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The ship cleared the breakwater at the entrance to Evenfall Harbor in the late morning. When the rocks were safely astern, the oars turned the bow into the wind and the sails climbed the masts. The oars drew in and the carrack moved away from Tarth. Brienne relaxed her grip on the windowsill of her chamber. It was over; he wouldn’t swallow his humiliation and turn back now. Humfrey Wagstaff, his bad breath, his watery eyes and his notions of wifehood were gone from her life. She felt a little badly, but only a little, for breaking his collarbone.
The maester had bandaged Ser Humfrey, but she knew he had spent an uncomfortable night. She hadn’t gone down for breakfast this morning. Ser Humfrey was angry and in pain, and her father was disappointed in her once again. She wasn’t ready to deal with either emotion. It was simpler to remain hungry until her most recent betrothed was gone.
Her room was as familiar to her as her own ugly face, and she was at odds with both today. She scowled at herself in the mirror. It was a soft and delicate room, meant for a soft and delicate girl, blue and rose and silver, the bed carved and the coverlet embroidered with the suns and moons of her house. But the wardrobe and chests were full of the plainest and most practical of breeches and tunics, the gowns pushed to the rear. A sword and shield hung in one corner, the sword notched and the shield battered from the many blows they had taken as she learned to fight. She had finer weapons now, stored properly in the armory, but these had been her first and she treasured them. In another corner the shelves held her books with beautiful tales of knights and maidens, and the dolls she had once loved and had never brought herself to throw away.
Was she a maiden or a knight? Too large and ugly to be a sweet maiden, too soft-hearted a woman to be a knight. I can’t be either, so I am neither.
Moping was useless; it was time to face her father and tell him to stop trying. She tried to smooth her straw-like hair and splashed water on her face. She wasn’t the heir he needed for Tarth. She would never marry or give him grandchildren. He would need to seek elsewhere for the next Evenstar.
*************************
The room was blue and silver. Selwyn of Tarth sat behind a huge desk fitted to his huge frame and examined her with disfavor. The desk sent a message. If this had been a friendly conversation, they would have sat in the chairs by the windows. “You’ve made your feelings quite clear, Brienne. It’s unlikely that I can find another betrothal for you. You made Ser Humfrey a laughingstock.”
Brienne felt her tell-tale cheeks flaming. It was hard to look at her father. I know you’re sad. I know you’re angry. I am too. Doesn’t that matter to you? “I’m sorry. I couldn’t…”
“I’m trying to find a way to leave Tarth to my blood. To your children and their children. Is that so strange or wrong? It was a mistake to let you wield a sword.”
“I’m sorry.” Is that all I can say? “Father, Ser Humfrey is five-and-sixty! You and he agreed to my condition for the betrothal.”
“Ser Humfrey isn’t a bad man, you know. I knew him…” Her father sighed. “I knew him when he was young, and I was even younger. Now we’re both old. Too old.”
“I’m sorry.” I’m tired of feeling sorry. “If Galladon had lived…” Her brother had been the one with the duty. But Gally had drowned. Tarth’s sapphire waters were deadly as well as beautiful. Gally had said that she was too little to go to the shore with him that morning, even though she was as tall as he was. She had never seen him again; only his tomb.
“Or if Corlys Caron hadn’t died…” She didn’t remember her first betrothed well; they had only met once. He had been skinny, shorter than she was - of course - brown-haired, pimply, but his eyes had been shy and kind. He had looked at her with curiosity, not contempt. She would have married him if a chill and fever hadn’t taken him. It would have been agreeable to everyone, maybe even to her. But each betrothal since had humiliated her.
“But they did die.”
“Uncle Endrew might…”
“You know that he’s sworn to the Night’s Watch. He’s not returning to Tarth. You’re what’s left of the future of our house. I won’t seek out another match for you, but I’ll always be open to an offer.” He picked up some papers. “You can go now, Brienne.”
*************************
The room was red and gold. Lion’s heads decorated the arms of the chairs. “I’ve decided that it’s time for you to wed.”
“How kind of you to inform me. Is this my reward for the excellent state of our drains?”
“Don’t be insolent. This is important.” Tywin Lannister poured a goblet of wine and pushed it toward his son.
That surprised Tyrion more than his words. Gods be good, he’s serious. “I’ve no wish for a wife.” I had one, once, but it was all a lie.
“Your wishes are of no particular concern to me. I’m aware of your preference for whores. Nevertheless, a suitable bride is being arranged for you. What does concern me is our need for an ally from the Stormlands to balance the power of the Baratheons.”
Could he finally be ready to acknowledge my claim? “And who is the very lucky girl you plan to install as Lady of Casterly Rock?”
