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Jaime Lannister cursed as he felt the thigh of his breeches tear, caught upon a particularly wretched bit of climbing rose growing along the crumbling stone of Baratheon Manor. He adjusted his finger hold between the bricks and heaved himself another foot up the wall, all the while cursing faithless, blue-eyed, tow-headed chits likely tucked in bed and snoring in the room just a few feet above. He was momentarily distracted by the thought of Brienne beneath her sheets, clad only in her nightdress, likely white and plain, with no lace or ribbons. His weaker right hand slipped, and he slid six inches down the wall, the rip in his breeches expanding. He groaned and looked up.
The moon was too bright for him to be sure, but Jaime thought he’d caught a light in her window when he’d stood on the ground below, tossing pebbles up to knock on the glass. Not that she’d noticed. He’d tried for a good ten minutes before deciding to scale the wall to her room to speak with her. He might slip a dozen more times, but he would look into her astonishing blue eyes and confront her before this night ended.
In the room above, Brienne Tarth fastened her trousers. Not her trousers exactly. They were Jaime’s, Lord Lannister’s, riding breeches, an old pair that he’d given to her, knowing her preference for riding astride. Jaime. The name was sour on her tongue. He had toyed with her affections, stolen three kisses from her, and then hied off to Casterly Rock, failing to keep his promise to return to her. He was nothing more than a flirt and a dandy and a dandified flirt. She pulled on her riding boots and moved to pack her things.
She’d thought they had an understanding. She’d been foolish. How could Jaime, heir to the Westerlands, with his golden hair, sparkling green eyes, razor sharp wit, and seat in the House of Lords, come to care for her? She was the orphan daughter of Tarth, a house of minor nobility, heir to an island too rocky for good farming and too stormy to raise cattle, suitable for few of the conventional endeavours, just like Brienne herself.
Jaime groaned as the thorny roses poked at the palm of his hand. Had he known he’d find himself scaling a wall, he would have worn gloves. This was all her fault. Brienne. Jaime had planned to speak with her on his return, but in a much more civilized manner than climbing the wall to her bed chamber for a private word. When they’d parted, he’d been very clear that he wished to have a very particular discussion with her. He’d planned to speak with her on the kissing bench beneath the potted palm in the Baratheon conservatory, the place where he’d first seen her.
That had been two years ago, when she was just eighteen and had become the ward of Lord Robert Baratheon, Jaime’s brother-in-law. Jaime’d arrived late to a luncheon, having never enjoyed Robert’s company, and after years of infatuation, become utterly bored with Cersei’s. Robert had been full of laughter, and the guests, as always, had followed his lead. Apparently Robert’s new, young ward had been drawn into a conversation regarding women’s suffrage. Unfortunately, her impassioned speech had been punctuated when Lord Pycelle had suffered an ill-timed bout of flatulence. The girl had fled from the room, only increasing Robert’s amusement.
Wanting to escape the company himself, Jaime had slipped away to the conservatory, ostensibly to enjoy a cigar, although he rarely indulged. He’d come upon the girl seated on the kissing bench by a particularly large plant, one leaf nearly sitting upon her tall, blonde head. Her face had been red and blotchy, her lips thick and her eyes near to spilling with tears. It had been the eyes that had captured him, large and pretty, too pretty for her broad face and crooked nose. The blue of them was a color he’d not seen before, rivalling the purest sapphire. He’d handed her one of his pristine white handkerchiefs, and she’d quite noisily blown her nose into it.
He’d sat himself on the opposing side of the curved kissing bench and asked her about suffrage. Not that he was interested in the topic. He truly wasn’t. Or he hadn’t been at the time. Since he’d come to know Brienne, the issue had become nearly as dear to him as Brienne herself. Back then, he’d just wanted an excuse to avoid the tedious conversation sure to be found in the presence of drunken Lord Baratheon.
Brienne folded the other two pairs of trousers Jaime had given her and remembered the first time she’d seen him, dapper in his morning suit, arriving late to Lord and Lady Baratheon’s luncheon. Lady Baratheon had glared at him with such displeasure that it had distracted Brienne from her conversation with Lord Pycelle. She’d thought she was making a convert of the elderly man to the suffrage movement, but she’d lost her train of thought and had turned bright red as Lord Pycelle expressed his dislike and disrespect of her arguments in the foulest of manners. Unable to bear being the laughingstock of yet another social event, Brienne had taken refuge in the conservatory, hoping to be left in solitude until her tears had dried. Instead, Lord Lannister had joined her with his easy smile and perfect manners. He’d teased her about her dress, a pale pink considered the height of fashion for highborn maidens, which certainly did no favors to Brienne’s pale and freckled complexion. He had no reason to stay and entertain her, but stay he had.
