Chapter Text
"You’re much uglier in daylight!"
Repelled by the sight of the beastly woman in front of him, while unable to tear his eyes away from her at the same time, Jaime couldn’t resist laying bare his discontent as soon as she pulled away the cloth covering his head. Filled with revulsion at his misfortune of being forced to spend the rest of the journey in the company of this wench, his mind was alive with activity as he explored the possibilities of breaking free. He wanted to make it to King’s Landing, but on his terms, not as the hostage of some fucking Stark bodyguard. One who was neither a man by way of creation, nor a woman by any standards of femininity. From the time he had set eyes on her, he had a lingering doubt-was she really a woman?
"What’s your name?" he demanded, as she manhandled him, dragging him to his feet. "I’m Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock, son of Tywin," he announced pompously, searching her face for the reaction that he expected. Her persistent silence took him by surprise. For the first time his name, and more so the identity of his house failed to evoke the revered response it usually did. This ugly wench didn’t seem to bother to acknowledge who he was, nor did she take the trouble to answer him.
Jaime kept stealing glances at her as they trudged along for a while in silence. He was beginning to get uncomfortable, finding it increasingly difficult to keep his mouth shut. If this continued till the end of their journey, he would die of boredom long before he could make it home. He preferred a quick death at the hands of an adversary any day rather than this slow, painful end. But for the moment, he saw no choice. Resigned to the fact that he would have to put up with his fate, he decided to push her into talking. If this bloody wench was destined to be his only companion for the days to come, he might as well know who she was, her strengths and weaknesses.
"A captured knight has the right to know his captor’s identity," he decided to have a go at it again, this time trying a different tack.
"Brienne of Tarth," she finally replied, her disgust for him clearly evident in her sour expression.
"Tarth… Tarth," he wondered aloud, thinking hard. "Crescent moon and Starbursts..." He recognized the house as their sigil came to his mind. "Lord... Selwyn Tarth!" he exclaimed, recollecting the name. "Your father." So she was indeed a lady, though only by title as he had pretty much surmised from her crisp, sophisticated speech.
Yet again, she gave no reaction. He couldn’t help wondering if she was made of wood, for he was yet to meet someone as lifeless as her. The only notable feature on that face was the pair of eyes that she had been gifted with, vivid, blue pools that seemed out of place on that broad, homely face. "Do you have any brothers and sisters, my lady?" he asked, despite being aware of her family. He was rewarded not with a reply, but another shove from her. "It’s a long way to King’s Landing, we might as well get to know one another," he complained, finding it impossible to bear the deathly silence. There was something horribly appealing about this woman that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He found himself intrigued and fighting a losing battle to resist the urge to find out more about her than the bare minimum that courtesy and necessity of knowledge of the enemy demanded.
"Not interested," she grunted, seemingly a woman of few words. "My job is to get you to King’s Landing safely, not to entertain you with empty talk, Kingslayer." He didn’t miss the bitterness in her tone when she uttered the word Kingslayer. The same old, familiar tinge of abhorrence that he had been putting up with year after year, for the last seventeen years. Everyone looked at him in the same light - Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, man without honour… and this wench was no different.
"Ofcourse, you’re interested," he egged her on, discovering that he took special pleasure in infuriating her. "No woman’s been able to resist my charms, my lady, and you are no different." Despite himself, he gave her his most charming smile, as an afterthought, wondering why he did so.
"I’d rather die than fall for your self proclaimed charms, Kingslayer," she lashed out at him, her face turning red at the unwarranted provocation.
And I’d love nothing more than to aid you with that, Jaime thought, relishing the idea of driving his sword through her heart. "My name’s Jaime," he corrected her indignantly, somehow finding the word kingslayer even more repugnant when it fell from her lips.
"In my eyes, you’ll always be the Kingslayer." She appeared to enjoy using the word, placing added emphasis on it whenever she could, much to his growing irritation.
