Chapter Text
Brienne surveyed herself in the mirror and frowned at her cravat. "It's not quite right, is it?" she asked Sansa as she attempted to smooth the cloth over her shirt.
"You look wonderful, Brienne," Sansa replied. "All it needs is--here, turn around."
Brienne obeyed, and felt Sansa's fingers working just below her neck, making adjustments while she narrowed her large blue eyes in concentration. Over time, Brienne was slowly becoming accustomed to seeing her lithe and laughing friend so solemn and swathed in black. Six months had passed, now, since Sansa and Arya had lost their parents and brothers to a fever; five months since they had arrived at the Tarth estate with pale faces and red-rimmed eyes. Their Uncle Brynden had wanted them, too, but the girls had been heart-weary and longing for the quiet and solitude of Tarth. Having lost their own father two years before, Brienne and her brother Galladon had been more than willing to gather them under their collective wing.
"There," Sansa said, giving Brienne's cravat a final pat. "Every inch the gentleman, my lord." She gave Brienne a smile that only just trembled at the corners.
The chasm of grief threatened to unfold itself in Brienne's chest; this, too, she had hoped would grow easier with time, but it had not. Not long after the Stark girls' arrival, Galladon had quietly left on a voyage to Essos--ostensibly to explore possible new markets for Tarth's marble, though Brienne knew the truth to be that he'd always longed for the sea. As the heir, he'd been kept close to home by their father, and after Selwyn's death, he'd stayed for Brienne, no matter her insistence that she was perfectly capable of looking out for herself. With the Starks in residence, he'd finally felt that leaving did not mean abandoning. Before he'd gone, he'd hugged Brienne hard and told her fondly that she was the man of the house now, and she should comport herself as such.
A few sennights later, a letter had arrived, announcing that his ship had been reported lost at sea, with all hands likely lost with it.
With that revelation, Galladon's departing joke had become reality. As an unmarried woman, Brienne was not permitted to act as sole guardian for the Stark girls, nor was she allowed to maintain control of her own estate. In her grief and desperation, she'd seized on a dangerous plan: with the help of her household staff and her friends, she would dress and act as Galladon whenever the occasion required it, until she could see Sansa safely married and able to take charge of her own affairs.
What that would leave of Brienne's affairs after, she had yet to determine. But at any rate, one goal must be accomplished before moving on to the rest.
"I still don't see why Sansa has to marry anyone. We're very well as we are." That was Arya, who at eighteen was two years younger than her sister, and sprawled out with her legs dangling over the side of one of the chairs. She'd mostly abandoned dresses in favor of trousers since she'd come to Tarth, and Brienne had had neither the desire nor the hypocrisy to chide her for it. Arya had also been insisting upon this exact point for more than a fortnight now, ever since the news had come that the Marquess of Crownlands, Aerys Targaryen, desired to marry Sansa, and was sending his former lieutenant general, Lord Casterly, as emissary to arrange it.
Hardly a romantic gesture, but then, what was romance compared to a stronghold at Winterfell?
"I certainly agree, as you very well know," Brienne told Arya. "But society does not, as you also very well know. So here we are."
"We appreciate all that you're doing for us, Brienne." Sansa's tone was pointed, and as clearly directed at her sister as if she'd thrown something. "In any case, I'm told that Lord Casterly is very handsome, and if my own memory from childhood serves, the reports are accurate," she offered to Brienne, clearly having taken it upon herself to lighten the tone of their conversation. "So perhaps you'll have a pleasant landscape to look on during your hunt."
Brienne sighed. "I'm not interested in any landscapes," she said firmly. She'd initially thought to receive him in the drawing room, but Lord Casterly's answering note had insisted that they go hunting instead. As much as I relish the thought of a stuffy room, he'd written, I prefer to be outside as much as possible, and I'm told you have tolerable pheasants on your grounds. Meet me at 7 o'clock, and bring a gun for me. And that had been the entirety of his missive, save for a looping shape at the bottom that might have involved a C. "And if Lord Casterly's tone is any indication--not to mention his infamous reputation--it's fortunate that he isn't the one intending to marry you, or we'd have to send him packing immediately."