His father looked at him as if he were mad. “I said nothing about the Rock. The Rock is Jaime’s inheritance.”
“Age is making you forgetful, Father dear. Jaime is a member of the Kingsguard. Kingsguard hold no lands. Kingsguard serve for life.”
“Very amusing. If I were forgetful, I might be able to forget that you are my son.”
“And your heir.”
“Never.” Tywin’s voice was both flat and disdainful. “Jaime…”
“Prefers to remain where he is.”
“You seem very certain of your brother’s mind, but his wishes don’t concern me either.”
“Cersei would miss him.” Tyrion kept his voice neutral. He took a sip of wine, eyeing his father over the rim of the goblet. Whatever Tywin knew, or suspected, or refused to know, he hid it well.
“Cersei is the Queen. That should be enough to satisfy her. Her sons are heirs to the Iron Throne and to Storm’s End…”
“And when Myrcella is older you can barter her in some favorable way.”
“Jaime will leave the Kingsguard and rule the Westerlands as Lord of Casterly Rock.”
My, you are so certain of your ability to move us as if we were no more than cyvasse pieces. Have you ever actually seen us? “And as for me? What meager consolation prize do you have for me?”
“Tarth.”
“Tarth? Fish and marble quarries? What do we want with Tarth?”
“Its harbors. Evenfall and Morne. Our power at sea isn’t what it should be. A Lannister fleet in the Narrow Sea can control trade from Essos, and Robert can hardly object if I tell him our ships are there to protect him.”
“And the price that you expect me to pay for increasing our power?”
“Lady Brienne. She’s the only surviving child of the Evenstar. As you know, my previous attempts to secure a match for you have been unsuccessful. Most lords are understandably reluctant to surrender their daughters to you.”
“To a dwarf. I know what I am. You can say the word.” Tyrion drained his goblet and poured himself another. Tywin ignored him.
“However, Lord Selwyn seems receptive. There have been several broken betrothals for the lady, and whatever your stature, you are still a Lannister.”
“Gods, what’s the matter with the girl? A half-wit? A harelip? Or is she no girl but a blushing maid of sixty years?”
“I’ve been reliably informed that she is strong and healthy, presumably fertile, and her age is eight-and-ten. Those are the important factors, those, her inheritance and the Lannister children you can give her.”
Perhaps she’s a dwarf, too. We could have dwarf children, and wouldn’t Father love that? “I’m gathering that you expect me to leave Casterly Rock for Tarth?”
“Obviously. You’ll never be an honor to our house, but at least you can make yourself useful.”
“With me out of the way you’ll have a freer hand to pressure Jaime.” His father didn’t smile, to Tyrion’s relief, but he almost threatened to. The cyvasse pieces are moving again. Tywin plucked the wine goblet from his hand. “I hadn’t finished,” Tyrion protested.
“But I have. Presuming the response to my last raven is satisfactory, we leave for Tarth in a fortnight.”
*************************
“You said you wouldn’t make another betrothal for me!”
“I said it was unlikely. I didn’t seek this, but the offer is too good to be refused. Brienne, remember who you are. I’m asking no more of you than is asked of any noblewoman.”
“To do my duty? My duty to a husband who will look at me with loathing?”
“You can’t know that.”
“I know what I’ve experienced!” With the so-called men you found for me.
Her father’s eyes were not unkind, but they were implacable. “Tarth needs this alliance, and this alliance requires this marriage. Lord Tywin arrives in a month’s time, and you’ll wed his son Tyrion the following week.” He hesitated. “He is only three-and twenty. That should please you.”
Nothing about this pleases me. My father loves me in his way, but he loves Tarth more, and why shouldn’t he? Tarth is what he wants it to be. Tarth has never disappointed him. Tarth is beautiful. I’m not.
“Have you told the Lannisters of my requirement that my betrothed defeat me at swordplay?” She expected her father to laugh, but he didn’t.
“I have.” There was something odd in his expression. “They accept your condition.”
*************************
Step, strike, slide, parry. At least he lets me have this.
“Your father isn’t wrong, girl.” Ser Goodwin’s voice was mild. It was always mild, even when correcting her. He was ugly too, and that was a comfort. “It’s the way of things.”
Undercut, overcut. She had taken refuge in the training yard. It was on the top level of the Hall, where the castle met the clifftop, high wall and battlements on one side, stables and armory on the other. “When my future husband sees me, he’ll know how unfit I am to be anyone’s lady wife.” She blocked Ser Goodwin’s next stroke easily. “Unless all he sees is Tarth.”
“I’ve known you since you were born. You’re the best fighter I’ve ever taught. Better than your brother would have been, but you’re still a maid in your heart. That septa did you no good.”
