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“I didn’t do it.”
The room was humid. As humid as it needed to be, Brienne knew. Little adjustments were made here and there, barely noticeable, just enough to manipulate the subject’s state of mind. Subtly, always subtly. Her throat was completely dry; they had been denying her a glass of water—her only request—for the last hour, at least. She knew she should simply stop talking until her designated attorney arrived, that perhaps the silence would wear out her interrogators, but she could still hardly believe the situation she faced.
She had been in the shower, nude and exposed, crying her heart out. A female police officer had almost knocked down her bathroom door before Brienne opened it. Given the blonde’s former position, they at least allowed her enough time to get dressed before dragging her down to the station, and led her to an interrogation room without any familiar faces. There was no way to tell the time, but she suspected at least three or four hours had passed.
Brienne forced herself to look up at the agent in front of her, Emmon Cuy. She knew his face, though she had never met him before that night. Of course the case was high profile enough for the WFBI to be involved. Renly Baratheon was esteemed and diligent; his career had been on the rise and he was barely weeks away from becoming the District Attorney for the King’s Landing County. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, recalling the sensation of his warm blood on her fingertips, the panic spreading across her body, her heart flittering in her chest. All her hopes and dreams were crushed the instant she had walked into his living room to find him drawing his very last breaths, watching her with his blue eyes as if begging her to save him from the claws of death.
“Look at the evidence once more, woman, see if it jogs your memory.” Cuy slammed down the pictures on the table again, setting them next to each other in an attempt to reconstruct the succession of events. “Here’s his throat, slashed right open. That right there is a pool of his blood. Those are your footsteps; we found those bloodstained shoes in your closet. Then your fingerprints everywhere: on his clothes, on his doorknob, on the knife that was used to kill him. And you? Nowhere to be seen. Why is it that you did not call 9-1-1? You would think a forensic technician would know better.”
Brienne sighed, feeling the pressure build up in her chest, remembering her shaking hands, how her mind had gone blank, how she had stayed cradling his body in her arms for minutes, holding him in death the way she never had in life. She had believed in him, that he could truly make a difference. She was no longer a forensic technician—that was long ago, prior to her character being shattered piece by piece by every heartbreaking case, by every horrific crime that shook her to her core.
It all had ended after that business with Jeyne Poole, after finding out all that was done to her and to her friend Theon Greyjoy at the hands of Ramsay Bolton. It was over after seeing the brunette’s ghastly eyes when they finally rescued her, after throwing up a cucumber sandwich and soda when the first thought that crossed Brienne’s mind was that the girl would have been better off dead.
She had then decided to follow Renly, a man she saw often from afar whenever he came to the headquarters to attend a new case. He had always been polite to her, unlike other employees like Hunt and Mullendore, who insisted on making up a new bet about Brienne every week. What she would wear, how many visitors and detainees would laugh at her in the course of one day, whether or not her cell phone would ever ring for a social call. At least they were done betting on who would be the first to sleep with her—Hyle had been happy to win that one, back when she was just starting out.
Renly had seen Brienne a couple of days after all the evidence in the case was gathered, looking years older than her young age, dread written in every line of her face. He had understood immediately; he’d been the prosecutor in charge of putting Bolton behind bars, so he knew every gory detail of the story. Brienne had left her job, gone to court every single day, watching Renly build an impeccable case and earn the Northman an injection that felt strangely like justice.
She had asked him for a job in his office, any job that could contribute to his efforts. Since then she was an investigator in charge of analyzing the evidence for his cases, making sure it was sturdy enough so no criminals would slip through their fingers on a technicality.
Brienne tried to focus back on the present, tried to answer Emmon Cuy’s questions. Why did you run? But it was as though all her wits had left her alone on the floor of Renly’s penthouse. “I don’t know,” she confessed finally. “I felt overwhelmed.”
She was grateful to be interrupted by someone coming in, a beautiful woman in her forties wearing an expensive suit. “Don’t say another word,” she said immediately. “I’m Catelyn Stark. Brienne Tarth’s attorney.”
o – o – o
Brienne’s bed was even more uncomfortable than she had imagined. As with most things, it had been made with the average woman in mind, and she was far from average—she was tall, ungainly and awkward, as her new companions made sure to point out every day. It was ironic that she had finally escaped mirrors only to be moved to a place full of strangers that were fascinated by the thrilling new experience of taunting her.
She tossed and turned, the beads of sweat accumulating steadily on her forehead. No position was comfortable. Not with those memories running through her mind.
Brienne Tarth is believed to be a flight risk due to her father’s position as a governor. Bail is set at a million dragons.
Catelyn had to pull her to her feet back then. She had thought herself subjected to great injustice, but she had been terribly naïve. Injustice was a week ago. Injustice was hearing the jury’s verdict, it was her panic, her world falling apart. It was having to be helped outside by the bailiff, the judgmental stares of everyone on the benches, the look of hopelessness on Catelyn’s face once there were no more objections to save her. It was the feeling that she must be watching from outside her body as the scene unfolded, wondering how it was possible that her feet had managed to shift into motion.
The evidence is against you, Miss Tarth, Judge Yohn Royce had declared in a monotone voice. The people have spoken. You are hereby found guilty of second degree murder and sentenced to twenty years in Harrenhal Federal Correctional.
Twenty years.
Twenty.
“Eight days today,” Brienne whispered to no one in particular, the tears rolling freely down her cheeks. “Then nine, and ten.”
She clutched her photo of Renly tightly to her chest, trying to silence her sobbing so the guard in the hallway would not hear her. The only kindness Catelyn had been able to do was bring the picture and a few permitted personal items. Brienne glanced over toward the sink in her small bathroom, watching the little sliver of moonlight illuminate her blue toothbrush. All I have, all I am now.
