BRIENNE
The wind had been steady for almost five days now, a stroke of good fortune that Brienne had not dared to hope for. It drove the skiff along the Red Fork at a blustering clip, and the few times it slowed or vanished, she pulled the oars until her arms ached. She had rowed Jaime down this river before, in a different situation, in almost a different life, and that time, even though she had hated him, she had saved him from Robin Ryger's archers. For Lady Catelyn's sake, not his. Now even the thought of Lady Catelyn seared like a brand, and as for Jaime. . .
He was alive, at least. She had stopped at one of the small towns along the river and bartered her last few coins for some clean bandages and a pot of sticky dark ointment that the merchant said had come from a healer in the east, someone called a maggy. Jaime had revived enough to complain about the smell when she applied it, which was heartening, but only the endless hard work of handling the skiff kept her from abject panic. The Elder Brother will heal him, he must.
She'd contrived as comfortable a berth for Jaime as she could, with her cloak and his in an impromptu hammock. Guilt drove her on harder than any goad. She was always careful where she anchored them for the night, only stopping when it was too dark to go any further, and no matter how she yearned to give Jaime the luxury of a proper bed and care, it was too dangerous. They would be known anywhere.
The shock of everything was starting to sink in, and Brienne was haunted awake from her fitful dreams by the memories of Catelyn Stark's ruined face and hating eyes. She slept sitting upright; there was not enough room in the bottom of the skiff for two to lie abreast, and she would not disturb Jaime. A permanent dull ache had settled in her muscles, and her throat was as coarse and dry as sand. Sometimes she sipped river water to quench her thirst, but the taste was brackish and rotten. They had almost no food, and she gave to Jaime what they did, lifting his head and holding the bread to his lips until he swallowed. Occasionally he tried to refuse, but she wouldn't let him, coaxing and pleading and even threatening him until he muttered, "Stupid stubborn brave wench." He smiled at her once, told her that he wanted to eat some dog with lemons when they got to wherever they were going, then murmured that it wouldn't be Dorne after all and lapsed back into half-consciousness.
By Brienne's reckoning, they should reach the Quiet Isle in only a few more days. The Red Fork drained right into the Bay of Crabs; all they needed to do was follow it. If Jaime had not expired this far, glued to life by Thoros' potions and the maggy's, it seemed likely that he was no longer in mortal danger, even if his wound still turned her stomach whenever she looked at it. In those unformed hours, Brienne found herself mouthing prayers for the welfare of both the Lannister twins. She scolded herself for her insincerity, knowing that she only hoped for Cersei's preservation out of that ridiculous fantasy that it would also somehow save Jaime, but she could not help it.
She had known it for a while, but had avoided confronting it directly, due to the tangle of delicate and treacherous emotions that it brought up. She was at least as in love with Jaime Lannister as she had ever been with Renly Baratheon, perhaps more, and sometimes it made no sense – and then it made all the sense imaginable. For she had loved Renly for his charm and chivalry and polished courtesies, his handsome face and his winning smile and his good manners, the only man who had ever looked past her ugliness and ungainliness and the mail and leather she wore and the sword that she could beat any of them with. It was true as anything, and owed nothing to be excused or explained away, but it was still a girl's love, a perfect model of the courtly archetype, to chastely long from afar without hope of consummation. I fight like a knight, and I love as one as well. Yet still she could never be a "ser."
Jaime was utterly different. It would have been difficult to find another man in the Seven Kingdoms who was so utterly Renly's antithesis. Like Renly, Jaime outwardly resembled the perfect knight, but ironically, it was his most knightly act – slaying the monster that Aerys Targaryen had become – which had set the stage for he himself to become known as the monster. I called him it myself, the last we passed this way.
Yet for all the things, good and bad, that the Kingslayer was – and they were legion – he was no monster. And Brienne had seen so many of them, known the weaknesses as well as the strengths, that Jaime had become a real man to her, a whole one (missing hand notwithstanding) in a way that Renly never had. He made no bones about what he was, did as he damned well pleased and dared the world to challenge him, yet at the same time, some dark small scared part of him feared that it would. And the parts of him and the parts of her had become mixed up together, until she could no longer say what belonged to the girl she had been before, and what to the woman she was now. And if Jaime Lannister – Jaime thrice-damned Lannister – wanted any of it, he had only to ask.
