and resembled his father. There was something sullen in his demeanor, but she had not discerned any malice in her short interview with him. He had seemed anxious to be somewhere else, but he was a young man in a manor full of other young men and women to spend his time with. Well, he was about her age, Brienne supposed, but she was rarely treated as young.

And then there was Sandor Clegane, who seemed least likely to have killed Renly out of anyone. In fact, his escape had apparently proven to be an unasked for distraction from Renly’s murder. Loras, when she had spoken to him, had said that he left Renly that night to return the Hound to his cell, something that took several hours. When he returned to his bed, Renly was not there, something that was not inherently unusual since Renly had been planning to speak with his brother that night in any case (and something Loras would not voice as a concern to anyone he did not trust immensely). Tired after a night of subduing a dangerous escaped prisoner, he had gone to sleep and did not learn of Renly’s death until the morning.

Margaery told Brienne he’d nearly killed the poor boy who told him, too. But he had stopped himself, his grief turned inwards. There was no one to blame for a man’s heart stopping. But of course, Loras had not believed that for a second. And neither did Brienne.

It frustrated her deeply that none of her leads seemed more promising than any of the others. And all of them seemed deeply unlikely in their own ways. It felt like there was someone, some piece of the puzzle that was missing from her calculations. She had been hoping that Varys would give it to her. The longer he spoke to them, the less likely it seemed he had it. Or if he did, perhaps he was not willing to tell her. His words were as substantial as the wind, but his eyes were solid. They seemed to be challenging her. She was afraid she did not know what it might take to rise to such an occasion.

“Yes, we understand,” Jaime said, interrupting Lord Varys’ recounting of the night in question. His own whereabouts, and that of everyone his little birds had heard tell of. There was an interesting difference of opinion in Renly Baratheon’s whereabouts between some of them, but Brienne of course knew which of the two were right from Loras’ account of the evening. Otherwise, Jaime was correct. He was not telling them anything they did not already know. “Is there anything of worth you can tell us?”

Varys’ eyes twinkled. He did not seem to take the least offense to Jaime’s lack of tact, Brienne noted. It made him a stronger person than she was.

“I can tell you this,” he said at last. “Renly must have known something he shouldn’t. Secrets can be as fickle as fiend fyre to anyone who doesn’t know what to do with them. And Renly was many things, but he was never as discreet as he should have been, nor as concerned with mortality as we all must be.”

Varys looked at Brienne as he said this. She had never let her eyes lift from his face. And for a moment she saw a flicker of concern. Not the concern of a friend or the fear of an enemy. But that moment of sadness one might have at a mummer enacting some tragedy for an audience’s amusement. It was shallow, but it was there. And it was this more than anything that told Brienne both that she was on the cusp of discovery and that she would not like what she discovered. In fact, perhaps it was a discovery that was better not uncovered.

“Well, if that is all,” said Jaime. Varys smiled at him. “I think Lady Brienne and I will be taking our leave.”

“I am sure I will see you at dinner tonight,” said Varys, taking a small sip of his tea before continuing. “Olenna Tyrell decided today to hold a feast this evening, as rehearsal for the wedding. And, I imagine, to amuse her suddenly confined house guests. Joffrey and Margaery are to be wed within the week, and even Lord Baratheon’s death cannot stop the celebrations. I can’t imagine the both of you wouldn’t be invited.”

Brienne wasn’t sure who was less enthused by the idea, herself or Jaime. It was one thing to know you were being laughed at, and quite another to witness it. Neither she nor Jaime had much in the way of honor or status as far the nobility of Westeros was concerned, though Brienne supposed she had the benefit of not having been informally exiled by the King himself as Jaime had been. Nevertheless, Varys was right that it would be both rude and foolish not to make an appearance. Whoever killed Renly was likely still amongst the wedding guests at Highgarden, and it would be best to find them before the wedding and the following dispersal of their suspects. The King’s Justice could do much, but it could not keep the noble houses trapped in Highgarden forever.

Brienne agreed that they would attend dinner and thanked Varys for informing them of it. She and Jaime readied themselves to leave when there was a soft rapping at Varys’ door. The knob turned, and there stood a cat-like man dressed in plum velvet, his eyes shifting between Brienne, Jaime, and Varys with an easy guilelessness that struck Brienne as both practiced and false.

“Lord Baelish,” Varys greeted, rising to his feet.

“The King has reconvened his small council for the afternoon and requests your presence as soon as you are finished with the lovely Lady Brienne,” said the Master of Coin. Brienne had forgotten him in her years away from court, but remembered now that he was in fact Lord Petyr Baelish. Renly had never spoken particularly highly or disparagingly of the man, but he had spoken of him. She greeted him with an awkward curtsy, and he smiled merrily at her. The smile did not reach his eyes, though Brienne supposed his mind was probably elsewhere.

Varys walked Jaime and Brienne to his door, at which they began to part ways. Brienne remembered herself before Varys followed Lord Baelish to wherever Robert Baratheon had chosen to convene the members of his small council.

“Thank you,” she said to Varys. “This has been… enlightening.”

“I should hope so,” he replied. It wasn’t a threat, but Brienne could sense he wished for her to take the danger she was placing herself in to heart. Why he might care she did not know, but take it to heart she did. Varys might not know much yet, but he suspected knowing what had killed Renly was a dangerous road to travel down.

What he did not suspect was that Brienne had never been cowed by danger before, and she certainly wasn’t about to start now.

Chapter Text

Sansa had pulled out her nicest dress for the dinner that evening. It was light green and full skirted, with complicated silver embroidery that she had embellished on over the course of several months. The sleeves were loose, but not puffy and stopped at her elbows, allowing her ease of movement without concern for whether the fabric might catch on some passing object or other. She picked at a loose piece of thread, idly wondering what it might look like if the embroidery had been gold. That would certainly have been a message to her father, if not a particularly subtle one.

The dinner was something of a surprise, though Margaery had made the point that they couldn’t expect their guests to languish in their rooms all evening, now that the grounds had been forbidden to them. Some form of entertainment was needed, if only to keep the peace. Besides, it would be good practice for the kitchens, considering the wedding was the following week. Joffrey intended to have seventy seven courses, and Highgarden had no intention of disappointing. She spoke so easily of her wedding, that Sansa struggled to hold her tongue. She wanted Margaery to confide in her, and admit she was scared. But perhaps the simple truth was that she wasn’t.

Sansa’s father was a good man. Perhaps one of the best. But it was beginning to become clear to her that he was ineffectual in ways he would not admit. If Sansa had been a Tyrell or a Lannister, her embarrassment at having an engagement broken would have been a call for serious tensions between houses, if not outright revenge. Seven hells, if she was a Frey there would at least be a grudge, as little power as that House had over the nobility of Westeros. Instead, he was simply relieved he would not be losing a daughter to court, despite knowing he needed to deal with her marriage prospects at one time or another. Perhaps Margaery was not scared because she had nothing to fear. Her family knew how to take care of her.

“If you keep frowning in the mirror like that, your face’ll get stuck that way,” said Arya, surprising Sansa into turning around. She stared at Arya, a little shocked by the state of her. She was dressed in trousers and a tunic, covered in dirt, and more smug than she had seemed in months. Sansa opened her mouth to question this, and then closed it. She didn’t want to know.

“There’s a feast tonight,” said Sansa. “It would be best if you dressed for the occasion.”

Arya murmured something or other scathing under her breath, which Sansa chose to ignore. Suddenly, she was very sick of the distance between them. She knew Arya hated to dress up, no matter the occasion, but that wasn’t Sansa’s fault. She didn’t know how to make the world a place her sister felt comfortable in. She didn’t understand Arya’s discomfort in the first place. Yet there it always was, chafing against the expectations put before every girl her age, most of whom learned to adapt. What was so wrong with the way Sansa acted, with the way girls were expected to act that Arya responded with such disgust?

Then again, there was that moment in the forest. That moment of weakness in which it became clear to Sansa that her life meant nothing. No one would have defended her. No one would have looked into her death as they now were looking into Renly’s. Or perhaps she meant to say, no one but Arya.

“Arya,” said Sansa suddenly, clearly startling her sister. She had not been expecting any response at all, instead likely thinking Sansa had decided to give her the cold shoulder. There was a guarded curiosity to her then, as if she wondered what Sansa could possibly even have to say to her. “There was an Ayleen Sand a few centuries ago. She was very plain. Her father was a knight killed by a nobleman in a struggle over control of a bridge between the lands of two lords, and when that nobleman a few years later decided to marry, Sand had had more than enough time to plan his demise. She had gone North to the Godswood, and asked the Children of the Forest for a dress that would make her more beautiful than any other woman in Westeros. They granted her wish in exchange for a promise she would deliver the heart of the man she killed. She wore it to the nobleman’s feast, and he decided to wed her that same night. When she removed her dress for the bedding, and her new husband was so shocked at her change in appearance he did nothing to stop her from plunging a knife through his chest and cutting out his heart. She delivered it in a small wooden box to the Godswood, and afterwards even the man’s name was forgotten, forever lost to time. Never was there a revenge so satisfying before or since. And all because she wore a pretty dress to a feast.”

Arya scowled a little, but seemed to take Sansa’s meaning.

“How come I’ve never heard that story before?”

“Because I only just made it up,” said Sansa, hiding a smile behind her hand. Arya was quiet for a moment, and then she laughed, a little delighted.

“Bloodier than the stories you like.”

“I know my audience,” said Sansa, smiling gently back. “I only mean to say, it’s not so hard to endure things you don’t like if you make it a game. You aren’t Arya Stark. You are Ayleen Sand, attending a feast to wreak your bloody revenge. The dress is only a disguise, no more or less than the one you’re wearing now.”

Arya looked down at herself, and something did seem to connect in her mind. The idea of a dress as costume, as a game, perhaps had not occurred to her. Why would it? It was the life she was expected to live. It was who she was supposed to be. Perhaps it had not even occurred to her that Sansa’s own ease with herself had only come with years of practice. It helped that it was a game she liked to play, a fantasy she enjoyed. But of course she had to remind herself to be kind, to be courteous, to be what she ought to be. It did not always come so naturally to her.

Once Arya had done her fill of considering, she only had one question.

“Does that mean you think I’m plain?”

“You’re very pretty, Arya,” Sansa laughed. “Which I am sure you will figure out soon enough. But in the meantime, is it the worst thing in the world to eat and dance and steal a sip or two of wine when our lord father is not watching?”

Arya did not look completely convinced, but she seemed to take Sansa’s story as the peace offering it was. She nodded hesitantly, but seemed unable to let go of the last vestiges of her bitterness.

“You said you wished I weren’t your sister,” Arya blurted out. Sansa looked down at her feet. She had said that, hadn’t she? And meant it, a little.

“Yes, well,” said Sansa. “You aren’t very nice to me much of the time.”

“I saved you,” said Arya, as if trying to impress upon Sansa the gravity of what had happened in the forest with Joffrey. “And you act like nothing happened.”

“I know.”

But there was nowhere to take the conversation from there. There wasn’t enough common ground between them for there to be understanding. Only distant confusion and mutual discontent. It wasn’t as if Sansa didn’t want to bridge that divide, but for the moment there was no place to start. So instead, Sansa combed out Arya’s hair and laid out one of the nicer gray dresses Arya had to wear. Simple enough not to provoke Arya’s ire, but with an expensive sheen that would ward off any gossip that Arya was disrespecting the Tyrells through her choice of attire.

Arya had only just changed when their father came knocking at their door. Sansa could tell the moment he entered that something was on his mind, and it didn’t surprise her when he first looked to Arya with what could only be described as disappointment. One that promised a future conversation Sansa suspected had something to do with what Arya had been doing all day dressed as a boy. Then his attention turned to Sansa, and his expression changed subtly. Sansa struggled to name the emotion, so unfamiliar on her father’s face, but at last she decided on shame. He looked ashamed.