As far as prisons went, Harrenhal was not so bad, so long as its bleakness was not factored in. Though it was ugly and worn out and some of its wards were abandoned, the main building was intact. It was the lowest security prison in Westeros, designated to house politicians or other high profile white-collar criminals. They had extended her the courtesy not only because she was Governor Tarth’s daughter, but also because her investigations at Renly’s office had helped put so many murderers behind bars. All the inmates had their own rooms with small bathrooms instead of cells, and budget cuts had caused the women and men’s sections to be combined into the same building, though they lived in different floors. It was a small prison—only eighty inmates in total were housed there at the moment.
There was silence outside for the first time in days, a silence that was almost eerie, making Brienne feel as if she were living on a planet where she was the only inhabitant. Some alien in a distant galaxy, longing for human contact, yearning for some happiness that she could never truly grasp while she was free.
Despite all of her thoughts, Brienne felt herself drifting off. She must have been more tired than she imagined.
o – o – o
The worst thing about Harrenhal was Jaime Lannister.
Each day, all inmates were forced to spend time together in the prison’s common room, a large space with uncomfortable sofas and chairs, most of which were positioned facing an old TV. All they could watch was the news or some very old movies, but from time to time the wardens would allow a live sports match. Usually people were well behaved, but on occasion a disagreement turned into a fight, at which point everyone would be sent to their room and they would be kept in lockdown for the rest of the day.
It was the time of day ex-senator Jaime Lannister chose to make her life even harder. Nothing that came out of his mouth was ever less than an insult or a joke at her expense. The first time he saw her, he had laughed and asked if she was a woman and they had assigned her to the wrong floor, seeing as how he had not noticed her in the men’s quarters. Then it was some comment about her height, or her freckles, or her introversion. She had only been in prison only two weeks, but the routine had already worn her out.
Though most of the other inhabitants of the prison had thrown a few jeers in her direction, the novelty for them had soon worn off and they had let her be. That was not the case for Jaime; if anything, he appeared to grow more amused by her exasperated response as time went by.
When she walked into the common room that morning, she made sure to avoid passing by him, picking a corner armchair where she could sit and read without being bothered. She was immersed in the pages of a literary classic when Jaime stood next to her, leaning casually against the wall.
“Hey, the polite thing to do is to say ‘good morning’,” he started. “If you keep being this rude, I might have to stop talking to you.”
“Imagine that.” She turned the page.
“Considering I’m the only one who even talks to you, I think you should make an effort to reply.” Jaime slumped down on the floor, inspecting the cover of her book. “Otherwise it’s going to be a very dull twenty-year stretch.”
Brienne finally looked up at the interruption. He was undoubtedly the best looking man she had laid eyes on. In spite of already being in Harrenhal for a year, he still maintained his high spirits, as if he were permanently expecting his time to be cut short for no other reason than him being a Lannister. The glimmer in his eyes did not seem to fade with the loneliness of imprisonment, the one that gnawed at Brienne day after day. His hair was down to his shoulders and he kept a beard that showed little speckles of gray.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she replied simply. “Do you want me to commend you on your incessant jokes about me?”
He laughed. “I just want to know your name, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Because I have nothing else to do.” Before she could return to her book, he grabbed it from her. “Tell me your name so I’ll be able to stop referring to you as ‘that huge mannish beast’.”
“You shouldn’t refer to me as anything.” She reached for the book, but he sat on top of it with a sassy smile. “Give me back my book.”
“Well, I have to talk to the other guys about something. Most of them are assholes, but one or two are interesting enough. And your arrival has made quite an impression.” He used his thumb to play with the pages of the book, making a flapping noise. “Though only because nothing ever happens here,” he told her in a mocking tone. “Tell me your name and I’ll give you your book.”
Brienne sighed. “I don’t believe you.”
“On my honor as an ex-senator,” he promised, biting his lower lip. If didn’t know better, she might have allowed the thought that he was flirting with her. But that would have been stupid.
You have no honor.
“My name is Brienne.” She added nothing else. He just sat there, watching her as if he were inspecting a particularly perplexing crossword puzzle. Only when she frowned did he make a move to hand her the book. Brienne took it and stood, heading back to her room before he could find something to mock about her name.
o – o – o
“Are the rumors true?” he asked her. “They say you cut Renly Baratheon’s throat. A crime of passion, they said, soon after he married that Tyrell girl.” He let out one of his easy laughs, following closely beside her in line at the food bar. “Hell hath no fury—”
“Stop,” Brienne growled through gritted teeth. “Just stop, okay? Stop harassing me, stop insulting me. I did not kill him. I would never.” Angrily, she grabbed a plate of unpleasant-looking beef stew.
Jaime leaned forward so unexpectedly that she froze. “I know,” he whispered close to her ear in a tone that no man ever had used with her. The hairs on her arms stood on end as her skin turned to gooseflesh. She did not understand how a man in prison could smell so good. “You’re too dull to be a murderer,” he told her with a smirk, pulling back from her. “You probably still have stuffed toys on your bed back home.”
She forced herself to think of something else, anything but the inexplicable nervousness that had resulted from his gesture. “Or maybe I have morals. Unlike you.” She rushed to join the line for a soda, trying to shake him off, but her escape was delayed by a worker who was refilling the drink station in a painstakingly slow manner.
He raised an eyebrow, never dropping his smile. “So you do know who I am. You know of my great prowess.”
“Your reputation precedes you,” Brienne confirmed, avoiding his gaze. “You murdered Governor Targaryen in cold blood.” Her fingers drummed against her tray in annoyance.
“Did I?” he asked her in a mocking tone. “Oh, yes, I remember now. That must be the reason I’m here, about to eat this shitty meal.”
