It took half a day for the excitement of dawn to completely fade. After Varklen Darios was bound and returned to the dungeons, the fortress slowly began to reclaim its ordinary sounds. The ring of hammers. The scrape of dragged timber. Someone's shouting voice. The owner of that voice was almost certainly Freda. "[angry]Get all those charred beams out of here! What's the point of leaving useless things lying around!" The stocky tavern keeper in her fifties wielded a frying pan like a weapon as she strode through the courtyard. The garrison soldiers scrambled to haul away the burnt wood. No one dared resist. No one could. "Captain Freda! What should we do about this crack!" "[serious]Fill it with lime. While you lot are dawdling around, I'll end up doing it all myself!" "Y-yes, ma'am!" Lannister Jaime leaned against the eastern wall, watching the scene unfold. His left hand folded, his right golden prosthetic resting on his shoulder. The hinge had warped slightly in yesterday's battle, catching faintly with each movement. (The greatest shield of the Seven Kingdoms, now just standing around uselessly in a fortress saved by a tavern keeper.) It was ironic. But strangely, it didn't anger him. Rather—he found himself thinking it wasn't so bad, and that realization unsettled him a little. "[laughing]See, I told you so," He heard her voice. Freda was whispering something to a nearby soldier. The soldier nodded and began herding the remnants of Varklen's fangs toward the edge of the courtyard. Ten disarmed men formed a line with exhausted faces. Just a few more days of patience until the escort wagons were ready. Lannister Jaime glanced at the line once, then looked away. —— Behind the fortress, on the old stone steps, Tarth Brienne sat alone. Her sword lay across her knees, and she was wiping the blade with a thin cloth. Her long, pale greenish hair swayed in the wind. Her golden eyes were fixed on her hands, her expression quiet. She thought vaguely that she hadn't eaten anything since morning. "[gentle]Brienne," Footsteps approached. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Gowen's gait hadn't changed since they were young—that same slightly shallow step, the same footfall from when they grew up together on Tarth. He had a white bandage wrapped around his right shoulder. A wound from last night's chaos. Yet his complexion was good, and his pale blue eyes were serious. He came to Brienne's side and crouched, trying to meet her gaze. "[serious]Let me ask you one more time," Brienne sheathed her sword. The sound of metal sliding home echoed off the stone steps. "Come back to Tarth with me. With me," His voice was calm. Not a threat, not an order. But the seriousness seeped through every word. Brienne stood up. She faced Gowen directly. He was nearly ten centimeters shorter than her. That fact, unchanged since childhood, felt strangely vivid in this moment. "[serious]You say you want to protect me," Before Gowen could nod, Brienne continued. "But what I want isn't someone to protect me. I want someone to stand beside me and fight," Her voice was quiet. Not emotional, not cold—just clear. Gowen froze for a moment. He opened his mouth to object—and then he noticed his gaze drifting unconsciously past Brienne's shoulder. The edge of the courtyard. A man's silhouette watching the repairs from a distance. Black short hair. A golden prosthetic on his right hand. (Ah, I see.) Gowen closed his eyes. A long silence. The cold of the stone steps seeped up through his feet. The wind blew, and Brienne's hair swayed. Slowly, he stood. "[sad]...I understand," There was regret, certainly. But Gowen was a knight. A sincere knight, raised on Tarth. "But—if that man ever makes you cry, I'll come to cut him down," Only at the end did he smile a little. It wasn't a threat. It was the unchanging form of love between childhood friends. Brienne said nothing. She couldn't. —— The next morning, Gowen departed the fortress. He checked his pack lightly at the gate and mounted his horse. Brienne stood a short distance away, arms crossed. "[gentle]Fare well," "...You too," Gowen turned on his heel. The horse began to walk. The moment it passed through the fortress gate— CRASH!! A loud sound rang out. Baggage slid from the saddle and scattered across the stone pavement. The soldiers at the gate all spun around. Gowen's face turned red as he stopped the horse and began picking up his belongings one by one. "..." The corner of Brienne's mouth rose, just slightly. She quickly returned to her usual expression, but someone probably saw it. Gowen's back grew smaller as it disappeared down the road. It was like that back then too, Brienne thought. When they practiced swordplay together on Tarth, Gowen always tried to stand in front of her. He fell, he lost, but he stepped forward again and again. His figure was sincere and kind—but it was just a little different from what she wanted. —— The smithy was dim even in daylight. Rowan faced the furnace. A taciturn man in his forties, he didn't look up when Lannister Jaime entered. Only the sound of iron being struck continued. Lannister Jaime removed his prosthetic and placed it on the counter. "[serious]The hinge is warped. It catches when I put it on," Rowan finally turned around. He took the prosthetic hand and checked each joint carefully. Silent. The furnace light illuminated the golden metal, and the intricate finger joints glinted. "[gentle]You've dented it again," "[sarcastic]This time I didn't dent it myself," "That's what you say every time," Lannister Jaime didn't respond. He sat in the chair in front of the furnace and watched Rowan work. The sound of striking metal continued in steady rhythm. In the gaps between those sounds, various things came to mind. Waking up in the dungeon. The darkness. The rope cutting into his wrists. That sensation of becoming nothing. Then she