That night on the outer wall, the words exchanged between them still clung to Lannister Jaime. *I ran away*, she had said. Tarth Brienne had not answered. He still didn't understand what that silence meant, even now that morning had come. The fourth morning since arrival. The sky above Eldwin Fortress was the color of lead, frost lingering white on the stone pavement. Jaime sat on a bench in the courtyard, holding his golden prosthetic hand up to the sunlight, gazing at something that didn't exist anywhere. Then the gatekeeper came running. His face drained of color. "[scared]S-Sir! A messenger from Haskel Village!" Behind him came a mud-caked man. A farmer from Haskel Village, nine kilometers south of the fortress. His breath came in gasps, his knees trembling. "[scared]Bandits, sir... Ten remnants from the War of the Five Kings have surrounded the village... The villagers are barricaded in their homes..." The moment the commander began shouting orders to the soldiers, Jaime was already on his feet. He grasped his sword with his left hand, began wrapping the leather belt around his waist. *(I'm going. That's all.)* He didn't think about anything unnecessary. The villagers needed help. That was enough. It didn't matter if the prosthetic was heavy, if his left-handed swordwork was still rough. "[serious]I will accompany you." He turned. Tarth Brienne stood there, fastening her sword belt. Her golden eyes looked straight ahead. No hesitation. Jaime's eyes met hers for a moment. "[cold]I'm going." "[serious]I will go." One second of silence. Jaime exhaled through his nose and began walking toward the fortress gate. Tarth Brienne started walking at the same moment. They didn't walk side by side, didn't align themselves, but rather drifted in subtly different directions—yet both exited through the same southern gate. Freda, who had been polishing the counter, covered her mouth as she watched their backs. Even from ten meters away, it was obvious she was stifling laughter. --- They arrived at Haskel Village's square almost simultaneously. The moment Jaime emerged from the copse of trees at the village entrance, Tarth Brienne appeared from the opposite path. Both of them stopped for just a beat. *(... This is a pain.)* But there was no time to voice it. In the center of the square stood men. Ten of them. Their weapons were mismatched—rusted swords, farm tools repurposed as weapons, broken spear shafts. He'd heard they were remnants from the War of the Five Kings. Soldiers without work who'd fled to the mountains and turned to banditry. It happened all across Westeros. Their eyes were wild. They meant business. The enemies began to encircle the two of them. There was no time to exchange words. Jaime and Tarth Brienne naturally positioned themselves back-to-back. Two people forming a single circle. "[cold]I'll watch the front." "[serious]I'll take the rear." In answer, the men moved. --- The first three came. Jaime raised his sword with his left hand. —Not his right, so his footwork was shallow. He knew that. And yet he stepped forward anyway. *Clang*, swords met. He deflected. Next. A man came from the side; Jaime sidestepped half a pace and drove his elbow into the man's face. The man staggered. If he still had his right hand— Another blade came from his right blind spot. Before Jaime could react, Tarth Brienne's sword knocked it aside. No sound. No turning around. Just the sensation of her back, she filled the gap in his defense. *(... She sensed it.)* Jaime clicked his tongue and turned to face the next man. He wasn't in the mood to thank her. But the next step he took was slightly larger. Tarth Brienne was behind him. That alone expanded his range of movement. The fight was decided in minutes. When the last two remained, Jaime and Tarth Brienne turned simultaneously. Still back-to-back, each lunged toward the man in front of them. Two swords found their marks in nearly the same instant. Two dull thuds overlapped in the air. Silence fell. Dust from the square's earth drifted on the wind. Jaime lowered his left-hand sword and steadied his slightly ragged breathing. His back still felt her presence. *(There was a time I felt this before.)* When he was the Lion's Shield, there were companions who guarded his back. A distance where you could move without calling out to each other. He hadn't thought of those days in a long time. He hadn't wanted to think of them, so he hadn't. Complex feelings slowly sank deep in his chest. --- The villagers emerged from their homes. "[excited]Thank you, knight! Thank you so much...!" An old woman seized Tarth Brienne's hands. Children ran toward her. Tarth Brienne seemed unused to it, stiffened slightly, but still asked, "Are you unharmed?" A man who appeared to be the village elder approached Jaime and said: "[cold]... A Lannister." His smile vanished in an instant. What appeared on the man's face was wariness and a faint disgust. The children took one step, then two, away from Jaime. He understood why. The War of the Five Kings. Lannister forces. What had happened in various places. Rumors traveled faster than swords. Jaime formed an ironic smile at the corner of his mouth. "[sarcastic]... It's the same everywhere." He hadn't spoken it aloud. But his lips moved of their own accord. It was different from the silent sympathy the fortress soldiers offered. That was "somewhat awkward." This was "clearly afraid." He understood both. Both were right. And because of that, he belonged nowhere. He started walking first. Behind him, the villagers' words of gratitude continued toward Tarth Brienne. --- On the return road, the path along