The line began to move along again. Brienne walked on, pretending the conversation had not happened. Soon enough they would fall back into their typical cycle of insults on his part and eye rolling on hers, so she simply grabbed a soda and walked away. She made sure she picked the most cramped table in the cafeteria so Jaime would not be able to sit beside her.
o – o – o
Due to Brienne’s good behavior, they allowed her to spend up to two hours per day at the prison library. Though it only contained a small selection of books, she was glad to find a distraction to make the days go faster, as well as keeping her away from the other inmates; most of them preferred to spend their free time elsewhere.
The extra library time came with the condition that her cleaning duties increased, but she found it did not matter that much to her. In addition to keeping their quarters completely clean at all times, the inmates were tasked with the rotating responsibility of cleaning the common room, assisting in the kitchen and taking care of the laundry. Her library time meant that Brienne had to prepare the daily bread each morning, which she was currently doing with as much concentration as a chess player in a tournament.
She was surprised when Jaime showed up to join her—she was usually alone in her task. His annoyed expression suggested that he had been sent to the kitchen as a punishment for some misdemeanor; he tended to be too smart-mouthed when talking to the officers, which caused him no end of trouble.
“Are you pretending you’re touching some suitor?” he asked her, slumping down next to her and picking up a roll of dough. “If that’s the way you treat a man, I’m glad it’s not me in those gigantic hands of yours.”
Brienne dutifully ignored him and started singing one of her favorite songs in her head.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
“And I’m choosing not to listen,” she replied, adding more flour to the mix.
“Come on, I’m just teasing you. What did you do to earn this dull task?”
“Nothing. I just chose to spend extra time in the library.”
Jaime forcefully pressed down on the dough to knead it into submission. Brienne could not help but look at the way his arm muscles tightened beneath his unflattering orange uniform. “So you’re just doing this voluntarily?” He laughed. “The lengths you’ll go to just to avoid talking to other people.”
She stopped suddenly, staring at him in annoyance. “At least I’m not bothering anyone. You keep talking to people who have no interest in talking to you.”
His frustration—whether at the toughness of the dough or at her comment—became palpable. “Gods, you think you’re so interesting that I can’t stop myself from talking to you?”
“You don’t seem to.”
“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that maybe everyone else in this dump is even more insufferable than you? That maybe I just want some somewhat tolerable company?”
Brienne closed her mouth. She did not even realize it was hanging open.
“You’re so dense, it’s a wonder that you used to be some investigator.”
“How do you know that?”
Jaime stopped his kneading, seemingly tired of trying to subdue the stubborn dough. “I was wondering why you were sent to this facility instead of prison. My brother told me about you.”
“I didn’t know you had visitors.”
He huffed. “Only him, and only once every few months. He’s in politics too, though nothing public. He just plays the puppeteer with everyone else.”
Tired of watching his fruitless attempts at making some suitable bread rolls, Brienne picked up a jarful of warm water and poured it slowly over his dough, gesturing for him to continue kneading. As he did, she could see it becoming softer and easier to manipulate.
“It just takes getting used to,” she explained, returning her attention to her own task. “Unlike this place.”
Jaime shrugged. “It’s not as bad now.”
“What do you mean?”
His green eyes regarded her shrewdly. “Now that you’re here. At least you’re different.”
“You said I was dull.”
“I say a lot of things, Brienne.”
The way her name rolled off his tongue was so pleasant that she found herself replaying it in her mind, hoping she would hear it again. The feeling was beyond her understanding, considering no one had ever irritated her half as much as he did. “I didn’t think you actually liked me.” She turned bright red, realizing how she must sound. “I mean, liked talking to me.”
Jaime chuckled at the misunderstanding. “I do like you. You’re okay.” His dough now had the perfect consistency, so he began to roll the pieces into small buns, setting them on one of the large metal trays. “You have pretty eyes.”
Her embarrassment grew, so she looked away and said nothing in hopes that the compliment—an actual compliment from Jaime Lannister’s own mouth—would vanish in the thick air of the kitchen.
Both of them continued to work diligently. After a long stretch of silence, Brienne decided to restart the conversation, finding it strangely relieving to have some human contact. “What’s your brother like?”
“Witty, takes nothing too seriously except women and booze. He’s also the smartest man I know.” Jaime finished placing his buns on the tray. Hers were already waiting in a different one, so he checked the temperature in the oven and placed them both inside. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“No.” She did not feel like going into details about her brother’s death when they were still kids. “I’m used to being alone.”
“So you’re too cool to hang out with the likes of me?” Jaime asked in a teasing tone.
“I’m not used to hanging out with anyone, really.” She shrugged. “People only need to look at me to make up their minds.”
“At least you’re not an airhead. I know too many women whose only purpose is to get between a man’s legs with some objective: money, status, power. Being as ugly as you makes you know better.”
There it was, just another insult, as usual. She sighed, dusting the flour from her hands, and removed her apron. The bread was already in the oven, so she didn’t need to stay any longer.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving. You’re hopeless.”
He was taken aback. Could he not tell when he was being hurtful? Maybe she was not the only emotionally stunted one in the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just meant to say that you’re better than them. You’re . . . real.”
Brienne had seen many photos in the paper that displayed the women who worked in Jaime’s office. All of them appeared to be cut out of a fashion magazine, secretaries and assistants, PR agents and campaign managers alike seemed made from a mold of perfection. She could not quite grasp what he was trying to do by telling her, a clumsy thing, that she was better.
After a brief uncomfortable silence, Jaime laughed off her lack of a response and turned back to watch the oven door. “Fine, you can go. You can come back later to taste my top-notch bread.”
One last look at him made her pulse quicken as she noticed the small beads of sweat that ran down his temple, and the damp strands of golden hair sticking to his neck. The skin there looked so soft that she found herself imagining what it would be like to brush her fingers against it.
