ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 43: Defeated Pride
POV: Brienne of Tarth (302 AC)
I have found myself in a state of deep unrest since the Melée in the training yard ended. To my complete misfortune—and, apparently, to the obvious amusement of my companions in Prince Renly's Rainbow Guard—my flushed cheeks and guarded behavior became the perfect target. Those southern knights seemed to have discovered that teasing me and making jokes about my silence was the best possible way to pass the time between patrols.
They filled my ears with mocking whispers, saying that the Lion of the West had been tamed by the "Beauty of Tarth." That was a complete disaster. As if someone like **Ser Jaime Lannister**, a man endowed with an almost mythical beauty, the most coveted heir of Casterly Rock, and one of the most lethal warriors in Westeros, could be genuinely interested in a bizarre, clumsy, and ugly creature like me. I knew my place in the world, and it was not beside a golden lion.
In the hours that followed, during the late afternoon, I began to observe the movement around the Lannister command tent more closely. The amount of covetous glances Jaime received from the many noble maidens circulating through the camp was nearly outrageous.
The massive and intimidatingly secure presence of the Northern army seemed to have infused a strange courage and an inexplicable audacity into the hearts of the many ladies of the Southern aristocracy. Using the flimsy excuse of offering companionship and emotional support to the Queen Mother, Cersei Lannister, those young women had flooded the war front, parading their fine silk dresses through the mud and military tents. The recent tournament had been the perfect pretext for them to draw near. Deep down, I highly suspected the real intentions of those girls.
Most of them did not show the slightest interest in the safety of the realm; they were there as aristocratic predators, eager to sink their claws into some powerful Northern heir marching in the vanguard. Young **Roderick Dustin**, the rightful heir of Barrowton and holder of the warrior blood of Elia Martell, was the constant object of whispers and sighs from the maidens whenever he passed by on his warhorse. Others preferred to focus their advances on Jaime, parading before him with audacious necklines and glances that practically stripped him in public. And not that I cared about that, of course. I was merely a sworn shield, a sword at the service of Renly Baratheon. What the heir of the West did with his attention was none of my business.
Twilight brought with it the official feast, a tense celebration held shortly before the summons to the great war council meeting. The air under the immense common canvas smelled of roasted meat, strong wine, and a palpable anxiety that anticipated the blood that would soon flow in the Riverlands.
Sitting at one of the peripheral tables alongside the Rainbow Guard, I tried to keep my focus fixed on the plate of stew before me, but my eyes, stubborn and treacherous, insisted on drifting *just a little bit* toward the high table of House Lannister.
To my absolute dread, at the exact moment I looked, my blue eyes locked directly with the cold, surgical, and golden gaze of the Lord of the Rock himself. Lorde Tywin Lannister kept his eyes fixed on me for an eternal instant, before raising his right hand and making a clear gesture, summoning me to his presence.
Having to sit at the main table of the Lannisters, under the scrutiny of the most feared man in the South, was the last thing I wanted for that night. I looked at Jaime out of the corner of my eye and saw him casting a deeply ugly and annoyed look at his own father, but the heir of the West remained silent, knowing that no one contested the orders of Tywin.
I stood up, stiffly adjusting my training tunic, and walked with firm steps to the table of the Western leadership. I bowed in a formal reverence.
"— Lord Lannister... how can I be of service to your house tonight? —" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady and devoid of any hesitation.
The old lion analyzed my posture over his silver goblet, his expression perfectly unreadable.
"— Lady Tarth... from what my eyes could observe during the afternoon in the training yard, you seem to have forged a very close and technical friendship with my eldest son, —" Lord Tywin declared, his voice coming out in a measured tone that carried the weight of a mountain. "— Therefore, I see no reason for you to remain isolated at the peripheral tables. Why not sit with us and share our table tonight?"
I looked quickly toward Prince Renly Baratheon in the distance. My lord merely nodded his head slightly, offering me a look of support; after all, that invitation from Tywin Lannister was not the kind of request from an ordinary lord that a southern knight could afford to refuse without suffering severe political consequences.
I seated myself awkwardly in one of the heavy oak chairs, positioned at a prudent distance from Jaime. To my immense surprise, the one who broke the ice at the table was not my sparring opponent, but the Queen Mother herself. Cersei Lannister leaned slightly in my direction, initiating a fluid conversation about purely trivial court matters, before focusing her interest strictly on my unusual skill with the longsword.