But she could never escape the shame of loving the man whom Lady Catelyn had so despised, and with equally as good reason. When the two emotions collided in her chest, Brienne wanted to cry out with the force of it, as if it was truly tearing her in half. The only relief was to row faster and faster, until the skiff rocked with their speed and she ached from head to toe. Physical pain at least she could bear, though her half-eaten cheek sometimes hurt enough to press silent tears out of her eyes. Once or twice, she came to the brink of confessing her feelings aloud, just to find a shred of relief, but she always restrained. Jaime went in and out of consciousness, and she was horrified at the idea that he might overhear her. And since she was largely responsible for the fact that he was lying there as he was, he might not take it seriously, think it was only a fit of guilt. Or pity her. Or make some flippant Jaime jest that would break her heart.
With this maelstrom brewing in her head, Brienne was genuinely shocked to look up on the sixth day and see the Bay of Crabs opening blue-grey in the near distance. The mountains of the Vale were visible to the north, white scarves of ice gusseting from frosty summits, and she was reminded again of just how long it had been since she had seen any scrap of green, anything fair or flowering or fertile. Even the lower slopes and terraces were laced in snow, and in Lord Harroway's Town – which she'd given as wide a berth as she could – smoke drifted from the crowded chimneys. Jaime had started to shiver, so she pulled off her own cloak and tenderly covered him with it.
An hour's hard rowing finally got them out of the estuary, and up onto the beach of the Quiet Isle. Brienne jumped overboard to haul the boat clear, staggered, and went to a knee in the cold, briny water; after close to a week without setting foot on dry land, her legs were cramped and unsteady. There were already a few brown brothers gathering on the hill above, looking down curiously, but in deference to their vows, none of them called out to her. Instead, they waited while she hoisted Jaime in her arms, then labored up the path to them. Gasping from the exertion, she said, "I need to see the Elder Brother. Immediately."
The brown brothers glanced at each other. Then in unison, they shook their heads.
"What?" Alarm lanced through Brienne like a blade. It was his skill, his care, his healing, that she'd staked all her hopes on. "Has he taken ill? Is he dead? Please, I know you are not meant to speak, but I am Brienne, Brienne of Tarth, he knows me, I met him the last time I came here, with Septon Meribald and Hyle Hunt and Podrick Payne – please, I beg you, let me know what has become of him – "
One of the brothers held up a hand, stemming her desperate tide of words. Then he beckoned for her to follow him, and she did, shaking. Jaime's head had sunk against her chest, but she still heard him whisper. "Brienne. . ."
"Aye?"
"Where in seven hells. . . have you brought me this time? I'm not sure. . . I can survive a visit. . . with any more of your friends."
"You will," she said fiercely. "You will."
A faint smile curled his lips. He muttered something she didn't understand, and she resumed the climb. At the top of the hill, they passed the rows of neat graves, and by reflex, she looked instead for the big lame gravedigger who had been there last time. But he was gone as well.
The brothers led her into the septry, and motioned for her to wait. She did, leaning against the wall for support, until a door opened at the far end and the proctor who had greeted her before, Brother Narbert, stepped through. He was plainly not expecting to see her, and his mouth dropped open, though he recovered with aplomb. "Lady Brienne, this is an honor, of course. Though. . ." His eyes flickered to her burden. "It is likely that you would not have wished to return in this fashion."
"No." Brienne shifted Jaime, trying to ease the ache in her arms. "Please tell me where the Elder Brother is. Please."
Brother Narbert weighed his words before he answered. At last he said, "The Elder Brother has gone to the Vale, to attend the health of Lord Robert Arryn. But while he was there, he seems to have. . . "
"Has what?" Brienne pleaded. "When will he return? What happened there?"
"My lady, it is not my place to tell you. Two of the Warrior's Sons who went with him returned on their way south, and. . ." For a moment the proctor seemed to teeter on the verge of spilling all, but composed himself. "Come with me. I can doctor your companion in his stead."
Brienne was burning with desperate curiosity, but forced herself to swallow her questions. There were other and more important things to see to, and she followed Narbert through the cloisters to a dark low room. The brother lit a torch and gestured for her to put Jaime on the bed. She stepped aside to allow Narbert to inspect the damage; he did so, then said, "You may stay, if you wish. I could use your assistance in keeping him still."
"They cut off. . . my wrist before," Jaime rasped. "This time. . . you'd best not cut off my chest."