She must have been staring, because Jaime’s head turned and he caught her glance. Brienne quickly scurried away, pretending nothing happened, but it was hard to ignore the intensity with which his emerald eyes had regarded her for a second.
o – o – o
The third month of her stay was as shocking as it was difficult. She had already adapted to the dull routine at Harrenhal; being locked up most of the day, spending some time in the common room and a couple of hours of exercise in the yard. The only benefit of her hulking frame was being sought out when a game of basketball began.
She did not have many visitors. Visits were only allowed during the weekends, with a limit of an hour. Only Catelyn and her father came to see her, perhaps once or twice a month. Her father was a very busy man, having to deal with running the state of Tarth as well as doing his best to put together an appeal for her case with Mrs. Stark. So day by day Brienne learned to survive, to fall into the monotony of her new life, progressively letting go of the what ifs and unanswered questions.
Somehow, against all odds, she and Jaime had become more comfortable talking. Just like he had said, there was not much else to do in the facility. They avoided speaking of their crimes (alleged in her case, certain in his), and instead chatted about other topics. Most of all they were a dynamic team on the basketball court, and had managed to win quite a few games.
Then one morning, as puzzling as it was, Jaime punched Red Ronnet Connington.
The redhead was a politician from the Stormlands. The label did not come from the color of his hair, so much as the way he had been drenched in blood after murdering a prostitute in his residence. Though he was not so high profile, he was sent to Harrenhal as part of the deal his attorney had struck for him in exchange for valuable information about the escort service. The first thing he had done was mock Brienne very publicly after losing a basketball match against her team. As soon as the words ‘giant bull-dyke’ left his lips, Jaime had thrown him a right hook that sent a couple of his teeth flying straight to the asphalt, while Brienne stood there open-mouthed.
It had been a week, and Jaime was still in solitary.
Her only hope of talking to him was with the help of Cortnay Penrose. He was one of the officers whose confidence she had gained during her long hours spent in the kitchen. Penrose was one of the few men who believed her innocence; he had followed Renly Baratheon’s career closely, having met him a few times while he worked as a bailiff in court. He was sure that Renly would never put his trust in the wrong person, and he had heard the lawyer speak most highly of Brienne’s impeccable work and her dedication.
“Please,” she said to the older man as she mopped the kitchen floor, in a soft voice so the other officer would not hear. “I just need five minutes.”
“I’d be putting my career on the line,” Penrose whispered back with a slight frown. From the way his red beard moved, she could tell he was pursing his lips in disapproval.
“I promise I won’t take long. Just five minutes.”
For a moment he said nothing. Brienne focused on dipping the mop in a bucket and wringing it, watching the dirty water gather and the white bubbles make way for its splash. A second later the other officer went off to make rounds and Penrose approached her. “Just five,” he whispered. “At nine I’ll be left alone to guard both floors for half an hour due to changeover. I will knock on your door—be ready.”
And so there she was, standing in front of Jaime’s metal door. There was only a small hole on the bottom to sneak the food inside, but it was locked, so she opened the caged window and called him. In the darkness she saw a lump stirring, sitting up and approaching her. As he stood in front of the door, she noticed the hallway light reflecting in his green eyes.
“Why did you do it?” Brienne asked him, cutting to the chase. “Who knows when they’ll let you out now? You broke Ronnet’s nose.”
Jaime smiled at that. “That was kind of the point.”
“You were the one insulting me not that long ago,” she reminded him.
“I never called you that. And maybe you should’ve punched me.”
She shrugged. “I knew I’d be sent to solitary if I did.”
He laughed softly, the echo bouncing off the walls of the empty cell. “So aside from being an asshole to you, I’m also stupid?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re nothing if not honest, Brienne.”
Apparently her five minutes were not up yet; she had to wait for Penrose’s signal to scurry through the hallway and back to the next floor. It hurt to think that she would have to leave so soon; only then did she realize how much she needed someone to talk to, even if it was barely a few words. Being locked up was one thing, but the added silence made her feel like she had been in a shipwreck and was now stranded on an island. She could not begin to imagine how he must feel, locked in one of the smallest rooms in the facility.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Of course I am. I’m nothing if not resilient.”
But his eyes told her he was lying, and it suddenly struck her that she knew how to read them. She had never been that good communicating with other people, but with Jaime things felt easy, effortless, because she never sought to impress him. He already saw her flaws—he had been enthusiastic to point them out—so their relationship never had anywhere to go but up.
For a reason that she barely understood, she placed her hand around one of the bars, perhaps trying to offer him some comfort. His fingers curled around hers and his warm touch caused a breath to catch in her throat. “I miss you,” she heard herself say, the words feeling so foreign on her tongue that she might as well be speaking a different language.
“You should,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “I’m fantastic company. And who else is going to defend you from the likes of Red Ronnet?”
Brienne huffed. “I can defend myself.”
“Well, you did allegedly murder Renly Baratheon. He should fear for his life.”
“I—”
“—didn’t kill him. I know. Damn, you can’t ever take a joke, can you? I wish you’d lighten up.”
Silence settled between them. Brienne could hear footsteps down the stairs. She focused on the sound, trying to determine if they were Penrose’s. The one ability you quickly acquired at Harrenhal was being able to distinguish one set of footsteps from another. As far as she could tell, these had the same familiar echo and weight as the bald guard’s. When she turned to look back at Jaime, there was something strange in his gaze, something she had never detected before. Was it longing? He looked like a child who was too shy to greet a stranger.
“Brienne, you know, I want—”
Cortnay Penrose’s voice came, as low as possible. “Time’s up.”
She nodded, moving away from the door. Her eyes never left him once, not until the hallway was out of sight. Brienne’s mind raced to complete his sentence in her head, filling in the blank with the words she would have liked him to say instead of the ones she thought might be true. It was only when she was back in her cell that she wondered why her cheeks were flushed.
o – o – o
He’s a murderer, she told herself.
