Chapter Text
When Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon mounted a rebellion, Selwyn Tarth, Evenstar, marched with his liege. Robert sent his most trusted friend Ned to rescue the Lady Stark to Dorne, and Selwyn, desperate to win the favour of house Baratheon, inserted himself into Ned Stark’s company.
Lord Selwyn was a strong fighter and an exceptional sailor, and it was he who suggested taking a boat to Dorne. And so they did. East from Storm’s End, through Shipbreaker’s Bay and then south past Cape Wrath and Estermont, around Rainwood and southwest until they made port in Wyl. They took horses then, quick light-footed ones that did well on mountains, as they trailed the riverside and then up the Red Mountains until they arrived at the Tower of Joy.
The sea winds, seemingly thrall to the Evenstar, quickened their travels by near a sennight, and the Dornish guide they picked at Wyl showed them a quick route up the mountains, and as such, they arrived at the Tower of Joy to see Lady Lyanna lying in a bed of silk, not blood, and when four days later she delivered the babe, they had had enough time to call for a midwife to tend to her.
The babe died, or so the records said, but Lyanna Stark lived.
For years to come, the minstrels would sing of the Evenstar crossing blades with the Sword of the Dawn, rescuing the lady who was to be queen, and coming home with the favour of the new king.
That favour built Tarth’s small port, turned the island into a rich trading hub, and made the marble cut from its mines fashionable once more. Tarth flourished, gleaming like a jewel in a sea of sapphires.
And to the west, Lannisport suffered as it failed to gain the favour of the crown, their gold becoming less and less valuable in the face of Highgarden’s crops and Tarth’s traded goods.
Brienne of Tarth was bedecked in a fine silk gown, with the sleeves cut loose until it gathered at her wrists so she could move easily, the skirts wide and light, a gold and silver belt of suns and moons around her waist. Her hair was braided and arranged just so, and if not for her face, she would be almost pretty.
She was not pretty.
But she was rich, dressed in the best gown coin could buy, attended by maids who had flocked to Evenfall Hall to serve her. They’d all heard of her numerous betrothals; they all held a wish in their heart to catch the eye of these men and the men in their retinue.
Not that they succeeded with the lords. Rich as Tarth was, with its trading port and exotic goods from Essos, its marble mines and marbled floors, the men who came to wed Brienne of Tarth could not afford lowborn brides. Why else would they vie for the hand of a second child, one uglier than the sea creatures sold at the fish market?
But the maids did not give up. Lords they might not catch, but they brought their aides, companions, men of lesser houses. They came with a ship or a carriage, and those needed men to run. Smallfolk, yes, but in the service of a lord, possessing some sort of trade to sell.
Brienne had seen her maids come and go within months, leaving to be the bride of a ship captain or a guard, following Brienne’s spurned suitors back where they came from. A younger maid would soon take the empty station, another fresh-faced girl with big dreams. It would not be long before this girl left, too.
And still, Brienne was unwed.
Today welcomed another suitor. The maids were all very excited, as it was said that this man was the most beautiful man in all of Westeros, but Brienne only felt knots in her belly.
She looked at one of her maids. “Would you fetch me some wine?”
The maid looked at her strangely, as Brienne never asked for wine, but did as she was bid. Brienne took a bracing gulp, the warmth seeping through her, blossoming on her cheeks. Her damnable face blushed all too easily, but she hoped the man would think it was nerves and not drunkenness.
There was a knock. Her septa, Roelle, walked in. The woman had not adjusted well to the house’s new fortune, but she stayed nonetheless, though scornful of Brienne and the maids fluttering around her.
“Your father is waiting in the western parlour.”
“Not the main hall?” Brienne asked, astonished.
“Jaime Lannister found it unsuitable,” the septa said before she turned on her feet, expecting Brienne to follow.
She did.
When Brienne arrived at the parlour, Jaime Lannister was playing cyvasse with her father—and losing, it seemed to Brienne. They were very absorbed in the game, Selwyn grinning almost youthfully, Lannister bemoaning his opponent’s clever moves; neither noticed that Brienne was there until she cleared her throat.
Septa Roelle shot her a sharp look. Brienne ignored her. She could not stand it anymore, and besides, it did the trick. Lannister shot up from his seat like an arrow, then bowed deeply and solicitously to Brienne.