"Be quiet," Brienne told him, and moved to hold his shoulders as Brother Narbert gathered catgut and needle and a cloth and basin, a strigil and a candle and a small knife. She felt as unready for the ordeal as if it was she who was about to undergo it.
It was even worse than she had imagined. Brother Narbert had to cut, drain, clean, and cauterize the wound, and the gush of pus when he broke the scab made Brienne retch and Jaime swear. He kept on swearing in violent, rambling bursts, so inventively that even Brienne, who had spent the vast majority of her life among men, learned some new vocabulary. Brother Narbert trimmed the torn edges back, dug out a splinter of Lem's blade, used the candle to sear the seeping hole, and finally began to hem it closed with catgut, each stitch accompanied with a rhythmic sobbing gasp from Jaime. The monk's hands were admirably steady about his gory work. Brienne imagined that during the war, he had seen much more, and much worse.
"Your ointment was a godsend," Brother Narbert said at last, as he was bandaging Jaime up. When informed of its origins, however, he frowned and said, "The maegi of the east are dangerous and subtle creatures, and have no love for the Faith or the Seven. It would be better if you did not meddle with such things in future."
"It kept. . . me alive," Jaime commented. "They can worship. . . the god of baked beans for all. . . I bloody care."
Brother Narbert threw him a slightly reprimanding look. Then he crushed some powder into a cup of water, and held it to Jaime's lips. "Willow bark, for the pain, and a pinch of poppy to help you sleep."
"Oh, good," said Jaime. "I was so worried about my sleep."
"I'll stay with him," Brienne told Brother Narbert. "Thank you."
"My lady, you are dead on your feet," the monk replied. "And you will recall that in this house, men and women do not sleep beneath the same roof unless they are wed."
Jaime snorted. "I can't tell. . . if you mean to insult my morality. . . or compliment my virility. Either way. . . you're safe."
Brienne could feel her face turning red. Foolish. You foolish girl. "I will stay on the floor," she said. "Only for if he should have need of me during the night."
"I will have one of the novices keep watch over him." Brother Narbert put a hand beneath her arm; clearly, the discussion was over. "If there is aught to know, you will be told. Now, my lady, let's find you a bed. Come."
Brienne dawdled behind as they left, constantly glancing over her shoulder. She was possessed with an unhinged urge to go back, as if she might miss something vital, then told herself that a week in a boat, looking at Jaime as he had been destroyed by her deception, had truly stripped her of every sense of perspective and reason and restraint. Ser Hyle asked me to marry him, she thought furiously, even though she would have slept in a bed of nettles sooner than Ser Hyle's. He had been blatantly candid about the fact that he was only doing it in order to inherit Tarth through her, as Lord Selwyn had no other living child, but while she'd been repelled by his matter-of-fact skullduggery, she'd almost been attracted to it, as well. Because. . . Because it reminded me of Jaime.
Brienne shook her head. She still did not know what changes nearly being hanged would have wrought in Ser Hyle, whether they would be permanent or merely expedient, and she had already taken enough of a risk by sending him and Pod after Lady Sansa. For all she knew, Hyle would grab the girl and hie straight off to Lord Randyll, who would then be at leisure to dispose of this prize however it pleased him.
I will have to join them. Brienne did not consider herself in the least excused from her vows to either Lady Catelyn or to Jaime, and she was unlikely to do any amount of good hovering over the latter. Jaime would be safe enough on the Quiet Isle as he healed, and while his identity could not possibly remain a secret, it was difficult for gossip to spread in the absence of wagging tongues. And besides, she could not believe that he would belong to her for a moment, could not even pretend. She had done what she could to atone for her betrayal, had gotten him to sanctuary and care. Now she had to go. She had to.
Brienne's exhaustion was so vast as to almost be a physical thing, but nonetheless she could barely sleep. She told herself that she could have two days, no more, to gather her strength and reassure herself that Jaime was out of the woods, then press on north. She had no scrap of proof that that was where Sansa had gone, only an intuition she couldn't quite shake. She tried not to think of what the girl had been forced to endure by her failure, then made herself do so. Jaime is not the only person in the world. And finding Sansa and keeping her safe is the only way I can ever reconcile him and Lady Catelyn in my heart.