“She told me the truth.” They circled.
“That no man will ever love you?”
It was easier to be honest with Ser Goodwin while sparring than it was to speak with her father. “My father loved my mother and she loved him. Is it strange to want that, even though I know it won’t be for me?”
“Do you think that was always true? I remember when your parents were first wed. They had scarcely a word to say to each other and they both looked terrified. Love came later.”
“He never wed again.” If he had, I might not be bearing this burden. The last and least of his children.
“Doesn’t that show his faith in you?”
Brienne ignored his comment, signaled him, let her sword drop, and wiped her face on her sleeve. “We’ll train hard every day from now on. They’ve agreed to let me fight, and I intend to win. That will put an end to this, as it did with Ser Humfrey. I don’t expect to know my betrothed long enough to love him or not.”
All she knew personally of love was what she had felt when Lord Renly had smiled at her, taken her hand, and guided her through a dance as if she was worthy of his regard. Worthy of kindness. Worthy of attention, admiration. Worthy of love. It hadn’t meant to him what it meant to her; she saw that Renly was equally kind to everyone. But if there was a way for her to be close to him and serve him, she would take it. Not that it would ever happen, even if she could stave off this fourth attempt to wed her.
Renly isn’t here now. Brienne shook her head, doing her best to banish her thoughts and narrow her concentration. Sweep, uppercut, parry, thrust. Ser Goodwin was older than her father, Ser Humfrey older still; her coming opponent was young, but she was strong. She put all her power into her next stroke, and Ser Goodwin’s sword flew toward the wall. “I yield,” he immediately said with a smile. She was glad of it; she had begun to feel guilty if they sparred until she knocked him off his feet. Dear Ser Goodwin. His fighting style was over-familiar to her. He always dropped his left shoulder before sweeping his sword to the right. I wish I had more and different partners to spar with. Some of her father’s sworn knights were willing to train with her, but more were not. She could often, though not always, defeat those who lifted their swords against her, and she suspected that for every one she forced to yield, another preferred not to risk embarrassment.
Ser Goodwin was watching her sympathetically. “Guard yourself,” he said. They moved back into position. “You’ve always been too stubborn for your own good, Brienne. I hope that the Seven can protect your strong arm, and your gentle heart.”
*************************
Tyrion had spent the previous night in his chambers, drinking, reading, and brooding about Tarth, and the summons from his father was even less welcome than usual. “It’s too much to hope that Lord Selwyn’s response was unsatisfactory.”
“It was acceptable.”
“What if I refuse? You can’t drag me to the sept.” Actually, he can. “You can’t force me to say the words.”
“Of course I can’t. If you’d prefer to make your way in the world as Tyrion Hill, still a dwarf and no longer a Lannister, you always have that option.”
The silence stretched between them. His father had made the same response when he had asked to take a grand tour of Essos. I should throw his offer, his gold, and his name back in his face. But I won’t. He knows me too well. I need another drink.
“There is one odd condition stipulated in Lord Selwyn’s letter. The lady wishes to wed only a husband who can defeat her at swordplay.”
Tyrion stared and guffawed. “That’s ludicrous! Why are you so calm? That puts an end to your scheme.”
“Not at all. Clearly you’ll be allowed to have a champion.”
“Oh? Is that so?” Tyrion’s eyebrows climbed. “Oh!”
Once again Tywin threatened to smile. “You can go. I need to send a raven to King’s Landing.”
Tyrion waddled to the door. As do I, Father. As do I.
*************************
Brienne was in the armory when word arrived that the party from Casterly Rock had landed and was climbing toward the Hall. She had spent every morning and afternoon for a fortnight in training. She could now force Ser Goodwin to yield at least eight times out of ten and did even better against the squires. The household knights would no longer spar with her. She was as ready as she could make herself. She wanted to run to the battlements to observe the approach of the Lannisters, but there was no time. Back to her chamber it was, to hastily wash and don a blue-and-rose embroidered gown. It makes me look like a lumpy tapestry. Worse, there was a bruise on her collarbone and another on her left arm, mute witness to how she had been spending her days. She brushed her hair and pulled it back into a meager braid. Since Septa Roelle had blessedly left to torment, or more likely to praise, some other more suitable girl, she had done without the help of a maid. Efforts to make her look better only made her feel worse.
The formal welcome took place in the South Hall, with its high vaults and star-painted ceiling. Knights, ladies, stewards, serving girls and even stableboys and scullions lined the walls. Brienne suspected that the crowd was meant to make the household look larger and more important than it was. The seldom used great doors were dragged open, creaking and scraping the floor, to admit Lord Tywin and his son.