He’d then listened to her position on women’s suffrage, not with polite attention, but with real interest. He’d given her suggestions on how to put forth her ideas to Ser Robert. He’d advised her that while Lord Baratheon could bring the House to heel with a speech, it was men like Robert’s brother, Stannis Baratheon and Jaime’s own brother, the dwarf, Tyrion, who crafted bills that would pass into law. It was Jaime who had suggested she lobby Ser Eddard Stark whose youngest daughter had expressed a wish to join the suffragist movement. Jaime had said that Stark would be swayed only by an argument based on honor, and he had been right. It had taken nearly a year, but Ser Eddard had indeed voiced his support for women’s suffrage in a speech to the House.
But now, just when the movement seemed to be gathering momentum, she had to leave. It was either that or be forced into a marriage she most certainly did not want. Perhaps an arranged match might not have seemed so abhorrent had she not been kissed by Jaime Lannister. The wet, toothless mouth of Humphrey Wagstaff could never invoke the same reaction in her that Jaime Lannister’s lips had. If only he weren’t a cad. And a bounder. Not that she really knew what it meant to be a bounder, but she was certain Jaime was one. Only the worst of men would have treated her so, kissed her, practically promised himself to her, and then failed even to send word assuring her of his affections. As if he had any.
The very foundation of her life had changed that day, when she became friends with Jaime Lannister. Then, just a three months ago, she’d thought they’d become more. She’d thought she could trust him, but she’d been horribly deceived. Brienne drew the strings on her clothing sack and tossed it out the window.
Jaime wondered as a bundle went sailing past him and landed with a thud on the ground below how he ever could have put his trust in such a faithless coquette. He looked up at the window. What could she possibly be doing? Was she disposing of his tokens of admiration? The trousers and riding boots he’d gifted her? Callously tossing his affections out the window? Eliminating him from her life? His eyes narrowed as he heaved himself up another few feet. He’d see about that. Did the girl think she could trifle with his emotions and then become engaged to another? Not bloody likely.
And could she really intend to marry old Wagstaff? The man cared nothing for women other than the warmth they could provide in his bed and the dowry which would boost his income. Brienne, who’d claimed to be willing to sacrifice her own happiness for the rights of all women, had agreed to marry Wagstaff ? The man barely said a word in Parliament unless it was to vote for proposals which would benefit him directly. Even then, he had to be reminded by a page that he intended to vote. Each session he seemed a bit more decayed. It was a wonder he was alive at all. He was certainly not vital enough to marry a healthy maiden of twenty. No, this could not be, no matter what Jaime had heard, and so he climbed further up the wall, closer to his maidenly quarry.
Brienne felt her eyes fill with tears. Jaime had abandoned her. She’d been foolish to think he intended to make a declaration to her, but he’d said there in the morning room that he wanted to have a particular conversation. What else could he have meant? Well, knowing Jaime, he could have meant anything. He could have wanted to discuss fishing on Tarth or the best quality leather for riding boots. Yet there had been an expression on his face that had said much more. And, Brienne shivered at the memory, he had pressed his lips to her palm. He had lingered there bent over her hand, his emerald eyes looking up at her until she’d shivered and pulled away, hoping Lord Baratheon had been too busy laughing at his own joke and Lady Baratheon too preoccupied with the latest gossip to have taken note of the intimacy.
Not that it had been the first time she’d felt his lips upon her skin. Brienne shivered at the memory. Jaime had first kissed her three months ago, giving her hope that they were more than just friends bound by common interests. They’d been out riding, racing at full gallop at one point. She’d beaten him, but just barely. She’d been laughing as she’d dismounted, and he’d reached out for her on impulse, wrapping his arms around her. And then his lips had been on hers, at first a brief fleeting press, then a something more. She’d gripped at his shoulders, wantonly pulling him closer until her horse had whinnied and she’d jumped away from him in embarrassment. He’d just grinned at her, one of his particularly rakish Jaime grins, the blackguard. Just what did he think of her that she would allow him to take such such liberties? He might not have honor, but surely he thought more of hers.
Faithless, worthless chit, Jaime repeated to himself, hauling himself up even further. She was a vicious flirt, too. Toying with his affections, offering her tantalizing lips for stolen kisses. How dare she become engaged to another man, how dare she? They practically had an understanding. Yes, he’d been gone longer than he’d expected. He’d sent word of his delay through his cousin, Addam, so she would be assured of his return. He’d gone, though, for a very good reason, a reason that was at that very moment resting in his jacket pocket. A woman such as Brienne deserved more than some cheap bauble when he formally asked for her hand. He’d gone to back Casterly Rock to get her something special from the family jewel vault, and it was something special. It had just taken him longer to convince his father to allow him to take it without revealing to whom Jaime intended to present it.