“My Lady, forgive me,” he said, his grin pearly white, his verdant eyes twinkling. “Or rather, forgive your father, for he was altogether too good at this game.”
“Ser Jaime,” she said, and she nearly succeeded at not twisting her lips at his title. Why was he still a knight? Could King Robert not strip him of that, too, with the white cloak of a Kingsguard? “How was your journey?”
“Swift. And a pleasant change from the hustle and bustle of Lannisport, though Tarth is no less lively.” His smile was unwavering, his eyes meeting hers without hesitation—but also without straying. As though he was very carefully holding his gaze from offending.
All of this was familiar. Brienne had met suitors who attempted to cow her with force and the useless fact that they were men, but all of that had changed when Father came home with the King’s favour. No, since then, they had shifted their tact, for Tarth had become an even bigger prize in their eyes, one they scarcely could afford to lose.
Brienne knew of House Lannister. Once teetering so close to the throne, now scorned and abandoned. Not quite disgraced, though many whispered of the way Lord Tywin held his bannermen from marching the city until victory was assured, and many more talked of how Ser Jaime had killed the Mad King, betraying his vow and losing his white cloak as a too-light punishment. They lived lavishly still, as though unable to lose their pride as their wealth and influence left them, living off heavy taxes levied from their bannermen and common folk.
They were the laughing stock of the Lords Paramount.
Father had related this to Brienne—or rather, to her brother while she listened—and so it was clear why Ser Jaime, handsome and capable of obtaining a bride from any house in the Westerlands, had come across the land to court her.
She had heard he was an irreverent, arrogant man, saved only by his beauty and his sword hand, and yet he was now all solicitousness and sweet lies. She loathed him for it, but it had been a while since her last suitor and even longer since it was a good swordsman. So, she merely nodded at him, politely, while keeping all the warmth in her for worthier people.
“I’m glad,” she said, curtly, and that put a stop to their pleasantry. From the way the corners of his eyes smoothed out, the smile gone from them, she could tell that he understood as much. So, she continued. “Ser Jaime, I would not wish to waste your precious time. I hope you know that I have set a condition for my betrothal.”
He smiled. It was polite. Condescending. “You’ve made a name for yourself with that condition, my lady.”
This was a jab, though he said it kindly enough that it could almost pass as flattery. Brienne would smile if she didn’t know that it would only be a grimace at best, a beast baring its fangs at worst—and Septa Roelle had said so many times that she should strive to be less of a beast. She shook her head instead. “I do not care for fame, my lord, only respect. Will you allow me to test your blade, then?”
“If I refuse, my entire journey would be a waste of my time—and we agreed that we do not want that, do we?”
“No.”
“Well, then.” He nodded to his squire. “Fetch my sword.”
“Right now?” Selwyn asked, and only then did Brienne remember that her father was there in the room with them. “Would you not prefer to rest first, ser?”
“If my lady would consider holding the match later than sooner, I would not object,” Ser Jaime said, still all kindness.
Brienne felt her blood boil from the challenge. Her father was looking at her beseechingly. Father would hope that Lannister won, but Lannister would have better odds rested. Yet she could not stand him and his falseness any longer, and if he chose to disadvantage himself, she did not see any reason to dissuade him.
Brienne nodded. “Better we get it out of the way,” she said. “Father, if you would take Ser Jaime to the courtyard while I change?”
Selwyn Tarth looked torn once more between indulging his daughter or doing his best to make real what he perceived to be her own good. But as it had happened many times before, it happened once more: he lowered his eyes, defeated, and extended one arm to the door.
Brienne let them leave first, for her legs felt leaden. Something in her lurched, unbalanced, seasickness before a storm, but she had come so far, winning against all those who had tried to make her submit.
This was just one more man. One more road-weary man for her to knock to the dirt and send sailing home.
She looked up to the door and saw that Ser Jaime had lingered, watching her with an odd sort of look until he caught her gaze and his face contorted into a mask of concern. “Are you well, my lady?”
If she was to be honest, she had felt ill since she’d had word of his arrival—but she shook her head and said, “I will see you in the courtyard, my lord.”
He cocked a smile at her and left.
She fell onto a chair. My lord. The honorific left the taste of ash on her tongue, and she realised that should she lose, she would taste ash until the end of her days, for then he would indeed be her lord husband.