Brienne couldn’t see her own face, but she knew it mirrored the shock on the face of her husband to be. A hideous flush rose to her face and raced down her body. Sweat prickled under her arms and between her breasts. Her stomach clenched. Gods... She was grateful that she was gripping her father’s arm. He seemed perfectly calm. “Welcome to Tarth and to Evenfall Hall, Lord Tywin. Lord Tyrion.” He and Tywin bowed to each other with precisely the correct degree of inclination. “May I present my daughter, the Lady Brienne?”
She and the dwarf - Tyrion, his name is Tyrion – stared at each other disbelief. He was a little more than half her height. Septa Roelle had once dragged her out of the armory, scolding, “Courtesy is all the armor a lady needs!” Brienne had protested that she wasn’t a lady, but at this moment the unwelcome lesson came back to her. Her feet moved forward automatically. She had memorized the words, but her tongue was thick in her mouth and for a few seconds she feared she couldn’t speak. Then her voice came from far away in formal greeting. “I join with my father in welcoming you as our most honored guests. Please eat our bread and salt, and after you have refreshed yourselves in your chambers, come to us for the welcoming feast.” Her curtsey was clumsy, but she didn’t trip. The moment would have passed well enough, but then someone laughed. It was contagious. Small titters became chuckles, chuckles became guffaws. Hands were clapped over faces. A few even dared to point.
Her father straightened, glowering. "Silence!"
That was nothing beside the look with which Tywin Lannister swept the room. “Silence in the hall! Hold your tongues! Is Tarth so ill-mannered?”
Brienne had always thought that ferocity was a heated thing, but Lord Tywin’s anger was cold, cold enough to freeze the laughter in throats and wipe the smiles from faces. This is a dangerous man. Even her father looked cowed. Suddenly everyone was gazing anywhere but at them. Servants, their eyes downcast, brought the platters with fresh-baked loaves and heaps of sea salt. Her husband-to-be caught her eye again, and grimaced. He almost looked sympathetic.
*************************
The interminable feast passed largely in silence. There were cold crabs and hot fried fish and a pie of lamb with rosemary. Brienne was seated with Tywin on her right, Tyrion on her left, and her father on the other side of Tywin. The two lords exchanged polite comments about the economy and geography of Tarth, about the fishery and the output of the quarries. Brienne stared at her plate, even when she felt Tyrion’s eyes on her. Tyrion drank wine with steady concentration.
The sweet, a moonberry and custard cake, was being brought in when Lord Tywin turned to her. “Before we finish our meal, I expect that you’re wondering how we’ll meet your absurd challenge.”
Brienne forced herself to respond. “Perhaps Lord Tyrion has formidable skills which aren’t immediately apparent.” She wasn’t sure how she had dared a remark bordering on rudeness. She kept her eyes on the far wall, not wanting to look at any of the men around her.
“I have many formidable skills, but your sort of swordplay isn’t among them,” said Tyrion, lifting his goblet. “I assume I’ll be allowed a champion?”
All of them knew about this except me. “In the circumstances, I can’t honorably refuse such a request.” This doesn’t change the situation. It’s still the same; I have to win.
“Tomorrow, then? In the afternoon?” She hated it that her father sounded cheerful.
“Agreed,” said Tywin flatly.
“I find I have no appetite for dessert,” said Brienne, rising. There’s a game being played here, and I don’t know the rules. “I hope you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course. Tyrion, please escort Lady Brienne.”
“There’s no need…” Tyrion stood up. “No need for us to know each other better? Please, my lady?”
The situation verged on farce. He had to lift his hand over shoulder level to put it on her elbow, but this time no one laughed.
*************************
She refused to cry. Not in front of him. “Lord Tyrion, I don’t want to marry you.”
“By all means, let’s be honest. Nor do I want to marry you. I had no idea that there were giantesses south of the Wall.”
“I didn’t know that there were dwarfs in the Westerlands.” His hand dropped from her arm. She flushed and looked down at him. “That was not courteous. I apologize.”
“I started it, my lady.” He looked even more like a gargoyle when he grinned. “Will you walk with me for a moment before I return you to your chamber? Evenfall is lovely this evening, and so is your Sapphire Isle, even if your harbor stinks of fish.”
“The sea feeds us. We can’t eat marble.”
“I don’t know how the Rock is fed, but we don’t eat gold, though it’s said that we shit it.”
I have no skill at banter. She turned toward the steps leading down to a small seaward topiary garden. The sept garden was larger and more beautiful, but she didn’t want to go near the sept or to think about what might happen there. He stepped back to allow her to go first, and she was painfully aware that his short legs caused him to lag behind.
They faced each other in the shadows of the bushes. Brienne spoke first. “I fully intend to defeat your champion.”