Jaime had wanted Brienne to be the first to know of his feelings, not his own legacy-obsessed father. He’d wanted to declare those affections with something as singular as the woman he intended to wear it. That was why he’d chosen one of his mother’s necklaces. An understated piece that would not outshine its wearer. The jewel itself was perfect, a pendant, a sapphire pendant of a color matched only by that of Brienne’s astonishing eyes. Oh, he’d show her. Yes, he’d show her that pendant so she’d know that she’d well and truly jilted him, and for what? For what reason indeed.
The second time Jaime had kissed her was in the gardens at Stark House after a particularly dull luncheon. Brienne had been admonishing him for his frivolous behavior in riling Lord Stark with arguments about honor and duty. Brienne had dragged him away, afraid the men would come to blows. She’d thought the walk would cool his anger, but instead he’d grinned at her, revealing it all as an amusement to him. She’d stood before him, mouth hanging open when an odd look had crossed his face. He had slowly leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. Their second kiss was sweeter than the first, but no less memorable for the difference. Brienne reached up to touch her mouth, remembering the softness of his lips.
Jaime fumed. The teasing minx. She’d not even had the decency to notify him herself. Instead he’d read it in the social column the morning of his planned departure. Lord and Lady Baratheon are pleased to announce the engagement of their ward, Lady Brienne of Tarth, to Lord Humphrey Wagstaff. He’d opened the paper at breakfast and there it had been, staring up at him in the blackest of type. At first he’d not believed it. It must have been a misprint. Unable to overcome his need to confront her, he’d left Casterly Rock for Storm’s End within the hour. He’d not even waited for his carriage, instead riding Honor, the white horse that he had named for her, the horse he intended as a wedding gift. Honor, as if she had any. She was a dishonorable, saucy tart with a saucy, tarty mouth, so stupidly perfect for kissing.
The third time, and Brienne flushed just thinking of it, she had shamelessly kissed him. He’d danced her onto the balcony at Highgarden, ostensibly because the ballroom was hot and crowded. When the dance had ended, they’d been alone in the moonlight. He’d stepped away from her, and his face had been unreadable. He’d reached out and placed one hand on her waist, then complimented her dress, saying the blue went well with her eyes. Unable to contain her emotions, she’d launched herself at him like a harlot, kissing him sloppily and awkwardly. He hadn’t seemed to mind though. His grip had tightened on her waist, and he’d deepened the kiss in an near indecent manner. Brienne imagined those types of kisses were reserved for married couples of long standing. Certainly not a kiss for an unmarried woman. And even if Brienne were to marry, she could not imagine kissing Lord Wagstaff in such a manner. In fact, now that she had kissed Jaime, she could not imagine ever kissing another.
Brienne had seen Jaime for just a few moments the next day, when he’d talked about the particular conversation and had said he needed to make a trip back to his family estate and that he’d return in three weeks. Yet it had been almost five. She hadn’t expected a letter. Jaime was terrible at writing. The injury to his right hand had made penmanship appalling. Oh, she’d had word from his friend, Addam Marbrand, that Lord Lannisport had been delayed with family obligations, some minor disagreement with his father. Jaime had sent no personal word at all. She’d considered sending him a telegram, but that would have been the height of impropriety. And if he’d truly wanted to he could have contacted her.
Jaime had considered sending her a telegram, but could not seem to find the words. What he wanted to say was highly improper, and one could never be certain that Baratheon would not read her communications. The last thing he needed was for his sister to become aware of his attachment to Brienne. Cersei already despised the girl for his friendship with her. If his sister truly knew the extent of his affections for Robert’s ward, there was no telling what sort of havoc she might try to wreak. It had been best that Jaime not contact Brienne other than through his cousin, Addam.
Before leaving Casterly Rock, Jaime did have the presence of mind to send a telegram to Lord Stark, asking the dour man if the news of Brienne’s engagement was true. Stark’s reply had reached him on the Goldenroad. The Northman had assured him that he had word from Robert that Brienne was well and truly betrothed, commenting that Lady Stark was relieved that the girl had finally found an appropriate suitor. Finally found an appropriate suitor, as if he, Jaime, Lord Lannister, heir to the Westerlands, had not been there all along.
