The smithy had been ringing with the sound of metal since morning. Clang, clang—that rhythmic sound echoed through the fortress courtyard, cutting through the morning air. The blacksmith, Rowan, was a taciturn man. In his forties, broad-shouldered, his face carved with deep lines. True to his appearance, he said nothing unnecessary. He simply worked. For Jaime, that was actually convenient. Jaime sat before the workbench, his right arm's stump exposed. The golden hand lay removed. The metal hand resting on the table caught the light from the smithy's furnace, gleaming dully. Being seen without the prosthetic—it was one of the things Jaime hated most. With the golden hand attached, he was "the Kingslayer's golden hand." Without it, he was just a severed arm. All past glory, all ironic dignity—gone. Only the miserable fact remained. Rowan worked silently on the hinges. The metal inside the prosthetic had stiffened slightly from the fortress's dampness, making attachment and removal less smooth. "[serious]If I file down the fit here a bit, it'll be easier," "[cold]Do it," A brief exchange. That was enough. Rowan began working with a fine file, the sound mixing with the furnace's roar. Jaime stared at his right arm—at the empty space where his right arm ended. *(I wouldn't say I've grown used to it. But I've had no choice but to.* Once, he'd been called the finest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. The King's Shield. One of only seven, the realm's greatest strength. That right hand was now replaced by iron and gold. The blacksmith's work was skilled—the prosthetic looked almost indistinguishable from a real hand. But it was heavy. Immobile. Numb to everything. Stone, wind—all sensation cut off. Every morning he woke, it shaved away at something inside him, bit by bit. Then the smithy door opened. Jaime instinctively pulled his right arm behind his back. "[serious]Rowan, about what I asked for yesterday—" The voice stopped. The figure that entered was tall. No—tall wasn't the word. At least 185 centimeters. A full head taller than Jaime. Long hair, pale with a greenish tint. Sharp golden eyes. A stern expression. Small scars from sword training visible across her body. A woman. Her gaze lingered for just a moment on Jaime's right arm. Jaime quickly took the prosthetic hand and fastened it. A metallic click. Rowan glanced over but said nothing. The air in the room solidified into something strange. Jaime looked the woman over from head to toe. A sword at her hip. Clothes bearing the marks of armor. By any measure, she was dressed as a warrior. "[sarcastic]A woman knight. How novel," The moment the words left his mouth, Jaime felt a slight exasperation at his own sharp tongue. But he had no intention of taking it back. The woman said nothing. She simply looked at him with those golden eyes. There was no anger in them, no contempt—only a quiet, weighty gaze. The kind that made you uncomfortable when held. *(The figure from last night, in the moonlight?)* Jaime intuited it immediately. That precise sword practice. That tall frame. No doubt. The woman looked away and spoke to Rowan. "[serious]I've come to collect the sword sharpening I requested yesterday," Rowan silently retrieved a sword from the shelf. The woman took it, bowed slightly, and left. The door closed. Jaime stared at the closed door for a while. It was, he thought, the worst first meeting. And yet, strangely, her eyes remained in his mind. --- Noon came. The Hoarse Voice tavern was filled with the clamor of the lunch hour. The sweet smell of mead mixed with the scent of Freda's salted pork stew. Jaime sat at a table slightly away from the counter, holding a mug with his prosthetic hand—this time carefully—while half-listening to the soldiers at the next table. Westeros remained unsettled even after the War of the Five Kings ended. Remnants and bandits infested various regions, and in King's Landing, Cersei continued consolidating power. Such talk drifted through the fortress's dining hall. Everyone was exhausted. Everyone was anxious about what came next. "...Well, this is the borderlands, so it's not so bad here." "I don't know about that. There's been bandit activity deep in the Ashwood." "More remnants from the Five Kings' War?" As the soldiers grumbled, Jaime took a spoonful of stew. It was salty. Freda's cooking was far from subtle, but it filled the belly. His mouth moved without thinking. Words came naturally as he spoke to the soldier beside him. "[sarcastic]A woman swinging a sword around—well, it makes for a spectacle, doesn't it," It wasn't genuine mockery. The smithy this morning had caught in his mind, and the words came out as if to brush away that snag. Without realizing it, he'd been conscious of those golden eyes. "..." The soldier beside him froze, staring past Jaime's shoulder. Jaime looked up. Two meters across the table, the woman stood. Those golden eyes looked straight at him. This time, it wasn't just "weight"—there was something like flame in them. She'd heard everything. The fact settled into the pit of Jaime's stomach. *(Bad, you could say. But then again...* He had no intention of running. Brienne approached the table without a word. She didn't sit down heavily. Instead, she placed her right elbow on the table in front of Jaime, opened her hand, and extended it. An arm-wrestling challenge. The tavern fell silent. Freda leaned out from behind the counter, her face saying "now this is interesting." Soldiers began shuffling around the table. Thirty pairs of eyes focused on Jaime. Jaime smiled slightly. "[sarcastic]You want me to do it with the prosthetic?" Brienne didn't answer. She simply didn't withdraw her hand. "[cold]...Do as you like," Jaime placed his golden prosthetic on the table and grasped Brienne's hand. It didn't last three seconds. With a loud crack, the golden prosthetic was slammed against the table. """""OOOOOHHHHH!!!!""""" The tavern erupted in laughter. Thirty soldiers were holding their sides, laughing. Even Freda was laughing aloud. Jaime looked at his prosthetic and felt his ears grow slightly warm. *(Well, that's what would happen.)