Yet that first day passed, and then the second. Jaime slept through both of them, but Brother Narbert assured Brienne that his wound was knitting extraordinarily well. "I do not think that putrefaction has set in," he said, "and while I do wonder what the Seven think of such a man, it is true that he has a. . . I would almost say invulnerability about him, as blasphemous as it sounds." He hurried to mark the star on himself. "He believes that this cannot kill him, so it will not. I cannot explain it."
"You do know who he is, then." Brienne was not surprised. Even thin, ragged, dirty, bloody, and comatose, the Kingslayer was recognizable from one corner of the kingdom to the other.
"I do," Brother Narbert acknowledged, "and. . . forgive me, my lady, but I have seen the way you look at him. I know the Maiden has fashioned you for love, as She has for all others of your gentle birth and sex, but Ser Jaime is not worthy of it. I will not deny that the man may have been misunderstood in his life, but can you truly think that if he still had his hand, he would have been in such haste to do any of this for you? Like as not he would have given you to his guards for their sport, as his father did with that whore the Imp wed in his youth. This is the man who killed the old king, who cuckolded the new king in the bed of his own sister, who tore apart the realm to keep it dishonorably secret. . . My lady, his misdeeds – "
"I know them." Brienne was weary of hearing them. "As for the rest, I would have expected a godly man to know better of questioning the hand dealt to us by fate. If I had been born a male, can you truly think that I would be in such haste to do any of this?" Her voice was sharper than she intended.
Brother Narbert inclined his head. "My lady, forgive me. I meant no offense. But the Elder Brother has told me some of what you have taken upon yourself. Do you not think it would have been more chivalrous, more truly evident of a redeemed nature, for Ser Jaime to set out on the search for Sansa Stark himself?"
"How could he possibly?" Brienne had pondered this question before. "A Lannister, her House's sworn enemy, when his father had her brother and lady mother murdered, and married her off to the Imp for the purposes of obtaining her claim to the North? Do you think his quest would remain a secret for one moment, do you think anyone would ever believe that he meant only to keep her safe out of altruism, with no ulterior motives whatsoever?"
"This is true," Brother Narbert admitted again, "but my lady, I think this appeals to you the most because you see it as something from a tale. You have been given a legendary sword, charged to fight monsters and save a beautiful maiden. But you – "
"You need not tell me that I am no knight, brother. Nor that Jaime is no hero." Brienne turned away, swiping the back of her big, freckled hand across her face. "I am not so naïve as you think. I do it fully of my own will and desire. What would you counsel for me? That I wed Hyle Hunt and return meekly to Tarth, so that I may become Sansa Stark myself – a pawn valued for my father's lands, dependent on a true knight to save me? By your standards, neither Jaime nor myself are true knights, yet we are all she has. And I must find her, whatever it may cost me."
"Then go," the monk said quietly. "Find her."
"On the morrow. I will go on the morrow." She ought to be able to buy a horse from one of the trading outposts on the Trident, Brienne judged. "But now, I will see Ser Jaime."
For a moment, Brother Narbert looked as if he was thinking about thwarting her, but finally gave a grudging nod and stepped aside. Brienne opened the door and ducked into the dim, stuffy sickroom.
Jaime's eyes were closed, but they flickered open at her approach. "Wench. Give me a hand, would you? Or you know what I mean."
She bit her lip. "Aye." Moving closer to the bed as carefully as if she expected to break something, Brienne slid an arm under Jaime's shoulders and helped him sit up. She was relieved to see that there was no new blood or pus on the bandages, and he felt much stronger than he had when she carried him out of the hollow hill. The gods have heard my prayers.
"I'd kill Lem again for something to eat," Jaime said. The whistling rasp in his voice, while still present, was much less noticeable than before. "I don't suppose brown brothers believe in food?"
"I'll fetch something for you. Stay here."
"Bugger that." Before Brienne could stop him, Jaime swung both long legs over the side of the bed and stood. He then staggered as if about to collapse, and she lunged in at once and caught him. It was only when she saw his irreverent smile that she realized he'd done it on purpose, and tears stung her eyes. Partly because she was so glad that he was recovered enough to commence making an arse of himself as usual, partly because she couldn't bear the thought of leaving him tomorrow, and partly because she simply felt far too fragile for jests right now. To her total horror, the tears overflowed and trickled down her cheeks.