Brienne had to look at the situation the way she would look at the evidence. The facts told her that Jaime had murdered Aegon Targaryen in his office in cold blood. The murder weapon was a nine-millimeter gun registered to the governor, with Jaime’s fingerprints clearly on it. There was nobody else on that floor at the time the shot was heard, and the jury had deemed Governor Targaryen’s position in office motive enough for Jaime to commit the crime. His father, Tywin Lannister, was to be Targaryen’s opponent in the coming election.
“Wrapped in a nice little bow,” the employees would have said at the station back when she worked there. It was the expression they used to describe a case that made itself; one where there was not a lot to do other than gather the evidence and send it to the DA. Moreover, Jaime had not denied committing the crime. All he ever did was acquiesce to the charge in his usual sarcastic tone.
Brienne sat alone in the common room, missing Jaime and his distasteful jokes and his bright smiles. It was during those days that she realized how much easier he made her life at Harrenhal. The other women were scornful, either making cruel jokes behind her back or ignoring her altogether. She knew they did not say anything to her face because they were probably afraid of her. Most men did the same, maybe because Red Ronnet’s blood was still decorating the basketball court.
The problem was that as far as she could tell, Jaime was a smart man. Cunning, even. Why would someone so intelligent commit such a high-profile murder without a well-thought out plan? Why would he stay in Aerys’ office after the incident, just waiting to be caught?
She bit her lip and looked out the window toward the yard. The sky was clear and the sunlight filtered through the glass in beautiful rays that reminded her of a life that went on outside her little prison, something that swiftly snuck away from her, day after day. Brienne closed her eyes and fisted her hands, forcing her inner investigator to awaken, convincing herself that she was still a person, she was still alive somewhere in there. That she could still force the gears of her imagination into motion if she just set her mind to it.
A phone call was the answer. It was provided to her easily enough; she had never asked to make a call before. The old headset was as heavy as the doubts that now plagued her, like a group of thick raindrops falling on her head.
“Hello?” Catelyn’s voice greeted.
“Hi, Mrs. Stark,” Brienne said, struggling to shush the voice of her better judgment. “I have a problem and I need to contact someone. I was hoping that perhaps you could help . . .”
o – o – o
Podrick Payne was Brienne’s assistant while she worked at the station. She had personally taught him the best techniques for DNA analysis, passed on her preferred chemical recipes and the secrets to fixing some of the most stubborn machines in the office. When she had left, he’d barely been a boy of eighteen, just out of high school. Three years later he looked much more like a man, his build stronger, his face far more serious.
“Hi, Podrick,” she told him as soon as they let him into the visitation room. They sat down at one of the far-end tables where they could have some privacy. “Look at you, you’re so different. You’re a man now.”
He gave her a shy smile that showed her a peek of the boy she had mentored. “I am, miss . . . I guess.” There was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “I never thought I’d see you here.”
“I know.” Brienne crossed her arms on the table. “I also know that you believe me.” She received a nod at that. He was nothing if not loyal. “I want you to know how much I appreciate this favor, Pod. If I ever get out of here, I’ll make sure I repay it by buying you a big, cold beer.”
The young man slid a book toward her. ‘The Great and Small Dynasties of Westeros in the Middle Ages’. It was as tall as the length of her forearm and almost as wide.
“It’s the least I can do,” Podrick replied. “I wish I could help you. I checked your case files, but it was . . .” The words stuck in his throat. It was nice to know he still felt such respect for her.
She smiled sadly. “You can say it. I’ve known it all along.”
“Wrapped in a nice little bow.”
o – o – o
The thick file was safely hidden inside the cut out pages of the book. Brienne was thankful that Catelyn had not asked any questions before contacting Podrick, and glad that the young man had gone through with it. It was a big risk for her to have it in her hands, the original dossier with photos of all the evidence of Jaime’s case, every report, the name of all the personnel who were present in the building.
Once the lights were off in her cell, Brienne turned on the flashlight that Penrose had given her when she first arrived. She went through every picture, read the statements of all the witnesses, carefully inspected line after line.
After the third night, she felt like she was going in circles. There was nothing out of place, no explanation that could throw the case in a different direction. Other suspects lacked the means or opportunity—though many people would have motive, given Aerys’ unpopular approach to politics. Her notepad was full of annotations, big and small, serial numbers, circles and arrows, diagrams and timestamps. The timeline of events fit well enough that she knew it was no longer worth exploring. She needed to look elsewhere.
The fourth morning she was sitting at one of the reading tables in the common room, going through her notes, when she felt a pair of hands cover her eyes.
“Guess who?”
Brienne’s heart skipped a beat. She froze in place, paralyzed by Jaime’s warm hands on her face, by the feel of him and his pleasant scent. After a few seconds he pulled back and dropped into a chair beside her, looking as bright as if he had never been thrown in solitary confinement, bar for the dark rings under his eyes.
“You’re supposed to guess, you know,” Jaime said, leaning back on his chair. “Or have you forgotten me already?”
She longed to touch him, to reach for him, to have him close to her, but they were no more than illusions better suited for a high school girl. Such contact was not allowed, and she was not about to put him at risk so soon after being released—not that she would be daring enough to try it, anyway. So she remained sitting still, looking into his eyes, forgetting how to form words as she became consumed by his intriguing glance.
“What are you doing? Are you done with all the books?”
“I’m reading something more interesting now,” Brienne told him. “It’s called ‘The Reason Jaime Lannister was Thrown in Harrenhal’.” She lowered her voice and continued, “The plot is interesting. It involves a gun registered to the governor, a perfect timeline, a deserted floor. A man who never pleaded innocent to his crime. And yet . . .”