Brienne changed in her own quarters briskly, so close to being in a hurry—if she took her time, she would only be more terrified, but she was still too careful for any sort of real rush to her movements. She had tried not to appraise Ser Jaime—he was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at him, but even more so, she would have perhaps jumped into the open sea and swum to Braavos had he caught her admiring his figure.
But when he had walked out of the parlour, she watched; she had to, as Ser Goodwin had trained her to. Pay attention to your opponent, as he always said. Watch their size, their reach, their gait, their speed. Watch if their eyes are slower when you move to their right or their left.
That last one, Brienne hadn’t had a chance to gauge, but the rest she gathered easily enough. Ser Jaime had a sort of economy to his movements, with a grace lent only to hunter animals. He was tall—about the same height as she was, perhaps, or a little shorter—and he was narrower than she was, which meant that he would be harder to hit. All of her observations marked him as not only skilled but trained. Tested.
She supposed he’d fought other men than the mad old man he had vowed to guard.
She finished changing into simple breeches and doublet, a boiled leather chestplate over it and gloves over her hands. They were all plain, unadorned, but made to fit. She went through all the exercises needed to warm herself up and test the flexibility of her limbs, and then she walked to the courtyard, hoping futilely that few had come to spectate on what would be the most interesting bout of the year.
And of course, the courtyard was packed, the alcoves around filled by courtiers and guests and workers who had abandoned their duties. She wanted to scold them, but she could not. Had she been a scullery maid or a stableboy, she too would risk a rebuke to watch this bout.
Septa Roelle was nowhere to be seen, but Brienne was sure the crone was watching from somewhere, scornfully. She never understood why the woman hated her so much. She knew one thing, however: it was truly hatred that the septa harboured towards her, rather than a misplaced, misguided sense of duty to raise Brienne into a proper lady. She remembered the little switch of reed Septa Roelle had favoured so much. It was only when Father had asked Ser Goodwin why Brienne’s palms had often been so red that she had stopped using it to punish Brienne.
Septa Roelle didn’t need a switch to hurt, but her words meant little in the face of Galladon’s love, or the maids’ flattery, or Ser Goodwin’s approval. Brienne was grateful for that, at least. Out of pity to the mean little woman, she never told anyone of how awful Septa Roelle had always been to her, even now.
Brienne wondered if the septa would be pleased by Ser Jaime’s victories, or if she would find Brienne unworthy of such a man. She had always had a low opinion of men, but surely a Kingslayer ranked even lower in her eyes?
Brienne shook her head again, willing herself to focus. When she felt her hair staying in place, she realised it was still in that pretty bouquet of braids her maid did for her. It felt wrong. Silly. But there was no time to redo her hair, as Ser Goodwin was already handing her her sword.
He brought her only the one blade—no shield.
She opened her mouth to ask, but he leaned up and said, next to her jaw, “He’s fast. A shield will only slow you down. Parry, and dodge.”
Brienne nodded, tears threatening to fall from her eyes and disgrace her before the match even began. “Thank you,” she said to her teacher, the only one who truly believed in her strength rather than merely humouring it.
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he merely patted her gloved hand before leading her into the open space on the courtyard, where Ser Jaime was testing his sword.
It was a handsome thing, the steel polished, the crossguard curved a little bit, a gleaming bracket around his own gloved hand, while the pommel, shaped into a lion’s head, roared from below his fist. It was a thin, light blade, the fuller but a narrow line in the centre of it, and Brienne thanked Ser Goodwin once more in her heart. A shield was not only unnecessary against such a light blade, it would also be an encumbrance.
She walked past the gaggle of men and women. Some—including men she guessed must have been part of the Lannister retinue—were openly gawking at her, but most merely gave her a cursory glance before their eyes were drawn once more to the Kingslayer, as a compass would to a lodestone. There was a sort of hush that fell as gossip about her and her many shortcomings were swallowed hastily at her arrival.
It was not a long walk, but it felt so, and she was half-sweating by the time she reached the open space, the men of her household standing in a circle to hold the spectators back. Lannister had watched her with as naked an expression as she’d seen on him, and when she was close enough, he smiled and bowed again.
She wanted to bash the back of his head with her pommel, but that would not count as a victory, much less a clean one, so she resisted.
