ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 42: The Knight and the Lion
POV: Sor Jaime Lannister (302 AC)
The deafening sound of the trumpet tore through the heavy air of the Riverlands, and the world around me was reduced to the furious gallop of my stallion. The imminent impact against the enemy froze time. Through the narrow slit of my golden helm, I could see every detail of the knight who advanced toward me with an extended lance: the excessively rigid posture, the shield positioned a span higher than prudence would dictate, and the left flank dangerously exposed.
I dug my spurs into the horse, leaned my body forward, and adjusted the angle of my arm with the surgical precision of one born to wield steel. At the very last millisecond, I delivered a devastating blow directly into the weak point of his guard.
The splintering of wood echoed like a clap of thunder. Above the clamor of metal, I heard the man's sharp cry of pain, followed by the dull, heavy thud of his iron-clad body violently hitting the muddy ground. Only when the sweat dripped into my eyes and the deafening roar from the makeshift wooden grandstands echoed through my ears did the mist of the simulation dissipate from my mind.
I lowered my shattered lance, controlling the reins of my beast. We were not on a real battlefield, and that was no dying lord of the enemy forces. It was merely the final tilt of a camp tournament hastily organized near the Crossroads Inn to keep our troops' morale high while we awaited the remainder of the allied forces.
Guiding the horse with elegance, I bowed before the main grandstand, where the great lords of the West and the generals of the alliance watched the spectacle. I caught the tip of the crown of winter roses and laurels on the point of my lance and, with a sly smile hidden beneath my helm, bowed slightly to deposit it in the lap of my sister, Cersei Lannister, crowning her once more as the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Winning that competition had been no feat worthy of songs. The warriors of the North, who made up the largest part of our allied contingent, were formidable fighters with their enchanted swords and slaughter tactics, but they simply possessed not the slightest appreciation or custom for the traditional jousts of the South. The only Northman who truly knew how to handle a tournament lance with mastery was Sor Jorah Mormont, but that wretched bear had been banished from the Empire years ago for smuggling hides and violating the laws of the Winter Throne. As for the remaining river knights and the nobles of the Reach who had joined us, they seemed too soft, disoriented by the weight of our march.
I dismounted my horse, handing the reins to my squire, and walked with long strides toward the great royal tents pitched in the center of the Riverlands camp. Along the way, I was effusively congratulated by a dozen knights from the western lands, whose golden armor gleamed under the pale sun. I responded to each of them with a casual nod, focused only on ridding myself of the weight of the iron.
As I approached my sister's private tent, I came across the two imposing and terrifying silhouettes positioned at the entrance. They were members of the Northern imperial elite, the famous Black Guards. Their dark armor seemed to absorb the ambient light, and their postures were so perfectly motionless that they looked more like stone gargoyles guarding a mausoleum. They did not move a single millimeter upon my approach, but the faint, bluish glow in the visors of their closed helms was enough to remind me that those imperial beasts would snap my neck before I could draw my blade if I posed any threat.
I passed through the heavy fabric flaps and entered the dimness of the tent. Cersei was stretched out comfortably on a crimson velvet couch, surrounded by silver goblets filled with rustic wine and dried fruits brought from the West.
I watched her for a few moments in silence. My sister, though no longer in the flower of her youth—a thought I would never dare utter aloud if I valued the integrity of my tongue—and even after giving birth to seven legitimate children for the Northern royal family, still maintained an overwhelming and aristocratic beauty.
Unlike the paranoias and groundless suspicions that my father, Lord Tywin, used to nurture at Casterly Rock, any spark of improper relationship or carnal affection I might have felt for Cersei had been lost in the mists of our childhood. As soon as I became a squire to the legendary Sor Arthur Dayne, our encounters became scarce, and shortly after I was named to Aerys's Kingsguard, distancing myself permanently from her paths. If destiny had been different, if Cersei had married Robert Baratheon and I had remained locked in the capital under the white cloak, perhaps our demons would have spoken louder in the darkness. But the Empire of the North had rewritten history. She belonged to the direwolves now, and I belonged to the West.