Sansa laughed at that, then reached out to smooth the shoulders of Brienne's--Galladon's--coat. "You do look very like him," she said softly. "He'd be so proud of you. I'm so proud of you. And so grateful, truly."
Brienne blinked hard against a sudden rush of tears. There were times she envied Sansa and Arya their outward expression of grief. When she stopped to think on it, which she preferred not to, the fact that her own mourning weeds must be the clothes of the very man she was mourning felt macabre in the extreme. But there was nothing for it. The girls were depending on her. For the time being, she could only honor her brother's memory by protecting those he would have protected.
She hoped it was enough.
She squared her shoulders. "Stay out of sight for now. I'll tell you all once I've taken Lord Casterly's measure."
"If he's rude to you, you must shoot him--Sansa and I won't tell," was Arya's helpful advice as Brienne strode determinedly from the room.
* * * * *
When she emerged from the house, a hunting rifle in each hand, a man whom she assumed to be Lord Casterly was waiting for her. Sansa had been right about his looks; they were as ostentatious as his very fine coat, which was tawny on the outside and lined in a rich red that flashed as he shifted impatiently from foot to foot. His waistcoat was an even deeper red, his cravat shining white and perfectly tied, making Brienne long to adjust her own again.
Instead, she gripped the rifles more tightly and bowed as well as she could manage with her hands so occupied. "Lord Casterly. You are very welcome to Tarth, ser."
"It's about time, Tarth--I've been waiting," he replied, with a motion that seemed more the distant suggestion of a bow than the thing itself, much like the careless scrawl of his initials had been at the bottom of his note.
Brienne straightened, taken aback by his brusque manner. Lord Casterly made a show of checking his pocketwatch, a few loose golden curls falling over his forehead when he tipped his head down. Given that Brienne's own cropped hair seemed determined to make its way out from her head with no regard to order or propriety, she found herself envious to the point of indignation. More indignation, at any rate. "I heard the clock chiming as I was leaving the house, my lord."
"And now you're arguing with a guest; is that really the foot you wish to start out on?" he asked. "Not much of a matchmaker, are you?"
"I--" Brienne started, nonplussed, then swallowed hard and lifted her chin. She would not taint the honor of her house by stooping to such barbs. "I apologize if you were left waiting, Lord Casterly." With some effort, she forced herself to keep the emphasis from the if. "Would you care for any refreshment before we begin?" She prayed that he would decline; already, she feared being too far from her rifle lest she be unable to act on Arya's suggestion, the appeal of which increased with every word out of Lord Casterly's mouth.
"I'd like you to hand me that rifle and show me where to use it," he said, and held out his hand.
Indulging herself in the brief and vivid fantasy of showing him precisely where he could use it, she presented the rifle to him. She was about to call for her horse when she realized he had none of his own.
"Did you walk here, my lord?" It was over two miles from the town to Evenfall Hall. Now that she noticed, his boots looked well-used, for all they'd obviously been polished that morning. Given his demeanor thus far, she would have expected him to demand a chaise-and-four to cross the street.
"I did." He was inspecting the rifle with a degree of care that she would have found insulting had she not recalled that he was a military man, and most likely would have done the same with any weapon he intended to make use of. "Seeing as the scenery is one of the only things worth noting about this place, I thought I might as well enjoy it, and I welcome the exercise. And the less time I spend in that shoddy excuse for a town, the better." While Brienne cast about for a polite response to such a statement, he finished inspecting the rifle and looked up at her. "Well? Are you going to stand there gaping all day?"
Brienne snapped her jaw shut--it had not been open so much--and then whistled as loudly as she could, viciously amused when Lord Casterly winced. That was one of the advantages of being thought a man: she could be as loud as ever she pleased, and it was deemed merely high spirits.
In short order, her hound, Willow, came galloping around the corner of the house and nearly barrelled right over Brienne in her enthusiasm. "Down, Willow," Brienne hissed as the dog leapt about her feet in unbridled glee, tongue lolling and occasionally slurping at her hands. She'd made an honest effort at training the young pup, but she hadn't had the heart to try to quell her spirit entirely--a state of affairs for which she was now experiencing some regret.