* The prosthetic had no strength. Metal couldn't push back against another's hand. He'd known it. He'd known it, but he'd accepted the challenge anyway. And this was the result. In the midst of the laughter, Jaime glanced at Brienne's face. It wasn't bright. The face of the woman who'd won showed no joy. Rather, it bore something heavy. She withdrew her hand, stood quietly, and looked away. *(Winning against a man with a prosthetic hand, then.)* Jaime saw that and stopped laughing. In Westeros, only those anointed with the holy oil of the Faith of the Seven could formally claim the title "Ser." Female knighthood was almost never recognized by custom. Which meant that woman, however strong, was not a formal knight. No matter how many opponents she defeated with her sword, there was no place that would acknowledge her. Beating an arm-wrestling match against a man with a prosthetic hand couldn't be anyone's pride. While the soldiers' laughter continued, Brienne quietly left the tavern. --- Evening came. The top of the fortress's north outer wall was quiet. While making his rounds along the wall, Jaime spotted a figure in the gathering dusk as the moon began to rise. It was Brienne. She sat at the edge of the wall, running an oiled cloth along the flat of her sword. Methodical movements. A steady rhythm. The same kind of quiet as the back he'd seen last night, practicing sword forms outside the watchtower. Jaime stopped half a step. He thought about turning back— Instead, he kept walking. She must have heard his footsteps, but Brienne didn't look up. Only the movement of the cloth paused slightly. Jaime leaned his back against the wall and stood beside her, not quite standing together. To the south, the thin flow of the Trident River reflected moonlight. Willows along the riverbank swayed in the wind. From the fortress, nine kilometers south lay Haskel Village. Another 580 kilometers east along the road lay King's Landing. Distant. Everything was distant. Neither spoke. Only the sound of wind, the water of the river, and the small sound of Brienne moving the cloth continued. After a while, Brienne sheathed her sword. A metallic click cut through the night air. "[serious]...Why come to such a remote place?" The question was somehow impersonal. Not prying—just words to fill the silence. Jaime answered while still looking toward the Trident. "[cold]I ran away," There was a pause. "[cold]And you?" Brienne didn't answer. The hand holding the sheath moved slightly. She'd started to say something and swallowed it. That silence wasn't rejection. It was the silence of someone with no words to give. Jaime understood that. If you could organize your reasons, you wouldn't come to a fortress like this. A person without a place moves to escape the fact of having no place. There's no destination. Just anywhere but here. The two of them faced the same direction. South, toward the Trident River. *(This one ran away too, I think. The same kind of running I did.)* He didn't think beyond that. Just wind blew, and the willow leaves swayed. Jaime spoke first. "[cold]...Good night," He turned and walked without looking back. Two steps, three steps. His feet stopped. He'd started to say something. The words came to the edge of his throat and stopped. He didn't even know what he'd meant to say. In the end, he said nothing and kept walking. He could sense Brienne watching his back. She didn't call out. --- Back in his quarters, Jaime stared out the window for a while. In the moonlight, he glanced toward the outer wall. Brienne was no longer there. Only the quiet fortress night stretched out. He removed the prosthetic hand and placed it on the table. The gold reflected the moon with a faint gleam. Staring at the ceiling, Jaime thought. *(When I said I ran away, she started to say something too.)* She'd swallowed it before it became words, but it was definitely something. It felt like the same kind of thing he carried—something that couldn't be put into language. Sleep wouldn't come. --- In the barracks, Brienne lay on her cot. Staring at the ceiling, she thought about today. She'd won the arm-wrestling match. Easily. In seconds. The soldiers had laughed. She'd expected that. What she hadn't expected was how she felt after winning. Nothing. There was a pride she couldn't place, even in beating a man with a prosthetic hand. No matter how many opponents she defeated with her sword, there was nowhere in Westeros that would acknowledge her. When she'd served Lord Renly Baratheon, she'd felt the desire to be recognized. She'd remembered that feeling for the first time today. *(...To be recognized, then.)* It was strange, Brienne thought. Lannister Jaime's face, defeated and blushing to his ears, wouldn't leave her mind. That face had looked frustrated. Frustrated, yet he'd smiled. He'd laughed while accepting the challenge with a prosthetic hand, lost in three seconds, and still smiled. She couldn't understand why that face bothered her. --- In the middle of the night, two mercenaries of the Vargal Fangs walked along the outer wall. Part of the mercenary company Cersei had set in motion from King's Landing for two thousand gold dragons. Their official task was maintaining order in the western regions. But that wasn't the real reason. The two stopped and exchanged glances, confirming the light burning in the east tower's second floor. A small nod. That was all. They continued walking. The light didn't go out. Jaime's room light continued to flicker alone in the fortress, swaying through the deepening night.