ΠΑΝΤΑ ΡΕΙ

“…I didn’t want to die. Don’t want to die.

“No? You might have fooled me.”

“It’s only…” Brienne did want to know. But she wasn’t sure how to ask. “We were alone. You needn’t even have done it yourself. No one would have blamed you for my death.”

He snorted. “Of course they would have. I’m an easy man to blame.” He stared at the ceiling. “…my own fault, I suppose. You’re right to say so.”

“I said nothing.”

“But you were thinking it.” He gave her his crooked smile. A charming smile, without the cruel bite his smiles often had. “To answer you, you’re alive because I searched this sorry excuse for a town until I found a village healer to drag out of bed. I paid extra for her discomfort and her… discretion.”

Instinctively, Brienne’s arms flew up to cover her chest. The Kingslayer rolled his eyes. “You’ve nothing to hide. It’s not as though I watched, except to make sure she was doing her work. I’d already told the women downstairs we were man and wife, so I had to come up with a different tale on the spot.”

Brienne would not have known what to say. She gave a questioning look. 

Ser Jaime shrugged. “I’m the daughter of a merchant. He was selling me off to a rich old man. You’re my dear companion, a kindly wench who couldn’t bear to see me wed again against my will. I’d been recently widowed, you see. We ran away together and played at man and wife rather than risk the road as a pair of sweet maids.”

“Did she believe you?”

Ser Jaime’s lips twitched in amusement. “Well. She was eager to tell me how Rhaena Targaryen and Elissa Farman had once stayed in the very hovel where she now lived.”

Brienne’s face grew warm at the implication. Foolish to be embarrassed at being taken for lovers, when they were already feigning marriage. But… it seemed more intimate, somehow. Less possible. Pretty women married ugly men every day. But how often did someone as beautiful as Ser Jaime freely choose — without even the benefits of marriage — to love a woman who looked like Brienne?

She changed the subject. “How fares Ser Cleos?”

The Kingslayer frowned slightly. “Fine. He was barely hurt, in truth, though a head wound must always be watched. What do you want with my sweet cousin of Frey?”

“I would speak with him, if he is well.”

His frown deepened. “You know he’s married, don’t you, wench?”

A strange thing to say. “Yes?”

“Good. I’d hate to see you act the fool over the likes of him.”

She looked at him reprovingly. “Ser Cleos is your cousin. You should not mock him. He is…” she struggled for a moment to find an epithet mild enough for Ser Cleos “a well-mannered man.”

“Well-mannered,” Ser Jaime muttered. “Certainly. It isn’t your arse he’s been kissing these past weeks. What did you want to say? I’ll convey the message to my well-mannered cousin.”

Brienne thought over her words for a moment. “That he fought bravely. He could have surrendered or fled. He took our part and did not shame himself. I owe him my thanks; he kept one man away long enough for me to slay another.”

“He fought bravely. You owe him your thanks.” The Kingslayer’s voice was flat.

“He did,” insisted Brienne. “I imagine… I fear he is ashamed. But there is no dishonor in falling in battle. He was no craven. I would he knew his part had meaning, small though it may have been.”

“Of course. Seven forbid Cleos feel an ass. One last thing: it seems Karstark’s men were here for me. This countryside has seen rough handling, from lions and wolves alike. Some local lunatic has put a bounty on Karstark heads; I paid for our rooms with the cloak I took off the soldier last night. Apparently it’s worth its weight in silver and gratitude. Still… we must be careful. Very careful. I am glad for my brown hair; I do not think Jaime Lannister is well-beloved in Stoney Sept.”

“That is hard to imagine.” Brienne tried to keep her face blank as Ser Jaime raised both his eyebrows. “We should leave soon. Today, if we can. Have you found a boat?” 

Ser Jaime shook his head. “Oh no. I spent good coin to stitch you up. You’re not wasting my silver by tearing it out again.”

“Lady Stark’s silver,” Brienne pointed out.

“Wrong again, wench. You still have your purse. My silver, or rather, Lord Karstark’s. I hope you don’t disapprove of taking money from dead men. If you do, add it to my list of crimes.”

“My name is-”

“Brienne. Rest. I’ll see to Cleos, since you’re so eager to have him put at ease.”

He stood, but lingered for a moment by her bedside. He looked uneasy. Was there something he wanted?

“Had you ever killed a man before?” he finally asked.

Brienne looked down. “No.” It had been easier than she’d expected. She had feared she wouldn’t be able to do it. Ser Goodwin’s training had served her well. She’d wanted to be sick after, but there had been no time.

“It is a hard thing. You did well. And you did right. They were killers and rapists. Remember that, if your conscience troubles you. You protected the innocent and avenged the wronged.”

“I know.” She watched her hands and wondered who had given this speech to Ser Jaime, so many years ago.

“You know, and you do not wish to hear it from the likes of me. Very well. But know that it grows easier. I would caution you not to let it grow too easy, but I doubt that would ever be your vice.”

She worried at the nailbed of her thumb. “Because I’m a woman?”

He scoffed. “Ah yes, what a weak and trembling flower you are. I almost forgot when I was covered in blood from the man you disemboweled. All I mean to say is… don’t be hard on yourself if you have nightmares. I did.”

It was only as he turned away that a thought occurred to Brienne. Foolish to imagine that Ser Jaime would care, but…

“Ser.” He turned back towards her. “You fought bravely. I owe you my life. And my thanks.”

He blinked at her. For a brief moment, he seemed caught off guard. “You were wounded defending me. A Lannister always pays his debts. But if you wish to thank me… I believe you know my name. You used it last night.”

She had. Ser Jaime. I beg you. She had made a desperate appeal to the knight who had pledged himself to defend the innocent. The man who had carefully bound her wounds. He had not been the Kingslayer to her, in that moment.

The Kingslayer. Ser Jaime. A Lannister of Casterly Rock. She did not know how to think of him now. He had been her prisoner. Her enemy. But an enemy would have killed her while she was wounded. A prisoner did not bring his captor to safety and fetch her a healer. 

Still. It did not follow that he was her friend. She did not know what he was, or who.

She’d had no time to think through the tale he’d told as she’d held onto him in the night. If it were true… The Kingslayer was a liar. All men knew it. And yet... She did not think he had lied, in this. Why should he? What was Brienne of Tarth to Jaime Lannister, that he should spin such a tale for her? He did not care for her good opinion. Casterly Rock could buy all the lands of Tarth and scarce notice the loss to their accounts.

If it were true… Brienne tried to guess how many souls lived in Kings Landing. Half a million, surely. If even half of those had perished… if the city had gone down in flames and all those men, women and children had died screaming… her mind refused to comprehend the scale, instinctively recoiling. She forced herself to imagine it. If all of Renly’s great host, aye, and Stannis’ too, had slain each other in battle… it still would not touch on the number.

It did not undo his other wicked deeds. It could not. But Brienne was not clever enough to reckon out the counts of good and ill. He had saved her life. He had killed his king. Brienne hoped she would have had the courage to do the same, in his place.

“Then I thank you. Ser Jaime.”