"Brienne?" Jaime's voice was different. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" she gasped. "I trick you, take you to be killed by the outlaw brotherhood led by the corpse who was once my lady, because I would not do it myself and was nearly hanged, had half my face eaten when I've never been a maiden fair to start with? Then watched you be stabbed for the charge you made of me and which I utterly failed at, broke my back for a week trying to get you here to safety, was tormented by my shame, have to leave tomorrow to try once more to find my lady's daughter, who might be alive or dead or undead, and you jape me like that and ask what's wrong?" And with that, completing her mortification, she broke down entirely. She sank to her knees, bent double with sobbing.
Jaime looked stunned. He opened and then shut his mouth, thus marking one of the blue moons where Jaime Lannister had nothing clever to say. Then he knelt beside her with a muffled grunt of pain, and pulled her into his arms. He rested his real hand on her back, his golden hand on her hair, rocking her clumsily and muttering small nothings under his breath. Most of it was nonsense, but Brienne could have cared less. This was never the way she'd meant to come to him, to show her need bleeding all over the place. Just like a woman.
"Shh," said Jaime. "I'm sorry. You did everything that you could. Gods, woman, you saved my life again! You're going to have to jump into a few more bear pits, just so I can even up the score."
"But I haven't," Brienne hiccupped miserably. "I haven't found Lady Sansa, I don't even know where she is or where to start looking. I did this to you, all this, I did it – "
"It would have happened nonetheless. You heard what Thoros said. They would have caught up to me eventually."
"Yes, but – " Brienne shuddered with another sob. "It's a ruin, Jaime. It's all a ruin. I don't – I can't stand it. I really can't."
"You have," Jaime said. "You will."
Brienne had no answer. She cried a short while more, then let her head fall with a thunk against his uninjured shoulder. Jaime let her lie there for some while, until her gasping had quieted to slow, deep breathing. Then he said, very gently, "Get up, wench. Let's walk a bit."
Brienne did not want to, but he had asked. So she struggled to her feet, throat sticky and eyes swollen, wondering how much of a freak she looked now, and accepted Jaime's offered arm. Which of us is holding the other up? They made such a pathetic pair that a forlorn giggle choked out of her.
Slowly and ungainly, the two of them stumped through the cloisters and out into the day. It was fine and fair, though a pervasive chill laced the breeze. A few of the brown brothers were out, but with the harvest past and winter setting in, there was no more work to be done in the fields. Instead, they were repairing the wall and outbuildings, chinking cracks against the cold and cutting firewood. Jaime and Brienne's appearance did attract a few sidelong glances, but nothing more.
They walked away from the septry, down to the beach on the far side of the isle, where high piles of rocks shielded them from any view save the gulls overhead. It was warmer here out of the wind, and the Bay of Crabs glittered in the sun. Brienne could feel Jaime flagging, but he made no complaint, and finally drew her to sit down next to him in the fissure of a cliff. The soft sandy space was small and private, almost intimate, and Brienne felt the heat begin to return to her cheeks. She glanced away again, afraid that too many of her thoughts showed.
"Wench," Jaime said. "Brienne."
Unwillingly, she shot him as quick a look as possible.
Jaime put both hands on her face. "I won't stop you from going to find Sansa," he said, "and you shouldn't feel guilty about doing it. I wish I could help you, but I'd be as much use as – "
" – nipples on a breastplate," she finished.
"Exactly." Jaime looked surprised, then smiled. "But truly, I want you to. I don't think I understood precisely what I was putting on you, and I'm sorry."
Brienne wanted to think of something, to say something, anything, but he was still touching her, looking into her eyes, and it was too difficult. She nodded dumbly.
"As for the unpleasantness that happened with the Brotherhood," Jaime went on, "well. . . we can just call that fair's fair. You wouldn't have been there at all if I hadn't sent you, and you. . ." He suddenly seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. "You never broke your oath. Not to me, and not to her."
Brienne closed her eyes. She did not want to cry again, she did not, and the emotions exploding in her chest made words impossible. She had said that herself to Lady Catelyn's corpse, before leaving, but Jaime had been unconscious at the time and hadn't heard. Instead, she did the sole thing that she was capable of doing. She turned her head and kissed Jaime's fingers.
She heard him suck in his breath with a start. But he did not pull away. His hand moved convulsively up her cheek, and around the back of her head. Then while her eyes were still closed, for she knew that opening them would end the dream, she felt his warmth on her skin, his mouth on hers.