"— It is a fascinating feat to see a lady master steel with such expertise, Lady Brienne, —" Cersei commented, an enigmatic smile shaping her perfect lips. "— You know... when we were younger at the Rock, I myself harbored the burning desire to become a swordsman of the house. Since my father flatly refused to allow a woman to touch steel, I frequently convinced Jaime to swap clothes with me in the darkness of our chambers. I would wear his squire garments and go train with the wooden swords in his place in the yard. We were so absurdly identical back then that the master-at-arms was never able to find out who was who in the arena."
Upon hearing his sister's revelation, Jaime choked slightly on his wine, his cheeks turning a deep red of pure embarrassment and irritation.
"— Cersei, please... there is not the slightest need to bore our guest with these foolish stories of our childhood, —" Jaime grumbled, wiping his lips with a silk handkerchief and avoiding looking up from his plate.
I turned my gaze back to the Lord of the Rock and noticed that Lord Tywin merely raised one of his thin eyebrows at this news, maintaining his clinical silence while cutting a piece of meat. The night advanced in a surprising way, and the dynamic of that table proved to be infinitely more pleasant, respectful, and intelligent than the nest of vipers I had imagined encountering. For the first time, I saw the Lannisters as a royal family, and not just as the golden monsters of the southern songs.
However, the time for trivial chatter and childhood stories vanished as the camp bells tolled, announcing the start of the great war council meeting.
Accompanying Prince Renly's steps, we entered the quarters of the great imperial tent. The space was already completely packed, squeezing dozens of great lords of the North, the West, and the river territories who had sworn loyalty to the new regime. The air inside was dense, heavy with the smell of sweat, iron, and leather.
In the center of the command array, positioned in the main seats around the immense tactical table, the members of the Stark lineage waited in silence. In the center seat, the King of the Lands Above the Neck, Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, displayed the stern countenance of a veteran commander, while his immense direwolf, Grey Wind, remained lying at his feet like a mountain of grey fur and sharp teeth.
Beside him, conversing in whispers with her mother, Cersei, was Princess Sansa Stark—the young woman whom the common men of the South now called, in a tone of pure dread, the *"Witch of the North"* and the *"Murderer of the Twins,"* due to the cataclysm of water she had invoked upon the Freys. I noticed, with a hint of mystical strangeness, that her direwolf, Lady, sported a delicate red silk ribbon tied right between her pointed ears, creating a bizarre contrast between ornamental sweetness and the savagery of an imperial beast.
On the other side of the table, conversing in a low voice with Lord Tywin and Jaime, was Prince Tommen Stark, the *"Prince of the Plague."* His blood-red direwolf, Firefox, kept his ears pricked, attentive to every noise in the tent. From Jaime's clear expression of discomfort and the slight paleness in his features during the conversation, I immediately imagined that the young prince was describing, with his habitual soft and detailed voice, the macabre details of the biological massacre he had carried out against Edmure Tully's forces in the ruins of Oldstones.
We walked to our designated sector in the tent. Renly took his seat, while we, the members of his personal guard, assumed our standing positions right behind his shoulders, keeping our hands on the pommels of our swords as the duty of protection dictated. Jaime raised his gaze in my direction and fixed his green eyes on mine for a brief instant; I responded to his gaze with a subtle nod of my head, but soon regretted the gesture upon noticing the malicious smirk and the discrete elbow nudge that Renly gave to the knight beside him.
Fortunately for my psychological integrity, I was saved from further teasing by the abrupt opening of the tent flap. A reverent and absolute silence instantly descended upon the room when **Ser Arthur Dayne**, the Sword of the Morning, entered the chamber. Wearing his immaculate armor plates and carrying an aura of legendary dignity that transcended realms, he walked with firm steps to King Robb Stark, taking his seat beside the young monarch. The mere presence of a living legend like Arthur Dayne made all the feudal lords in the room correct their postures and assume expressions of extreme seriousness, saving me definitely from the whispered jokes.
