Frost must have fallen during the night. The fortress's stone pavement gleamed dully white in the morning light. The eighth day since arrival. Lannister Jaime stood at his chamber window, remembering the previous night. He and Tarth Brienne had argued at the tavern, a soldier had called it a marital spat, and they'd both shouted back at him in unison—and yet, despite how little time had passed, this morning felt strangely quiet. Too quiet. From beyond the fortress walls came the sound of hoofbeats. Not just one. Multiple horses, approaching in measured rhythm. Jaime fastened his golden prosthetic hand and peered down from the window. The gate stood open. The fortress garrison—the mercenaries of Varg's Fang—stood in formation. Not the posture of those preparing for an attack. The stance of those preparing to receive. *(An acquaintance arrives.)* Deep in his chest, an unpleasant premonition flickered quietly to life. --- The moment he saw the man dismount from the lead horse, that premonition hardened into certainty. Swarthy skin. Jet-black cropped hair. A sharp, hooked nose. Cold crimson eyes that swept across the entire fortress as if appraising it. Beneath a long black coat, two swords hung at either hip—a dual-wielder. Eight armed men followed behind him. Varklen Darios. Captain of the mercenary company "Varg's Fang," which Cersei controlled. And the fifteen men already stationed at this fortress—they had been his subordinates from the start. Which meant—Jaime had arrived at the fortress thinking he'd escaped, only to find that his refuge was also within Cersei's reach. *(I thought I was running away, but she was waiting at my destination too.)* A bitter laugh caught in his throat. Darios raised his gaze. His eyes met Jaime's at the window. The man gave a slight bow of his head and smiled. A refined gesture. A perfectly calculated smile. Jaime left his chamber. --- They collided in the corridor just after Jaime descended the stairs. "[cold]It has been some time, Ser Jaime. Lady Cersei has been quite concerned," His voice was calm. Courteous. Yet his eyes held no warmth. Jaime shrugged. "[sarcastic]My sister worries too much. She always has," "[cold]That being the case, I'm afraid we cannot simply overlook it. We too have our duties to fulfill," As he passed, Darios's gaze flicked for just a moment toward Jaime's right hand—the golden prosthetic. One second. It lingered. That was all. He said nothing. Only smiled and continued down the corridor. *(Pity? Contempt? Calculation?)* A smile that could be any of the three was the most troublesome. Jaime clenched his prosthetic hand. The metal fingers wouldn't move. Only cold. --- Midday came. In the training yard, Tarth Brienne was practicing her forms. Her tall frame—185 centimeters—swayed with long hair that held a faint greenish tint as she moved through her sword strikes in steady rhythm. Golden, sharp eyes fixed only on the blade's point. The movement was quiet, earnest, beautiful. "Brienne!" The voice cut through the fortress air. Brienne's sword stopped. At the entrance to the training yard stood a young knight in armor. Blonde hair, slightly fluffy and short. Gentle blue eyes. A modest smile. His features were mild, giving an impression of quiet dependability—a young man with something almost unreliable about him. "[gentle]Gowen...," Surprise mixed faintly into Brienne's voice. Selwyn Gowen. Brienne's childhood friend. A twenty-three-year-old knight raised on the island of Tarth. A calm, sincere man—but there was only one reason he would appear here today. "[gentle]I've come to bring you home. Father is worried too. Come back to Tarth with me," The words were too direct. No preamble. No roundabout approach. Pure sincerity, the kind that defined Gowen as a man—but sincerity and proper distance were different matters entirely. Brienne lowered her sword. "[serious]I have no reason to leave," "[gentle]Do you have a reason to stay?" Silence came. Brienne didn't speak. She had no words to answer Gowen's question—or rather, she hadn't found the answer yet. A reason to stay here. When she tried to shape it into her own words, something formless slipped through her fingers. Someone watched that silence from the training yard entrance. Jaime. He observed the two of them for three seconds, then turned on his heel. *(It's none of my concern.)* He murmured it to himself as he walked toward another corridor. One step, two steps—the third step came just slightly slower than the others. The prosthetic hand at his right side made a small, metallic *click* from the base of the fingers. --- Evening came. The Hoarse Voice tavern was crowded. The fortress's only tavern and dining hall filled with garrison soldiers at supper time. Freda carried three mugs of mead at once while saying "Now, now, don't push" to the soldiers. A sturdy woman in her fifties, she held more information than anyone else in the fortress. Darios had arrived first. He sat at a table by the window, drinking from a silver cup, alone and quiet. That alone would have been fine. Gowen entered. Their gazes collided. One second of silence. Gowen sat at the adjacent table. The distance between them was less than a meter. The tavern's atmosphere shifted subtly. The surrounding soldiers noticed and began lowering their voices. Freda looked back and forth between the two men from behind the counter, the corner of her mouth rising slightly. Her face said: *Tonight will be lively.