It was in the fifth week that Lord Baratheon had called her into his study, Lady Baratheon standing behind him looking smug yet not at all like her twin brother, and informed her that he had accepted a betrothal on her behalf. For one moment, she’d thought it would be Jaime, but the look of pleasure on Lady Baratheon’s face told her otherwise. She was to marry Harry Wagstaff. And she wouldn’t. By the old gods and the new, she would not marry Lord Wagstaff. Brienne tightened the closure of her second satchel and tossed it out the window.
What was Brienne thinking? Had she not enjoyed his kisses? Had he scared her off? Another satchel flew from the window, this time clipping the back of his head on its way down.
“Ow,” he cried out, almost losing his grip on the wall.
A blonde head poked out the window. He looked up at her as she looked down.
“Jaime?” she called out. “Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me,” he growled. “How many other men do you have scaling walls up to your bedroom?”
“Other men,” she snorted. “Of all the idiotic, ridiculous一”
Jaime didn’t let her finish. “Are you going to help me up or are you going to hang out the window berating me like a fishwife? You’ve already knocked me over the head. It’s a wonder I’ve not yet fallen to my death.”
She snorted. “It’s twenty feet. Not likely a death, just a broken bone.”
He heard her continuing to mutter as she disappeared from view. A moment later, a twisted and knotted bed sheet made its way towards him. He wrapped it around one arm and began using it to pull himself up, only the sheet itself began rising. She was pulling him up like a bucket in a well, the ridiculous cow. It was only a moment before he was hauling himself over the window sill and tumbling onto her floor.
Brienne looked down at the man who had just launched himself into her bedchamber. He rose from the floor and straightened his jacket before looking down at a tear in his trousers. That small tear exposed an inch of golden muscular thigh. Brienne’s face flamed as she dragged her eyes back up to his face, only to feel a laugh rise in her throat when she noticed a particularly flouncy bit of rose petal having taken root in his hair.
He met her eyes with a glare. She composed herself enough to glare back, all thoughts of golden thighs and laughter gone as she was faced with the man who had so ruthlessly jilted her.
“What are you doing here?” she growled.
Jaime narrowed his eyes at her before looking around the room, noticing the open wardrobe and bureau. His gaze lingered on the white lace peeking from one drawer, fueling his prior imaginings. His hand itched with want to touch her, glide his hand down her arm and reach one finger inside her sleeve to the bare skin of her wrist and feel the likely rapid beating of her heart. He looked back at her and remembered her perfidy before smiling slowly and deliberately.
“Surprised to see me then?” he asked. He strolled over to perch on the edge of her bed, crossing one leg over the other, affecting an air of casual nonchalance.
Brienne ground her teeth and willed herself not to stomp her foot. She would not, would not, allow him to see how terribly he’d hurt her.
“It might surprise you to know that I have no experience with men in full evening dress climbing through my bedroom window well after midnight,” she answered in a tone she hoped was haughty.
Jaime latched upon her statement. “So is it the farmer’s lads, dressed in their work clothes, who are invited inside?”
Brienne opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Of course no man was welcome in her bed chamber! He knew that and was just trying to flummox her. And he had, blast him.
When she failed to respond, Jaime rose from the bed, moving towards her, extending one slightly-cut finger and pointing it at her. “I knew it. I knew you were nothing but a flirt.”
“A flirt?” Brienne choked on the word. “Me?”
“Yes, you!” He considered for a moment rising up on his toes so he could tower above her, but it would only put him at her level and make him feel ridiculous, so instead he leaned forward, causing her to lean backward. “You flirted with me, didn’t you? Shamelessly, too.” He nodded in satisfaction before pulling back and crossing his arms over her chest.
“I don’t even know how to flirt,” she near shouted out him before realizing that a full argument would likely alert the servants and other members of the household to the presence of a man in her room. She continued in a furious whisper. “You’re the flirt. You’re the one who toyed with my affections. You’re the one who made me care for you only to abandon me,” her voice trickled off though she ended her speech with a full and hopefully painful poke to his chest.
“Abandon you?” he repeated, rubbing the spot where her finger had landed. “You abandoned me! I was preparing to return to King’s Landing, fully intending to make a formal declaration of my affections when I read an announcement that the very object of those affections is engaged to another. I am the injured party in this whole affair,” he near shouted, speaking of far more than the bruise surely forming on his chest.
“You? You’re injured?” Brienne gasped. “I am the one betrothed against my will to a man thrice my age. I am the one being forced to flee from my home with barely the clothes on my back to escape such a fate!” she again ended on a near shout before remembering to control her volume.
Jaime tried not to be distracted by the blue sparks shooting from her eyes and focused on her words. He blinked. “This betrothal is against your will? You’re running away?”