I stepped closer and noticed that Cersei kept an enormous raven of feathers black as jet perched directly on the back of her fair hand. When my eyes first fixed on the bird, I had the distinct and uncomfortable sensation that there was a mystical third eye right in the center of its split forehead; however, as I blinked and focused my vision better, the mark marine seemed to have vanished, leaving only an ordinary animal. Apparently, that creature was the direct channel that the young Prince Bran Stark used to monitor our supply lines directly from his visions in the Neck. It was the kind of supernatural bizarre thing that was extremely difficult to get used to, even after months of living with the Northern presence.
The raven let out a low croak, opened its dark wings, and took flight through the upper opening of the royal tent, leaving us alone.
"— So, my dear sister... —" I commented with a slightly sarcastic tone, removing my golden gauntlets and tossing them onto a side table. "— It seems the extreme cold of the North has finally had a definitive effect on your mind. Now you spend your afternoons conversing amiably with the camp birds?"
Cersei rolled her green eyes in my direction, letting out a sigh laden with aristocratic disdain as she adjusted herself on the couch.
"— Do not be a complete idiot, Jaime. You know perfectly well that creature was no ordinary bird. It was my sweet baby, Bran, communicating with me through his abilities, —" she replied, adjusting the sleeves of her dark wool gown.
"— Yes, I know... the three-eyed little bird or whatever other mystical nonsense your children love to flaunt, —" I teased, pouring myself a cup of wine.
"— It is the Three-Eyed Raven! —" Cersei exclaimed, her voice rising instantly into a sharp tone that made me raise my eyebrows. "— That is the sacred title given to the greatest green seer alive in all the mortal world, brother. He is the absolute guardian of Westeros's past, present, and future. It is a title that carries an authority equivalent to that of a sovereign king, Jaime. Measure your rude words when referring to my son."
I raised my open hands in a clear sign of surrender, letting out a short laugh to calm her spirits.
"— I beg your pardon, my queen. I do not understand the theological details of the religion of the Old Gods of the North. I am merely a knight with a sword. —" I took a sip of the wine, watching her features change. "— And what of the other one? What the men in the camp are whispering about in the corners... the so-called 'Prince of the Plague'. They speak of the boy with a dread so palpable it seems like a curse just to utter his name near the campfires."
Upon hearing the mention of Tommen, Cersei rose from the couch in a swift motion, her green eyes flashing with an incandescent fury.
"— That is the sole and exclusive fault of that riverlands redhead bitch! —" she hissed, pacing back and forth inside the tent with clenched fists. "— If that Tully whore hadn't committed the madness of imprisoning my Ned in that filthy dungeon, my gentle baby, my sweet Tommen, would never have needed to bear such a terrible and dark burden upon his shoulders! He was forced to act to defend our Empire!"
I watched my sister with a mixture of fascination and caution. It became clear to me that Cersei felt far more hatred directed at Catelyn for the supposed responsibility of the conflict than any real concern for Tommen's psychological integrity. In fact, beneath all that display of maternal fury, I could glimpse an undeniable gleam of pure Lannister pride in her features. Feeling proud of a fifteen-year-old son who, through dark sorcery, had commanded a billion ravenous insects to devour half a Southern army alive was the kind of mental bizarreness that only Cersei could sustain with a smile on her face.
The camp tournament continued throughout the day. And why on earth were we holding a festive tournament in the middle of an actual war campaign?
The answer was purely strategic. After what the bards and soldiers were already calling "The Plague of Oldstones"—since the complete extermination of Edmure Tully's forces promoted by Tommen's swarms had occurred in the vicinity of those ancient ruins in the Riverlands—our front lines needed a logistical pause. We were stationed near the Crossroads Inn, waiting for Tommen's division and the new allies of Houses Mallister and Blackwood to integrate into the main body of our army. Furthermore, we were waiting for the military forces of the Vale of Arryn to finish descending their protected mountains to fall straight into our trap. Emperor Arawyn had issued explicit and surgical orders to completely devastate any enemy loyal to Catelyn Tully, and the whispers in the council indicated that he harbored an even deeper, more místico rancor specifically against the lords of the Vale.
