ΠΑΝΤΑ ΡΕΙ

Jaime took Tywin’s meaning. A Targaryen grandmother had been the base of Robert’s claim, what little there was beyond his strength of arms and web of alliances. And Aerys’ madness, of course. Always that.

Lord Tywin was sketching something on a map of Westeros as he spoke. “I’ve made overtures to Lord Selwyn on your sister’s behalf, but the Evenstar is disinclined to marry. He has a daughter, however. One he’s had trouble finding a bridegroom for. Tarth would be beneath you, in the ordinary run, but the name is a good one. An old one. We could make a claim for your children if Tommen fails to provide - through the dragon rather than the stag, but it will do.”

Tywin sprinkled powder on the wet ink and then looked up at Jaime. His eyes were disquieting. “Lord Selwyn is soft as ever; he refuses to countenance a match not of his daughter’s liking. But I’m sure you can charm the girl, even with your recent…lack.” Lord Tywin’s eyes stubbornly refused to flit to Jaime’s stump. “I’m told she’s homely and shy. An easy conquest.”

Ah, father, if only you knew. The Maid of Tarth loves me not. All Jaime said, however, was, “As I’ve told you. I will not be forsworn. I cannot wed.”

Tywin grunted at that. Displeased and doubting as ever. “You are the ideal choice, but we can find another. Lancel is sufficiently recovered. Martyn is young yet, but Lord Selwyn would be a fool to refuse him on the account. It is crucial that we move before our enemies. She is a loose end that must be tied off. I don’t mean to see a claim to the throne seized by the likes of a Robert Arryn or Theon Greyjoy.”

No, Brienne wouldn’t care for either of those matches. Jaime’s head began to ache. He needed air. He needed this conversation to end. “As you say, my Lord.”

It was only as he left that he thought to wonder why he’d never told his father that he knew the wench. Even the thought of speaking her name in front of Lord Tywin sickened him and made his throat grow tight. A strange reaction.

But that had been days ago, and now the Lady Brienne was in front of him. Clutching her new-given sword like a babe in swaddling and looking at him with concern. Did she think he meant to ask for the sword back?

Jaime did not want to speak the words, no more than he’d wanted to carry on the topic with Lord Tywin. My father wishes us to wed. He couldn’t say it. The Maid of Tarth had little skill at hiding her thoughts. Jaime could just imagine how the prickly wench might mistake his meaning. She’d seen insult and a stain to her honor even in the gift of Oathkeeper. How could he convince her he had no plans to stain her honor further with a forced wedding to the Kingslayer?

Yet she had to be warned. He tried again to approach the topic tactfully.

“There are some who would say you had a claim to the throne, of sorts. After Tommen. A thin one, perhaps, but a claim.”

She looked at him blankly. “That would be news to my lord father. News he’d laugh down. If you’re worried about Tarth turning rebel, Ser Jaime, you’ve naught to fear on that count. Neither my father nor I have any claim to press, nor desire to do so.”

Turning rebel again, he might have said. He did not. “Your lord father might not, but what of your lord husband?”

“My…my lord husband?” She reddened slightly. “You know that I…I’ve no intention of…” she trailed off anxiously, looking like she might bite her own tongue. “I’ve had no proper suitors, not truly, not since the day I broke Ser Humfrey Wagstaff’s ribs. Nor am I like to have, now.”

Wagstaff? Jaime vaguely recalled a face from a long-ago tourney…but that Humfrey Wagstaff had been an old man, even then. If he yet lived he’d surely be seventy or more. Jaime abruptly decided Lord Selwyn was a fool who couldn’t be trusted to handle Lord Tywin’s proposals.

“If the lords of our fair land decide you’re the key to kingship, I assure you that will change.” Jaime tried to keep his tone light, but he could feel urgency leaking into the words “You could be ugly as Erich Greyjoy and stupid as Spotted Pate, yet still be the most sought after bride from here to the Wall. Take care in your journeys, my lady, or you may find yourself wedded, bedded, and a mother of three before you know what’s happened.”

Or worse. A loose end, Tywin had called her. To be taken care of.

The stupid wench just laughed quietly and shook her head. “Unlikely, Ser Jaime. Whatever claim you think we have…no one has suggested it before, except in jest. No lord will send his son on such slim expectation. And I could handle such fools as thought otherwise.”

Her carelessness would drive him mad. If she could not see the danger, how could she protect herself? His answering laugh sounded harsh to his own ears. “No lord? Do you think so? Mine own lord father instructed me to woo and wed you.”