* The door opened. The moment Brienne entered—Darios and Gowen rose from their seats in perfect synchronization, pulling back their chairs. *Clatter. Clatter.* Two sounds overlapped. The entire tavern froze. Twenty soldiers hunched their shoulders, eyes darting between the two men and Brienne, who stood frozen at the door. Brienne stared at the scene for three seconds. "[serious]...Please sit back down, both of you," Her voice was low. Darios sat. Gowen sat. Brienne lowered herself into the empty seat—unluckily positioned directly between their two tables. Freda brought three mugs of mead. She asked nothing, said nothing, simply set them down with a *thunk*. For a while, no one spoke. The sweet smell of mead. The sound of Freda's salted pork stew simmering. Wind from outside. Darios opened his mouth. "[cold]Lady Brienne. Let me be frank. The protection of Ser Jaime shall be handled by us of Varg's Fang. There is no need for someone of your standing to remain in this dangerous place any longer—your services as a female knight are no longer required," Quiet words. Polite words. Words spoken with a smile. And yet, the coldness of the blade cut through all the more sharply. Gowen slammed the table. "[angry]Brienne is my childhood friend! No one else has the right to decide where she goes!" "[sarcastic]And what of that? Does being her childhood friend make you her spokesperson?" "[angry]At least I understand her better than you do!" The two men glared at each other. The tavern's air turned to ice. All twenty soldiers held their breath. Brienne's cup crashed against the table. *BANG!!* "[angry]No one decides where I go!!" Her voice shattered against the tavern's ceiling. Both Darios and Gowen fell silent for a moment. All twenty soldiers hunched their shoulders in unison. Freda looked up at the ceiling. In a corner seat, Lannister Jaime drank his mead. "[cold]Do as you please," He murmured it. The words were directed at no one. Only at himself, as if reminding himself. Only Freda saw it. From behind the counter, she saw Jaime's right hand—his golden prosthetic—trembling in small, rapid movements. Freda said nothing. She simply placed an additional mug of mead quietly before him. Jaime didn't meet her eyes. --- After the chaos subsided, two figures stood on the fortress's outer wall. Brienne and Gowen. The moon was out. The wind was cold. Winter's breath drew closer once more. Gowen leaned his back against the stone wall and spoke quietly. "[gentle]We grew up together on Tarth, yet you haven't changed. You never wanted to rely on anyone, even back then," "[serious]There's no need to change," As she answered, Brienne's gaze flickered inward toward the fortress. A light burned in a second-floor window of the east wing. Jaime's chamber. Gowen's expression suggested he either noticed that direction of her gaze or didn't. "[gentle]What is it that you want?" Brienne fell silent for a moment. "[serious]Gowen, you've always wanted to protect me. But what I want is—," The words wouldn't come. The name of what she wanted wouldn't emerge. Not to be protected—that much was clear. But then what? When she tried to shape it into words, it felt like groping through fog. Gowen waited quietly. He didn't rush her. That was this man's kindness. Yet for Brienne—that kindness sometimes felt suffocating. "[serious]Even back then... I thought that crying meant losing," She spoke in a small voice. Of childhood on Tarth. She'd lost her siblings young. Show weakness and you'd be mocked. So she chose not to cry. She chose to rely on no one. That accumulation had made her who she was now. Gowen smiled gently. It was written plainly on his face: *I want to protect you.* Brienne saw that expression and let out a small sigh. *(That's not it. What you're offering isn't what I want.)* But those words too remained unspoken. --- When the fortress had fallen into deep sleep, a light kindled in the underground storage chamber. In the dim stone room lined with food stores and weapons, five figures stood. Darios and four elite members of Varg's Fang. The torch flame wavered. In a voice inaudible beyond these walls, Darios spoke. "[whispers]We move the plan forward. Two nights hence, at the deep of night, open the gate. Those waiting outside will enter, and we secure the east wing, second floor. Lady Cersei's orders," One of the elite spoke, voice lowered. "[whispers]Will Brienne of Tarth not interfere?" Darios smiled. "[whispers]She will have other concerns to occupy her. So long as Gowen remains," The four nodded quietly. The torch flame wavered, shadows stretching across the walls. Gowen's arrival was no accident. While Brienne was bound by her own turmoil, Jaime would be secured—it had been calculated from the start. Darios turned and climbed the stone stairs. As he ascended from the depths, his expression held no smile. Only the flat, businesslike face of one attending to duty. The plan was in motion. In two days, Cersei's hand would close around Jaime. Jaime still didn't know. In the east wing's second-floor window, a single light flickered.