In the afternoon, I participated in the main event of the competition. Unlike the aristocratic and pompous festivals of the South, where the jousts of cavalry were the pinnacle of entertainment, in the North the main event was the Melée—a generalized, brutal, and chaotic combat where entire blocks of soldiers faced each other with blunted weapons until only one group remained standing in the dirt arena.
Our men from the western lands formed a solid, golden block in the center of the field. We advanced in a coordinated fashion and soon clashed with the forces of the Reach, who marched under the personal entourage of Prince Renly Baratheon.
The situation in the Reach was a political mess of its own: the kingdom of the Tyrells was practically split down the middle. The southern Reach remained firmly loyal to Empress Margaery and the Winter Throne, while the northern Reach, closer to the Crownlands and influenced by religious fanaticism, had chosen to support Queen Tully. Because of this, Renly Baratheon had separated from the main Tyrell army led by Randyll Tarly and was marching alongside us, using his famous Rainbow Guard to fight against the members of his own extended family from the South.
The melée was intense. Amidst the chaos of clashing shields and rising dust, I found myself directly against the stag prince himself. Renly wore a brilliant green armor with golden antlers on his helm, brandishing his sword with an elegance that seemed more suited for a ballroom than the rawness of that arena. The combat lasted little; I deflected two of his theatrical strikes with ease and delivered a firm impact with the pommel of my sword against his chest, knocking him to the dirt and securing my victory over the Baratheon without sustaining a single scratch.
I turned my body in search of the next opponent, and my gaze fixed upon a monumental warrior of Tarth.
I searched my memory for answers, but I could not recall the Isle of Sapphires possessing a male heir of that titanic stature. After all, as much as I was the heir to Casterly Rock, it was humanly impossible to know the physical traits of every lesser heir in all the Seven Kingdoms.
This time, the battle proved to be a genuine challenge. The way that combatant from Tarth wielded the sword was completely different from anything I had ever faced in the South. Even being a warrior based mostly on brute strength and the weight of his crushing blows, he still exhibited impressive flexibility of movement and agility of feet. His defenses were solid as stone walls. However, I was still Jaime Lannister, one of the best and most lethal swordsmen in all the mortal world, counting only two or perhaps three men above my level in all of Westeros.
After a confrontation considerably longer than I had initially planned, since the warrior of Tarth demonstrated admirable tenacity and refused to yield ground, I managed to exploit a millimetric gap in his guard transition. With an agile movement, I disarmed him, sending his blunted weapon flying into the dust, and pressed the tip of my own blade directly against the slit of his neck.
"— Do you surrender, knight? —" I asked, panting slightly due to the physical exertion.
"— I surrender... —" a strange, muffled, and slightly high-pitched voice replied from inside the iron. "— But I am not a knight."
I found the tone of the voice peculiar, but assumed on the spot that the distortion was due entirely to the echo caused by the heavy plates of the closed helm.
At the end of the Melée, only our block from the western lands and the Northern contingent remained in the arena, led personally by the young King Robb Stark. The final clash was a swift slaughter; Robb and his Northern commanders advanced with coordinated aggressiveness. Their rustic bodies were shielded by armor and weapons entirely enchanted with runes of cutting and resistance, but the true terror came from the runic matrixes carved directly into the skin and muscles of each warrior of the North, granting them supernatural muscular strength and physical vigor. They obliterated our defenses and defeated us without much difficulty. The fusion between enchanted steel and the power that pulsed in the flesh of the Starks continued to defy any logic of conventional Southern combat.
Leaving the dirt arena with aching muscles and my golden armor covered in dust, I walked to the side of the yard and collapsed heavily onto one of the many makeshift wooden benches. By pure irony of fate or geographical coincidence, I ended up sitting exactly next to the gigantic warrior of Tarth with whom I had dueled minutes before.
"— You fought very well in the arena, —" I commented casually, unfastening the buckles of my helm. "— What is your name, Sor?"
The warrior remained silent for a second before replying with the same muffled voice.
"— I am not a knight, as I have already told you previously."
