It was the middle of the night. For days now, sleep had eluded him. Lannister Jaime sat on the edge of his bed again, staring at the ceiling. Nine days since arrival. Outside the window, the wind had grown stronger, and the fortress's stone walls sang faintly. Damp air drifted from the direction of the Treva River, and the candle flame wavered once. (Don't think about Brienne.) He was thinking about her. The words he'd spoken on the road back from Haskel Village — "Your sword was beautiful" — he still didn't understand why he'd said them like that. He wasn't the kind of man who said such things. At least, not before. And yesterday at the tavern. That moment when Darios and Gowen pulled their chairs back simultaneously. Brienne had shouted, "No one decides where I go." Jaime had muttered from the corner, "Do as you like." But if he was being honest, those words were directed at himself. (What do I think that woman is to me?) Before an answer could come— BOOM!! A dull explosion echoed from somewhere below the fortress. Jaime was on his feet instantly. His ears sharpened. He waited for the next sound. Shouts. The clash of metal. Someone screaming. Multiple voices. The direction — below the east wing, and toward the gate. (This is—) No time to think. He grabbed his sword with his left hand. His fingers moved to fasten the leather belt around his waist, but stopped for just a moment. The prosthetic hand on his right arm felt heavy. It always felt heavier at times like this. Still, he fastened it and bolted from his chamber. The corridor was pitch black. He gripped the railing with his left hand as he moved toward the stairs. One step, two steps— Three shadows pressed against the stone wall suddenly moved as one. Jaime instinctively retreated. His sword flashed. *Clang* — he deflected one blade. But the corridor was narrow. There were limits to what one arm could do. An elbow came from the side, striking his ribs, and breath escaped him. "[angry]Tch—!" He managed to hold his ground, his back slamming against the wall. Another man swung his sword. Jaime deflected that too — but a third had circled behind him. Both hands grabbed his golden prosthetic from behind. His balance shattered. He felt himself being pulled forward, falling. He was slammed to the floor. BOOM!! His cheek struck cold stone. All he could do was keep his grip on the sword in his left hand. A kick came to his ribs. Another to his back. Pain. Heat. When he tried to push himself up with his left hand, someone stepped on the back of his foot, pinning him down. Three against one. Rope wound around his wrists. He was hauled upright. The sensation of his prosthetic being removed — his right arm's stump exposed to the night air. That cool touch made him understand everything. The golden prosthetic rolled across the corridor floor. *Clang.* The sound seemed unnaturally loud. Varklen Darios walked down the corridor, a torch-bearing subordinate following behind him. Jet-black short hair. Cold red eyes. A satisfied shadow dwelling beside his hooked nose. He approached with refined steps, glanced at the prosthetic on the floor, then shifted his gaze to Jaime. One of his men reached down to pick up the prosthetic — or so it seemed. Instead, he stepped on it. *Crunch.* A dull sound. The sound of gold being crushed. The sound of the right hand of a knight once called the strongest in the Seven Kingdoms being flattened against the stone floor of a corridor. Jaime saw it. He had no strength left to shout. He tried to muster a quip, but the words wouldn't come. He clenched his back teeth. That was all. Darios approached and crouched beside his face. "[cold]Lady Cersei is waiting for you, Lord Jaime." His voice was calm. Like a morning greeting. After a moment, Jaime spoke quietly. "[sarcastic]...My sister really is vindictive." One of Darios's men's face twisted as if suppressing laughter. A man walking to the gallows could still muster a final quip — that bravado and the complete despair beneath it both hung in the darkness of the corridor at once. Darios stood. "[cold]Take him to the dungeons." --- Outside the fortress was fire. Tarth Brienne crossed swords with three brigands in front of the barracks. The fortress gate was already open from the inside, and nearly forty men pouring in from outside were fighting garrison soldiers everywhere. The mercenaries of Varg's Fang weren't even fighting — they were the ones who'd opened the gate from within. (The right of guest-friendship was broken. Those who shared bread and salt within these walls drew their swords.) Anger could come later. Now, move. She deflected the slash coming from the right, stepped in with an elbow strike. The man staggered. The one on her left closed the distance. She caught it with the flat of her blade, redirected it— "[scared]Watch out! Brienne, behind!" Gowen's voice cut through. Before Brienne could turn, the sword of the man trying to slash from behind stopped. Gowen had thrown himself in front of her. Deep. From the base of his shoulder. "—!" A voiceless cry escaped, and Gowen collapsed. Brienne felled the remaining two men where she stood. It took less than a second. But that one second felt eternal. She caught Gowen as he fell. Blood flowed from his shoulder wound. His white knight's armor slowly turned red. "[sad]Gowen—" "[sad]...I'm fine. I'm fine." He wasn't fine. Brienne's eyes could read the depth of the wound immediately. She looked toward the fortress's east wing, through the flames. She