To that, Jaime had no fitting retort and they continued walking, the deathly quiet once again beginning to get on his nerves. "Have you known many men?" he resumed conversation, as she dragged him towards a boat waiting for them at the bank of the river. "I suppose not," he concluded when she didn’t reply. "Women?" he suggested, half-convinced that she was queer. Men were probably not her type. After all, which self respecting man with decent eyesight would want to bed a woman like her? If he were to speak for himself, it was an easy choice. Far from having her warm his bed, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere within an arm’s length of distance from her. Touching her was out of question with even the slightest physical contact enough to make him recoil in disgust.
Again, there was just the same stony look on her face. Was this woman capable of any other expression?
"Horses?" he taunted, this time, his intention purely to provoke her into responding. And it worked, earning him the reaction he expected. She shoved him to the ground so hard that he was on his knees, a loud groan escaping his lips. "I didn’t mean to cause offense, my lady. Forgive me," he said, his tone anything but apologetic.
Craning his neck, he spotted a carriage passing on the bridge in the distance. He made an attempt to get to his feet but she bent his head down forcibly. "Your crimes are past forgiveness, Kingslayer," she bitterly replied, hiding him from anyone who could see them from a distance.
"Why do you hate me so much? Have I ever harmed you?" Jaime asked, before he could stop himself. Why was he trying to justify his past to this revolting stranger? How did it matter what she thought of him?
"You’ve harmed others," she panted, her tone oozing hatred. "The weak, the innocent—"
"Has anyone ever told you you're as boring as you are ugly?" The only way to distract her was through insults. He had to get her worked up enough to make a mistake, to lower her guard so that he had an opportunity to cut loose.
It looked as though he had won half the battle. She was livid. "You will not provoke me to anger!"
"I already have." He laughed. "Look at you, you're ready to chop my head off." When his comment attracted no further response, he decided to distract her in a different way. "Do you think you could beat me in a fair fight?"
"I've never seen you fight." His ploy was working and her agitation heightened, her grip on him loosening as she lost her cool.
"The answer is no. There are three men in the kingdom who might stand a chance against me and you're not one of them," he stated categorically.
"All my life men like you have been sneering at me, and all my life I've been knocking men like you into the dust." He could feel her hands shaking in anger. As her eyes focussed on the movement in the distance, he felt her grip on him slacken further.
This was his chance. It was now or never.
Jaime’s mind raced as he weighed his options. A moment later, he’d made his decision. Taking advantage of her distraction, he turned around, throwing himself on her and pushing her backwards. Caught unawares by his sudden movement, she relaxed her hold on him. That miniscule window of a second was enough for him. Grasping the hilt of the sword on her waist, he grabbed it, immediately cutting down the rope that held him in her control. Taking her hand off his shoulder, she reached for the other sword on her belt in a desperate bid to arm herself. He jabbed her in the stomach with his elbow and scrambled to his feet bringing his sword to position in a two-handed grip. She stumbled, but almost immediately regained her balance and pulled out her sword. Giving her no time to steady herself and attack, he tripped her, sending her crashing to the ground.
He wanted to finish her off once and for all, to put an end to this infuriating woman, to end his year-long captivity, but she was too quick for him. Before he could strike the fatal blow, she had sprung to her feet again and was facing him, blade in position, ready for him. He cursed himself for being slack, for he should have easily ended it there! After nearly a year of confinement, his reflexes had clearly rusted.
However, he decided not to fret over it, still having a fairly decent chance to defeat her and earn himself his long awaited freedom. "I wonder why some knights feel the need to carry two swords," he mocked, trying to divert her attention while pointing the sword at her.
Ignoring the taunt, she took position to strike him. "Give me the sword, Kingslayer," she barked, as they circled one another, each on their guard, waiting for the other to make a mistake.
"Oh, I will," he grinned, lunging at her. She was, after all, a woman. How long would she last against a renowned swordsman, a celebrated knight like him? He could easily finish her off within minutes, seconds, if he did marginally better.