"— I remember what you said, —" I replied, letting out a short laugh as I removed my golden helm and shook my head to run my fingers through my blonde hair, which was completely soaked with sweat. "— But that remains extremely strange to me. I cannot conceive the reason why you haven't been knighted yet, considering your absurd technical level with the sword. In the South, men with half your skill flaunt golden spurs on their chests."
The combatant beside me did not reply immediately. Instead, she carried her heavy hands to the latches of her own Tarth helm, releasing them with a metallic click and pulling the iron piece upward to breathe the fresh afternoon air.
I froze instantly. The words died in my throat and I was left completely speechless, staring at the figure beside me with wide eyes.
I saw an expression of deep irritation, hurt, and genuine anger cross her features as she noticed my obvious shock. She stared back at me with her intense blue eyes, her voice coming out firm and sharp.
"— What did you lose on this face of mine to be staring at me like that, Kingslayer?! —" she fired back, her freckle-speckled cheeks flushing with indignation.
Even hearing the infamous moniker that I usually repudiated with violence, I simply could not pay attention to the insult. My brain was trying to process the image before me.
"— You... you are a woman, —" I stated, my voice coming out in a sutil, stupefied whisper.
Right behind the bench, a few members of Renly Baratheon's rainbow guard who were still nearby began to let out muffled chuckles upon witnessing my confusion. Renly approached with an amused smile on his lips, wiping the dust from his green armor.
"— My, Jaime... it seems your golden Lannister eyes have finally proven sharp beyond the battlefield, —" Renly ironized, stopping beside us.
I tried to recompose my aristocratic posture as quickly as possible, clearing my throat and wiping the sweat from my brow.
"— It is merely... a genuine surprise, —" I justified, keeping my voice steady. "— It is not a common sight to see a female warrior wielding steel with such brutality in the lands of the South. It was only that."
"— Well, it seems you will need to get used to this kind of scenario if you wish to keep marching alongside the forces of Winter, —" Renly commented, shrugging. "— In the North, where your sister Cersei now resides, the presence of female warriors in the ranks of the standing army is treated with absolute normalcy. On my last diplomatic journey to the lands of the Empire, I myself witnessed when the she-warriors of House Mormont physically humiliated some Southern mercenary knights who committed the foolishness of underestimating them in a training yard. They do not play around."
After the end of the casual conversation, I said goodbye to them and returned to the privacy of my command tent. However, no matter how much I tried to focus my thoughts on the maps of King's Landing and the tactical movements of the army, the image of that woman of Tarth refused to leave my mind for some reason that I could not understand or explain logically.
During the great feast held that night under the immense canvas of the common tent, I realized that I was committing an amateur mistake for a Lannister: I spent most of my time casting frequent and far from subtle glances toward the table where Renly and his men were accommodated.
I took advantage of the distance to analyze her calmly under the torchlight. According to all traditional aesthetic standards of the Southern courts, that woman was... well, plain. There was no other word to describe her appearance. She possessed shoulders far too broad for a lady, coarse features devoid of any aristocratic delicacy, slightly crooked teeth, and an immense amount of freckles covering her pale skin. I had the absolute conviction that if I decided to wear one of Cersei's red silk gowns and did my braids, I would certainly be an infinitely more attractive and desirable figure to the men of the court than her, even if I were sporting a three-week beard on my face. Compared to the great, legendary beauties of the realm, her plainness became an indisputable fact.
Nevertheless, even with all her glaring physical imperfections, my gaze simply refused to drift away from her. There was something in her upright posture, in the almost naive righteousness with which she bore herself among the drunken men, and in the seriousness with which she treated steel that fascinated me in a disturbing way.
"— What are you staring at so insistently on that side of the hall, my brother? —" Cersei's whispered, cutting voice echoed right beside me, making me jump slightly in my seat. "— You are not being the least bit subtle in your observations tonight, Jaime."
"— It is nothing like what you are imagining, sister, —" I replied immediately, donning a mask of indifference and taking a long sip of wine. "— I was merely reflecting on some of the combat tactics and the chaos I witnessed in the melée earlier today. Nothing more."
Cersei let out a low cuddle, the sound laden with a sharp irony as she carried a grape to her mouth.