“Sansa, I need to speak with you,” he said. Sansa and Arya exchanged glances, and Arya made herself scarce, saying that she would see that Jon was going to be ready soon for the feast. It was a few moments more after her exit before their father spoke again. “You’re eighteen.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother was about your age when we were married,” said Ned Stark sadly. “You still seem too young to me.”

It was all Sansa could do not to leap to her feet in excitement. Perhaps her father had reconsidered the Tyrells’ offer after all. Certainly it would be prudent to wait until after Margaery and Joffrey’s wedding to announce such a decision, but to know that it was decided would be a heavy weight off of Sansa’s shoulders. Willas may not be a knight or a prince, but he was respected. She would be the Lady of a great house. It may not have been quite the dream she had had of ruling Westeros by her husband’s side, but she would be more than pleased with it. If only her father would agree it was the best course of action.

But there was something in his expression that gave her pause. And what he said next was so shocking, at first all she could do was stare at him.

“I’ve arranged a betrothal for you,” he said. “To Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin. He’s a powerful man, and Robert has told me he will receive higher titles soon, perhaps even Dragonstone in Stannis’ place as Stannis inherits the Stormlands. He is… he is not a terrible match.”

There were few things Sansa knew about Petyr Baelish. She knew that he was neither terribly ugly, nor terribly handsome. She knew he had grown up with her mother. She knew that he had a quick smile that never quite reached his eyes, and he was one of many men at court whose eyes had lingered on her since she was a much younger girl. Most of all, she knew that marrying him was marrying so far below her own status as to make her laughable. If she had fallen in love with him, and bent her father to her will, at the very least the nobility of Westeros might think of the match as foolhardy but understandable. But Lord Eddard Stark himself arranging the betrothal…

“Why?” she asked him. He blinked at her, not expecting to be questioned. “Why would I marry him? The Tyrells-”

“Sansa,” said her father, expecting her to grow quiet. She did for a moment, but found she couldn’t let it go. It didn’t make sense, and all she could feel was a deep well of hurt opening up within her. Her father was so blind to her. He had always loved Jon and Arya better, the children he understood. The ones who were like him. Somehow it had not occurred to him that his eldest daughter was lacking in his attention. Lacking in anyone’s attention, but the knights of her songs and those men with lingering eyes. “It’s for the best.”

“No,” Sansa spoke over him. “No, I won’t marry him. I’m going to marry Willas Tyrell and live in Highgarden. He’s gentle and kind and good, Margaery says so! What could be better for me? You don’t even like Petyr Baelish, why would you have me marry him? It doesn’t make any sense!”

Ned Stark’s face became unreadable, as humorless as a sheet of ice. Sansa wanted to scream at him. To make him understand how very desperately she wanted to be safe. How ill-equipped he was to give her that. He had done nothing to protect her from Joffrey, nothing.

A small voice in her head reminded her that wasn’t entirely his fault. She had done her best to ensure her father never found out about that day in the forest. The hunting accident that wasn’t. Sure, Arya had told him against Sansa’s wishes, but she had long hated Joffrey without real reason. Sansa’s word held more weight, as far as the truth was concerned. If only her word counted in the matter of her own future.

“The Tyrells rescinded their offer,” he told her. She suspected he was telling the truth, but she couldn’t help but wonder if they had done so after Lord Baelish had made his intentions clear, however he had done so. Her hand in marriage wasn’t worth upsetting the Master of Coin, no matter how well Margaery had taken to her. But if her father had only agreed to the match last night, when it had first been offered.

Sansa started to cry, much to her father’s alarm. He was in such a miserable state then that there was no doubt in Sansa’s mind that somehow he had been forced to agree to the match. She said as much out loud, and could only surmise she was right by the way her father paled and refused to meet her eyes any longer. Sansa struggled to stop her tears, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs. She had to stop crying. People would talk if her eyes were red-rimmed at the feast. They would know how upset she was, and it could be used against her. She would need to be neutral towards this match, at least in public, or her father would lose face.

Ned Stark placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, and that did help a little. As angry as she was at her father, it was hard not to be reassured by him. He was a constant, like a tree in the Godswood or the tides of the Narrow Sea. He didn’t do anything he did not think was right. There was a good reason for why she must marry Lord Baelish. She only needed to discover what it could possibly be.

Once Sansa had gathered herself, she returned to the mirror to make sure her face was wiped clean of her tears. Once she was satisfied, she left her father still sitting on Arya’s bed to join her sister and brother where they were speaking about some sword technique or other that Sansa had no interest in. Neither of them noticed her distress, though Sansa supposed that was the point.

“What did father want?” asked Arya, pausing for breath long enough to realize Sansa was with them. Sansa considered keeping her predicament secret, but determined it would be simpler to tell them than not to.

“I’m engaged,” said Sansa, lending the words neither a false excitement nor the true bitterness she felt about the announcement.

“Again?” Arya groaned. “Gods be good, he’ll be marrying me off next.”

“Who is it?” Jon asked, which was more words than he had spoken to Sansa in the last few days. He almost looked concerned, which was nice of him, Sansa supposed. She tried to smile as she answered, afraid to let her siblings know just how upset she was. It wasn’t that she feared they wouldn’t try to help her. She just knew they couldn’t, and it was easier not to see them try, fail, and give up. They had their own lives and concerns that they had done little to include Sansa in. What did they care if she was realizing one of her fondest wishes in the most nightmarish of ways possible?

“Petyr Baelish,” she said. “He’s to come into a lordship soon.”

Both Jon and Arya looked at each other, as if unsure how to react.

“And you like him,” said Jon, slowly, as if hoping she would not contradict him. Sansa nodded, unable to say the lie out loud. She supposed she didn’t dislike him. She didn’t think of him much at all. It was only the unfairness of it all that bothered her so deeply. Perhaps if she looked to like, she would find it wasn’t such a hardship to marry below her station. It could be a new game, finding pieces of her fiance to love. That wasn’t so unbearable a thought.

“Of course she doesn’t like him, don’t be stupid Jon,” Arya said, which only made Sansa want to cry again. Jon frowned at her, quietly angry. Sansa wasn’t sure if he was angry at her or their father and didn’t care to find out. She wanted only to put the entire ordeal from her mind. To pretend that the careful hope she had been building within herself that there was an escape from the specter of death that had been hanging over her had not been doused as easily as a few words from her father.

“Let’s not speak of it,” said Sansa. “It is our Lord father’s right to choose my husband. I have no opinion on the matter.”

“Sansa,” Jon said quietly, his eyes flickering towards Arya and back again. “I can speak to him about this. If you truly do not want to marry-”

“And what will you say?” asked Sansa. She took his hesitation as answer enough. “Even if he could be convinced, how would it reflect on our family to back out of an engagement that has been set?”

“But Joffrey-” started Arya.

“Joffrey is a prince,” said Sansa. “Besides which, if either of the two of you ever paid attention you would know that we are in a fragile position when it comes to the King. What will happen if I convince father to break the engagement, and his enemies accuse him of being too weak to deny the will of his daughters? What will happen to the North if the King lacks confidence in House Stark?”

“What will happen to you if you marry a man you dislike?” asked Jon, as if that was in any way equal. “Someone, from everything I have heard of him, isn’t to be trusted.”

“What do you care about my happiness?” asked Sansa. “You hardly speak to me. And the both of you…”

Sansa found she could not finish her sentence. It was beyond her to accuse them of the annoyance she suspected both of them had towards her. What could they do but deny it? And no denial would be enough. She had seen in their eyes all those years how vapid they thought her. It had taken her nearly being killed by a crossbow for Arya to show anything in the way of sisterly affection for her. And even so, it was all cut by a bitterness so deep, sometimes Sansa felt she was drowning in it.

Neither Jon nor Arya seemed to know what to say. They looked a little shocked, as though they had not suspected that Sansa could feel so deeply. She wondered what they saw when they looked at her. If they thought her as much a twittering songbird much as Margaery did, or Sandor Clegane.

Their father arrived before any of them found the will to break their silence. He and some of their servants escorted them to the feast, and Sansa did her best to tune out a whispered lecture at Arya, who had apparently been caught dueling with a squire in the courtyard sometime that afternoon, dressed in clothes ill-befitting a lady. From the look on Arya’s face, that was not even half the trouble she had gotten into.

The feast seemed to pass in a haze. They had been seated well, not at the King’s table with their father, but near to it. The strange woman responsible for the investigation into Renly’s death sat near to them, as did Jaime Lannister, a decision that was perhaps a jab at their father. Sansa thought it was odd the disgraced Lannister was not sitting with his own family, even despite his promise to join the Night’s Watch. Benjen had joined the Watch, and their father still treated him as a brother, despite Benjen’s vows to renounce his family ties. She knew vaguely that Arya had said something or other about Jaime Lannister’s connection to the strange woman, but Arya had been so excitedly incomprehensible in the telling that the details now escaped Sansa. Regardless, it had made for a strained dinner on the part of their brother, who like Sansa and Arya was not quick to forget that Jaime Lannister had hobbled their father in a duel. Arya, strangely enough, was not even half as hostile as Jon was. Perhaps she was too distracted by the woman, whose name Sansa finally learned was Brienne.

However, Sansa was too dismayed by her own troubles to dwell on their dining companions for very long. She was engaged again. Perhaps she should pretend to be happy. With enough pretending, she might even convince herself. For all she knew, she would be well-suited to be the Master of Coin’s wife. She had a head for figures and patterns, necessary skills for garment-making, quilting, and the complicated embroidery she undertook for her garments. She was polite, good with names and faces, and generally well-liked at court.

Yet underneath her careful imaginings was fear. She had Margaery’s confirmation that Willas would be kind to her. No one had given her any such confidence with regards to Lord Baelish.

Jon seemed to notice after a while just how little Sansa was speaking, which was unusual for her at a feast. She liked to talk, and would normally have found some excuse to strike up a conversation. What little she had said had been carefully constructed compliments or polite answers to anything inquired of her. Arya might have noticed as well, but she very much was completely occupied with Brienne Tarth and what kind of sword she used and whether she would take on a girl as a squire. Jon had spent most of the meal (when not occupied with his animosity towards Jaime Lannister) amused by Arya’s excitement, and teased her for losing a swordfight with Brienne’s current squire earlier that day. Arya had sullenly informed him that she barely lost, and only because of a trick Brienne had taught him.

However, now that Jon had noticed her continuing unhappiness, it seemed that he felt honorbound to say something about it. No matter how much Sansa wished he wouldn’t.

“Sansa, you’ve hardly spoken all night,” he said. When she remained at a loss of words, he nodded to himself, deciding something. “I will speak to our father.”

“You can if you wish,” said Sansa. Jon continued to watch her, frowning at her response. “Is there something else?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. This caught Sansa’s attention more than his promises. Promises were easily broken, she had learned that quickly enough. And even if he did speak to their father, there was nothing to suggest Ned Stark would change his mind once it had been made up. “It never occurred to me that I have been less of a brother to you than I should have been.”

Half-brother, Sansa thought, though she knew it was uncharitable. Jon seemed to read this in her face, and where before he had seemed genuinely apologetic, now he was overcome with a familiar malaise. It was exhausting to witness.

“Who do you think you will dance with tonight?” Sansa asked him. She hoped he would understand it in the spirit she meant it. A chance to have a conversation that wasn’t weighted down with despair, for either of them. It took Jon a moment to understand the change in topic, but he did. He even almost smiled, which was rare for him.

“I wasn’t planning on dancing.”

“Myrcella will be disappointed,” said Sansa. “It might be a kindness to dance with her. And Shireen, as well. No one ever dances with Shireen.”

Jon did smile this time.

“I will consider it,” he said. “And who will you be dancing with?”