Shock obliterated Brienne's thoughts. Your lips were made for kissing, she heard Ser Hyle saying jauntily, and remembered him offering to steal into her room and prove the truth of his words. She had threatened to castrate him if he did, but she had never once actually thought that this would happen in its place. I can't do this, I can't, I must be mad, I can't – but it was useless. Both of her hands tangled in Jaime's shaggy golden hair, her lips opened for his tongue, she turned her head so they could move closer without knocking noses. She was horrified at the thought of how inexpert she must seem, how alien this must be for him. With Cersei he must have always known how to kiss her. Two halves of a whole, meeting in the middle.
At last, Jaime broke away. "Brienne," he said, sounding slightly drunk. "I – I'm sorry. I didn't – "
"I – " She fumbled to gather herself. All she could think of to do was to apologize in return: for not being prettier and more womanly, for not being more knowledgeable, for being only her tall ugly strong freakish self. "I – know I'm not your sister, I can't be Cersei for you – "
Jaime flinched. "Gods," he said. "I hope not. And in return, I can't be Renly for you."
"You – you're not." Her tongue was tied in knots. "I – don't want you to be." Briefly it seemed as if there were four people present and not two, his past love and hers, Cersei watching with furious green eyes and Renly with amused blue; there would be no jealousy on his part. I loved him, but he only pitied me.
For an instant more the ghosts remained, almost tangible enough to touch. Brienne wondered if Jaime could sense them, and could not fathom how on earth not. Then of a sudden both of them were reaching for each other, the real living thing among all the memories and shades, and she fell back on the sand, Jaime on top of her, kissing with hunger and grief and savagery.
Brienne could no longer think straight. His wound. . . he might break it open. . . It kept receding away before she could catch it, like waves breaking on shore. When they pulled apart the next time for breath, she stammered, "On the Quiet Isle. . . can't sleep together under the same roof if we're not. . ."
"I don't see a roof." Jaime glanced up ironically at the sheet of pale blue sky above them. "Do you?"
She gasped another shuddering laugh. This is only a madness, he feels sorry for me, he merely thinks he owes it to me. Yet even that was not enough to get her to stop. Jaime's left hand was fumbling at the laces of her jerkin, he mumbled, "I've never taken men's clothes off someone else before," and she trembled as his cold fingers cupped her small breast. Her own hand groped at his tunic, slid under; she could feel the sharp outlines of his ribs. She skimmed across the small of his back, light and timid. I am touching a man. I am touching Jaime.
"Brienne," he panted. "Brienne, if you don't want me to – make me stop. I will. Tell me."
"No." She sounded twice as drunk as him. "Don't."
She could not remember distinctly what followed next. But the end result was that their clothes were unlaced and rearranged, and the wind off the sea nipped at her bare skin, and she could not get her breath at all. Then Jaime grasped her awkwardly with his good hand, muttered, "Seven hells, what am I doing?" and met her eyes, questioning. Unable to speak for her life, she granted permission with a nod.
Jaime lowered himself on top of her, and just the barest breath into her. Brienne grasped her cloak very hard, trying to acclimate to the novelty and intensity of the sensation. Her nurse, on the few occasions she consented to speak of the marriage act, had told her that the first time would hurt badly, but Brienne had heard elsewhere that it would not be as bad if the woman wanted the man. It was not quite painful, if not exactly pleasurable either.
"All right?" Jaime mumbled. "Fine?"
"Fine," she said faintly. No matter what, she didn't want him to stop now.
Jaime let out a ragged breath, hitched himself forward and down, and claimed her maidenhead; Brienne felt it break with a sharp sting. She grimaced again, and he held still. Then she lifted her knees up, braced her heels, and eased the length of him inside her.
They lay entangled like that for several moments, breathing as if they had been chased by a herd of stampeding cattle. Brienne was obliquely comforted that both of them appeared to be at a loss as to what to do next. I have never lain with any man, and he has never lain with any woman but Cersei. Who was, in essence, himself. This must be as odd for him as it was for her.
At last Jaime began to move, slowly and deliberately. She arched her hips, wrapping her arms around his back, taking care not to jostle them too much. It was growing less foreign to have him there; she felt less as if she had been invaded, though it remained raw and exquisite at once. It seemed so simple and almost undignified, hardly worthy of all the mystique attached to it. She seemed to be existing half within herself and half without, watching with some bemusement. The sand scraped her back, sunlight was in her eyes. Winter will never come here. Even if the snow should close in over them at this very moment.