He raised an eyebrow inquiringly.
“I don’t buy it,” she continued.
“There’s nothing to tell.” Jaime seemed almost angry at her intrusion. “You could get in serious trouble for digging into that shit. Are you trying to get your own stint in solitary?”
“I want to know why you did it,” she pressed. “I want to know why you just stayed there. The security cameras in the hallways were off that week for repairs. You knew that. You could have just walked out of there and no one would have found you.”
“I’m no coward,” he growled.
“You’re a murderer, then?”
“I am. It’s why I’m here. We can’t all be as holy as Brienne Tarth. And I won’t make any apologies for it, either. I don’t regret what I did.”
She slammed her hand on the table. A few people turned to look, so she remained motionless until the officers determined that she was not about to jump into a fit of violence. “I know you. You don’t have it in you. Look me in the eye and tell me you did it.”
Jaime’s face neared hers just enough not to raise attention. His green eyes were worn out by his time alone, by the battle against the system, by his demons. Brienne knew it for certain, now that she had her own. “I did it,” he said firmly.
“Means, motive and opportunity,” Brienne replied. “It’s the first lesson you learn in forensics. You had the means and the opportunity, but I can’t see a motive. I know you didn’t do it for your father.”
At that he smiled. “See, we know each other too well. It might be you’re not as blind as I thought, though you’re still more stubborn than a mule.”
“Tell me more. I want to understand.”
“How did you get the information?” Jaime asked, ignoring her request. In spite of her protests, he inspected her notes, focusing on the serial numbers scribbled on the margins. His eyes were doubtful and shifted to become a pair of demanding slits. “These records were sealed.”
“I just want to help—”
“Help yourself,” he growled, rising from his seat. “You should be figuring out how the fuck to prove your own innocence. You’re so naïve, Brienne, you can’t even see that. You’re innocent. You should be your own priority.”
The words struck her. It was true, she should be focusing on her own case, trying to find a way to prove that she was not guilty, figuring out any details she might have missed from that night. But thinking about it hurt so much that she tried to block out the memories of all the blood and accusations and despair.
He waited for her to reply, to say something in her own defense, but there was nothing she could add. The sadness she felt when he silently walked away from her forced her to take a closer look at the things that were right in front of her. She was not digging into the case just to help him—he had already admitted his guilt. She was doing it because Jaime Lannister had triggered a sensation that she had never experienced; he made her heart race and her throat go dry. She was trying to prove him wrong so she would feel a little less wretched for being ridiculously infatuated with a killer.
o – o – o
It did not take long for the officers to discover the file, and it resulted in both Jaime and Brienne being confined to solitary for a month. The only reason they weren’t given longer was because the prison warden was quite well acquainted with Jaime’s father.
So far Brienne had only managed to sneak a couple of notes to Jaime when it was Penrose’s turn to bring their meals: Sorry and I meant well, both of which went without a reply.
Her next note would be her last attempt, she decided: I know you did it, but I’ve known real murderers and I can tell that you’re not one. There had to be a reason for you to do this. All I want is to know the truth.
It was then that he finally decided to write back. Perhaps solitary was finally getting to him.
You think too much of me. Not that long ago you were avoiding me at all costs, what happened with that? I think it was more fun that way. Now you seem to have some strange notions about me.
Her reply was brief: You changed my mind.
Jaime was blunt—Your newfound ideas have thrown us both in this situation, and it’s not going to get any better. You need to accept that we’re condemned to spend our next twenty years here. The next part of his letter was hesitant; it was easy to tell by his unsteady handwriting. PS: Sometimes I think having you here makes it seem like a good prospect.
It took her much longer to write back after that. Jaime had been honest with her from the start, so he had no reason to lie to her. If only she allowed herself to believe it, she could open up and show him that there was someone out there who cared about his honor, someone who wanted to prove that there was more to his story.
It’s not like she had anything to lose at this point.
Jaime—You’re not alone in your last idea.
What followed the next week was the exchange of a series of notes where he told her in no uncertain terms that, in spite of her many flaws, he would be glad to show her what it felt like to be a woman. After recovering from her utter astonishment at the admission, she wrote in a shy hand that she did not believe him, and he would have to find a way to prove it when they were let out of their confinement.
When he didn’t reply, Brienne started feeling foolish. She spent at least five days without any news or human contact, feeling like a rat trapped in a hole. She found herself fantasizing about the warmth of the sunshine on her skin, forgetting what it felt like not to have four walls closing in around her, choked by the sensation that the air in her cell was stale and filthy. During her worst times, when she could not manage to stop the tears from pouring freely, she would try to think of Jaime’s face, of his striking features, of his smug smile. The prospect of seeing him again served to strengthen her resolve.
Living such a gloomy routine had made her feel like there were no surprises left in her gray life, but as it turned out, she was wrong. So wrong.
The next letter she received was typed, and it arrived in a very official envelope.
The court of King’s Landing County has been made aware of new evidence that directly affects case KLC-36765-A3. As a consequence, your conviction of second degree murder has been overturned. The county wishes to extend a sincere apology for your undue imprisonment. You are scheduled for release within the next twenty-four hours, and will receive a generous monetary compensation for the error.
Only one person could have caused this, someone with enough influence on the outside to dig deeper into the case and reveal evidence that tied a different assailant to Renly’s death. There was no doubt about it.
It was Jaime.
o – o – o
When Brienne entered the kitchen, she was already wearing her civilian clothes—a pair of gray slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt that she had worn to court the day of her sentencing. She had gotten rid of her jacket and would do the same with the rest of the outfit as soon as she was back home, trying to purge herself of every page that made up that chapter of her life.
She made sure to close the door behind her, thankful that Penrose was allowing them a moment to say goodbye.