For a strange moment, the only person Sansa could think of that she would like to dance with was Margaery Tyrell. What a stupid thought, and yet it seemed so natural an answer for a moment she almost said so out loud. But then she remembered that any friendship she had been building with Margaery’s family was likely over now and besides it would look silly to partner with a girl. So she bit her tongue, thinking about her answer a little longer. There were any number of young knights who were handsome enough, and she decided on a few who she would be pleased to dance with. Jon teased her a little for a weakness for pretty faces, and Sansa found herself able to tease him in return for having impossible standards. It was the longest conversation they had had in years.

It was almost enough to forget what her father had told her before the feast. Of course, she should have expected that Lord Baelish would ask her for the first dance of the night. Even if it wasn’t common knowledge yet, they were engaged. Still, it felt like someone else took his hand and danced with him. He seemed cheered by her willingness, unable to tell just how far from herself she was as she let her feet step in time to the music.

“This is a rather morbid affair,” he commented when the first dance ended. Sansa was resting and watching the next set of dancers, and he had chosen to remain by her side. His hand rested gently on the small of her back. No one could accuse him of impropriety, and yet Sansa wished with all her might that she could devise some courteous way or other to implore him to remove it. Instead, she kept her eyes on the dancers.

Jon had taken her advice and was dancing with Shireen, who looked thrilled. Arya had been convinced somehow by a squire (likely the one she had been dueling with earlier that day) to dance as well, and was graceful enough despite her lack of practice. The same could not be said for her partner, though Arya seemed to take this in stride. It should have been a happy moment for Sansa, the sight of her siblings entertained and unburdened for once. But there still, was the hand at the small of her back.

“Renly would have liked the party,” she said, which seemed true. Lord Baelish chuckled in agreement, his face lighting up in a smile. She wasn’t sure exactly why what she said was funny. It was only what she thought.

“It occurs to me,” said Lord Baelish. “That after your first match ended so poorly you might need some reassurance that I will not behave in a similar manner.”

“I don’t think you will,” said Sansa. She tried to think of something else to say to him, and came up with very little. So instead, she was truthful again. “Though I know very little of you.”

“Perhaps we should change that,” he said.

She didn’t know why she went with him, then. In a way, she didn’t feel as if she had a choice. For the moment, she had Lord Baelish’s good will, and it made little sense to lose that so quickly. Perhaps there was also part of her that wanted to be reassured. And of course there was the part of herself that had not left that forest, not for a moment, and was still searching desperately for safety.

In any case, she followed Lord Baelish into the relative quiet of the hall. There were not as many people there, though Sansa spotted Loras among the few who were. She blushed a little when she saw him, as weak for a pretty face as Jon had accused her of being, she supposed. As a member of the Kingsguard, Loras would never marry, which was a pity. Although, Loras did not look half so pleasant as he usually did, scowling at anyone who looked too long in his direction and obviously irked by the music emanating from the great hall. He caught Sansa’s eyes for a moment, as annoyed with her as he seemed with the rest of the world.

For a moment, she tried through sheer will to hold his eyes to hers. There was no particular reason, or so she told herself. She just wanted him to look at her. To ask where she was going, and if she and Lord Baelish wanted his company. Or even to implore her to spare a dance for him, and give her an excuse to return to the great hall. All strange notions that made little sense, because she had followed Lord Baelish from the great hall of her own free will. It didn’t matter anyhow. Loras was oblivious of her silent pleading, and spared no more thought for her.

Lord Baelish led her along a little further, still within sight of a few of Tyrells’ guests also getting their bearings away from the great hall. It was a careful compromise between privacy and impropriety, allowing enough deniability for Baelish’s actions to be beyond reproach. He wished to speak more with his young fiance, and it was difficult to be heard in the great hall over the music. Then again, should he choose to cross a boundary, there was little chance anyone would even see.

It was a precarious position to be in, and Sansa felt her heart beat faster, unbearably afraid. And yet, distantly she realized this was an opportunity to find some answers. To understand exactly why she was being asked to marry someone who shouldn’t have been so bold as to ask for her hand.

“Why me?” she asked before Lord Baelish could say anything to her. He frowned at her, seemingly puzzled by the question. Sansa hesitated before continuing. “I know my father did not choose you for me. You must have pursued me. Why?”

Lord Baelish considered this a moment, and it was a relief to see he was not offended by the question. Sansa didn’t doubt he understood what she wasn’t saying. He shouldn’t have asked for her hand. It shouldn’t have been a glimmer of a passing thought in his mind. And yet, he was engaged to her now. He meant to make something more of himself than he was, that was obvious. But if he had the leverage to climb, he might have aimed not quite so high and been more assured of his success.

“Why do you call me Lord Baelish and not Littlefinger?” he asked. This was a nickname, one meant to remind the Master of Coin of his humble beginnings on a small, rocky island of the same name. One many used for him, even to his face, at court. “I am not yet a Lord. The title is a courtesy for my place on the small council.”

“Yes, but… it would be rude,” said Sansa. Lord Baelish smiled.

“You are an accomplished and kind young woman, grown into her beauty. It would be a rare man who wouldn’t pursue you, given the opportunity,” he said. “I had the opportunity.”

This made sense enough, and yet Sansa could not shake the feeling that he was lying to her. Or at the very least keeping the entirety of the truth to himself. She frowned down at her feet, trying to find the answers she needed there instead.

“My father hates you,” she said, though whatever reasons he had for it had been lost to her in the years they had spent away from court. But she was certain this was true. So it stood to reason, he would not tie the fortunes of his eldest daughter to someone he hated unless there was no other option.

“So why would he agree to our marriage?” Lord Baelish finished for her. “Unless he had no other option. Tell me, Sansa, why do you think he agreed to the match?”

Perhaps she had been waiting for someone else to put the question to her. Because as much as she had wondered the same thing in the intervening hours since her father’s announcement, Lord Baelish didn’t need to say another word more before the answer struck her, as clear as a bell.

“Jon,” she said, quietly. “It must have something to do with Jon.”

When Ned Stark did something inexplicable, it always had to do with Jon. He was a man so honorbound he was regularly mocked for it, and yet he also had betrayed her mother and taken a bastard into his own home and raised Jon among his natural born children. Outside of Dorne, that wasn’t something that was… done. Bastards were often acknowledged by their fathers, and occasionally naturalized when no other heir was suitable, as Jon had been. But his childhood was highly unusual. And Sansa had heard her mother cry at night more than once because her father refused to tell his wife who Jon’s mother had been. He refused to tell anyone. Even Jon himself.

“You’d be surprised what a rarity it is to find a wife in possession of beauty and wits,” said Lord Baelish, all but confirming Sansa’s suspicions. She recoiled a little at the compliment, and wondered if it was false flattery to win her affections. No one she loved and trusted had ever ventured to tell her that she had much in the way of wits. However, Lord Baelish realized the source of her unease with a startling alacrity. “Though I doubt you have had much encouragement to flex the latter. Now tell me, Lady Sansa, what is it you desire in a husband?”

A million romantic notions from Sansa’s beloved songs flooded her mind. Petyr Baelish fit none of them.

“I do not know, Lord Baelish,” she said, instead of the truth.

“Well, then,” he mused. “I will tell you what I can offer you, and you can think on it. Soon I will be able to offer Dragonstone, though I’m sure your father has told you that already. That isn’t much, but it would be a manor for you to manage. I can offer you wealth and friends in strange places, friends you would not otherwise make as a Lady of your status. I can offer to instruct you in the ways of the court and see that you become my equal, a player in your own right.”

“A player?”

“Do you think, Lady Sansa, that Joffrey Baratheon will make a good king?” Lord Baelish asked idly, as if changing the topic of conversation entirely. Sansa felt herself pale, but did not answer. Then again, perhaps her silence was answer enough. “Or perhaps a great one.”

“The second,” she said stiffly.

“Yes, I think so too,” he said. He lifted a piece of her hair and tucked it behind her ear, a gesture of comfort. One Sansa remembered her mother used to do for her, when Sansa was young. Strangely, it was comforting. But it was also unsettling in equal measure. “I can promise you one other thing. Every protection at my disposal. I don’t stand to see the ones I love hurt. Not for the sake of honor or propriety. Not for anything.”

He had so easily found what Sansa wanted to hear most. But because she wanted to hear it so badly, she knew she couldn’t trust it. There was no question Lord Baelish was a gifted liar, but deciding what exactly he was lying about was an exercise she was ill-prepared to do. The conversation had left her with only one certainty, and it was what Lord Baelish wanted.

He wanted power, and he wanted her. These two things were related, but not entirely. There was a naked hunger in his eyes when he looked at her, one that revealed more than any words he had spoken to her. Whatever his reasons, he did not simply want a marriage with an advantageous match. He wanted a marriage with her.

“You are more beautiful than the Maiden herself, did you know that?” Lord Baelish said. And then he kissed her. It was so sudden, Sansa was still wide-eyed with shock a few seconds later when Lord Baelish pulled back. Someone nearby had cleared their throat. Sansa didn’t turn to see who it was, still frozen. Like a frightened doe.

She wanted to scratch off the skin where Lord Baelish had touched her. Surely that wasn’t normal. How long had she spent dreaming of her first kiss? And now he had taken it. Then again, of course he had. What did it matter if he kissed her now, or waited until their wedding day?

“Lannister,” Lord Baelish acknowledged, clearly very annoyed. This seemed to break the trance Sansa was in, and she turned. She was a little surprised to see it was Jaime standing there, though she couldn’t imagine why she thought Tyrion would come to her rescue. None of the Lannisters were exactly exceedingly decent, but Tyrion at least tried where he was able, she supposed.

“Your short sister is looking for you,” said Jaime to Sansa, though his eyes remained trained on Petyr Baelish. “She promised Pod a dance with you. I would hurry back to the great hall, or she might find you more dance partners of a less reputable caliber.”

Sansa nodded, looked toward Lord Baelish hesitantly, and took her leave. Although she started towards the great hall, once she had turned the corner and was out of sight of the two men, she found she had no desire to dance with anyone at all. Instead, she gathered her skirts and ran as fast as she could manage.

She was certain someone would have noticed this, so she took corner after corner, losing herself in the Tyrell’s manor until she was sure she hadn’t been followed. She slowed to a walk then, coming across a set of stairs that led downward about the time tears had started rolling down her cheeks. It wasn’t the same set of stairs Margaery had shown her leading to the dungeons, and so Sansa supposed it must lead to a wine cellar or some storeroom or other. In any case, it was a place to hide where she wasn’t likely to be discovered.

She made it to the bottom of the steps before she started sobbing. At last she staggered against a wall and sank down, all of the pain and fear she had been feeling for weeks now suddenly becoming too much all at once. She pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress the sound of her crying, but it was minutes before her shoulders stopped shaking uncontrollably. She felt nauseous, and did everything she could to resist the urge to vomit.

“What’s the matter, little bird?” came a rough voice through the dark. Sansa went completely still. When she looked up and squinted, it was to see she had in fact taken the stairs down to the dungeons. It was only that they were stairs on the opposite side to the ones Margaery had shown her. And there, alone in a room full of cells, was the Hound.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she said instantly. “That I… no one can know.”

“Who do you suppose I would tell? The guard who shoves slop through the bars in the morning, or the one who comes to collect my bucket of piss in the evening?” asked the Hound. “I’m a dead man, I’ve told you that already.”

“I suppose you have,” she allowed. For the moment her tears were spent, but she felt so drained the prospect of standing, climbing the stairs, and returning to her family’s rooms in the manor were almost unthinkable. So she sat, and contemplated the Hound in silence for a long time. He stared back at her, though perhaps only because there was nothing else to look at in the cell he had been confined to since he had killed his brother.