There was an ear-splitting clang of metal when their swords met. Drawing all his strength and recalling every trick he had learnt, he struck hard, aiming to kill, craving to draw blood. She parried the blow expertly, her timing so impeccable that he couldn’t help appreciating her. "Not bad," he observed, taking a moment to catch his breath. "For a woman."
And so they began. He moved into her, striking from every direction possible, raining blows on her, itching to kill. The wench proved to be more than an able match for him, blocking every attack and dodging each blow with a perfect combination of swordplay and footwork that matched his own. "You’re good," he praised, albeit grudgingly. "Graceless, but good." Nothing made him feel more alive than a challenging duel with an opponent worthy of his attention. Putting an end to this ugly wench - this Brienne of Tarth - would do a world of good for his confidence which lay dormant in Robb Stark’s dungeons for months.
Their dance went on for a while, with him attacking relentlessly and her warding off every strike with deft, effortless swings of her blade. When he lost focus, she attacked, managing to get to him twice, once with a minor scrape on his forehead, and the second time a nastier cut on his forearm. Soon, it was the other way round, and he was the one who had to defend himself. He began to tire. Malnourished, and his wrists still in chains, he realized that he was neither at the peak of his skills nor in the prime of his health, and it was beginning to show in his awkward movements which the wench appeared to be keen to take advantage of.
Fuck, she was stronger than him! And that revelation was like adding insult to injury.
Frustrated, he gathered every bit of strength in his limbs and charged towards her, driving her away from the river, deeper into the woods. He managed to corner her, pinning against one of the trees. She proved to be too agile for him and slipped away. He chased her, and once again they prowled like a pair of predators circling a common prey. His strength was fading fast and he had to act without wasting any more time or effort. Fortunately luck favoured him as she took a step backward, stumbling against an unforeseen rock, the obstacle taking her by surprise, distracting her from him. This was all the diversion he needed and his last chance. Before she could stabilize herself, he struck her hard on the thigh, piercing through her armour. One look at the grimace on her face and he knew that he had done considerable damage, the thin, dark trickle of blood that slowly oozed out filling him with utmost satisfaction. It was by no means a fatal blow, but deep enough to render her temporarily immobile and certainly good enough to boost his sagging self-esteem. Allowing her no time to recover, he stabbed her in the side, this time the blow much harder and the injury far worse than the earlier one. Her legs gave way and she slumped against the tree, clutching her abdomen in pain with her free hand.
Jaime laughed; it was a wicked triumphant laugh, savouring his first taste of victory in ages. The bloodlust in him had re-awakened. He had finally managed to overpower this brute of a woman.
"Yield," he spat, gloating at the sight of the blood streaming down her right side as he stood over her, the tip of his blade on her neck. How long had it been since he had successfully brought down an adversary?
The wench said nothing, glaring at him as she lay on the ground, gasping for breath. He seized her sword and helped her to her feet as soon as he had disarmed her. "Unchain me," he demanded, eager to get rid of the handcuffs that were still restricting his movements.
Paying no attention to him, she collapsed to the ground again. She lay there, leaning against the tree, panting. He forced her to shed her armour, wanting to leave her with no defence. With the rope that had once bound him, he tied her to the trunk, tightly binding her arms and legs, wanting to take no chance. He bent down, crouching, so that he could look her in the eye. "Uncuff me," he repeated, holding out his wrists. Having had a taste of her swordsmanship, he was careful to keep the sword to her throat, his injuries a painful reminder of what she was capable of. One wrong move or one lapse in judgement, he would lose his head. He knew he had to be wary of her movements.
"Do you take me for an idiot?" she spat, looking away from him.
"No," he replied, keeping a straight face. "But if you don’t, I’m going to kill you." He pressed the edge of the blade to her arm until it drew blood.
She winced, her face once again contorted in pain. "I’m not going to succumb to your threats, Kingslayer," she remained adamant, still refusing to look at him.