“I hope that you do.”
“We could reject this marriage. Stand in front of the septon and refuse to speak our vows.”
“With all of them laughing at us again?”
“Not if your father looks at them.”
“Ah, you noticed that. This entire matter is mummer’s farce for us, a cyvasse game for our fathers. In either case, they are the ones in control.”
“You’re a man grown…”
His face twisted. “I’m a man, though not precisely grown.”
“I didn’t mean…”
He waved a hand. “I know you didn’t. If you’re asking why I don’t stand up to my father… If I did, he’s made it plain that I would no longer be a Lannister. And I rather like my family name; better than I like most of my family. What’s your reason?”
“My brother died. My sisters died. My mother died. I’m all my father has.” There was mint growing in a bed. She picked a leaf and crushed it to release the scent.
“My mother died too. Giving birth to me. My father understandably viewed it as a poor exchange.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t know her to mourn her. I suppose my father mourned, though I’ve never seen evidence that he actually possesses a heart.”
“But why didn’t he marry again?”
“I’ve never known. His sons are a Kingsguard and a dwarf. Not a healthy future for House Lannister, and he cares far more for our House than he does for anyone in it.”
“My father never married again either, and he reminds me often that I’m the future of Tarth.”
“Guilt. It’s a powerful weapon if one knows how to use it. Mine prefers guile, and force when guile fails.”
“Mine wields guilt like a dagger.” It is easy to speak freely to Lord Tyrion because we want nothing of each other.
“But he lets you have a sword. He allows this challenge you’ve set up.”
“I suppose he may feel some guilt, too. My last betrothed was five-and-sixty years old.” Suddenly she was laughing, putting a hand over her face in embarrassment. Septa Roelle had said that she laughed like a donkey. “I’d rather marry you, after all!”
Unexpectedly he took her other hand and kissed it. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Who will you choose as your champion?”
“Someone whose loyalty I trust.”
*************************
Lord Selwyn had decided that the match would be fought in the main courtyard rather than in the training yard. He said that there wasn’t enough room for spectators in the smaller space; he was right, but Brienne would have been more confident there. She supposed that was also one of his reasons for rejecting it. Evenfall Hall stepped back in tiers as the cliff behind it receded. The main courtyard was one level down. The chief rooms of the castle surrounded it on three sides, but the seaward side was open to the view and to the breeze from the northwest. Brienne noted the direction of the wind, and the swirls of dust it created. Every fact she could store away might be useful. The uneven marble squares underfoot, unpolished and roughened by weather, were slipperier than the dirt she usually fought on. She would need to adjust her footwork. The mid-afternoon sun was bright enough to illuminate the entire space. As it fell toward the west – if the bout lasted that long – it would be in their eyes; another thing which she might use to advantage.
The edges of the space had been roped off with bright silken ribbons, alternating the Tarth blue-and-rose and the Lannister red-and-gold. The colors clashed horribly, but the crowd was in a jolly, well-fed mood. She had lunched lightly on soup and fruit. They would fight with blunted swords. To her it felt as if her life depended on the outcome, but that wasn’t the literal purpose. Falls and bruises, yes, even broken bones were acceptable, but not much blood. Her bleeding, if she bled, would be in her mind and heart. She forced her sweaty hands to relax on the leather hilt of the sword and on the straps of her shield. She wore no armor, but the shield was a choice; she would need to fight defensively in the beginning, waiting for her opponent to tire.
“Remember your balance,” said Ser Goodwin at her elbow. “Remember your breath. Watch. Wait. Look for his weaknesses. Outlast him.”
She felt a wave of affection amid her nervousness. “I will.” He had been giving her obvious advice every day. Today he had been giving it every hour. “Now all I need is to see the champion I’m going to face.”
They were kept waiting for several long minutes until the spectators stirred and murmured and began to move aside from the entrance. Lannister men-at-arms visibly straightened. Lord Tywin looked satisfied, her father stoic. The first thing Brienne saw was a gleam of gold hair half-a-head higher than the men parting before him.
He was all in white.
Prickles raced over her skin and for a moment she was lightheaded. The newcomer unfastened his white cloak and tossed it carelessly to one side without even looking to see if someone caught it.
Ser Goodwin gripped her arm and she looked at him, appalled. To her relief, she saw concern, not guilt. He didn't know. “Gods, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t expect this. Breathe, girl, breathe!”
“He’s the Kingslayer!” she hissed. How did he get here? Why are they all a step ahead of me in this game? Why didn’t I expect this?
“Aye. The Kingslayer. You could yield before the bout.”