Jaime was alone, placing the trays of bread in the oven. It broke her heart to think that he would have to do it alone from now on, like everything else, but not as much as it had hurt to understand that setting her free was the ultimate proof of his absurd gallantry. It meant that he would rather spend his next twenty years rotting alone in prison than seeing her unfairly rot beside him.
And still, somehow, the anger was there, pouring out of her as soon as she slammed the court order down on the table in front of him.
“You did not even bother to tell me about this,” Brienne started, irritation dripping from her voice. “So I’m supposed to take this and go, and leave you here?”
Jaime wiped the flour off his hands with a towel, as casually as if they were talking about the weather. “Lannisters always pay their debts, never forget that. I owed you one.”
“For throwing you in solitary?”
He looked up at her face, studying her. “For caring.”
She would have done anything to stop the tears from welling up in her eyes right then. He did not fail to notice and closed the distance between them. His thumb traveled to her cheek, wiping the droplets away, lingering far longer than necessary until they were drawing a faint line over her plump lips. She could not recall being so conflicted before; she never imagined that she would feel so strongly towards someone that it would make her want to remain imprisoned. What did it matter so long as she could see his face, breathe the air around him? What did she have outside that could compare to that?
By then she decided to set aside her doubts and hesitation, her fear of rejection. She closed her eyes and willed her inner voice to shush, drove it away with every breath that brushed Jaime’s beard, turned it to dust by brushing her lips against his, by the feeling of his tongue probing her mouth. The scent that had fascinated her from afar now weakened her knees as it became a taste, as it became something that fully enveloped her when his arms circled her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.
The kisses raced like horses around a track, each following the next one closely, causing her heart to speed up and frantically beat against her chest. Their lips broke apart and she looked into his eyes. Jaime’s hand snuck inside the back of her shirt and traveled up her spine, conjuring a shiver that flowed all the way down to her toes. “I won’t leave,” she whispered into his mouth, into his kisses. “I will never want to leave now.”
Jaime smiled, moving his thumb along her side, pulling her step-by-step toward the cramped supply closet. She followed, barely aware that she was moving. The world was reduced to the lines of his face, to the softness of his lips, to her fingertips turning the dream of running through his hair into a tangible reality. Brienne felt the wall behind her back, heard the closet door closing, saw his eyes clearly under the shabby light bulb that hung beside them.
“You don’t know the half of it,” he told her softly, moving his tongue along her jaw and coming to a stop next to her ear. He opened the button of her pants, pressed his fingers against her warm belly, sneaking them lower and lower, encouraged by her heavy breaths of anticipation. When he finally touched the place she wanted, he smiled triumphantly at the discovery that she was more than ready for him.
Her hands moved on their own accord and unzipped his prison jumpsuit. She almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. When she managed to tug the top down past his hips, she was greeted by his very enthusiastic cock. After a few teasing circles with his fingers around her entrance, he dipped them inside her while drawing her in for a deep kiss, making Brienne feel as if she was completely intoxicated or in the middle of a dream.
There was a knock outside, on the kitchen door. She felt her stomach drop, felt the fear rising and wanted nothing more than to have those seconds, those moments for themselves before they slipped from their grasp. She pushed away his hand, placed one of her legs around his hip, pulled him closer. There was almost a hint of tenderness in his lust-filled gaze when he grabbed her buttocks to lift her, pressing her against the wall. There was no shyness left in her when she put her hand around his length and guided him inside her, feeling her walls yield to him, wishing to freeze the moment so she could relive it over and over again.
Brienne had to press her lips together to contain her gasps and moans, though by the time his thrusts became desperate she was already sighing his name in his ear. “Come with me,” she whispered, and she didn’t know if she meant away or just right now. She no longer cared. She wanted—needed more. One of his hands grasped her hips to steady them, allowing them to move together, while the other reached for her small breast, rubbing it softly while his tongue circled her bud.
“Jaime,” Brienne repeated, over and over, feeling as though it was the only thing grounding her to reality.
“Shh,” he answered kindly, placing his cheek against hers, a grunt escaping his lips as he pushed himself further into her. “He’ll hear. I’m not going anywhere.”
But he was, he was going to the same place as Brienne. She could feel him grow harder as his hips finally came to a halt, could feel herself clutching him, demanding everything of him, pushing him into a release of his own as she let go. When she opened her eyes, becoming conscious of her surroundings, she was feeling lightheaded and her chest and face were covered in sweat.
Jaime was panting with a grin on his face. “When I get out of here, I expect a repeat performance, and I’m going to want to hear you.” With a last affectionate clench of his fingers on her hips, he pulled out, placing a soft kiss upon her temple. “I’m afraid in the meantime you’re going to have to amuse yourself.”
Another knock came from outside, this time much louder, and they both hurriedly fixed their disheveled clothing. Not a minute had gone by that Brienne was already aching for more, more of his cock, more of his kisses, more of his taste and his stupid quips and his warm hands, more of his company, of his blunt honesty, of his teasing tone. It enraged her that only now, through being wrongly imprisoned, had she discovered what it was like to be a part of someone.
But freedom was his gift to her, and she had to accept it.
o – o – o
Five months passed almost without her noticing. Brienne had left King’s Landing, a city that no longer held much hope for her after all the scandal. She rented an apartment in Riverrun and put her compensation money to good use, investigating every detail of Jaime’s case. Though she no longer had access to his file, she had read it so many times that she knew it by heart.
She had found out the key that solved her own case. Renly’s brother, Stannis Baratheon, had communicated with him days prior to the murder through a safe phone line. Unbeknownst to her, both brothers were in the middle of a bitter battle regarding Robert Baratheon’s testament after his untimely death.