"— Oh, yes... of course. You were thinking about the tactics of the Melée. Or, more specifically, you were thinking about Brienne of Tarth... the monumental warrior with whom you spent a considerable amount of time dueling in the dirt this afternoon."
I turned my face toward her, my brow furrowed in surprise.
"— And how do you know her name, Cersei? I do not recall mentioning this woman to you at any point."
My sister adjusted the necklace on her neck, displaying a victorious smile.
"— A Lannister woman's intuition is a force unto itself, my dear brother. Perhaps the fact that I have birthed so many children talented in magic in the North has ended up transferring a small fraction of supernatural perception to my own mind, —" she ironized, shrugging.
Brienne... — I repeated the name mentally, savoring the sound of the letters in my mind for the first time. So that was her name.
"— It seems you have completely unlearned the basic rules of courtship and etiquette of the Southern court, Jaime, —" Cersei continued with her teasing, her voice amused. "— Since you spent the whole day fighting the lady in the dirt and didn't even bother to ask her name before putting her beneath your blade."
"— Me, interested in her, sister? —" I shot back, letting out a genuine laugh and shaking my head. "— It seems you have truly lost your mind. She is a warrior of Tarth who nearly broke my ribs, nothing more than that."
"— If you say so... I will not insist on unmasking your boyish lies, —" she replied with a wink, turning her attention back to the conversations at her own table.
The following morning, I walked toward the makeshift training yard we had set up on the edges of the Riverlands camp. The rising sun had barely crossed the tree line, and the grass was still covered by a thin layer of freezing dew. As I approached the rope fence, I spotted the immense figure of Brienne standing at the edge of the arena, wearing only padded leather garments for training. She held a wooden sword against her chest, observing the empty field with a lonely and hesitant expression, unable to decide whether to enter.
I approached with silent steps through the damp grass.
"— Aren't you going to enter and train this morning, my lady? —" I asked in a soft voice.
Brienne gave a visible start of surprise upon hearing my sudden voice, spinning her body quickly with her cheeks flushing iinstantly with shame. The grimace of surprise that formed on her coarse features was so genuine that I couldn't control a wide smile that broke across my lips.
"— I... I do not have a companion-at-arms available for sparring this morning, Sor Jaime, —" she replied, regaining her posture and averting her eyes from my face. "— The strong drink of the North seems to have affected all the men of my company in a devastating way last night. Not one of them has managed to rise from the bear skins until now."
I let out a loud, genuine laugh at her justification.
"— Well... trying to keep up with the warriors of the North in a drinking competition is never a wise decision for men of the South, my lady. Those barbarians drink liquid fire as if it were spring water."
For the first time since we met, I saw Brienne's lips curve subtly into a light, timid smile.
"— Yes... the damage was plain to see, —" she agreed in a softer voice.
A comfortable silence settled between us for a few brief seconds, broken only by the singing of distant birds in the forest. I adjusted my grip on my own wooden training sword, looking her directly in the eyes.
"— Well... it happens that I am also completely without a companion-at-arms for my morning training today. So... if you would like to share the arena with me, I would be very grateful for the partnership."
Brienne turned her face toward me quickly, raising one of her thick eyebrows with a clear expression of mistrust and perplexity. It became clear to me that something in the tone of my voice had sounded unusual or different to her ears accustomed to rejection. The truth was that, without even realizing it or doing it deliberately, I was flirting with her.
"— Training with Sor Jaime Lannister, one of the greatest and most renowned swordsmen in all of Westeros, would be an incomprehensible honor for me, my lord, —" she replied with a formal seriousness.
A sudden surge of pure joy and satisfaction swelled in my chest upon hearing the sincere compliment from her lips, and I couldn't control the wide smile that shaped my face. Brienne stared intently at my reaction and, seeming to notice the intensity of my gaze, turned her face to the opposite side with impressive speed. However, the swift movement was not enough to hide the fact that the tips of her large ears were completely red with embarrassment. That display of shyness coming from a woman of that size brought a strange warmth to my chest.