"What a well-trained dog," Lord Casterly observed in a bored tone, though when she glanced over at him, she almost thought she saw the corners of his mouth twitching. Mocking her in his mind, no doubt, though so far he hadn't scrupled to do it to her face.
"Willow!" she commanded. "Sit!" Miraculously, the pup obeyed, plopping herself at Brienne's feet with her tail swishing back and forth so quickly that it raised a small cloud of dust from the carriageway. Brienne sighed inwardly. It would have to do. "Shall we?" she asked Lord Casterly, extending her arm out to the side.
"With all possible haste," he answered, and Brienne gritted her teeth as she led the way out to the fields.
* * * * *
"How did you find your journey?" Brienne asked with a faint sense of conversational desperation after they'd brought down a pheasant each. Lord Casterly had proved an excellent shot, and Brienne had actually caught him looking very briefly impressed when she'd shot hers. It was a cool morning, a respite from the promised heat of the day, and she was still not fully accustomed to having leave to hunt and trek and move freely on her own: all the things that were normally considered either a transgression or an indulgence. The air smelled like growing things and the sky was wide and blue and Brienne would have been thoroughly enjoying it, had it not been for her companion, who seemed intent on needling her to distraction.
"You mean the journey we spoke of half an hour ago?" Lord Casterly drawled now, underscoring her point.
It was Brienne's turn to wince, though it was only inwardly. She had no talent for pretty, meaningless chatter with strangers, whether in the drawing room or on the hunting ground. Having asked after his journey and his family--regarding whom he'd proven taciturn, to say the least--and provided a few remarks on the weather and the quality of the hunting, she had exhausted her small store. "I meant your journey from town, my lord. I believe you've taken rooms there?"
"I have." His green eyes scanned the tall grass where Willow was tromping through it. "Along with my companion, of course."
"Ah. Yes," Brienne said as delicately as possible. Ordinarily, she would have dismissed it as scandalous rumor that Lord Casterly had taken his former general's wife (and cousin), Lady Rhaella, as his lover. In this case, however, the two were quite open about their arrangement, and even on as remote an island as Tarth, Brienne had heard of it from enough credible sources to name it as undeniable fact. Still, she felt it inappropriate to discuss it in any detail, especially with the man himself.
"Ah," Lord Casterly mocked. "Come now, Tarth, surely you know how it is--you see a woman and simply must have her." His smile was crooked at one end, like wrought iron brought one twist too far.
"I will take your lordship's word on it," Brienne answered.
"So you have not brought Lady Sansa here with the intention of wooing her yourself?" he asked with a mildness that Brienne did not trust one jot.
"No!" The word emerged at a significantly higher volume than she'd intended, and Lord Casterly laughed.
"So quick to deny it." He leaned closer, his voice going conspiratorial. "Why? Is she hideous? Be honest with me; your honor as a gentleman demands it."
Ordinarily, Brienne would have leaned back out of range of his insinuating eyes and his wicked grin, but she held her spine as rigid as the rifle in her hand. "Lady Sansa is renowned for her beauty, as I would expect that you and Lord Crownlands both know. But she is under my protection, nothing more."
"I see." Of a sudden, there was a rustling in the grass, off where Willow had disappeared to, and a pheasant winged up into the sky. Lord Casterly had his rifle at his shoulder and was firing before Brienne had even fully registered the sound, distracted as she was by his implication. Once again, his aim was true. "Well," he said. "I remember Lady Sansa from when I was younger; she seemed a sweet enough little chit, for all her mother was as much wolf as fish, in the end." Brienne thought for the briefest of moments that his tone might have warmed slightly when he spoke of Catelyn--perhaps they had all been at court at the same time--but he moved on too swiftly for her to be sure. "And Aerys Targaryen is one of the wealthiest men in Westeros, with his position in line for the throne being nothing that a few well-placed murders wouldn't improve. It seems a very advantageous match for her."
