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“Queen Sansa!”
If the noise from the paparazzi got any louder, Brienne swore she would throw something at them. Preferably something heavy. Sansa continued to smile graciously, like the sovereign she had once been instead of the teen pop star she was this time around.
Now the fans had decided to get in on the act. Cries of “All hail Queen Sansa, second of her name,” made Brienne’s headache even worse, until she was tempted to shout back that Sansa was very much the first of her name and the crowd should show the Queen of the North some respect.
Thus breaking the first rule of Reincarnation Club: Don’t talk about Reincarnation Club.
It wasn’t an actual rule anymore than there was an actual club, but Brienne had learned her lesson early in this life. She must have been four when she upset her parents, perfectly nice people who had inherited the name “Tarth” despite never having been to the island itself, by asking when her father and brother would come to take her home. The more she recalled from her original life, the more she realized that other people didn’t remember living some other life hundreds of years before.
Until she moved to Winterfell for college and met Catelyn Stark. As soon as Brienne walked into the classroom, Professor Stark smiled and said, “Stay after class, Brienne. We have much to discuss.”
She had ended up having dinner with the Stark family that night , nearly crying to see them all together and as happy as they’d deserved to be 400 years earlier. Then, two years ago, Sansa had performed a beautiful version of “Jenny of Oldstones” at her high school talent show. Someone had posted it online, the song had gone viral, and Ned and Cat reluctantly agreed to let Sansa sing professionally.
And somewhere along the line, Sansa had protested that she was old enough to go on tour without her parents as chaperones. Cat had asked if Brienne would mind accompanying Sansa, and Brienne Tarth, currently underemployed adjunct professor, found herself working as the modern equivalent of Sansa’s sworn sword.
Second rule of Reincarnation Club: You can’t outrun your destiny. Once a sworn sword to the Stark girls, always a sworn sword to the Stark girls.
She enjoyed working with Sansa, she really did. Sansa’s favorite songs to record were the ballads she had loved during her first lifetime (although she didn’t describe the songs that way to the press). But it was her preference for those ancient songs that had caused her fans and the media to dub Sansa “the Queen in the North.”
Tonight Sansa was making a special appearance at a benefit for the King’s Landing Museum of History. One wing was being devoted to the history of the long night, and some staff member had come up with the idea of asking Sansa Stark to appear at the opening in an attempt to raise more money.
Brienne and Sansa finally escaped the paparazzi and made their way into the museum. They both stopped suddenly upon seeing where they were. The museum had done a fairly accurate job of transforming the wing into the banquet hall at Winterfell. Of course, she could spot some inaccuracies—no doubt Sansa spotted even more—but it was more like old Winterfell than she had anticipated.
Once Sansa had taken the seat that had been reserved for her at the head table, Brienne decided to walk around the room. The walls had been decorated with art depicting the long night and with banners whose sigils were meant to commemorate the houses who had fought against the dead (although who thought the Freys had taken part was a mystery).
The art was much as she thought it would be: battle scenes depicting everything from the Dothraki charging off to meet their doom to Jon Snow riding a dragon as the battle raged on below him. Then, conveniently hung between the banners for House Tarth and House Lannister, was a painting so ridiculous Brienne didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Two figures stood in front of a group of soldiers—a man and a woman, more or less dressed for battle. The man was the taller of the two, hair falling almost to his shoulders, his armor almost as golden as his hair. More absurdly, he had two hands. (Though the artist couldn’t entirely be blamed for that mistake; over the centuries, most historians had decided that he must have lost his hand in this battle, assuming that a one-handed soldier would not have been allowed on the battlefield.) Standing next to him was the most beautiful woman Brienne had ever seen.
And quite possibly the most stupid.
Her long blonde hair was being blown back off her face by the wind. The fool had not bothered to cut it short for battle. Her blue eyes reflected such terror that Brienne wondered why the woman was allowed on to the battlefield at all. What was even worse was her dress. Yes, the fool was actually wearing a dress to fight the dead. She had some sort of sleeveless armored vest overtop the bodice, but both her arms and legs were simply covered in fabric. No wonder the poor fool is frightened, Brienne thought, she won’t last one minute in battle dressed like that.