We entered the dirt arena and began the sparring. I lost all track of time as our wooden swords collided repeatedly in the air. The training extended for hours under the morning sun. Between one movement and the next, I caught myself offering sincere tips about her posture, teaching her some of the weight transition tricks that Sor Arthur Dayne himself had taught me in my youth. Brienne absorbed each instruction with a fervent dedication, her intense blue eyes shining with a silent gratitude.
Our moment of rustic isolation was abruptly interrupted by the thunderous, coordinated blast of dozens of trumpets echoing from the eastern borders of the camp.
The military division commanded by Prince Tommen Stark and the lords of the Riverlands was finally integrating into our main battle lines. I walked to the side of the yard alongside Brienne to observe the arrival of the troops.
The sight was impressive and terrifying. As young Tommen advanced mounted on his horse, I could see and feel the trail of pure fear, dread, and superstition that the ordinary soldiers of the South directed toward the fifteen-year-old youth. They cleared a path for his passage as if they were standing before an accursed entity.
King Robb Stark and my sister Cersei stepped forward to the vanguard of the reception to welcome him back. As soon as the boy dismounted from his saddle, Cersei broke all aristocratic protocol and enveloped him in a desperate maternal embrace, whispering words of comfort into his ear that finally caused Tommen's stern and somber countenance to melt into a sweet, childish smile.
But Tommen's division was not the only one arriving that afternoon. Right behind them came the command entourage of my father, Lord Tywin Lannister, who had been temporarily occupying the quarters of Harrenhal after the lord of that castle committed the stupidity of taking most of his men to Riverrun, only to end up dying under the ravenous insects of Tommen's plague.
However, my gaze was captured by another figure riding just behind the golden lines of the West. Though no longer wearing the iconic white armor of the Kingsguard, his upright posture in the saddle and his aura of an absolute warrior remained entirely unchanged beneath the sun of the Riverlands. It was Sor Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. The very legendary man who had knighted me in the past, and whom I now avoided looking directly in the eyes due to the crushing weight of shame and the ghosts of my past in King's Landing.
I felt my body tense instantly and my breath hitch at the presence of my former mentor.
Before anxiety could take hold of me, I felt the firm, warm, and heavy touch of a hand settle softly upon the metal plate of my right shoulder. I turned my face sharply to the side and found Brienne's intense blue eyes fixed on my countenance. Her features displayed an expression filled with a genuine, sincere concern, devoid of any political interest. She could see right through my proud lion's mask.
I was so completely hypnotized by the purity of that gaze amidst the falsehood of that war that the words simply escaped my mouth before my brain could stop them:
"— Your eyes are absolutely beautiful, Brienne... —" I whispered, keeping my gaze locked in hers. "— They look like two genuine sapphires shining beneath the autumn sun."
Brienne widened her eyes in shock, freezing in place. I watched the crimson hue of embarrassment rise quickly up her fair neck until it covered the entirety of her freckle-speckled cheeks. In the next second, I regained full consciousness of what I had just uttered aloud and felt my own face burn with shame at my lack of manners. However, as embarrassing as that situation seemed, I couldn't help but feel a spark of pure happiness vibrate in my chest upon seeing her react that way to my involuntary compliment.
Suddenly, I felt a heavy, cold, and surgical gaze drill directly into my back. I turned my head and spotted the figure of my father, Lord Tywin Lannister, observing us from a distance with his golden eyes narrowed in a clinical analysis of the situation.
Brienne seemed to notice the presence of the Lord of the West at the exact same instant and withdrew her hand from my shoulder with a metallic quickness, taking a step back and bowing her head in respect. My father passed by us mounted on his horse without altering his stone expression, limiting himself to uttering a short and direct order as he passed my flank:
"— Meet me in my private solar as soon as my command tent is properly erected, Jaime. We have pending matters to discuss regarding the succession and the direction of this military campaign."
Shortly afterward, after saying goodbye to Brienne with an awkward nod, I walked toward the immense golden pavilion tent of my father, which had already been fully erected by the servants of the West at the central boundaries of the camp. Although the servants were still transporting some wooden chests and rustic furniture into the tent, the main leather structure itself was already perfectly upright.