came. Holding his prosthetic to her chest. Saying "I don't understand" in a trembling voice. (That voice won't leave me.) He had rarely seen a human being act without understanding. Everyone had reasons. Loyalty, reward, fear. Action without reason was considered weakness in Westeros. But now—it felt like the closest thing to something real. As Rowan carefully adjusted the prosthetic's hinge, he said quietly: "[gentle]That female knight," Lannister Jaime looked up. "The moment she realized you'd lost your prosthetic down there, she came to the smithy. To retrieve it," He couldn't respond. The furnace fire flickered. Rowan didn't continue. His expression said there was no need to. He returned to striking the metal. Lannister Jaime looked at the ceiling. Stone ceiling. Blackened with soot. (That woman is truly, honestly foolish.) The moment he thought it, warmth spread through his chest. Just then— CLANG!! "...It will take a bit longer," Rowan lowered the prosthetic. The joint next to the hinge was still slightly warped. "What," "It wasn't completely fixed. One more step is necessary," Lannister Jaime went limp. He'd just had it fitted, and now he had to remove it again. A young soldier who happened to pass by the entrance watched the whole sequence and left giggling. "[sarcastic]...This isn't funny," Words that reached no one. —— As evening fell, the fortress slowly grew quiet. The sound of hammers ceased, and soldiers withdrew to the dining hall. The scent of mead and salted pork stew drifted from the tavern. Wind blew from the direction of the Trident. Lannister Jaime climbed the stone steps of the watchtower. There was no particular reason. He simply wanted to see the sunset from high above. That was all. The moment he reached the top, the wind grew stronger. The Trident, dyed by the sunset, came into view. The willows along the riverbank glowed red, and the treetops of the Ashwood beyond turned orange. This place, roughly 600 kilometers from King's Landing, now felt like a distant world. Footsteps sounded. Someone climbing the stairs. Lannister Jaime didn't turn around. He didn't need to—he already knew. There was only one other person in this fortress who would climb the watchtower at dusk. Tarth Brienne emerged at the top. She saw Lannister Jaime and paused for a moment. But her face showed no surprise. Lannister Jaime said nothing either. Brienne simply approached the edge of the wall and stood beside him. The two of them watched the sunset together. The river glowed. With each gust of wind, the water's surface rippled like waves, and the orange reflections scattered. Silence. But it was completely different from the silence on the outer wall that first night. That night, they had confessed to each other that they were "running away." Tonight's silence was—quieter, closer. Lannister Jaime, still watching the river, opened his mouth. "[gentle]I'm proud of you," That was all. It was the most a man who couldn't say he loved her, who couldn't say he was infatuated with her, could manage. Tarth Brienne went rigid. She had heard the words "proud of you" before, several times. As praise for her swordsmanship. Accompanied by the qualifier "for a woman." But these words were different. Not an evaluation of a knight. Words directed at Tarth Brienne as a single human being—she felt it all. Her throat tightened. She tried to respond, but nothing came out. Tears threatened to spill—but Brienne had decided never to cry in front of anyone. So she said nothing. She just watched the river. Lannister Jaime glanced sideways. In that moment, Brienne's golden eyes met his. Both of them turned back toward the river at the same time. "..." They pretended it was nothing. But his ears were slightly red. It was the sunset, probably. They both agreed to that. —— "Well, well," Freda, passing directly below the tower, happened to look up. The soldier beside her was drawn to do the same. Two figures stood at the edge of the stone wall. "[laughing]See, I told you so," "What about, ma'am?" "I've got five copper coins wagered on that man," "...What kind of wager?" "Which one breaks first," The soldier looked up at the tower and confirmed quietly. "They really are both just looking at the river..." "[sarcastic]That's exactly what I'm saying," Freda continued walking with a satisfied grin. —— When the sunset touched the Trident, the fortress gate was struck violently. Boom, boom, boom! Lannister Jaime's shoulders tensed slightly. A soldier's voice rose from below. A messenger, the words reached him. Lannister Jaime released his grip on the stone wall. Behind him, Brienne's footsteps stopped. He descended the tower. Down the stone steps, one by one, feeling the warmth drain from his chest with each step. At the gate stood a dust-covered mounted man. Leather cloak, exhausted face. The face of someone who had rushed across ten days of road. From King's Landing to the fortress—roughly 600 kilometers—rushed. The man spotted Lannister Jaime and stepped forward. "[serious]Lord Lannister. This is for you," An outstretched letter. The Lannister sigil. Blue sealing wax. The moment he saw that seal, the size of a thumb, the blood drained from his face. The messenger spoke. "[serious]Lady Cersei commands your return. Should you refuse, all Lannister assets and honors will be stripped from you," Lannister Jaime took the letter. His fingertips touched the sealing wax. He couldn't move. He couldn't break the seal, couldn't respond, couldn't do anything. He simply gripped the letter. Footsteps sounded behind him. They stopped a few paces away. Brienne. He knew. But he couldn't turn around. If he turned around—something would break. Something inside him. The time he'd been building up since this morning, the time when things didn't feel so bad. Brienne didn't speak either. She simply watched his back. A soldier began to lead the messenger toward the