Tyrion Lannister kept track of all the issues concerning the most important families in King’s Landing. He had learned that information was power, and Brienne was grateful for it. It was only through that knowledge that some accounts had been investigated, proving that Stannis had wired a large amount of money to a female assassin from Asshai to complete the task. The woman had, with a certainty, still been in the apartment when Brienne walked in for her appointment with Renly. Had the blonde not left in a panic, she could have been killed as well.
Brienne sat on her couch after another long day at the library, having consulted more than a few new articles on forensic techniques that could clear up some of the fuzzier aspects of Jaime’s case. But after so many attempts she was ready to declare that the forensic work was not the problem; there was nothing she would have done differently.
It was Tyrion she turned to. She called him and explained everything that she had ruled out, hoping he would have some new ideas that she could explore. All he was able to do was send her some additional documents: phone records from Aerys’ office, sworn statements from the employees in the building, profiles of each of them.
That night, when she closed her eyes, she was Jaime.
He walked into the office late at night, sometime after nine. It was an odd time to visit the governor; usually Aerys would have already been home for some hours. He was known to suffer from a deep paranoia that had him believing there would be an attempt of his life at every turn, so getting home early was one of his priorities.
Jaime was there to deliver some papers for him to sign, contracts for approval for the construction of a new office building that would considerably increase the income of Lyon Construction and benefit his family in the process. There was no one else in that floor by then, and most of the lights were turned off.
Aerys sat behind his desk, deeply focused on a phone call. Jaime had not knocked, so he was able to overhear some of the words in his conversation, but they were muffled in Brienne’s ears. Jaime had refused to tell her the details, pushing her to figure it all out, as it if it was an entertaining game for him.
Whatever he heard in the conversation had turned the tables. Jaime had dropped the stack of documents on the floor, causing them to fall under the desk in silence. He had then interrupted the governor; Aerys turned abruptly at the sound and Jaime had quickly taken the phone from him, slamming it on the oak surface to render it inoperable.
There had been a struggle, evidenced by a broken lamp and a few scattered pieces of what used to be a vase. One of the cabinets in the office was opened in such haste that the door was pulled off its hinges; it was suspected that the gun was kept inside. The gunshot that killed Aerys Targaryen soon afterward was so close to his face that both he and Jaime were covered with trace amounts of gunpowder.
Jaime could have run, he could have accepted the direness of his situation and left with the gun safely hidden in his pocket. Perhaps they would have caught him from his footprints on the carpet, or from the Lyon Construction document that was soaking on the older man’s blood. Although any person’s instinct should have led them to flee, Jaime did not. He stood his ground until the minute the police arrived to find him standing over the corpse.
Brienne retraced her steps, moved forward again, tried to erase the boundaries of the scene so she was only focusing on the immediate. In the eye of her mind she brought forward the pictures of the telephone, shattered to pieces. Then she forced herself to become Jaime again, to overhear Aerys. Who is he talking to?
Phone records: A man named Hallyne. Nothing strange about him, nothing that could have raised alert in the investigation. Tyrion had been the one to give her the file after he had fruitlessly sought more information on all the names. He had found nothing, but thanks to Pod’s access to the police records, she found out the man’s true name was Rossart.
Her heart raced. The name screamed at her, triggering memories from over five years ago, memories of a terrorist organization whose specialty was building explosives.
Brienne’s eyes widened, realization hitting her like a wave in an ice-cold beach. The suddenness of it, the urgency to destroy the phone, to delay an order that would eviscerate every employee with a night shift in the office, and it would have been a lot of people. With the campaign so close, it was almost a rule to work overtime in the lower floors.
Rossart would never act without a recorded approval from Aerys Targaryen, even if the operation was ready to go. The governor had been descending into madness, becoming alienated and irritable, mistrusting everyone and accusing the Lannisters of trying to overthrow him. Would he be insane enough to . . . ?
Jaime. All the people in that office building owed their lives to Jaime.
There was only one piece missing. Jaime had stayed. But it was no strange piece once you knew him, he was proud and arrogant, he would never scurry away like a rat—he would admit to what he had done and live with the consequences. Had he told that information to someone and been unable to prove the truth of it, or had he kept it all to himself?
Jaime knew she would understand sooner or later. He had trusted her, and he was right to do so. He thought there would never be any way to prove what happened that night, but he was unaware of the alias that fit like a key for the cops’ double agents in the organization to take action. They would obtain the necessary documents to clear him of the charges as soon as she could bring the case to Homeland Security.
Jaime Lannister was coming home, wherever home was.
o – o – o
Brienne sat in her car, listening to the whirring of the engine and trying to ignore the way her hands were shaking. She was staring intently at the gates of the facility, biting her lip so aggressively that she drew a drop of blood. She stared at the clock for the fourth time in the last minute, still 1:58 PM. It was as if time intended not to pass at all.
She closed her eyes, trying to regain her composure. They had earned this. He had allowed her to be free, proven that she was innocent, and now she had done the same for him. So why was she afraid that things were too perfect to be true, that something terrible must be about to happen?
Right when the clock hit two o’clock the gates opened. Jaime walked tall and proud with a smirk firmly planted on his lips. His hands were casually stuck inside the pockets of his jeans; his hair was longer than before, arranged in lazy curls that were picked up by the wind and shone like gold under the afternoon sun.
He got in the car, comfortably settling in the passenger seat of her modest sedan. Jaime’s green eyes glinted with satisfaction, whereas hers were probably clouded with emotion. He pulled her into a soft, brief kiss, a simple promise of what was coming later.
Brienne blushed, looked ahead, focused on pulling out of the spot. She drove away from Harrenhal, away from their stolen time, headed for something else that she had yet to define, something that would be theirs to build now that the road was wide open before them. She rolled down the windows, letting the breeze inside. It felt like she could finally welcome the fresh air into her lungs.
Right then, against all odds, they were free.