saw it. Twenty meters ahead — a figure bound with rope, being dragged by multiple men. Black short hair. No right arm. No golden prosthetic. It was Jaime. Being pulled toward the underground. The flames wavered, the shadow blurred, and in the next moment he disappeared beyond the stone steps. Something escaped from Brienne's lips. "...Jaime." The words had come out before she even realized it. It wasn't duty. It wasn't an order. No one had told her to say it. Her mouth simply moved. The softest place deep in her chest became a voice of its own accord. (—Why did his name come out now?) The answer came immediately. She understood it. And that's why she was afraid. A single tear traced her cheek. It was hot. The sensation of it running down her face was painfully clear. She tightened her grip on the arm holding Gowen. She ran in the direction away from the flames. Emotions could wait. Right now, she had to get Gowen to safety. That was all. Telling herself this, Brienne ran. --- The stone floor of the dungeon was cold. Jaime had been thrown in, his back against the wall where the rope had struck. He pushed himself upright. The rope was slightly loose — he confirmed this. His left hand cradled his stump. The end of his right arm, exposed to the cold stone air, throbbed dully. A sensation he didn't feel when wearing the prosthetic. Not skin, not muscle — something deeper ached. The sensation of something that should be there being absent was something he'd never grown accustomed to, no matter how much time passed. It was pitch black. Beyond the iron bars, flames and shouts could be heard faintly, but inside the cell was complete darkness. (A quip or two might ease the mind.) He thought so, but nothing came. Tonight, there were no words. Unusual. Jaime rested his head against the wall. (In the end, there's no escape.) He said it aloud. A whisper barely audible. It echoed off the stone walls and returned to him. Twelve days to get here. He'd ridden hard from King's Landing, searching for a place beyond Cersei's reach, and come to this remote fortress. Yet on the first day, there were already fifteen of Varg's Fang. Darios was here. It was all visible from the start. He'd seen it, and yet what had he been doing? (Arm wrestling with Brienne and laughing, calling her sword beautiful, arguing with her at the tavern—) Was all of that part of Darios's plan? (Wait. If I had the prosthetic, I might have been able to break the hinge.) He actually thought this, and realized with a laugh he couldn't quite suppress how pathetic that was. The prosthetic was either still rolling around the corridor or already collected by Darios's men. Either way, he had nothing now. His left hand, his stump, and a slightly loose rope. He couldn't tell if the trembling was from cold, anger, or something else entirely. For some reason, Brienne's face surfaced in his mind. That face in the moment he'd seen her through the flames. Her face as she held Gowen, looking this way. The distance was too great, the flames wavered too much to read her expression. But she was definitely looking at him. (What's she doing now?) He thought it, then tried to stop thinking it. But he couldn't. --- When the night had begun to pale slightly, Tarth Brienne was in a crumbling storage shed at the edge of the fortress. She pressed cloth firmly against Gowen's shoulder. To stop the bleeding. The wound was deep, but the vital points were spared. Brienne had assessed that there was no danger to his life. Through a gap in the shed, she looked toward the fortress. The flames still remained, but had diminished somewhat. The sounds of combat had lessened. The suppression might be complete. (Jaime is in the dungeons.) She turned her gaze forward again. She pressed harder on Gowen's wound. The worry wouldn't stop. Every time she tried to question the reason, a proper answer wouldn't come. He was supposed to be a disagreeable man. When she'd first met him, he'd laughed and said, "I'm not a spectacle." A man who'd belittled her position as a female knight. There was no reason she should have come to care for him. — But her body remembered the rhythm of breathing when they'd fought back-to-back. Her ears remembered the voice that had said, "Your sword was beautiful," on the road back. The creed that "a knight must not show weakness" screamed in her head. She understood that. If she acknowledged the feeling of caring for someone as a "personal emotion," her identity as a knight would crumble. So she'd always wrapped it in words like duty and mission, and pushed it down into her chest. But tonight, when Jaime's name had escaped her lips — she'd finally understood it wasn't duty. "[gentle]...Brienne." Gowen opened his eyes. His voice was hoarse. "[gentle]I'm fine. What about you?" That single sentence became the trigger. Brienne kept the cloth pressed to his wound, but bowed her head slightly. She hadn't meant to cry. But tonight, the pain in her chest was louder than words. Gowen watched her quietly. He saw how her gaze, even as she held the cloth, kept turning toward the fortress through the shed's gap. "[gentle]...Go to him." Brienne didn't answer. (If I had to put the reason into words, I could. As a knight, I don't abandon the imprisoned. That's my honor. I could say that.) — But if she was being honest, it was more than that. More than that, and she'd learned it tonight. The dawn sky grew white through the shed's gaps. When morning came, what she would do — Brienne had already decided.