Absolute silence fell. Brienne stared at him, mouth agape. Ah, there’s the expression I was hoping to avoid. Shock, panic, a dash of dawning horror. See, father, she’d never consent to be Lady Kingslayer. Not for all the gold beneath the Rock.

“But- but-” she stammered, “you- you’re- You can’t! You’re Kingsguard!”

Of all the objections… Jaime raised his hands in surrender. “And Kingslayer, too, with shit for honor. The white cloak means less and less these days, since Ser Barristan the Bold was stripped of his. What’s another oath forsworn? But have no fear, my good Lady of Tarth, I’ve no plan to play the penny villain and force you to the sept. I’m trying to warn you, not wed you.”

Her hoped that would calm her down, but her breath was still coming in harsh, fast pants. “But...I...your father. How could he...why?” Jaime had never seen Brienne at such a stammering loss for words. She was calmer fighting the bear.

“As I told you. He wants an heir for Tommen, and another for the Rock. And a Lord Commander of the Kingsguard who can hold a sword, I suppose.” He held up his right arm for emphasis. “Alas for Lord Tywin, whatever this cloak means now, I’ve no wish to spit on it further. The Kingsguard swear for life.” Brienne had said him the white cloak suited him. A meaningless pleasantry - or had she actually meant it? He knew her better, now, than to suspect a cruel jest. “But though I have refused my father, I do have cousins. He intends to match you with one of them. I suppose you could meet Lancel now and see if you favor him - but trust me. I couldn’t advise the match.”

Fond though Jaime was of his Uncle Kevan, he found little to praise in Lancel. Brienne ought to wed a man she could respect. Few enough of those, I fear. He might think on the matter further. Later. Much later.

Brienne’s breathing had finally slowed, and she’d closed her mouth. “That is…that is well. I wouldn’t…No. Of course. I…I thank you for your warning.”

She is a loose end that must be tied off. Tywin’s words left him uneasy. But what else could Jaime say? He had issued his warning, and in a moment she would leave. Stupid, ugly, stubborn wench. Be well. Be safe.

“That is all, then.” He gave a curt nod, and she turned to leave.

A loose end…as Robb Stark had been. As Elia Martell and her babes had been. I didn’t know, he told Rhaegar’s ghost. As he always did. I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I couldn’t have stopped it…

“No. Wait.” Brienne turned around at his voice, fixing those big blue eyes on him once more. Jaime did not know why he had called out. He did not know what he would say next. But he had to say something. “I will not renounce the white cloak at my father’s pleasure. The oath is for life. It is no toy in the games of kings. But if… If you wished the protection of my name…” he felt a fool, a fumbling boy tripping on his own tongue. “I could make you Lady Lannister. If you wish it.”

So blue, a man could drown in eyes so blue, especially as wide as they were now. What was he doing? She would refuse him, gods be thanked, and they would never speak of this again.  

She said nothing, frozen in clear shock, and Jaime heard himself fill the silence. “I would make no demands upon you, no…” he was babbling now, he could hear that too, but he could not stop the rush of words. “no…wifely duties. You would be free. I swear it.” Meaningless oaths from a man without honor. “The name of Lannister would open more doors than that of Tarth. And you would demand a better ransom if bandits or soldiers took you. Far more than 300 dragons for the Lady of Casterly Rock. It would be protection, of a sort. Only that, until your task was done.” Seven Hells, why hadn’t she spoken yet? He felt like a man awaiting the executioner’s blade. Refuse me, wench, curse me and have done!

And what if she said yes? A worse disaster yet. Any future annulment would be a scandal, but what was the alternative? They would need to journey to the Rock, to have his vassals pledge to her. Could she be happy there? Even if she somehow found her lady’s daughter, and put her impossible quest to rest?

Perhaps the waves of the Westerlands would remind her of the waters of Tarth. She would like the singers of Lannisport, he thought, and the great theaters where they enacted tales of knights and maids of old. He would dress her in the finest gowns, in every shade of blue, and commission the strongest arms and armor Lannister gold could buy. He could bring her to the taverns where he and Tyrion had laughed as boys, walk her through the city gardens, and-

“I, I’m sorry, I…I…you are very, very kind, it is good of you to…but...I…I cannot.” Brienne of Tarth stammered. She had tears in her eyes, Jaime realized with horror. “I…oh, I cannot. Could not. I…I have to go. Fare you...farewell!”