Jaime did some quick mental calculations. He knew that this woman wasn’t going to give in to him easily, he had to find an effective way to break her. There were only two paths to take from here. He could easily kill her within the next second and escape. He would have his freedom, no doubt, but without her, he had no access to the keys to free him and no time to search for them once she was dead. Alone and still chained until he found some means to break out of his cuffs, he was prone to capture with Robb Stark’s men still out there looking for him. He had just been a witness to her outstanding prowess in swordplay, and despite his hatred for her, he was impressed. Killing her without making good use of her would be an utter waste of her talent. With her by his side as his hostage, their strength would be doubled, so would his chances of making it to King’s Landing alive. It was worth a try.
Knowing no other means of persuasion, he decided to go the traditional Lannister way, putting to use the one trick his father had taught him right from when he was a boy. Bargaining always worked with everyone, in some way or the other. There wasn’t a single person alive without a weakness, and Tywin Lannister had taught him how to take advantage of it. "Your being stubborn is not helping anyone, wench. This way, neither of us is going to benefit," he began to negotiate, trying his luck with the Tarth woman. "I have a suggestion that would help us both." He hoped she would take the bait. In the short time that he had spent with her, he had grown to know about her weakness and decided to make the most of it.
When she turned to him slowly, he knew he had her attention. She didn’t snap back at him or resist, which gave him the confidence to go on. "Why don’t we call a truce? You release me and come with me as my hostage to King’s Landing--"
"Are you out of your mind? What makes you think I’ll comply?" She glared at him. If looks could kill, he would be dead by now.
"Allow me to finish." He maintained his composure. "You come with me to King’s Landing and in return, I will give you my word that the Stark girls would be safe. You are free to leave with them once I am back home safely. I will, myself, send you back to Riverrun with them."
"You expect me to take your word? The word of an oathbreaker?" Her eyes flashed with fury. "I’m never going to cut you loose, Kingslayer. You might as well leave me here to die for your own good."
"Do you have a choice?" he continued, coming to the crux of his plan. "If you don’t release me, I’m going to kill you. And with you dies your vow to Catelyn Stark. Anything could happen to the girls after you’re gone." He paused to study her reaction. "Would you really want them to face the consequences of your stupidity?"
"You cannot harm them," she protested feebly, seeing no way out other than to accept his offer.
"Their fate is not entirely in my hands, but it could be if you want," he enticed her further. "Do you want to be known as an oathbreaker as well? Do you wish to join my league? I’m an honourless man, but I know there is honour in you, wench." He had gauged her enough by now to know that she would fall for this. The honourable woman that she was, she would never break her word to Catelyn Stark. "Who would take Sansa and Arya back to their mother if you happened to die in these woods today? I could kill you right now and go my way, but I don’t want to. Lady Stark would have expected you to do better than die at my hands."
Brienne still refused to believe him. "What is in it for you?" She looked at him carefully, her deep blue eyes boring into his. "Why are you so interested in keeping me alive? Why not kill me and move on with it?"
"Because you’ll protect me, wench, just as you had promised Lady Catelyn. Alone, in my currently vulnerable state, the chances of my survival are low. With you by my side, things could be better. You will see to it that I reach King’s Landing safely," he went on, unfolding his plan. "Only this time, the roles would be reversed. We continue the journey, but on my terms. So before it’s too late, why don’t you unlock my hands and let me cuff your wrists instead--"
She looked at him incredulously. "How can I protect you with my hands chained?"
"Oh, you’re bloody brilliant, wench, I’ve seen you fight," Jaime complimented her unwillingly. "Even with your wrists bound, you’re more than a match for most of your opponents. That’s good enough for me."
"I’m surprised you trust me to go quietly with you," she tried in a last bid attempt to intimidate him.
"I don’t," Jaime admitted. "That’s why you will travel the rest of this journey handcuffed. If you act smart, you’re going to end up with this sword through your heart, and with that, there ends any chance of survival for the girls." His heart soared and his spirits rose as he saw her cringe at his suggestion. "You’re the hostage now, Brienne of Tarth, and I am the captor. You might as well get used to it."