“To the ground?” she asked him before his treacherous tongue could ooze more honeyed words.
“Or until one of us yields,” he said, nodding.
She stepped back, readied her stance, and so did he.
Ser Goodwin called out, for the benefit of the crowd more than anything else. Brienne listened to it detachedly, as though murmuring along with a prayer at the Sept: ...Lannister and Lady Brienne of House Tarth, for the honour of her hand in marriage, a match to the ground or until one yields to the other…
And then he clapped his hand, the sound of it jangling in Brienne’s head as she launched herself at Lannister.
Brienne had gotten used to her opponents. They all fell into the same categories: members of her own household, familiar and predictable; cocky, untrained, untested men, even more predictable than her own brother; trained and tested men, still weaker than her.
Jaime Lannister was none of these men.
He parried, and when their blades slid against each other, he pushed with his whole weight behind it. He was heavy. His frame was all muscle and sinew, dense and unyielding. They sprang apart, then met once more. Each impact rang up her arms and rattled her teeth. Gone were her nerves, all thoughts she had of marrying him. Only her training remained and pure instinct beneath it as she parried, side-stepped, lunged. Move after move as they circled each other.
Yet she could not break through his guard, and he could not get past hers—no. He was barely trying! He was fast, and trim enough to crowd her, get too close for her to move against him, but he didn’t. His face split in a gruesome grin, like a starved animal. She briefly wondered if he would unhinge his jaw and swallow her whole, but perhaps he was waiting until he finished toying with her first.
She leapt a couple of steps back and he did the same. For a while, they circled each other. She, warily. He, with great amusement plain on his face.
He called out, “Your castellan trained you well, my lady.”
Brienne saw red.
How dared he? Squired to Ser Barristan Selmy, knighted at fifteen by the Sword of the Morning, Kingsguard, Kingslayer, and he dared condescend to her as if she were a little girl playing at war. She’d heard that before from other men, mere moments before she drove them to the dirt. They had been lesser men. But Jaime Lannister was not lesser. She was not better than he, for she had never left the island save for balls and fetes in Storm’s End where her father desperately peddled her hand to eligible men of any age. She had never seen true battle, had never drawn blood in any way that mattered, had never been allowed to be more than a little girl playing at war.
And he knew it. He knew she could be his equal, perhaps more, and he taunted her with it.
She caught Ser Goodwin’s eyes at the edge of her sight. The man was shaking his head, very slightly. Don’t let him goad you.
She charged.
And in two quick moves, he knocked her sword out of her hand.
The impact of it left her wrist smarting. Under her glove, she could feel the skin growing hot, perhaps as red as her furious face.
He held the tip of his blade under her chin. He asked, as though asking for her to dance with him at a ball, “My lady?”
“I have a name,” was what escaped her. It sounded so girlish, so petulant, and she hated it.
He lowered his voice as he said, “Lady Brienne. Please, yield.”
“I can still fight.” She said through gritted teeth.
He inclined his head, once more amicable. “If that is what my lady wishes.”
Brienne closed her eyes. Her opponent waited, as politely as one could with his blade still extended towards her. For a quick moment, she thought of wagering her palms on the thickness of her gloves and yanking it, blade first, arming herself and disarming him in one fell swoop. But that was folly, which would serve only to embarrass her further, if not slice her hand open.
Slice her hand and give it to him. That was sure to herald a happy marriage.
She exhaled and opened her eyes, meeting his startled ones. She felt no less furious, though she was no longer sure at whom. Still, she raised her voice and said, to all who watched, “I yield.”
He lowered his blade, then dropped it to the ground. There was… an odd sort of awe on his face, one that merely stoked the anger roiling in her gut.
She said to him, “I have sworn an oath before gods and men and I will keep it. I shall marry you, Ser Jaime Lannister.”
Brienne might as well have spat at his feet. He smiled, gallant, vicious. His eyes were as flat as flint, opaque in the shadows as his golden hair was lit aflame by the scorching sun behind him. He took her hand, gently, and peeled off her glove. She wanted to pull away, but she couldn’t.
He brought her knuckles to his lips.
As sweet as honeyed nettles, he declared, “Lady Brienne. You have made me the happiest of men.”
As the crowd roared in approval, she felt the sting of his kiss.