I entered the tent and found Tywin Lannister standing in front of a map table, analyzing the defensive lines of the Riverlands.
"— It is a genuine surprise, everything that is happening in this war, wouldn't you say, my father? —" I commented in a casual voice, trying to divert the focus from any personal matter he might bring up.
Tywin didn't even raise his eyes from the leather map, keeping his voice cold and calculating.
"— Find your focus, Jaime. And what exactly would be a surprise to your mind?"
"— Well... the fact that young Tommen carries such a brutal and relentless streak within him, —" I replied, pouring myself some water. "— If I were forced to theorize about the origin of that destructive fury that decimated the Tullys at Oldstones, I would dare to say with pride that it was the legitimate Lannister blood that worked that miracle of destruction in the boy."
My father let out a short, sharp snort through his nose, a clear demonstration of disdain for my obvious attempt at flattery and diversion. He waited patiently until the last servants left the interior of the tent, latching the fabric flap behind them, before finally raising his golden, surgical gaze in my direction.
"— The blood that worked that destruction belongs entirely to the heritage and runic power of the North, Jaime. Do not be a fool to try to claim for our house the merits of a force we barely understand, —" he declared with severity, crossing his arms behind his back. "— The runes they carry on their bodies and the elemental power of the Starks are beyond our politics of gold. But change the subject. I also had a rather peculiar surprise upon reaching the boundaries of this camp this afternoon. Who in the name of all the gods was the monumental woman with whom you displayed such closeness and intimacy in the training yard?"
I felt my body shift into an instant defensive stance, adjusting my sword belt with unnecessary force.
"— She is merely a formidable warrior with whom I spent the last few hours conducting a morning training sparring, father, —" I replied, keeping my voice as firm and disinterested as possible. "— Nothing more than that."
"— And does this so-called 'formidable warrior' happen to possess a legitimate name of baptism, or did her parents decide to call her strictly Warrior throughout her entire life? —" Tywin pressed, his eyes narrowing in my direction with an uncomfortable intensity.
"— Her name is Brienne! —" I fired back sharply, my patience exhausting before my father's depreciative tone.
Tywin Lannister kept his gaze fixed on my face for a few seconds, absorbing my defensive explosion with a calmness that seemed extremely unusual for his customary temper. He arched one of his thin eyebrows.
"— Brienne of which ancestral house of Westeros, Jaime? —" he questioned with a measured voice.
"— Brienne of House Tarth, my father! —" I answered with firmness, sustaining the gaze against his.
To my utter astonishment and complete psychological bewilderment, my father's stern countenance did not contort into an expression of fury or aristocratic disdain. Quite the opposite: Tywin Lannister turned his gaze back to the strategic map on the table, letting out a thoughtful murmur while drumming his iron fingers against the wood.
"— Yes... House Tarth, —" my father commented in an strangely calm and reflective voice. "— An ancient, honorable lineage, and holder of an impeccable military history in the lands of the South. They possess blood ties and legitimate claims over the Isle of Sapphires, a strategic position of the highest value for the control of naval trade in the vicinity of the Stormlands and the Narrow Sea."
He fixed his golden eyes back on mine, and the analytical gleam in his features made me realize that his brilliant and twisted mind was already calculating dozens of dynastic possibilities in the darkness.
"— You are dismissed for now, Jaime, —" my father ordered with a casual wave of his hand, refocussing his attention on the markings of the Riverlands. "— Retire from my quarters and ensure your golden armor is properly cleaned and prepared. We will have an extraordinary war council meeting in the main tent later tonight."
"— Yes, my father... —" I replied in a low voice, still completely shocked and confused by the enigmatic and restrained reaction of the old lion given that whole situation.
I turned and left the command tent toward the fresh evening air. As I walked through the dirt corridors of the Western camp in the Riverlands, I realized with a hint of irony that my mind continued to completely ignore the political directions of the war and my father's plans.
My sole and absolute involuntary thought, as I watched the sun vanish behind the mountains, was a silent and insistently sweet question: what would Brienne be doing in the tents of Tarth at this very moment? Winter had begun to change my steps, and there was no turning back for the Lion of the West.