It took a long time before Sansa noticed the food she had delivered to him (had it only been that morning?) was no longer at the edge of the cell. It was next to him, and although it was mostly uneaten, there was a roll and a bit of cheese missing. Unbidden, a smile crossed her face.

“You ate,” she said in quiet surprise. “Perhaps you’re not a dead man after all.”

“Don’t look so pleased, little bird. Your world would be a better place with less men like me in it,” he said. “Was it Joffrey who made you cry? He spoke about it often enough, the little bastard. And I wouldn’t have lifted a hand to defend you from him, were I still his dog. Pray for me to find the strength to die. It’s a better use of your time.”

“I’m getting married,” Sansa said. “My father found a second match for me.”

“What do you want? A toast?”

“To Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin.”

Something flickered across the Hound’s face at that. He whistled, long and low.

“I would cry, too,” he muttered. Sansa heard herself laugh, though she sounded a little hysterical to her own ears.

“Is it alright,” she started. Then she paused, gathering up her courage. “Could I just sit here, for a while?”

“I don’t have the means to stop you, my lady,” said the Hound, a little sarcastic. Which Sansa supposed was true, him being locked in a cell and all. Still, he seemed otherwise unbothered.

“Just for a while,” she repeated. She closed her eyes, then whatever energy remained to her quickly leaving. It was no time at all before she felt herself drifting, caught between waking and dreaming. She turned her head against the cold stone wall, and it cooled her face, which was swollen from crying.

But before she fell asleep entirely, there was the barest sounds of a low voice, nearly whispering the words of an old song. The Mother’s Hymn.

He did not have a good voice. Nor did he sing the melody entirely correct, as if he were trying to remember how it went. Still, it was a moment of unfettered empathy. And so Sansa fell asleep, and for the first time since Joffrey had tried to kill her, she had no dreams of what would have happened had Arya not been there to save her. Instead, she dreamed of a quiet voice in the dark, low but steady. For a few hours at least, it felt like she could breathe again.

Chapter Text

Sansa was barely out of sight before Jaime turned once more to look at Littlefinger. It had been years since Jaime had last seen him, but he was as much the conniving little weasel he had been when Jaime had been forced into exile. He was dressed in velvet, with a mockingbird pin secured to his tunic, and a mocking grin fixed on his face. His eyes were coldly annoyed, flickering between Jaime’s face and to the hallway where Sansa had disappeared.

“I think you scared my fiance,” he said, his tone light. Jaime snorted.

“I’m sure you would have done a fine job of that yourself, had I let you go on,” he said. “Or do I misremember your boyhood days of bragging that you claimed the maidenheads of both Tully girls? There was many a rumor about that when you were in control of customs at Gulltown, or at least I heard so in King’s Landing. Odd, that Jon Arryn would have recommended you for that position. Then again, I suppose when he has his young wife Lysa to keep pleased… And oh, wasn’t Lysa one of the Tully girls?”

Where before he had been simply annoyed, Littlefinger’s expression had changed to downright murderous. Jaime prayed to the Warrior that the fool would hit him. He might be missing his right hand, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take the Master of Coin in a fight, and quite easily. Still, it was too much to hope for. Littlefinger had never been one to resolve his disputes physically. Well, except the one time. And that had ended rather poorly for him.

“I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“And of course, it’s common knowledge that Brandon Stark nearly killed you in a duel for the late Catelyn’s hand. She was one of the Tully girls as well, wasn’t she?” Jaime said, ignoring the warning note in Littlefinger’s voice. “What a victory it must feel like to you, to marry her daughter instead.”

Littlefinger smirked at him, anger causing a slight tremor in the upturn of his smug smile.

“Were you hoping your father might make a match of her for you?” he asked. It was a question so unexpected, Jaime found himself lost for words for a moment. Then he remembered his brother’s suggestion of Sansa as a bride, and supposed he could see the sense in it. If he were trying to reclaim his place in his family and his right as the Lannister heir, perhaps his father might have convinced him to do such a thing. As it was, the thought only made him feel vaguely ill.

“Hardly,” he said. “It’s only that I’m not particularly fond of watching broken men try to fill the hole grief or resentment has created within them with the bodies and spirits of unwilling women.”

“Speaking of filling holes,” said Littlefinger, his eyes glinting. “I really should be going. I was meant to speak to the Queen sometime tonight before-”

Petyr Baelish should consider himself lucky Jaime had the presence of mind to hit him with his flesh and blood hand, and not the bronze one he was wearing for the feast. Jaime tended to go without a prosthetic, at first because the weight of a hook Brienne had procured for him had been a reminder of what was missing, which had been enough to send him into moods so foul, he knew Pod had feared he would genuinely take his own life. After a while it was simply a matter of convenience. Eventually he had taken to wearing the steel hook when Brienne was actively getting herself into some trouble or other with her cases. The bronze hand had been a gift from one of Brienne’s benefactors to him, some Northern lord or other. Jaime had never been one to remember names, though he had the distinct memory it had been one of the crannogmen.

Regardless, Jaime’s clenched fist did enough damage to Littlefinger’s face that he would likely be sporting a black eye for the next week. Of course that was not half so satisfying as the look of complete surprise on his face, and the flicker of genuine fear in his eyes. Jaime did not consider Littlefinger a coward. In fact, the Master of Coin’s meteoric rise to power suggested he was a man who was rarely afraid to take risks. But perhaps he had grown too used to court and the niceties of behavior there, or had too long considered Jaime Lannister outside of his interests, or it might have occurred to him that Jaime would hit him after a comment like that.

Seven hells, it was a miracle if Jaime didn’t manage to do worse before someone stopped him. However, before he could even reel his arm back again for the next hit, a man grabbed his shoulders from behind and hauled him back. It took little effort to break free of the man, who as it turned out was Loras Tyrell. Although Loras was strong, he had a wiry frame with no real bulk to him. Jaime didn’t need two hands to be nearly twice his size.

“Jaime Lannister, you are a guest at Highgarden, and if you do not respect our other guests we will free you of the burden of our hospitality,” Loras said loudly and clearly. It was obvious he was trying to draw attention, gather a crowd. It was a good tactic. The more people watching, the less likely it was that Jaime could continue beating Littlefinger within an inch of his life without someone or other interrupting. In any case, the urge to hit the two-faced, scheming man had fled him. He didn’t really care all that much for the fate of Sansa Stark, the daughter of his enemy. Nor was he inclined to defend his sister’s modesty, as his brother had long since informed him that she had none. If anything she seemed to consider what was between her legs an asset in controlling the people around her, though Jaime supposed he could not fault her for that. Whatever love he held for his sister may have fled him, but he still pitied her and the life she had been forced to live.

How pretty and young she had been once, a little like Sansa. Nowhere near as gentle, of course, but there was between them enough similarity that the sight of Sansa’s pale frightened face had angered something deep within Jaime. Yes, the honorable Lord Eddard Stark loved his children probably, which Tywin Lannister had never really quite managed. But what good was love when he sold his daughter as easily as Jaime’s own lord father had, and to a man he must know could only hurt her? A man he likely hated even. Whatever could bring him to trust Littlefinger, whatever the man had promised him, enough for Stark to agree to a marriage between the Master of Coin and his eldest daughter?

It was only moments before a crowd did form around them, and Littlefinger pushed himself to his feet. He glared at Jaime, making no secret of his loathing, but excused himself without commenting on the situation any further. Jaime was not really a threat to Petyr Baelish after all. Sure there would be some consequence or other. Probably a particularly nasty one, Jaime thought to himself after a moment. But Littlefinger had the power and he knew it. The strategic move was to walk away, as if he was unbothered by Jaime’s behavior.

Better to protect one’s standing than to avenge one’s anger prematurely, Jaime supposed. It was a way of gaining power he had never particularly excelled at.

“What were you thinking?” Loras demanded of him. Jaime had, of course, been thinking any number of things. Explaining them to Loras Tyrell was not high on his list of things to do that evening. So he walked past the young knight without explaining himself and instead returned to his room. In the morning he would claim it was a drunken mistake, and apologize to Littlefinger, loathe as he was to do so. Baelish would pretend to accept, and likely set something into motion to make Jaime miserable. And that would be that. Littlefinger had bigger game to hunt than him, he was sure.

It was not half an hour before a hurried knocking sounded at his door. Jaime knew who it was, and because he knew it took him a long moment to muster the energy to answer it. Still, there was no use in avoiding the consequences of his actions, so he rose from his chair and opened the door.

On the other side stood Brienne, still dressed in her finest tunic and breeches for the feast. Although she had been on the receiving end of no shortage of curious glances for her refusal to wear a gown (a refusal Jaime thought was reasonable, even if no one else did), the dark blue and silver accents of her clothing suited her and the tunic was tailored to fit her figure. It was easier to focus on this fact than the quietly furious set of her expression. Or the disappointment in her eyes.

“What were you thinking?” she asked, the same as Loras. Of course, the question was a much different thing, coming from Brienne. It was one he should probably answer, if only to keep in her good graces. Besides, there was nothing she did not know of him left anymore. Nothing she did not accept about him. He had confided in her all that he was, on those long nights in which they found themselves in each other’s company and waiting for some danger or other to make itself apparent in Brienne’s work. Jaime had more secrets from the Seven than he did from Brienne Tarth. And moreover, he wanted her to understand him in all things. Though perhaps, more succinctly, he just wanted her.

“I was thinking that Sansa Stark looked rather in need of someone who gave a flying fuck about what she wanted and didn’t want,” said Jaime. Brienne’s expression shifted, and he took reassurance from the lack of malice there. “I was thinking that Littlefinger deserved a reminder that power doesn’t protect you in all things. That he can’t take whatever and whoever he likes.”

There was a sad understanding in the way Brienne looked at him now. Jaime had always thought she wasn’t clever so much as she was patient. She took a great deal of time and pain to understand things. Battle strategies, swordplay, people. She could think on her feet if need be, but had a painful habit of missing the obvious at times and a determination to believe the best in certain institutions and people that belied practicality. What this meant, essentially, was that it was not pity that she felt for him. It was something much harder to dismiss, something that ripped open again the rage he had felt and yet also quietened it.

“You punched Petyr Baelish on behalf of Sansa Stark?” she said, as if it were a question. He laughed. If it were anyone else, he would know the question would be a slight against whatever honor remained to his name. From her it was a gentle prodding, a request for his honesty.

“Well, I can’t bloody well hit the King, now can I?” he asked her. And there it was. Brienne seemed to sense how seriously he meant this, and sighed with a sympathetic kind of resignation.

“No,” she said. “You can’t.”

“It’s not that… I’ve told you before, Cersei and I used to change places when we were children,” he said, not looking at Brienne any longer. “I think sometimes about that. Myself in her place. How very bitter I would be.”

“I know,” said Brienne quietly. “But what you did tonight hurts our chances of finding the person responsible for Renly’s death. It presents us as enemies of the Master of Coin. It could unravel what threads I have been able to find so far in my inquiries. It was stupid and reckless to do.”

“Yes,” Jaime agreed, because all of that was true. He knew his every action was a reflection upon Brienne, because of Roose Bolton’s bloody fucking deal. His chance at an inconsequential knighthood, a quiet life of service, depended on Brienne’s good opinion. Conversely, that meant every action he took that made him undeserving of a second chance cast doubt upon her. And yet, Jaime could not find it in himself to regret hitting the smug look off Littlefinger’s face. “I’m still not sorry I did it.”

Brienne looked at him and then looked away.

“I can’t condemn your motives,” she said at last. “I just hope you understand how little actual protection I can offer you. I know you joke that you are my ward, but I am responsible for you Jaime. For your actions and for your safety. If Petyr Baelish lifts a finger against you-”

“It would only be a little one,” Jaime said. Brienne did not laugh.

“Jaime.”