Jaime began to move faster, his real hand holding onto her hip, fingers pressing into the hollow of the bone. They squirmed sideways, Brienne's feet jerking apart, unable to imagine how she would bear the culmination, not wanting to break him, not wanting to hurt him. She felt a wetness on her thigh that must have been blood. It had still not quite tipped over into pleasure, but she did not want him to stop.
He didn't. He pulled her up into him, thrust once and then twice and then three times hard, and gave a hoarse, catching moan as he spent himself inside her. There was a new heat in her, strange slickness and seed. She felt a small pop in her chest, hot and bright, causing her to shake all the way down to her toes. Crying out, she clawed back against him, saw white, and forgot her own name. After that, for the longest time, there was no sound but their gasping and the screeching of the gulls.
At last, Jaime heaved himself upright and slid out of her. The look on his face was one of confusion and guilt and dazed disbelief. "I," he said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – have finished inside you."
"It's – fine." Her voice didn't sound like hers. "I'll – I'll drink moon tea."
Jaime awkwardly laced himself back up, one-handed. She had two hands, but both of them felt just as clumsy as she tried to cover herself, suddenly and absurdly embarrassed to be naked in front of him – even though they had both seen each other in naught but their skins before, in the bathhouse in Harrenhal when he had climbed into the tub with her. He looked half a corpse and half a god. He looked much the same now, come to think. They sat silently side by side, staring out to sea.
At last, when the sun slipped behind the headlands, Jaime groaned and got to his feet, offering his golden hand for her. She took it, and the two of them retraced their steps across the island, heading back toward the septry.
They sensed the disturbance before they saw it. Then there was a flare of torches, the distant sound of raised voices, and the sight of the cream-and-blue banner of House Arryn, flapping in the gathering dusk. The brown brothers were all gathered on the garth, and Brother Narbert appeared to be arguing vehemently with a tall knight in armor.
Jaime stopped short. "Seven hells," he said. "We might want to be careful about walking into this."
Brienne concurred. They edged closer as cautiously as they could, straining to hear the gist of the disagreement, but the wind was blowing away from them. Then as they stood on the terrace, several dozen yards distant but otherwise in plain view, the tall knight looked up and caught sight of them.
He stared for a moment, then shoved Brother Narbert aside contemptuously. Another of the brown brothers tried to block his path, but the knight knocked him away as well. He raised a hand, and Jaime and Brienne spun around just in time to see more men advancing from behind. Most wore the moon and falcon of House Arryn on their tabards, but there were several other sigils from the nobility of the Vale as well: Corbray, Belmore, Templeton, and more.
"Kingslayer," the leader said. "You're under arrest."
"Really," said Jaime. "What in the devil for?"
"Don't play the fool. Lord Petyr said that if we followed the monk to his lair, we'd find the true source of the plot, and damned if he wasn't right."
"The monk? There's several right here, if you're in the market for one. But I'm afraid I don't follow the rest."
"Horseshit. Does the name Ser Shadrich mean anything to you?"
"The Mad Mouse?" Brienne blurted out involuntarily, before the silence warned her that she had just made a terrible mistake. "Why?"
Satisfied smiles crossed the faces of all the Vale men. "You," said one of the Belmores. "Since there can't possibly be two women as ugly as you, you must be the one we heard about when we stopped to make a few enquiries. There's plenty of tales about you in the riverlands. Looking for a little lost sister? With blue eyes and auburn hair, aged three-and-ten?"
Sansa, Brienne realized, her stomach doing a sickening flip. They know something about Sansa. And Brother Narbert said that the Elder Brother went to the Vale, but would not reveal why, and. . . "You can't be looking for Ser Jaime," she insisted. "Did Lord Baelish tell you that you would find him here?"
"He didn't," said one of the Corbrays, "but he'll shit himself with glee when he hears. He just didn't believe that the Elder Brother would have offered to spirit the girl away all by himself, that there must be another mover behind the plot. As we said, your whore there is said to have been searching for the girl for some time. And she knows Ser Shadrich. Care to explain that?"
Jaime cocked an eyebrow. "There are enough holes in that logic to ride a dragon through, but I have spent an extraordinary amount of time recently being accused of crimes which I did not commit. It must be something in the water."
"Shut up, Kingslayer." An ugly look had come across the Vale knight's face. "You and your cunt conspired to plant Ser Shadrich in the Lord Protector's household and steal Sansa Stark. No, don't deny it. Tell us where she is, and we might forget we saw you."