“No!” Her head snapped around and she glared at Tyrion, who simply shrugged. My father must have known. They all knew, Father, Lord Tywin, Tyrion… and they think I’m the stupidest…
“It wouldn’t be like you to yield without fighting. Remember, he’s just a man, and you’re better than he’ll expect you to be.” Ser Goodwin’s hand squeezed and fell away.
Jaime Lannister was the Warrior come to life, if the Warrior’s face had a mocking smile and cold green eyes. They examined her with amusement. “It’s a swordwench! I was warned, but I wanted to see for myself.” He gave an exaggerated frown. “You are a wench? It’s hard to tell.”
“I am Brienne, known as the Maid of Tarth.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you chosen your sword, Brienne of Tarth? I expect mine will serve me well. It won’t take long to put you in your place.”
His words are wind. “I’m ready.” Watch and wait.
He spun his sword and bowed gracefully toward the spectators. “Ready.”
She was taller than he, so she had the advantage of a longer reach. They circled, studying each other, then closed in the first clash of steel. I’m as strong as he is… almost.
He was fast. She was unprepared for his speed; she had never imagined a fighter could move so quickly. He swung and slid and thrust and slashed and it was all she could do to block him. Defeat him? I can barely hold him off. Ser Goodwin had taught her that every opponent had habits for her to discover. But the Kingslayer wasn’t still for long enough to learn his patterns. Lunge, strike, miss, parry, parry, parry… can I do nothing but parry? He was driving her back toward a corner, but she deliberately met his next blow with her shield rather than her blade and managed to use it as a pivot point so their positions were reversed.
He laughed at her. “Very good. Are we fighting or dancing, my lady? I’m not sure it counts as swordplay.”
He likes to show off. “Better than an oathbreaker’s slash to the throat, Kingslayer!” I shouldn’t let him provoke me, but I’ve never seen such arrogance. Before she could bring her shield around he landed a blow to her side which would leave a bad bruise.
“You’ll need to do better than that, wench. The world knows I’m a kingslayer. The question is, what are you?”
She was already dripping with sweat, but a coldness settled over her mind. His very confidence is his weakness. I can’t outfight him, but I need to think of what I can do instead. Sun and wind and marble underfoot? I can get Tarth itself on my side.
It took another twenty minutes, a numbing blow to her shield arm and another to her thigh before she was fighting him near the balustrade. The Lannister men were shouting for him to finish it, and her. She heard a few cheers for Tarth, but most of her own people would be just as happy to witness her defeat. Dirt devils whirled around their legs. He sent her to one knee, but she recovered enough to manage a thrust under his arm which she was satisfied had pained him.
“A bee sting doesn’t trouble a lion,” he said through clenched teeth.
She circled away. Watch and wait. Her back was to the sea. The sun was setting behind her. The breeze was picking up. Her foot caught in a crack, a crack she knew would be there. She stumbled to one side and he lunged. Now, now! The loose slab under his foot tilted, as she had hoped it would, and the light and the wind were in his eyes. His slash went wide and as he struggled to keep his feet, his arm went out to one side. She put every scrap of strength she had been saving into her stroke, and it hit his sword just below the hilt. The parabola it made as it flew from his hand was the best sight she had ever seen. Unbalanced, he fell, and her blade was at his throat. “Yield!”
He swung his legs, tried to roll and grabbed for the sword, but she pushed it harder against his neck. Hard enough to hurt, hard enough to let him know that she could crush his windpipe. “Yield, Kingslayer!”
He glared at her for a long moment before his lips formed the words. “I yield.” She stepped back, shaking. There was a confusion of noise, a few cheers but more groans of surprise and dismay. She didn’t care. It was over.
*************************
She found him the next day, sprawled on a bench, looking at the sea, his long legs stretched out.
“Swordwench!”
She glowered down at him. “You let me win.”
“You’re not as stupid as you look.” His smile was sharp as a knife, sharp as the angle of his jaw.
“That was not honorable, Kingslayer!”
“Come, did you really want to marry my brother?”
“I wanted to fight honestly!”
“And so you did. It’s not your fault that Lannisters lie. Aren’t you going to thank me?”
She turned to leave. It was too galling to admit owing anything to him. Last night’s dinner had been excruciating. Lord Tywin’s silent rage had chilled any attempt at conversation, though it seemed mainly directed at his sons. He had ignored her entirely.
Jaime Lannister’s voice stopped her. “You’re not bad, you know. You’re not good, but you’re not bad.”
“Don’t condescend to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Ser Goodwin taught me well. If he hadn’t, you couldn’t have played out your farce of losing.”
“True enough, as far as it goes. I’m sure your Ser Goodwin could defeat many. Many hedge knights, that is.”
“Ser Goodwin fought nobly in the war before he became our master-at-arms!”