Jaime sighed. Of course she was running away, the impulsive chit. That’s why she’d been hurling satchels out her window.
She nodded, her eyes taking on a glassy shine.
“You’re not jilting me to marry nearly-dead Wagstaff, who, mind you, is very much not a suffragist?” he asked, appalled that even if she’d not chosen him, giving up her ideals in favor of marriage was beneath her. Brienne of Tarth should have been more honorable than that.
She shook her head and blinked at him.
“Oh,” he replied. A slow smile of relief made its way across his face.
Her eyes narrowed in anger. How dare he take pleasure in her predicament? She turned and grabbed a small case and began stuffing it with the remainder of her personal belongings. She shoved in a hair brush and some pins, a cameo of her mother, a book given to her by her father.
Jaime stared at her back, her angry, hurt, and disappointed back. How could one woman’s back seem so disapproving? His eyes travelled down her form, settling on the seat of her, formerly his, riding breeches. He cleared his throat and touched her elbow. “Brienne?”
“What?” she growled, and he could hear the wetness in her voice.
“Can I ask where you were planning to go?”
She stopped moving, and her shoulders slumped. “I hadn’t had much time to really consider it since I won’t see my inheritance for three more years, should I remain unmarried. I need to find some place where Ser Robert cannot find me and force me into marriage until then. I’ve thought of Dorne. Lord Martell has invited me, and the society there is more permissive of independent women.”
Jaime could feel himself wanting to shout in outrage. She couldn’t go to Dorne of all places, and she needed to keep far, far away from Martell, the profligate. She was far too honorable and innocent for the decadence of the Water Gardens, or heavens forbid, Starfall.
She continued without turning back to him, “But the Martells are not known for their discretion. Someone would tell Lord Baratheon of my presence there, and he’d soon come down to collect me. And I’ve not the funds to be idle there, either.”
He cupped her elbow and pulled, turning her around to face him.
Brienne knew she was red and blotchy from holding back her tears. And her hair was likely a fright. She continued breathlessly, the words rushing from her. “So I’ve decided to make my way to Lady Mormont’s school and ask for a position there as a games mistress. She might allow me to teach the girls there to ride, and Lady Mormont was very kind to me when twice we met. I’m more likely to find sympathy there,” she finished hoping she’d managed to hide her uncertainty.
The women of Bear Island were known to fight all convention, and it was said Lady Mormont actually permitted and encouraged women to vote, doctoring the election results so that each vote was submitted under a male name. Brienne would find solace and friendship there, he had no doubt. But Bear Island was North. Far North and far away from him. That was unacceptable.
“You can’t go,” he announced, now determined on a new course of action.
“I can’t stay,” she declared forcefully. “I’ll not marry Wagstaff.”
“Of course you’ll not marry that old lech.” He stood tall and stared straight at her, meeting her astonishing blue eyes. “You’ll marry me!”
Brienne reared back, furrowing her brow in confusion. “Are you proposing now?”
In fact, he was, only he was making a terrible hash of it. “Shall I drag you down to the conservatory and sit you beneath the palm tree where first we met as I’d been planning to do upon my return? Shall I fall to one knee and declare my deep and ardent affection and love? Shall I recite a sonnet to the remarkable beauty of your eyes and in admiration of your honor?”
“What?” she asked, slowly blinking.
“Yes, you silly chit, I’m proposing,” he responded, pulling the pendant from his pocket and dangling it in front of her.
Brienne grasped the jewel. She’d never seen anything quite so lovely, and he was presenting it to her. With a promise. With a proposal. “For me?” she asked, disbelieving.
When he had kissed her palm before he’d gone, Jaime had been certain she’d say yes. Clearly her eyes were saying yes now, but she’d not answered. He thought for a moment. Well, he hadn’t actually asked. “My lady Brienne of Tarth, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?’
Brienne felt her heart near to bursting with happiness. Jaime was proposing to her. She didn’t need to run away or marry Wagstaff or live her life never again knowing the feel of Jaime’s lips on hers. She nodded rapidly. “Yes, yes I will marry you,” it came out as a shout, certain to be heard by many.
Jaime could resist no longer. He pulled her to his chest and kissed her, reveling in the softness and sweetness of her mouth.
Brienne threw her arms around him, pulling him to her so tightly that he staggered against her with the force of it.
Overcome with joy, Jaime tried to twirl her about the room, yet unwilling to part his mouth from hers, but they were both too large and too strong, and it was only by the grace of interruption by Lord Baratheon, bursting through the chamber door in his nightshirt, that prevented them both from falling out the window.