Brienne gave him a level look. "There are all kinds of advantages to be considered in a match, Lord Casterly. Such as the lady's wishes, among other things." At least as a man, she could make such statements and be heard, if only to be clapped indulgently on the shoulder. As a woman, she'd been laughed at or ignored--or pitied, which was worse. At five-and-twenty, her meager marital prospects were already dwindling.
His eyebrow raised. "How very unconventional of you to think so."
Insufferable man. Just then, Willow came bounding back with the pheasant, and dropped it at Brienne's feet with a canine grin. When Brienne bent to put it in her bag, she could see her dog--her dog--nose at Lord Casterly's hand before giving it an enthusiastic lick. In return, he gave her a rub on the head, which sent her tail wagging in such an ecstasy that it took most of her hind end with it.
Brienne whistled sharply, sending Willow charging back off into the brush. Lord Casterly was smirking at her. Brienne peered out toward the far edge of the clearing; the pheasants liked to hide there sometimes. "In any case," she said, sufficiently provoked to indulge in some provoking of her own, "I can hardly take your word in expounding upon Lord Crownlands' virtues, since clearly, you have a personal stake in the matter."
"Why?" Lord Casterly asked, as cool as the mist of dawn. "Because I'm fucking his wife?"
There was nothing for it; her jaw dropped nearly to her breastbone. "This is hardly gentlemanly, ser."
He laughed, long and low and hushed, to avoid disturbing their quarry. "Oh, Tarth. Now I know that you're not much in town, or you'd know that fucking each other's wives is terribly gentlemanly. The primary sin is speaking of it aloud to the wrong person."
"In that case, please consider me to be firmly in that category." In the distance, a pheasant winged up clumsily from the brush with an offended squawk. Quickly, Brienne raised the gun to her shoulder and fired. The pheasant fell to the ground. "I was speaking of the fact that it was Lord Crownlands who sent you here."
"Ah." Lord Casterly shrugged. "Well, if we mean to be precise, my father sent me here on Lord Crownlands' behalf, so that's another step further removed, I'm afraid."
She cocked her head at him. "You have a very strange manner of pursuing a suit, my lord."
For some reason, that seemed to dislodge a bit of his self-assurance, the first thing she'd said this entire morning to have done so. "How did Lady Sansa come to be under your protection?" he asked.
"I--" Brienne started, then hastily corrected herself, "My sister was sent to Winterfell for her education; our father thought it would be good for her to experience life outside of the island, and Winterfell was a place mutually agreed-upon as neither too small nor too large. While she was there, Lady Stark took an interest in her. Our mother died when we were very young, and Lady Stark was compelled to take a lonely young girl under her wing." An image of Catelyn's smile swam into Brienne's memory, and the warmth of her relatively rare hugs; she had to turn her head away and stare very hard at the horizon.
"I also lost my mother when I was very young, and it sounds as though your sister may have lost one twice, now; my condolences," she heard Lord Casterly say.
Brienne didn't trust her voice just then, and only nodded, stunned by how easily he'd perceived the truth of the matter. Clearing her throat, she went on, "For her part, my sister was an older playfellow to Lady Stark's daughters. When the fever took the rest of the Stark family, it fell to my sister and me to see that the girls were well cared for."
As she turned back to him, Lord Casterly tapped a finger against his chin. "A sister, hmm? I can picture her now: some willowy thing, perhaps, with the Tarth family blue eyes and obstinacy, but with an added gift for the pianoforte. Is she in need of a husband? Because I could perhaps be persuaded; the marble here is very fine, I'm told." He gave her a leer that seemed as elaborately constructed as an edifice.
Well. So much for any felicity between them. "My sister is not in need of anything that you can offer, Lord Casterly," she told him sharply. And you seem to have more than enough women in your life already, she did not add, in the name of politeness. Not that he'd earned it, but just because he insisted on breaching decorum at every turn didn't mean that she had to. Learning how men spoke among themselves had almost made her long for her quiet needlework by the fire. But if rumor held true, he had some sort of attachment to his father's ward--now wed to Robert Baratheon these four years hence--as well as to his former general's wife, which would have rendered him impossible as a match even if so many other aspects of his personality hadn't already done so.