Third rule of Reincarnation Club: Don’t look yourself up in the history books. They won’t remember you accurately.
“Do you have any idea who those two idiots are? They don’t resemble anyone I saw on that battlefield.”
Brienne sucked in a breath before turning around. His voice was just the same. Four centuries later, and she still would recognize it anywhere. “Hello, Ser Jaime.”
His smile was the same too. “Hello, wench.”
What, she wondered, are you supposed to say to the man who left you sobbing in a courtyard in another lifetime? The man who preferred dying to living with you?
She decided to be wise for once in her life and leave him first. “Excuse me. I must get back to Sansa.”
“I think, after this many years, you’ve fulfilled your vows to the Starks.”
“Ned and Cat pay me handsomely to travel with Sansa. She’s as much my sister as Meredyth is.”
“Who’s Meredyth?” For the first time since they’d met in a cell at Riverrun, she appeared to have confused Jaime Lannister. She took a moment to relish the feeling.
“You’ve never met her; she isn’t the reincarnated soul of anyone from our time. Most people aren’t, you know.”
“Although Starks seem to be an exception. It seems three of them are back.”
“All of them are—from Ned to Rickon. Along with Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy.”
“Gods! Does Ned still hate me? I don’t want to go back to Winterfell and be met with his scowling face again.”
“Strangely enough, the subject of Jaime Lannister never comes up around the Stark dinner table. And why in the Seven Hells would you go to Winterfell?”
“Same reason I went there before. It’s where Brienne of Tarth is.”
“Go back to your sister, Jaime. It’s what you’d do eventually anyway.” She turned away, heading toward Sansa’s table.
“I don’t have a sister,” Jaime called out.
Despite herself, Brienne was surprised enough to turn back around. “Cersei didn’t return?”
“She did not. As far as I know, she’s stuck in some hell or the other with Tywin and Joffrey. She can stay there, for all I care.” He shrugged. “Maybe it was all the bricks. They must have struck some sense into me. I do seem to recall thinking about the most astonishing pair of blue eyes at the last.”
No, she told herself, I am not going through this again. I gave him my heart once and spent the rest of my life regretting it. Not in this life too.
“Jaime,” she told him, “I’m happy that you have a second chance at life; I am. I hope your life is filled with the love you always deserved. But it can’t be with me. If what was between us was strong enough to build a life around, we would have done that all those centuries ago.”
She would not cry. She would not remember standing in the courtyard at Winterfell watching the man she’d loved decide he would rather die than live with her.
Fourth rule of Reincarnation Club: There’s no point in crying over the past.
“I’m not asking you to run off with me tonight,” Jaime said. He sounded more serious than she could remember having ever heard him. No, she corrected herself, he’d been that solemn before the battle when he’d knighted her. “There is a lot we have to resolve, and all of it is because I was a fool. I don’t expect that gaining your trust back will be easy, but I intend to try. Just give me a chance, Brienne.”
“You have to promise me,” Brienne answered. She found that she couldn’t look him in the eye, still afraid she’d see something false in them. Instead, she looked at the hand holding hers. It was still calloused in all the ways a swordsman’s hands should be, and she found herself aching to spar with him again. “You won’t ever walk out on me again. If we part, we will talk about it and reach a decision together. And if I can’t do this again, you won’t try to force me. You will respect my decision.”
“I promise. More than that, I swear it—my only holy vow in this life.”
Brienne smiled at him, beginning to believe that she and Jaime might have a chance this time. “One more thing,” she said. “Are the Lannisters still rich?”
“So rich I suspect that Tywin might have worked his way out of the Seven Hells at some point to keep the family’s fortune intact. Why? I refuse to believe that my honorable Ser Brienne has developed a mercenary streak.”
“Not mercenary exactly, but I do think there’s something you can do for me that would benefit both of us.”
“Anything my wench wants.”
“Then please buy that horrible painting of us and burn it.”
She had not heard Jaime’s laughter in centuries. She had not realized how much she had missed the sound.
Final rule of Reincarnation Club, she told herself: Never let the heartache of the past keep you from finding joy in the present.