Treva River was quiet. Only the sound of the river continued. Willows swayed in the wind, the water's surface scattering the afternoon light. About four kilometers to the fortress on this narrow path. Tarth Brienne walked slightly behind Jaime. She didn't overtake him. But she didn't fall away either. Jaime suddenly stopped. He didn't fully understand why. He just felt that he had to say something. There was a sense that something needed to be said. Without turning around, still facing forward, he spoke: "[cold]... Your swordwork was beautiful." After he finished, he was a little surprised at himself. He wasn't the kind of man to say such things. At least, not until yesterday. He was poor at giving straightforward praise, and yet staying silent felt uncomfortable too, so it came out as sarcasm—that was the kind of man he was. And yet today, the sarcasm didn't come. Behind him, something seemed to stop. He turned. Tarth Brienne had gone rigid. Her entire body, as if frozen in an instant. Her ears—if he wasn't mistaken—had turned completely red. "[serious]... I don't need flattery." She said it quickly, then walked past Jaime at a faster pace. As she passed, she turned her face completely away. Jaime watched her retreating back. The redness of her ears extended down to her white neck. *(... What was that?)* The energy to make a sarcastic remark had vanished somewhere. Instead, a quiet, slightly amused feeling welled up. He hadn't meant to laugh, but the corner of his mouth lifted just a little. --- They returned to the Hoarse Voice tavern in the evening. When Jaime opened the door, Freda, polishing a mug of mead, said "Welcome back." She didn't say anything else. That was one of the good things about Freda. He sat at the end of the counter. A moment later, the door opened again. Tarth Brienne came in. The timing of her return to the fortress was almost the same. She glanced at the counter—confirmed that Jaime was there—hesitated for a moment, then sat down anyway. There was only one empty seat. At the counter, next to Jaime. Tarth Brienne stood for a second, thinking, then sat. Freda placed two mugs of mead without a word and grinned. Her face said "I know what's going on." A sense of fatigue draining from his body. The mead burned his throat. For a while, both of them drank in silence. It was Jaime who broke it. "[sarcastic]That third man—you would've beaten him without my cover. You didn't need my help." Tarth Brienne set down her mug. "[serious]If you hadn't created an opening, I wouldn't have needed to make unnecessary movements." "[sarcastic]Are you criticizing my left-handed technique?" "[serious]It's not criticism. It's fact." "[sarcastic]Your footwork could've used a different angle if you'd waited a bit longer before stepping in." "[serious]I was stepping in while covering you. An ideal angle—" Her voice was getting louder. The tavern's atmosphere went completely still. The surrounding soldiers looked up at them. A soldier at a corner table muttered: "[whispers]Sounds like a married couple fighting..." The entire fortress froze for a moment. The next instant, Jaime and Tarth Brienne shouted at exactly the same time: "[angry]We're not!!" The soldiers burst into laughter. Thirty voices of laughter bounced off the ceiling of the Hoarse Voice tavern and echoed back down. Freda doubled over, one hand on the counter. "Alright, alright, thanks," she said, slamming down two more mugs of mead. Neither of them could say anything more. Jaime turned away and raised his mug. Tarth Brienne turned in the opposite direction and drank her mead. Both of them had their mouths slightly raised at the corners. --- Night fell. Lying on his back on his bed in his quarters, Jaime stared at the ceiling. As he wrapped his right arm in cloth after removing the prosthetic, he thought. He didn't want to think, but he did anyway. *(Why can't I get her out of my head?)* That woman who called herself a spectacle—no, *he* had called her that—had guarded his back. When he praised her, she'd turned red and run away. They'd argued in the tavern, been called a married couple, and shouted in unison. It made no sense. Looking out the window, stars were visible. Wind came from the direction of Treva River, and the fortress's stone walls made a faint sound. The river's voice seemed unusually distant tonight. He couldn't sleep. --- In the barracks, Tarth Brienne sat on the edge of her bed. She'd picked up cloth to maintain her sword, then stopped. *(Why does this man keep occupying my thoughts?)* His face, red up to his ears after losing the arm-wrestling match. The rhythm of his breathing when they fought back-to-back. The way he'd suddenly stopped on the return path, then spoke without turning around. —Your swordwork was beautiful. It was an unpracticed way of giving praise. Even he seemed surprised by his own words. That's why she couldn't accept it properly. She'd called it flattery. But it hadn't felt like flattery. *(A knight's honor says sentiment is unnecessary.)* She knew that. And yet the restlessness in her chest wouldn't stop. She moved the cloth again. Her hands stopped again. --- On the fortress's outer wall, two figures stood. Without torches, they melted into the night's darkness. Mercenaries of the Vargian Fangs. Eighty strong, hired by Cersei for two thousand gold dragons from King's Landing. One leaned close to the other's ear. "[whispers]Don't move yet. Wait for the captain's orders." The other nodded slightly. They parted and walked in different directions. Their footsteps made almost no sound on the stone pavement. Inside the fortress, something began to move quietly.