“Of course he did, those many years ago. For which side?”
She hesitated. “Tarth is sworn to Storm’s End.” To her relief, he didn’t pursue the matter. Her family’s mixed loyalties and trace of Targaryen blood were better left unmentioned. “I’ve said what I came to say, Kingslayer. It’s true that I didn’t want to marry your brother, nor did he want to marry me, but I dislike owing my freedom to being tricked by a man without honor.”
She had only gone three steps when he spoke again. “You always grimace before you strike. It’s a bad habit.”
“What?” Unwillingly, she turned back.
“You give yourself away. I could have had you flat on your back in two minutes if I’d really tried. Gods, will you stop looming over me like a castle wall?” He stood and she resisted an impulse to back up. He was not much like his father… But they are both dangerous. “Our ship won’t return for us until tomorrow. Tarth is boring. Meet me in your training yard in an hour.”
*************************
His father was as furious as Tyrion had ever seen him.
“Did you and Jaime arrange this between you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Tyrion felt remarkably cheerful. He was accustomed to seeing Tywin angry, but to see him frustrated was a rare treat. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters! We are being laughed at. Power and ridicule cannot coexist.”
“Neither can the Lady Brienne and I coexist, alas for your plans.”
Tywin actually slammed his fist on the table and Tyrion struggled to repress a grin. “Either you’ve shown me for a fool or your brother is no longer the fighter he was. To be knocked in the dirt by a… by a…”
“It was marble, not dirt.”
“Speaking with you is useless. Where is Jaime?”
“Avoiding you, no doubt.”
*************************
I should leave him waiting. He didn’t even have the courtesy to make a request of me; he commanded me. But curiosity drew Brienne to the yard. It was one of Tarth’s perfect days, blue sky, warm but not hot, a few harmless white clouds, a soft breeze. He was looking at the sky, studying the clouds over the mountains, and she took a moment to observe him. He’d traded his Kingsguard white for a jacket and brown breeches. He probably didn’t want to get his fine whites dirty. Dirtier. At least I did some damage yesterday. “The handsomest knight in the Seven Kingdoms,” she’d heard a girl whisper. She didn’t agree. He was not as handsome as Renly, and worse, there was no kindness in him. The black stag is a nobler beast than the golden lion.
He noticed her. “So you did come! Are you ready to learn a few things your Ser Goodwin never taught you? Choose your weapon.”
She longed to take a morningstar with which to bash in his smug face. Or live steel to cut him with. But her better sense told her that she would get the worst of those encounters. Scowling, she found a tourney sword. There was no one else in the yard, and the stableboys had finished their morning chores; at least they would be unobserved. Ser Goodwin had been one of the few last night who had enthusiastically and liberally toasted her victory; she hadn’t seen him today. Doubtless he was indisposed.
They began with simple drills, first footwork and then strokes, and the familiar routine calmed her, as did the smell of horses from the stables. They progressed to sparring, and he disarmed her twice, but spoke no disparaging words, simply nodded at her to begin again. The third time, she held her own until he signaled a stop.
“You’re stronger than most men, and you have a good reach and height. What you lack most is speed. You should train with a lighter blade. There’s no need to batter your opponent into submission if you can slip past his defenses.” He took her sword and chose another one, tossing it to her. “Try this.”
He was right that the less weighty sword helped her movements, but she felt the lack of power in her strokes. She wasn’t sure she liked his advice. “My arm can take more weight.”
“That’s not the point. Once you’re moving fluidly you can – No, don’t cross your feet like that, ever. Sooner or later you’ll tangle them.”
She self-consciously adjusted her stance. “I see.”
“As I was saying, you can always add weight to your weapons, but the movements come first. You should aim for grace.”
“Grace?” Me?
“Yes. Strange as it may sound. Let’s try again.”
An hour slipped by. She hadn’t expected him to be patient, but he was. She could almost imagine that he was enjoying himself. She could almost imagine that she was enjoying herself.
“Water?” he asked.
“In the barrel by the stable door.”
He took the dipper and poured it over his head. He shook his head like a wet dog, laughed and drank deeply before handing it to her. The sun sparkled on the drops in his hair.
Brienne hadn’t realized how thirsty she had become. The simple gesture of sharing water emboldened her. “How was this planned? You owe me an explanation, Kingslayer.”
His easygoing expression darkened. “I don’t owe you anything. My part in this is finished. But since you ask so nicely… My father sent a raven commanding my presence. The king laughed and consented. My sister laughed and told me to hurry back. Lord Commander Selmy didn't laugh, but frowned at the frivolity of it all.” He paused. “My brother… My brother’s raven came shortly after my father’s. He asked me to lose without making it obvious. Believe me, that was much harder than winning would have been.”