Brienne was briefly certain that she was going to faint. "Sansa Stark. . . was in the Vale?" Lady Lysa Arryn had been her aunt, it was not altogether implausible, but if there had been even the merest rumor that the girl was there, it would have been across the Seven Kingdoms in hours. Lord Baelish must have smuggled her out of King's Landing in disguise. . . but how? Why? The man who was now the Lord Protector and Robert Arryn's de facto regent had been desperately in love with Catelyn Tully once, she knew. But was that enough to cause him to do such an altruistic kindness? It was horribly obvious that Ser Shadrich, her brief companion on the road, had somehow found his way to the Vale, taken up in Lord Baelish's service, worked out Sansa's identity, and then absconded with her. The Elder Brother, what does he have to do with this? And now Littlefinger will think it was all on Jaime's instigation. It was not, of course, but the coincidence could not be more perfect, or more horrid. If Jaime had not been injured, we would never have come here, would never have been caught in the middle. And now. . .
This entire day had been like something out of a dream, for good and ill. Sansa Stark is alive. Kidnapped by Ser Shadrich, but alive. Suddenly Brienne's redemption was within her grasp. Yet to chase Sansa meant betraying Jaime all over again, leaving him in the hands of those who would hang him full as gladly as the Brotherhood. . . No, I was supposed to keep him here, he was supposed to be safe!
"Don't sound so surprised, cunt," said the big knight. "Of course you knew she was in the Vale. That's why you sent that pissant Shadrich. It worked perfectly, no one ever suspected him."
Jaime's hand dropped down to where he would ordinarily have been wearing his sword. "Her name," he said, pleasantly and dangerously, "is Brienne."
"Shut up, Kingslayer."
"Oh, don't worry. I just got through rehearsing this song, I'm only too glad to sing it. This is the part where it does me absolutely no good at all to inform you of my innocence. I'd fight you for it, but alas, I only have one chest, and it was wasted on the last one."
I can. As if in a dream, Brienne laid a hand where her own sword would be. Was this what she was supposed to do? Offer to stand as Jaime's champion again? But where would that end her up but in the same estate as him, wounded and helpless, to be imprisoned as they pleased?
And besides, before she could do anything, Jaime spoke up. "I'll make you a bargain. You can put me under arrest and take me where you please, provided you give the wench a horse and some provisions, and send her to save Lady Sansa. That's what you want, I trust?"
"And why would we make a bargain with you? There's two of you, two dozen of us, and a few monks who don't look like much."
"Maybe because it's tidier." Jaime shrugged. "To be honest, I can't see anything wrong with it, for any of us. If the wench does find Lady Sansa, Lord Petyr gets her back as he pleases, my innocence is proven, and Ser Shadrich, ideally, gets a good hard boot up the arse. Aye?"
The Vale knights exchanged disgruntled looks. Brienne stood petrified. No, she wanted to scream at him, no, don't do this. I don't want you to feel sorry for me, I don't want you to feel as if you owe it to me – this, of everything –
"Fine, Kingslayer," the captain said at last. "It's a bargain. If Sansa Stark is found, if Ser Shadrich comes before us and swears on his mother's grave that he had nothing to do with you, you may be allowed to go free. If not. . ." He grinned.
Jaime's face was as still and remote as an icy lake. "Very well," he said. "I consent."
"Hear that, lads? He consents!" The captain chortled. "You'd better tell your whore over there to start looking. And hope she has better luck than last time."
Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor. Brienne thought that Jaime had never known how true that was. Except it was more. Sansa Stark was now his last chance for life. I always knew I would have to go. But not like this. Not like this.
Brienne did not trust her voice a bit. She nodded stiffly to Jaime, who nodded stiffly back. Then she had to stand aside and watch him be put in irons, watch and do nothing, only watch as if every part of her didn't want to rush in there and kill them all. I knew not to pretend that he belonged to me, I knew it. That was how the world was, especially for her.
This changes nothing. Yet that was a lie, a hollow and contemptible lie. It changes everything. To save Sansa. To save Jaime. The maiden and the monster both.
Queerly, Brienne was not afraid. She had gone far beyond being afraid. The night air caressed her face, the torches and the banners and the knights and Jaime dwindled into the darkness. She stood there until long after they were out of sight, then turned on her heel and went inside to gather her things.