“I don’t need or want your protection, wench,” said Jaime. Brienne glared at him, finally angry. Perhaps Jaime had wanted her to be. It was easier to fight with Brienne sometimes, than to let her be truly kind to him. They could trade barbs as easily as breathing, and stand side by side as comrades in arms almost without thought. But being vulnerable to her was something different. It almost made him afraid, the power she had over him. How very easy it was to confide in her. Except, of course, Brienne would never think of it as power. She wasn’t Cersei. It made no sense to be afraid of Brienne.

And yet.

Brienne seemed to be collecting her thoughts, ready to launch an offensive. It made arguments with her rather one sided, because she wouldn’t respond to him until she had thought of something devastating enough to finish the argument or deal a serious blow to his ego. However, before they could properly go at it, Jaime spotted over Brienne’s shoulder a shadow in the doorway. His eyes fixed there in mild confusion, giving Brienne only just enough warning to launch herself forward when the sound of a sword being drawn filled the suddenly silent room. The blade swung down in the empty space where Brienne had been only moments before.

Jaime snatched up his firearm and let off a shot that went a little wide of its intended target, simultaneously tossing his sword to Brienne. She caught it midair and turned to face their attacker, holding her steel out ahead of her. Every muscle was taut, ready to respond at the slightest provocation. The man at the doorway (Jaime could make out more of his outline now, if not his features) took one look at her and turned to run.

Brienne and Jaime were quick on their feet to chase him out into the hallway. Despite the lead he had on them, he was, unfortunately for himself, grievously delayed when a small, recalcitrant shadow stepped out from behind a pillar to trip him. The assailant shoved the troublesome child out of his way, but it was enough to slow him down and put him off balance, and the child was about their feet quick enough that Jaime was assured whoever it was had come to no real harm. It was only upon closer inspection that he realized the interfering whelp was none other than Arya Stark, whose eyes were fixed upon Brienne.

Brienne took advantage of the man’s stumbling lack of balance to tackle him to the ground. He attempted to dislodge Brienne with a dirty trick that would have been more at home in the fighting rings at Flea Bottom than it was at Highgarden, and Jaime hurried to kick the would be assassin back down before he could shake Brienne’s hold on him. She had the man firmly pinned only moments later, her knee pressing painfully down into her opponent’s spine. To Jaime’s surprise, he heard the man let out a hearty laugh.

“I yield,” he said, as clearly as he could manage. Jaime got a little closer and saw now what he had missed before. “Get off me, woman, unless you plan on making my night more interesting.”

It was Bronn, Jaime realized. One of his brother’s favorite people. Tyrion had slept with someone he shouldn’t have in the Reach at some point or other, and nearly been thrown off the mountain by Lysa Arryn in the fits of her fury. Bronn was the only reason he was still alive, and Tyrion had kept the sellsword close ever since. This would be his doing, though what he hoped to accomplish Jaime didn’t have the slightest idea.

Brienne pushed herself to her feet, and Jaime was quick to point his firearm at the mercenary’s head. However honorable Brienne thought the world to be, Jaime knew the truth. There was no trusting sellswords as far as you could throw them (and less so if you were as strong as Brienne happened to be), and Bronn had taken a fairly obvious attempt at Brienne’s life. Jaime supposed it was his room the sellsword had been sent to, and yet he’d shown no real interest in him. Jaime could not help but feel it was Brienne he had been sent after. Nor could he shake the feeling of certainty at exactly who had sent him.

Brienne and Jaime exchanged a quick glance, wordlessly questioning the other about exactly what they were going to do with Bronn. The slight squint of Brienne’s eyes told Jaime she thought they should question him, while he was sure his quiet anger told her all she needed to know about exactly what he thought they should do with Bronn. Then again, as Jaime had already been caught fighting that evening, perhaps it was best if for the moment he did not get his way.

“Who sent you?” she asked. Bronn looked between her and Jaime, then raised his eyebrows.

“Aren’t the two of you supposed to be clever?” he said. “Who do you think?”

“Well, there is of course the possibility that my brother sent you,” said Jaime. “I tend to assume my brother isn’t a raving idiot, but things change. Unless someone else hired you with the intention to frame him.”

“Or he wanted you to know it was him,” said Bronn. “I could take you to him if you like. Then the two of you can have it out like men, instead of sending me to do the dirty work. Not that I never maimed a woman before, but-”

“Maimed?”

“Tyrion was very specific,” muttered Bronn. “Injured not killed. Just my luck, the great bloody bitch is better with a sword that most men have a right to be. I’m lucky to still be alive.”

“Yes, well, your luck is due to run out any second-”

“We should speak to your brother,” Brienne said. It is a moment before Jaime truly understood what she was saying, and he shook his head, vehemently opposed to the idea. He did not like the idea of Brienne anywhere near Tyrion when she did not have to be. For one thing, clearly his brother wished her some kind of harm. For another, if anyone could convince Brienne to see Jaime’s transgressions as unforgivable and turn Brienne against him again, it was Tyrion. Whatever of Tywin Lannister’s ferocious wit there was to be had among the three of them, it seems Tyrion received the lion’s share. Jaime had only ever been worth something with a sword in his hand.

Brienne seemed to see value in him beyond that. He did not want anyone to take that away from him.

“We should let him reflect on his failure to intimidate us,” Jaime responded at last. Which was, of course an idiotic idea, not that he would admit so out loud. Giving Tyrion more time to think and plot was a singularly stupid notion, and if Brienne liked him a little less she’d say so outright. As it was, she was barely holding back a grimace.

“I don’t think it’s wise to-”

But before they could come to one decision or another, Arya Stark made her presence known again with a rather loud and annoying false cough. Brienne turned to face the young girl, clearly having forgotten she was there. Considering Jaime had all but forgotten her presence, this made perfect sense to him. Still, what was the Stark girl doing there? Pod had already relayed all the work she had done that day to them, and he doubted she’d learned anything sensitive enough to keep to herself. Or that she would have had the presence of mind to do so had she stumbled upon some sensitive piece of information.

“Arya, shouldn’t you be in bed?” Brienne asked, shifting her attention for only a moment to knock Bronn’s legs out from under him again when he tried to use Arya’s distraction as an opportunity to make a hasty escape. He grunted as he hit the ground, and Jaime could not help but smile at him, a little smug. He got nothing more than a glare in return, but Bronn did begrudge Brienne a glance of surprised respect. Nothing less than she was owed, Jaime thought to himself.

“We can’t find Sansa,” said Arya without preamble. “She’s not in our rooms, and I’ve looked over practically the whole castle and I still haven’t found her. I thought-”

Sensing his chance to prevent Brienne from seeing Tyrion herself, Jaime stepped into the conversation as gracefully as he could. Lucky for him, he was quicker than Brienne had been in looking for a way to gently refuse Arya.

“Well, then,” he said. “You go and look for the little wretch’s sister, and I’ll pay a visit to my troublesome brother and we’ll call it a night.”

Brienne narrowed her eyes at him.

“What if he tries to hurt you?”

Jaime laughed. Now that was ridiculous. Oh, Tyrion would not hesitate to hurt his social standing or his friends, but he would never actually injure Jaime. No matter the bad blood between them, Jaime was still the brother who had loved him more than anyone else in the world. Well, except one person, perhaps. But even as Tyrion hated him, Jaime knew that his brother could never hate him enough to really hurt him. Their father maybe. Cersei, certainly. But no, Tyrion would not raise a hand against Jaime. Couldn’t, even.

“I’ll be fine, wench,” he said. “Go, see to the Stark girl. I can tell you want to.”

This also had the benefit of being true, and the both of them knew it. Brienne searched his face for a moment before nodding tightly. It was still a strange thing, to be trusted so easily. Even the closest of his friends had distanced themselves from him after he had killed Aerys, and the intervening years had only seen an increase in public and private disdain for the Kingslayer. Let alone after his exile, when a rotten underling of Roose Bolton’s had taken his sword hand, and not only had Lord Bolton not suffered for it, he had seen fit to further punish him by shackling him to a woman, a sentence meant to humiliate him further. Jaime had no methods left to him to control or command, but Brienne did not need to be commanded. She simply listened to him (or well, sometimes she didn’t, but it was not for lack of respect so much as abundance of her own will and stubbornness). Jaime found he could not help but smile as he watched her go, Arya tugging her wrist insistently as she babbled through a semi-coherent explanation of Sansa’s sudden disappearance.

Jaime idly hoped the older Stark girl had run away. It would serve her father right. He spared a prayer to the Maiden, briefly, for her, that she might find her escape from Lord Baelish. If it were to cause a scandal to the great Lord Eddard Stark, all the better. But it was sincere enough a prayer he hoped it would be listened to. Then again, hopefully Sansa had the sense to pray for herself. The blessed life she seemed to have lived, the Seven might even listen. Jaime loosened himself from his thoughts then, and found he was still staring at where Brienne had been only moments before, a slight smile still gracing his face.

“I hope by the Seven that you’ve fucked her,” said Bronn from beside him. Jaime recoiled, and Bronn let out a hearty laugh at his expense. “What? As if it never crossed your mind-”

“Say something of that sort while she’s in earshot next time. I’d like to see what happens,” says Jaime. It was good to see Bronn’s expression shift a little at that, a certain amount of wariness resurfacing. Brienne had proven herself to be better than Bronn in a fight, and wouldn’t hesitate to break a few bones to make a point. In fact, Jaime rather hoped she would. “You were going to take me to Tyrion.”

“Because if you aren’t fucking her,” Bronn continued, though he spoke the slightest touch more quietly this time. “I might have to try.”

“Yes, well,” said Jaime. “You could try. She broke a man’s collarbone once because he annoyed her, have you heard that story?”

Bronn frowned, taking this into consideration. It didn’t take him long to come to a conclusion.

“She’s all yours then, Kingslayer.”

“She’s not- Nevermind,” muttered Jaime. He grasped Bronn’s upper arm with his left hand and dragged him along the hallway, picking out the best way to access the Lannisters’ rooms. Bronn was blessedly quiet for the time being, and made no more mention of whether anyone had plans to fuck Brienne. Which was how Jaime preferred it.

Of course, the closer he was to a confrontation with his brother, the more he dreaded it. He couldn’t be allowed to think he would get away with an attempt on Brienne’s life. But really, what was Jaime going to do to him? Unless Jaime tried to curry favor with the King and have his exile revoked, Jaime did not even have the prestige of a member of the Kingsguard. Let alone the heir of Casterly Rock. Nevermind that Jaime is the reason Tyrion is heir in the first place. That Jaime gave up his birthright for the misery of service to a mad king who burned his own men alive.

Somehow Jaime couldn’t muster true anger at his brother, however. He knew too well why Tyrion had turned on him. It made him sick to think about, the wife Tyrion had taken and what had happened to her. It didn’t matter that Jaime hadn’t known what his father would do to her. He’d lied to Tyrion because his father asked, and in lying had unwittingly convinced Tyrion to commit an unthinkable act. One his younger brother would never forgive himself for, now that he knew how truly terrible it had been.

There was no apology that could rectify what had been taken from him, or the wrong that had been done to his wife. Jaime knew enough to know that.

So when he finally came face to face with Tyrion he didn’t apologize, or ask for forgiveness. He stood before his brother and waited for Tyrion to set down his glass of wine and said nothing at all in the meantime. It took him a moment to realize he was treating Tyrion much the same way he would treat their father in a disagreement. His brother seemed to notice a moment after he did, and the frown that deepened the lines on his face seemed for an instant regretful.

“I did specify he only maim her,” Tyrion said after a moment. “That felt merciful.”

“Merciful,” Jaime spat. So perhaps he could find some anger in himself left for his brother. Anger on Brienne’s behalf at least. “She’s done nothing to you or our family-”

“Our family?” asked Tyrion. “So it’s our family now.”