“So why did you agree?”
“He’s my brother. That’s reason enough for me.”
“He should have told me! He seemed… He’s not a bad man, I think.”
“Tyrion’s the best of us.” The Kingslayer was seeing something unpleasant, but it wasn’t her. “Not that that’s difficult.”
“He could have trusted me. We both wanted the same thing.”
“He didn’t know you. It was more convincing this way. We Lannisters only trust our family, even when we shouldn’t.”
“I wish I could trust my father," she blurted. Why am I telling him this? She hadn’t spoken to Lord Selwyn since her victory.
“He lets you fight for yourself. He lets you dress as you please. That’s more than most lords allow their daughters. Perhaps when he looks at your face and form he forgets that you’re a girl.”
“If he did, he’d stop trying to wed me to grotesques!”
“My brother? In that way, you’d be a good match.”
“The man before him was five-and-sixty! I broke several of his bones. He wished to have a wife he could chastise.”
He began to laugh. “There aren’t many who could do that, I will grant. I could, but I thank the gods it’s not my duty. How many times has your nose been broken?”
“My nose isn’t your concern.”
To her surprise, he touched his own. It would have been razor straight but for a tell-tale bump at the bridge. “Once, for me. In the fight against the Kingswood Brotherhood. Simon Toyne smashed his shield into my face. Seven hells but it hurt! Then Arthur Dayne told me to kneel to receive my knighthood, and I forgot all about it. I was fifteen.” There was wonder in his face, and he looked suddenly much younger. His eyes were soft with memory.
He wasn’t the Kingslayer then. The Sword of the Morning saw something in him. A pity the boy became an evil man. She cleared her throat. “Twice. The first time when I fell out of an apple tree. The second time was in training. Ser Goodwin was horrified. My septa said it served me right. My father said it didn’t matter.” I never knew whether he was being kind, or if he meant that nothing could mar my appearance further.
“It doesn’t matter.” His sharpness was back. “Keep up with your training, remember the lessons I’m trying to get through your thick skull, and it won’t get broken again.”
“Are we finished?”
“By no means. You still have much to learn, and I still need to stave off boredom. It’s time to dance again, wench.”
Eventually they both began to flag. “Get your blade up!” He landed a painful blow on her shin. “Why are you listening to me? Watch what I’m doing, don’t believe what I’m saying.”
Brienne managed to get in a strike to his side before he finished speaking. She was aching, red-faced and breathless, but she was gratified to see him wince and take a half-step back. “You were telling me?”
He signaled a halt. “Enough. That was well-done. I believe it’s courteous to let a lady have the last word. A few more drills though, to cool our blood. Never stop abruptly. You’ll pay for it in cramps.”
“I know that. I’m not…”
“Entirely ignorant? No, you’re not. But you might learn more if you were to leave Tarth.”
They moved into slow footwork practice; it felt almost pleasurably lazy. Her breath calmed and her heart slowed; his golden hair and skin were also sweat soaked, but he looked peaceful.
Finally they returned the swords to their racks in the armory, which was pleasingly cool and dim. She liked the smell of steel and oil and the orderliness of the space. The light from a high window caught an old shield on the wall. He looked at it curiously. “Whose device is that?”
“I don’t know. It’s always been there.”
“Elm tree and falling star. I thought… no matter. I could be mistaken.”
The light in the yard had dimmed as the sun sank behind a rank of clouds coming up in the west. “It will rain tomorrow,” she observed with awkward banality.
“Then I’m glad we sparred today.” He pulled off his jacket and she noticed how his shirt clung to him. “You’re an interesting creature, Lady Brienne of Tarth. You’ve made my short time here less unpleasant than I expected. If you ever make your way to King’s Landing, send me a message.”
Is he serious? Hardly. But she nodded.
“I have one last thought for you. Did any of your intended husbands, even my brother, bother to tell you that your eyes are bluer than your sapphire seas?”
There was her blush again. Why is he saying that? “No.”
“Then they’re unobservant fools. Goodbye, Brienne.”
“I wish you a safe journey. Goodbye, Kingslayer.”
He looked at her. “Jaime. My name is Jaime.”
*************************
Riverrun, three years later.
“Brienne,” called Lady Catelyn Stark.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Give me your sword. The Kingslayer is ready to make a vow.”
Brienne stared at the man slumped in the filthy straw of the cell. The light was bad, but the smell was worse. She wouldn’t have recognized him if Lady Catelyn hadn’t named him.
“I see you took my advice to leave Tarth, swordwench.”
“Brienne? Do you know this man?
“The Kingslayer and I have met.”
He raised his head. Only his eyes were the same. “And my name is still Jaime.”