"A great pity, I'm sure," he said, with a disappointed moue. He drew his hand across his brow, which was starting to glisten with sweat as the sun climbed higher. "Well. It's getting to be too warm for the pheasants, and our count is tied. We can't have that--I must defeat the dragon guarding the fair maiden. Do you fence?"
Brienne blinked, startled by the change in topic as well as by his colorful description. "I do, my lord."
"Very good. Let's have an assault, then, before I go, and"--he grinned as inspiration seemed to strike him--"the winner may lay claim to Lady Sansa's hand."
"The Lady Sansa," Brienne said tightly, "will choose for herself whom she will marry. I will not tie her fate and her happiness to the outcome of a game."
He nodded, brow creased with transparently false concern and understanding. "So you expect to lose, then. A very reasonable expectation, Tarth--self-knowledge is a virtue, after all."
"I expect that I will very much enjoy"--beating you, she nearly said, and then forced out instead--"facing you, my lord." She fervently hoped he took her meaning anyway.
* * * * *
By the time she had reached sixteen, it had become apparent to Brienne's father that she was never going to be the sort of girl who required multiple drawing rooms. As such, he'd allowed her and Galladon to appropriate the back parlor for their own preferred use: namely, a makeshift fencing salle.
True to what she was beginning to learn of his character, Lord Casterly surveyed the space with a disdainful sniff. "Awfully small, isn't it? If I lose an eye in here, Tarth, you'll answer for it," he said.
"Does my lord anticipate that I will land a hit on such a vulnerable area so easily?" she asked, unable to resist. "I appreciate the warning to take extra care; self-knowledge is a virtue, after all."
His glass-green eyes seemed to flash at that, and Brienne found herself reflecting that the loss of one of them would be a pity, for all that she longed to knock him off his self-designated pedestal. Now that she had had a few moments to adjust to the idea, she was growing eager to test her skill against him--so eager that she could feel it winging throughout her body like a flock of birds stretching out into the sky.
"I simply prefer to fence outside," he said, taking the jacket she offered him and shrugging into it. It was hers, but it appeared to fit him well, save for being a bit too broad at the shoulders. "I'll happily thrash you in whatever space you choose."
Brienne buttoned up her own spare jacket and watched as he selected a smallsword from the rack against the wall.
She held a mask out to him. "To protect your eyes, my lord."
He took it and cast it into a corner. "Just a friendly assault. Never fear, you won't come near me."
Brienne hesitated, already regretting having twitted him. She and Galladon had fought without masks from time to time, but they had known each other well. "I do not think it wise to--"
"I won't fight with a bucket over my head. Just guard yourself, Tarth," he said impatiently, and strode to the far end of the piste.
Despite her misgivings, Brienne took up her place across from him; if he was bare-headed, then honor dictated that she should remain so as well. She swallowed down a fresh wave of excitement and nerves as she surveyed him. Aside from her brother, she had never fenced any man before. And now she was about to fight the infamous Jaime Lannister, whose skill in battle was so great that he'd been knighted for it by his general. She held her weapon straight up in front of her, the tip nearly touching her forehead in a salute. He gave her the same courtesy.
"Begin," she heard him say, and then the battle was on.
Be calm, she told herself, indulging only a flick or two of her blade at first to test his reactions. He was even faster with the sword than he had been with the rifle, following each of her movements with a shift of his feet, a slight change in angle of his weapon. He is good, she thought, with something between trepidation and joy. She was suddenly very glad she had not agreed to tether Sansa's fate to this match. He was also a far more disciplined fencer than he was a speaker, for they'd gauged each other's measure a handful of times before Brienne grew impatient and lunged for him when his shoulder dropped ever so slightly.
His blade met hers and the two slid together with the sweet ring of steel on steel, a greeting that Brienne felt from her palm to her elbow. It fell out to be as rude a greeting as his morning demands had been, too--he parried and stepped immediately into a counter-attack, and Brienne tottered back a step, parrying as she did, the blunted tip of his blade slipping just past her shoulder. He clucked his tongue. "I thought you island people liked to fish, Tarth; you should recognize bait when you see it."