“This is exactly the reason I don’t want to come back. To any of you,” said Jaime. “You take anything that is good in this world and try to twist it to your own purposes. All three of you are so busy playing the game, you’ve never even-”

“Not never, Jaime,” said Tyrion. “Not me.”

There was truth to that.

Tyrion’s wife, Tysha, had adored the ground he’d walked on. It had been the last time Jaime had seen his brother truly happy, and the echoes of that loss remained etched in Tyrion’s face, even now. Jaime knew he could try to defend himself. He’d tried that before. But Jaime had learned since then what it meant to lose what you held close as your saving grace. The sole symbol of your own worthiness to live. He knew how unfair it was that he had found something else, something better, in the midst of all that loss. Tyrion had found nothing but darkness.

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness,” said Jaime. “I won’t argue that I deserve it. But if any harm comes to Brienne and you are involved, no matter how small your role, trust me when I say I’ll become a kinslayer too.”

Tyrion laughed darkly and poured himself another glass of wine. Always drinking. Numbing the pain, Jaime supposed.

“They might even execute you for that,” said Tyrion. “Though perhaps not if it were only me. Father would probably find some way to wriggle you out of any punishment. Might even thank you, for finally putting me in the ground.”

“I doubt that, Tyrion,” said Jaime.

“You only say that because you still think he hates you,” said Tyrion. “So I’m not interested in your opinion. It’s ill-informed.”

“Our father can hate more than one of his children at a time,” said Jaime. “Or do you think he loves Cersei?”

“The only person who loves Cersei is Cersei,” Tyrion admitted, though he looked put upon to concede a point. “And you. Well, you used to. It seems you’ve moved on. Pray Cersei never figures out why and with who. I don’t think she’ll take it well, being upstaged by… well-”

“An ugly, crooked toothed wench with more honor than sense?” said Jaime. Tyrion stared at him, a little taken aback by Jaime’s directness. “I’ve called Brienne worse to her face. And said nothing now she doesn’t think about herself. And she is nothing to do with Cersei.”

“You really are in love with her,” said Tyrion. However he had drawn this conclusion from what Jaime had said, he kept to himself. Jaime said nothing either way, leaving his too clever brother to draw his own too clever assumptions. “I suspected of course, but… Perhaps I’d even be happy for you, if I didn’t loathe you so much. She seems like a remarkable woman. A little dour for my tastes. Then again, you never were one for whores, so I suppose our interests have always lain in different areas. Though if you had wanted to court with a knight, I do know places of ill repute that-”

“If I wanted to fuck a knight, I wouldn’t have had very far to look. Or do you really think every member of the Kingsguard is celibate?” said Jaime. “Or that the knight of flowers is so remarkable a man as to be unique in King’s Landing or Highgarden?”

“Well not unique, obviously.”

“Not even rare,” said Jaime. “I’m sure there’s an appeal in not fathering children. If only King Robert had expanded his tastes there might not be so very many of his bastards wandering the seven kingdoms.”

“You’d deny Cersei her fun in arranging accidents for the poor things?” Tyrion said darkly. “There’s one of his bastard sons somewhere here in Highgarden, supposedly, and it’s all she’s been able to think about since she arrived. That and the state of Joffrey’s wedding. She’s livid that Margaery has replaced Sansa as her future daughter in law, you realize.”

“Highgarden roses have thorns,” said Jaime. “Cersei’s right to be wary.”

“And how lucky for the winter bloom that she’s avoided an engagement years in the making,” said Tyrion. “Not that I blame her. Though Lord Baelish is hardly an improvement.”

“Thank the Mother for not making us women.”

“The one happy accident of my birth,” Tyrion agreed. They were both quiet for a moment then, seeming to realize they had fallen into an almost pleasant conversation. Or if not pleasant, tolerable at least. As if they still cared about one another the way they had used to. Jaime as Tyrion’s only protector and Tyrion as one of the few who did not see Jaime only as the scandals that had plagued him or a hated extension of Tywin Lannister. It couldn’t last, of course. “I can’t forgive you.”

“I know.”

“But your woman knight is safe from me,” said Tyrion, his mismatched eyes now glued to his clasped hands in front of him. “I only meant to show you a fraction of the pain I felt. But what good will that do? It wasn’t you who hurt my Tysha. It was our father. It was me.”

Jaime knew no words of comfort would reach his brother then. So he simply stayed with him for a while and watched his younger brother finish another cup of wine in silence. He did not know if his presence was appreciated, but it felt like the right thing to do, to bear the weight of his brother’s pain with him.

Or the honorable thing, at least.

Chapter Text

Brienne gave Pod leave to search the grounds and sent Arya along with him when she asked. She was sure that Sansa was still somewhere within the Highgarden estate, but she felt at ease with Brienne being the one to search for her. If Sansa was well she would be found soon enough. If she wasn’t, then it was better if Arya had a head start on anything that may be happening to her sister.

Her Lord father had been unhappy with her when he learned she had sent for Brienne, but had accepted the woman knight’s offered assistance nonetheless. It struck Arya that her father looked at Brienne oddly, as if he were holding his tongue out of politeness.

It was the same way he often looked at her, come to think of it. Not as if he found the way Arya behaved was unjust or immoral or even unseemly, just that it was wrong somehow. She had had to see that gaze turned on someone else to recognize it for what it was. It made her feel as if her insides were shriveling up to think of it, so instead she drew her needle thin sword and pushed ahead of Pod to lead their expedition onto the grounds.

“Should we call for her?” Pod asked. Arya shook her head.

“Sansa wouldn’t hide for long,” she said. “Not on purpose. Not unless someone has her.”

“Why would someone do that?” asked Pod.

“I’ll bet it was Lord Baelish,” said Arya hotly, ignoring Pod. “He knew our father would never really make Sansa marry him, so he took her.”

“That doesn’t sound all that likely. She was last seen running off on her own,” said Pod reasonably. Arya turned on him, furiously pointing her sword at his chest. He stopped walking, eyes widening in the dark at the look on her face. She lowered her weapon quickly, trying to hide her regret for threatening him. This boy wasn’t her enemy, she knew. Her enemies wouldn’t follow her out into the dead of night looking for her missing sister. It wasn’t fair to punish Pod because he had done so, as only a decent person would do.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, to no one in particular. “It’s just that… Sansa is the most annoying girl in all of Westeros, sometimes. But she is my sister and I hate to see her so afraid. She does not trust Littlefinger, whether she pretends to or not. I can see it in her face.”

“I understand,” said Pod quietly. “But Lord Baelish doesn’t need to take her. She’s already promised to him. All he has to do is wait.”

“No matter what she thinks of the arrangement.”

“My cousins lead me to believe that’s the way of most matches,” said Pod. “Love is for the songs, duty is for the marriage bed.”

“Your poor cousins,” said Arya.

“Some of them, yes,” said Pod simply. She regarded him a moment, then turned about again to strike out once more into the night. There was a lot of ground to cover before morning, and Arya intended to make her search thorough. The day with Sansa in the woods flashed before her again. She remembered the terror of watching her sister freeze under Prince Joffrey’s attention, his bolt aimed at her heart in a perverse mockery of his courtship. Arya had wanted to kill him then. Only the knowledge of what would have happened to her and Sansa if she’d done so had stayed her hand. But she’d known then she had it in her to kill him.

She could kill Lord Baelish too, if it came to that.

This settled in her mind, her focus turned once again to the search.

It was then that she spotted a figure in the distance. Or rather, she spotted the glint of light reflecting off metal and was able to make out the shape of someone outfitted in blackened steel armor, it’s dark hue almost impossible to pick out at this time of night. Arya came to a halt and silently pointed, looking back towards Pod to ascertain he saw what she did. He squinted a little, then his eyes went wide with the same realization that had stopped her dead in her tracks.

Someone was roaming the grounds when they ought not to be. Someone besides the two of them, she meant. And there was a quality about this figure that made the hairs at the back of Arya’s neck stand on end. It was Pod who said aloud what she was thinking.

“Baratheon armor, I think,” he whispered. “But too slight for Robert or Stannis.”

“And too tall to be Tommen,” said Arya. “Leaving only-”

“Joffrey,” Pod agreed, a glimmer of concern passing over his expression. “He and your sister wouldn’t-?”

“No!” said Arya, scandalized. “She hates Joffrey, when she’s in her right mind. And she worships Margaery too much to ruin her wedding. Besides, there is someone else it might be. Renly Baratheon was spotted in more than one place the night of his death, remember?”

“Y-y-you think he is a ghost?” Pod asked. He shivered, and Arya could almost hear the prayer he was surely directing towards the Stranger. They were too far south, or Arya might have spared a thought for the Old Gods as well. Still, despite his misgivings, Pod stood at her side and refused to retreat. He possessed an interesting kind of bravery, she supposed. One that was considered and in spite of great fear.

“Better a ghost than Joffrey,” she said. “You go left and I’ll go right. If it is Joffrey and he has yet to see us, we might surprise him. We can question him without bringing up Sansa directly. If he is not why she has gone missing, he cannot know. He would find some way to use it against her.”

“And if he is a ghost?” asked Pod, shivering a little as he said it.

“If he is a ghost we have nothing to fear,” said Arya. “He has no revenge to seek from us.”

“The dead are not always so discerning,” shivered Pod. Part of Arya was glad he was so obviously afraid. It made her own unease feel less daunting. Pod drew his sword. “I left, you right?”

“Be a little loud,” said Arya. “So he hears you coming. I’ll surprise him.”

“I’m not sure I like this plan,” Pod muttered, though he did as she said. He had a soft tread, but he was sure to kick a rock or snap a branch every twenty steps or so. She watched him for a minute, and then started picking her way through the Tyrell’s gardens, making an arc opposite to Pod’s. Quiet as a mouse, she was certain not even a ghost could sense her coming.

She could see the moment the figure heard him, the slight change in posture. It reassured her that they were dealing with a creature of flesh and blood. One who could be outsmarted, overwhelmed, and then questioned. The closer she got, the more certain she was of her assessment. His stance had become defensive, as he waited for Pod to emerge from behind a row of hedges, but there was a nervous sway as he shifted his balance from one foot to the other that spoke of a desire not to be found.

Pod emerged, and the man stood before him silently. Neither advanced on the other.

“Who are you?” asked Pod. The man raised his sword. Pod swallowed. “No one is allowed out on the grounds.”

Arya waited for a fight to begin, but neither struck first, both waiting the other out. Impatience got the best of her. Launching herself from the shadows, she used Needle to twist the man’s sword out of his grasp. Pod leapt forward to assist her, kicking the man’s sword a short distance away. Meanwhile, the armored man lifted Arya up and threw her to the ground, making her lose her grip on her own sword.

“Arya,” Pod called, catching the armored man’s attention once more. Pod held his sword aloft, and with a sure strength that didn’t waver. Brienne must have made an excellent teacher, Arya supposed. The armored man couldn’t hope to outrun them, nor would he overpower Pod easily. He began to back away from Pod, hesitating as he considered his next move.

Arya took advantage of this uncertainty to jump onto his back and yank on two bull’s horns that adorned his helmet. Try as he might to swat her off, he could only shuffle off balance until Pod pushed him off his feet. Arya landed atop his back, still holding the bull’s horns and the man groaned in pain.

“Let me go,” he said, voice deep and breathless. He was not Joffrey, much to Arya’s relief. He sounded young, however. Arya was sure he was only just a man and not a boy.

“Who are you?” Arya asked. “And what are you doing out in the middle of the night in Baratheon armor?”

“Let me go,” the man repeated. Pod knelt down beside Arya and helped hold the armored man down, while she worked on removing his helmet. He tried to escape them, but in the end couldn’t stop them from uncovering his face.

He was dark haired with a square jaw and blue eyes. He could have been a younger Renly Baratheon, though he had little of the warm humor and elegance Renly had had. He tried to turn his face away from them, but it was a face Arya knew she would remember and be able to find again.