She would not let him distract her; she kept a wary eye on him as they circled, circled. He had been right about the room being small, and with him in it, it felt smaller still. He seemed to loom in front of her, with his sharp eyes and the deceptively lazy way he stalked her like a cat hunting its prey. He lunged, whip-quick, and she parried and kept her feet this time, and that somehow felt like victory.
"Good," he said approvingly, which was more irritating than his teasing had been; she was not a child, nor his student, to hang on his praise. "You move well, for a giant."
Forgetting for a moment that she was meant to keep peace with him for Sansa's sake, she gritted her teeth and attacked again. He met her again, counter-thrust again, and she parried and slid into an attack of her own--they were beginning to speak each other's language, now, and test the limits of each other's vocabulary. It went on like that for a few suspended, heady seconds before he scored a hit on her and they broke apart, barely pausing long enough to acknowledge the point before their swords were hovering near each other again. His face was flushed, his perfect cravat slightly askew, and Brienne could feel her own breath coming faster.
Her world narrowed to him and the shining line of metal he held, her every sense alive to his slightest movement, her every muscle tensed to respond. Their measure stretched and contracted between them as though a rope bound them together, and the thrum of their tempo thudded through her like a drumbeat. She was fully aware, somewhere in her mind, that his blade was blunted, but every time the point landed against her--shoulder, chest, once in her upper thigh--she felt it as deeply as a wound. But his defenses were not impregnable, either, and she began to accumulate a store of her own points, each one racing through her veins and gathered to her as jealously as the hoard of the dragon he'd called her. He scarcely ceased speaking the entire time, too, offering her mockery and praise and observations that became a weapon on their own as she blinked the sweat out of her eyes and answered him with grunts and the relentless vigilance of her body.
Rounds were forgotten. Pauses were forgotten. There was only the two of them, and this contest. And the longer it went on, the more she watched a slow smile creep across his face like a flag being gradually unfurled, fierce and proud and unfettered. She could not have said what her own expression might be, only that she felt an answering fire deep within her breast, a beam of light focused through glass until it burned.
She had no idea how long they had been at each other when she saw an opening and lunged, and when he parried, he stepped in to grasp her wrist with his off hand. Before she could credit what was happening, he had his sword hand tucked against the small of his back, the blade slicing toward her stomach. Shocked at both the fluidity of the maneuver and the heat of his skin on hers, she jerked her wrist out of his grip. As she stepped backward, her feet tangled together; his left hand shot out and closed tightly around her upper arm, preventing her headlong fall.
He held on to her like that for a moment, his eyes bright and burning, his color high on his cheeks, his breath rushing in and out of his lungs like a bellows. She could feel each of the points of his fingers. Her own fingers flexed in response.
A clock chimed in the adjoining room.
The sound seemed to recall Lord Casterly to himself, and he released her. She straightened, a quicksilver thrill still spiraling through her.
He began to unbutton the jacket she'd lent him. "You fought well today, Tarth. Not well enough, of course, but well." His grin was like the slash of his blade.
She would have argued with him, had she not had their scores engraved in her brain, as he no doubt did as well. "Lord Casterly," she began, hardly knowing what she was meant to say.
"Ser Jaime," he interrupted.
"I beg your pardon, my lord?"
"I was given the title of Ser Jaime, in the war," he informed her. "You may call me so if you like, since we've now faced each other on a battlefield."
She tilted her head, reminding herself that they had only met a few hours before, and she was as yet unsure of his motivations. "Since you are here to seek her, Lord Casterly," she said carefully, "shall I arrange an introduction to Lady Sansa?" He had removed the jacket entirely now, and as he turned to place it on its hook, she could see the sweat gathered in the curls at the back of his neck.
When he turned to face her, it was as though a set of shutters had closed over his expression. "Perhaps," was all he said. "Good afternoon, Lord Tarth." And he left with only a cursory bow, and without another word.