“Fine,” she said. “I will let you go. You can answer our questions now, or we can find you tomorrow. No matter who we must ask, or what we must tell them to find you.”

She released him, and she and Pod stepped back as the man got to his feet. There was a sullen set to his face, and he seemed rather displeased by his current predicament. Arya sensed he longed to run, though there was no point. They would find him anyhow.

“You aren’t supposed to be in the gardens either,” he said. “You would not want me to tell anyone you found yourself alone late at night with two men.”

“That’s what Needle is for,” said Arya, glaring at him, as she collected her sword from where it had fallen. “And if you answer our questions, we won’t cause you any more trouble for you than you deserve.”

“How generous of you, my Lady.”

“We’re looking for a girl,” Pod interrupted. “Have you seen anyone wandering the gardens this evening? She would have been tall, auburn haired, beautiful.”

Arya coughed at the last part. Pod blushed a little, but otherwise did not acknowledge her teasing.

“The only girl I’ve seen in the gardens tonight is her,” Gendry said, nodding towards Arya. “I was in the armory all evening.”

“Trying on the Baratheon’s armor,” said Arya.

“This was a gift from Renly Baratheon himself,” said the man hotly. “I have every right-”

He stopped. He had given away too much already and he knew so. Arya and Pod exchanged glances, unsure whether they should continue the search for Sansa or ask this strange man how he had known Renly. Pod chose before Arya could.

“You knew Renly?” he asked.

The man’s jaw twitched. Arya spoke next.

“You were who I saw the night Renly died, out in the gardens,” she said. “How often do you spend the evenings-”

“I was asked,” he said. “In King’s Landing, I was apprenticing a blacksmith. Renly Baratheon found me there and asked for me to act as his squire. He gave me armor and told me to wear it only at night, and to practice with a sword as much as I could. I don’t know what purpose he had in asking such things, but it was important to him that I be seen sometimes, but only from a distance. And I was never to tell anyone of this. Now that he’s dead, I don’t see the harm. He said he saw a position among the nobility for me someday, and wanted me to be ready. Now that chance is gone. It sometimes seemed like he treated me almost as a son.”

“You’re grieving,” Arya realized. The man said nothing, though she knew she was right. He was grieving for a mentor and a bright future both lost in one fell swoop.

“Surely the Tyrells will keep his promises,” said Pod, frowning.

“Only Loras Tyrell knows of me,” said the man. “Renly would not explain, but he said it was very dangerous for anyone to know that I was his squire. There was some matter of my birth that would be troublesome until he was sure of other matters. I’m not highborn, you see.”

It seemed to be a relief for him to say these things, Arya thought. He wasn’t sharing all he knew, she could tell. But it was important to him that they know he had a right to the armor he was wearing. The way he looked at her, Arya knew she was recognized as a Stark and so sensed an undercurrent of resentment at her status. That she had been born into everything he so clearly wanted.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Gendry,” he said, offering not even a bastard’s surname. Still he said it proudly.

“Gendry, how can we find you?” she asked. “Pod works for a woman named Brienne. She is going to find out who killed Renly. If you tell her what you know-”

“I know who killed him,” said Gendry. “Stannis Baratheon inherited the Stormlands upon his brother’s death. Who else had more to gain?”

“His whereabouts were accounted for the night in question,” said Pod.

“Because his acolytes would never lie,” said Gendry. “And all he will have to do is deny it and be taken at his word. That is how it is for lords and ladies.”

“A kinslayer is a kinslayer, no matter how highborn,” said Pod. “If it is Stannis-”

“If!”

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “If it is Stannis, don’t you want him to stand judgment for what he’s done? And surely there is still hope for your advancement if you help us.”

“Gendry,” Arya said. She was sure the young man’s resentment was something that might fade given a little time to think over their offer. “Have the night to make your choice. How can we find you tomorrow? Without causing trouble for you?”

At first, Arya was certain he would not answer her. Then something seemed to break in his expression. Perhaps it was bitterness or perhaps it was hope. The night was too dark to know.

“I care for Renly’s horses still,” he said. “I will be in the stables at noon. You can find me there.”

They let him return to the armory after that, and returned to their search for Sansa. Pod was quietly repeating every word Gendry had said, committing it to memory. Arya was scanning the fields for some trace of her sister’s presence. There were none to find.

“So Sansa is very beautiful then,” she said to Pod. Pod stammered halfway through his mantra and went silent. “You’re too young for her. And not handsome enough.”

“It was only a description, Arya.”

“Everyone has always said that. How beautiful Sansa is.”

“Well, you are beautiful, too,” he said, as if to placate her. She hit his arm. “Ow!”

“I don’t want to be beautiful,” she said to him. “I don’t want to be like Sansa. To be married off to some man who only cares whether I am beautiful and couldn’t be bothered with me otherwise. I don’t want to be a Lady or a Queen or anybody!”

She called this last part out into the night. Not loud enough to be heard by anyone in Highgarden, but loud enough to startle the birds’ nests in the Tyrell’s gardens. Loud enough to feel faintly sick for having said it and meant it with all her heart. To taste for a moment the freedom she wanted so badly and would never be given. And she had said it to another person too, and as yet, he hadn’t spoken against it or tried again to explain to her that her duty was to do all the things that horrified her.

“Well,” he said at last. “I could call you Lord Stark, though I think that would confuse your father.”

Arya couldn’t help it. She laughed. Pod smiled back meekly, as if he had not expected the jest to land. He had only said it on the off chance it might make her feel better.

“I don’t want to be a Lord either,” she said. “I’d like to be a knight. Like Brienne.”

“Brienne isn’t a knight,” said Pod. “They won’t knight her.”

Arya reached out and touched one of the passing branches.

“And I can say that this isn’t a tree,” she said. “Or the king might say so and we would all have to agree. But it’s still a tree, even if we all agree it’s not.”

Pod shrugged. They made their way back towards the manor. Wherever Sansa was, it was not out here. Arya only hoped that Brienne had managed to find her.

“Well,” he said. “I will call you Ser Arya then.”

“You can’t do that,” she said. “I’m not a knight yet.”

“Westeros will never remember you as a knight, Arya,” he said gently. “Though I suspect you will more than have earned that, even if they never let you swear an oath. So, if it is just us, then I will call you Ser Arya. For everything you will do instead of being a Lady.”

“Well, then I shall have to call you Ser Podrick,” she said, laughing as he stuttered his way through a denial. “And someday they’ll sing about us, but we’ll have known first. That we are going to be great knights someday.”

“They’ll sing of you, maybe,” he said shyly. Arya wasn’t sure what to make of the compliment. So she simply thanked him as they made their way back inside. Pod escorted her back to the Stark’s rooms, and she thanked him again for his help.

Jon was waiting there, pacing. Their father had not returned yet, still scouring the manor for some sign of his missing daughter. It would soon be morning, and Sansa had not been found.

Chapter Text

“Sansa,” a voice whispered. Sansa began to stir, her limbs aching uncomfortably. She had slept deeply and soundly, though now that she woke it was to discover that every part of her was stiff from having also slept upright and against a stone wall. Her eyes flickered open. “Oh, dear Sansa, please wake up.”

She looked up and found the warm eyes of Margaery Tyrell staring down at her. Taking the girl’s proffered hand, she let herself be pulled to her feet. She was sure her dress was stained and her hair had come loose from her braids. How unseemly she must look to Margaery right now, who no matter the situation always seemed to be effortlessly poised. Though Sansa supposed she knew how much went into appearing effortless.

“Margaery?” she said, her voice still lost in sleep. It took her a moment to come to her senses, to realize where she was and how odd it must look.

“It’s nearly morning. Your family is at wit’s end trying to find you,” whispered Margaery. “Come with me quickly. I’ll tell your father you are found, and anyone else who inquires that you spent the night in my rooms. Alone in the dungeons, Sansa, anything might have happened to you!”

Sansa glanced towards the cell opposite to her. Sandor Clegane was sleeping now, the ruined half of his face turned against the stone wall. She wondered why he would sleep like that. If it hurt him do so. She wondered how long he had sung for her, as she slept.

There was no time to think of it further. Margaery took her hand, and Sansa responded with the urgency she knew she must. It was unseemly to be out and alone at night as a young lady, even one recently engaged. And it was odd to do so in the company of a murderer. It didn’t need to be said that should the truth be discovered Sansa risked whatever reputation she still had. Not to mention, she didn’t want her father to know where she had been or how wholly her betrothed repulsed her. The specter of his disappointment was enough to quicken her steps, even if Margaery had not whispered at her again to hurry.

They made it to Margaery’s rooms unspotted, deftly avoiding every soul that wandered the halls of Highgarden this early in the morning. Sansa even heard her own father passing by in their short journey to Margaery’s rooms. For a moment, she considered stepping around the corner she and Margaery had pressed themselves into, if only to ease his worry. But Margaery’s grip on her hand tightened and Sansa stayed where she was until the passing footsteps faded. Then they were off again, scurrying through the hallways of the manor, quiet as mice.

Sansa knew Margaery’s room well now, and it set her at ease to sit at Margaery’s vanity, as her friend slowly loosened her braids and brushed out her hair. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Sansa could not shift her gaze. There was a heaviness between them, she sensed. Margaery had gone out of her way to help someone she had nothing to gain from. Despite her conspicuous acts of kindness, that was not her way. Sansa was sure of that.

“How do you bear it?” Sansa whispered. Margaery’s hands slowed, and fell from Sansa’s head. She smiled sweetly then. Falsely, Sansa thought to herself.

“If you can be what your husband wants,” she said. “There’s little danger.”

“Prince Joffrey is a killer,” said Sansa.

“And Littlefinger is a schemer,” she said. “There’s power in that. More power than your Lord father will ever allow you.”

“He kissed me last night,” said Sansa. “I always thought it would be nice to kiss someone. I’ve wanted to before, with handsome boys I’ve danced with at feasts and festivals. But when he touched me, I-”

Sansa couldn’t continue. She had been every bit as frozen as the day she had nearly died in the forest at the hands of the prince. When Lord Baelish kissed her she had not done anything to stop him, despite how very badly she had wanted him to. If Jaime Lannister had not been there…

“It can be nice,” said Margaery gently. “With the right person.”

“Do you miss Renly?” Sansa asked. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to her before that Margaery had recently lost someone she must have held dear once. To wonder whether she was grieving more than she let on. But Margaery laughed a little, and Sansa felt foolish for having asked.

“The only time I ever kissed Renly was on our wedding day,” she said. “One might say he spared more prayers for the Warrior than the Maiden.”

“I see,” Sansa said, not understanding at first. A moment later, Margaery’s meaning came to her. “Oh.”

“It was a well known secret,” she said. “Among those who bother to know such things. Don’t look so scandalized. It can’t be a surprise to you that such people exist. I’m sure you’ve heard tales of Dorne.”

“That’s different,” said Sansa. Of course she had heard tales of Dorne. She had an ear for every song worth singing, and there was on occasion the Dornish tune which spoke of great romances between men, or more rarely between women. But there were songs of dragons, too, and that did not mean there were still dragons in Westeros. “They’re different there.”

“People are the same everywhere, Sansa,” said Margaery. “In Dorne and in Essos and here. What is usual may change from place to place, but human nature doesn’t. And Renly was as human as you or me.”

“Didn’t it bother you?” Sansa asked. Margaery smiled again.

“I took my own lovers,” she said. Her ease at admitting so was startling. It wasn’t the sort of thing one spoke of openly. “People who were pleased to kiss me.”

“Men,” Sansa said, though it became a question the way she said it. Margaery held her gaze in the mirror.

“Yes,” she said. And then, “Sometimes.”

There was no hint of jest in Margaery’s expression, but Sansa wanted to accuse her of it anyway. There was no sense in what she had said, no reason. Somehow, it was easy to picture even so. Margaery kissing the kind of boy Sansa had treated only with the distant politeness expected of a young lady. Margaery kissing a faceless woman, the very same longing in her eyes. Wanting such attention was something Sansa had only allowed herself to imagine within the confines of her betrothal to Joffrey, and the occasional daydream of whatever knight she found most handsome at the time. She had been too young before then to do more than pantomime the want of such things. Dancing with handsome men was a thrill, but empty of intent. She hadn’t ever really thought of what it might be to desire someone else so strongly, no vow could keep you from them, no matter how many stories she had admired of people who had loved with that kind of thoughtless passion.

“What is it like?” Sansa heard herself ask, her mind still lost in wondering.

“Kissing? Or kissing pretty girls?” Margaery asked. When Sansa gave no answer, she sighed and returned to picking out Sansa’s braids. “Like a tide pulling you out to sea.”

Sansa stopped Margaery’s hands. She turned to look at her, a dozen questions resting on her lips. But all she could see was Margaery’s eyes, intelligent and calculating, but also so warm. Like being basked in a sunlight no one else could feel. As if as long as she held Margaery’s attention, no Winter would ever come.

Standing suddenly, Sansa thought of the night before. Of the way her skin had crawled where Lord Baelish had touched her, how little she had liked the way his gaze lingered on her. Her hand trembling, she raised it to stroke a finger down Margaery’s cheek, marveling as the girl’s lips parted and her eyes closed. Drawn in by the slightest touch as if she might drown in it, like the Ironborn pledging faith to their sea god.

“May I?” Sansa asked, not trusting her senses. Needing some assurance that she was wanted, was not acting out the same violation that had been done to her.

“Gods be good,” Margaery laughed at her, standing on her toes to brush her lips against Sansa’s cheek. A gentle thing, as if she were worried of frightening Sansa. “You are so polite!”

But she did not laugh when Sansa leaned down to kiss her. She only grasped a hand around the back of Sansa’s neck, eager to pull her closer.

Chapter Text

Brienne came to get him in the early hours of the morning, the light rapping of her knuckle against the door rousing him from an unnaturally vivid dream. He had been dreaming of her, but she had come to him as the Stranger. Her face turned away from his, her spun silk robe trailing behind her, its midnight blue blurring into an endless darkness. He had asked her if she were death or change, and she had said only that no one sings for the stranger. And no one should dream of them either. It was a relief to see Brienne now, flesh and blood and very much only a woman, exceptional though she was.

Although it was obvious she had not slept, her eyes were bright with that strange fever that overcame her when she began to whittle down her thoughts into a workable theory. He wasn’t sure when he had learned to tell her mood by slight changes in her manner, but couldn’t deny he took some pleasure in being able to read her with such ease. So, he spoke before she could get a word out.

“Something has come to light,” he said. She paused, caught off guard for a moment. Then she seemed to remember every other time he had done this, and knew he was trying to guess what she had to say before she said it.

“Yes, actually,” she said. “Pod will be along soon, to help you dress so we can-”

“Are you going to share with me what exactly has come to light?”

“I planned to,” she said, though her expression said otherwise. “Though, I’d like a few things confirmed before I-”

“You’re too cautious,” Jaime said next, unable to keep himself from interrupting one more time. If only because he liked to fluster her. “It’s only me.”

“If you would let me finish a sentence, perhaps I’d feel more generous.”

Jaime gestured for her to go on, but Brienne was too restless to muster up a conversation. Not lost in thought exactly, but incessantly preoccupied with it. If he had his moods, then Brienne had her own humors, ones that floated her beyond the confines of polite company. As someone who had never considered himself a polite sort of fellow, he did not mind much.

“The Stark girl,” he said, when Brienne did not speak further. “She was found?”

“She is a friend of Margaery’s. She retired with Margaery after the party and forgot to inform her father as to her whereabouts. She is terribly embarrassed at the fuss,” said Brienne, reciting the facts with a straightforward succinctness that told him she found nothing unbelievable in these answers. “I imagine she needed some comfort, after her engagement.”

“I’d imagine,” Jaime agreed. He wondered sometimes of Brienne’s own engagements. Her marriage to Renly had only been a matter of convenience to the both of them, of course, but there had been others before him. She didn’t speak of them, but for her to have loved Renly so dearly, he could only imagine how terribly she must have been treated. It would only be a relief to be with a man who could not love her if the ones she knew already had been cruel beyond measure. Indifference could easily feel like a kindness, in those circumstances.

“But it was lucky we searched for her in any case,” said Brienne. “In the story of Renly’s death, there is one detail that continues to come up without reasonable explanation. Last night, Podrick and Arya discovered the answer, and an entirely new line of questioning to begin on.”

“By which you mean…?”

“Everyone who speaks of that night secondhand tells us that Loras was the one to find Renly,” said Brienne. “But when I spoke to Margaery, she said Loras nearly killed the boy who discovered he was dead. A contradiction I dismissed, initially.”

“It’s not so unusual,” said Jaime. “They credited the discovery to the first person of note who saw the body, and not a lowly squire or servant.”

“I thought the same,” said Brienne. “But then there was the matter of confusion over Renly’s location that night. And of that there was serious disagreement between many of the accounts we heard.”

“Memory is fickle,” Jaime tried. Brienne drew breath, ready to argue this too.

“But taken in combination, there is a possible conclusion we have overlooked,” said Brienne. “Loras and Margaery are keeping secrets from us.”

“The great pastime of court, keeping secrets,” said Jaime, considering it. “You’re suggesting they are hiding a man from sight. Someone who could be beneficial to unraveling Renly’s death, but who they have decided to protect instead.”

“Yes,” she said. It was high praise, her blunt approval. Her expression relaxed as he followed her logic, and discontinued challenging her conclusions. She did appreciate that he could play advocate to all sides, act as an argument to sharpen her wits against. They were well matched that way, able to spar without injuring. But even with him, there was a brittleness to her. A persistent suspicion that she was being belittled. “A boy that your squire was fortunate to stumble upon last night.”

“Pod is more your squire than mine,” said Jaime. Sensing her disagreement, he added. “Ours then, if you object to that.”

“Ours then,” she agreed, after a brief hesitation. “But this boy they found, Renly could only have been keeping him secret for one reason. Podrick tells me he was Renly’s squire and was gifted Baratheon armor. He was taught the manners and habits of the nobility, all in secret, with the promise that Renly would advance him when the time came. And-”

Brienne stopped talking suddenly, her expression darkening with an old and familiar shame. Jaime thought suddenly that if Renly were not already dead, perhaps he would kill the man himself. That Brienne would have never forgiven him for such an uncharitable thought was beside the point.

“And?” he prompted, though he did not want to.

“Renly has always wanted- I mean he did want-”

“Brienne.”

“An heir,” she finished. “He wanted an heir, but he could not bring himself to produce any. There is a reason our marriage was so easily annulled.”

“But he did try,” Jaime deduced. Brienne could not meet his eye. “A losing proposition for the both of you, I’m sure.”

“Quite,” said Brienne, and that was all that needed to be said about that. “But Jaime, they say one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards has been taking in by the Tyrells-”

“It’s true, my brother told me as much last night,” he said. Brienne started. “Well, he mentioned it in passing.”

“But if Renly were to naturalize him, as his heir,” said Brienne. “He becomes the most obvious choice to continue the Baratheon line, should-”

“Should the King’s line come into question,” Jaime finished flatly. Brienne nodded. It was a clever theory. An unfortunate one, as well. “You think he knew.”

“Lord Stark made an oath to you, in return for your silence and your banishment,” she said. “But if he had the means to discover your- your sister’s secret, there’s no reason to believe someone else couldn’t come to the same realization. The King grows old and drunk. His council knows the issue of succession grows more pressing every year. And the heir apparent is-”

She ceased speaking once more. Wretched wench, always attempting to spare his feelings.

“I’ve heard the same whispers you have among the servants and the small folk,” he said. “I know what kind of man Joffrey is. He may not be his blood, but he is Robert Baratheon’s son, through and through.”

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” she said, and even had the decency to sound it. “But I think he is worse. Robert can be reasoned with. Joffrey, on the other hand…”

“And so the vultures circle,” he said. “Renly and the Tyrells, Stannis, Varys, Littlefinger…”

“And Renly was the first to discover an answer. How to oust Cersei’s children and install his own heir in one fell swoop,” she said. “He might even have been King himself for a time. If Robert died before the boy was ready.”

So Renly had tried to play the game then. But he had shown his hand to the wrong ally, or had been discovered by the wrong enemy. It occurred to Jaime then that it might not have been an accident, his brother telling him that one of the King's bastards resided in Highgarden. It might have been a test, to study his reaction. Gauge what he knew. And there was no use pretending that the same thought hadn’t struck Brienne.

“You think they have something to do with it?” he asked her. She did not answer him at first. “My father, my brother, or my sister, you believe that they-”

“I don’t know,” she said, shortly. “It’s a possibility. To protect your family’s name, and your sister’s children-”

“And their power,” he said. “More importantly, Brienne, their power. That would be what they are protecting. Except for perhaps my sister, those children are the first consideration of no one.”

“I could send you back North,” she offered. He stared at her, confused at her sudden offer. The swift turn in conversation. “I won’t ask you to accuse your family, Jaime. It doesn’t need to be you.”

“Do you think I would choose them?” he asked. Partly because he did not know the answer himself.

“I think it would hurt you not to,” she said. “I think, despite what you say, you would grieve for your sister’s children, if they came to harm. And you would still do the right thing, even as it wounded you.”

“You overestimate me.”

“I know you,” she countered, a strange fierceness in her voice. “You would do what was right.”

He searched her face, waiting for a flicker of doubt. There was none to be found. He couldn’t understand how he could have inspired such loyalty in someone as rare as Brienne. Was it possible she did not understand what her faith did to him? That even as he longed to argue that he was a man of no great honor, he also ached to be what she thought he was. It was intoxicating, to have a woman look at him and see himself instead of her own reflection. But it was dangerous too. Because if Brienne ever learned how he longed for her, he would lose his only hope for his future happiness and his greatest friend, all at once. She was his champion. She was the Stranger. He could never touch her…

It was Pod who broke the silent stalemate between them, softly opening the door to Jaime’s room. Despite Pod’s timid entrance, the sound may as well have been a gunshot. Brienne reddened slightly, and excused herself, leaving Jaime and Pod alone so that he might change. He wished he could call her back to him, that she would dress him instead. He shook the thought from his mind as the passing madness it was. Still, it wouldn’t do to ignore the fact that it was getting worse. His desire for her. He would simply have to redouble his efforts at overcoming his baser instincts. It did not help how much he liked her. If it were one or the other, he knew she would not be so successful in distracting him. In challenging him. In keeping him, as she had sworn to do when she took him on as her ward.

Pod fastened his hook to the stump of his right wrist, carefully adjusting each strap with practiced ease and an eye for Jaime’s comfort. As he did, his eyes strayed a moment to the door. Jaime watched in horrified fascination as the young squire gathered his courage to speak.

“We will return North with Brienne, when this is over,” he said. “Won’t we?”

“What choice do I have? I am hers to do with as she wishes, until such a time as I am knighted again by Lord Bolton,” said Jaime. Pod did not hide his skepticism well. “There is nothing for me here.”

“That isn’t true,” said Pod quietly. “But I think you should follow her in any case. Even if you no longer have a reason.”

“I would send you with her,” said Jaime. “If ever I decided to-”

“I think she would miss you,” said Pod, his directness surprising Jaime into silence. “And you would miss her.”

“Don’t be a romantic,” said Jaime at last. And then, as if to convince himself instead of Pod, he said, “No one sings for the Stranger.”