As soon as all the attendees settled into their respective places, the Starks rose in unison from their chairs. In the same second, a violent gust of freezing, biting air arose from absolute nothingness inside the command tent, blowing the parchments and causing the flames of the torches to flicker violently. It was as if the borders of the true winter had been torn open and brought only into that chamber.
The heavy flaps of the tent entrance opened abruptly with the force of the supernatural wind. And then, it happened as if the humidity in the air gathered; the particles of liquid water joined in a swirling vortex of freezing mist, gaining the exact volume and contours of a human body as they advanced toward the map table. The ice began to solidify and gain real colors, revealing the imposing figure of a monumental warrior over two meters tall, arrayed in armor entirely forged from blackened runic steel.
The look of that armor was the pinnacle of absolute dread. His face was completely hidden by a closed helm of dark iron, devoid of any human traits. There were only narrow, empty vertical slits for eyes and a nasal opening elongated downward that gave the piece a terrifyingly monstrous aspect, ending with jagged, sharp iron spikes that projected upward like a crown.
In the right hand of that hidden figure, clad in a heavy gauntlet of dark claws, rested a terrifying weapon that I had never seen in all my life: a colossal mace, composed of a massive sphere of matte black steel, segmented by riveted panels. From the top of that metallic head, six long, cruel, and sharp blades projected forward like the claws of a mythical beast. Through the deep slits and joints of the dark metal, an emerald-colored energy pulsed in a subtle and sinister way, emanating a radioactive glow that seemed to distort the very air around the weapon. I did not have the slightest idea what it was, but the mere glimpse of the object instilled a primitive dread in my chest.
As soon as the figure frozen completely before the main leadership, King Robb Stark took a step forward and knelt reverently upon the damp earth, bowing his head.
"— My Emperor... —" the young wolf's voice echoed firmly through the shocked silence of the tent.
The revelation fell upon the lords of the South like a hammer blow. That monumental warrior in black armor, whose presence I observed with absolute terror, was the Emperor Arawyn Stark himself. In a fraction of a second, the entirety of the lords of the North, the knights of the West, and the lords of the Riverlands who had sworn fealty to the Winter Throne dropped to their knees on the ground in a sign of absolute submission.
Arawyn carried his hands to the latches of his monstrous helm, releasing them with a heavy click and removing the piece to reveal his young face, with hard features and intense green eyes like wildfire. At the exact instant the helm was removed, the moisture around his head magically condensed once more, forging the legendary Crown of Winter made of eternal ice with an immense, flashing red gem right in the center. After witnessing the corporeal manifestation of his travel through the mist, the magical creation of an ice crown was no longer so impressive to me; the Starks operated at a level of supernatural reality that reduced the miracles of the Faith of the Seven to mere bedtime stories.
The Emperor made a short gesture with his hand, permitting the lords to rise, and the meeting proceeded in a tediously normal fashion from a traditional military perspective. The advanced scouts and masters of intelligence began to pour out detailed reports about the movements of the enemy troops on the fronts of the Reach.
The stalemate in that region was being progressively broken by our allies of House Tyrell, mainly due to the timely and aggressive arrival of the armies of Dorne. The rapid marches of the Dornish spearmen had established a perfect logistical blockade in the marches, preventing the men of the Stormlands from sending any military reinforcement to aid the Crown's loyalists in the Reach.
Due to this land isolation, the royal fleet of King's Landing was making an immense nautical loop through the Sea of Dorne, attempting to reach the southern Reach by sea to deliver a surprise attack against our coasts and, possibly, invade the borders of the West.
The Emperor Arawyn listened to every report in absolute silence, keeping his heavy hand resting on the hilt of his nameless iron mace. When the scouts finished speaking, he leaned over the tactical map, his voice coming out firm and leaving no room for contestation:
"— To definitively prevent the southern royal fleet from executing this attack against the coasts of our allies in the Reach, the Iron Fleet of the Iron Islands will unite its forces with the ships of the Redwyne fleet, —" Arawyn commanded, his green eyes flashing with a gélid intensity. "— They will intercept the Crown's ships in the open sea. Lord Rodrik Harlaw will assume supreme command of this unified naval force."
One of the masters of intelligence from the West took a step forward, clearing his throat with nervousness before updating the maps with new red markings.
"— My Emperor... we have received urgent ravens confirming that the cavalry of the Vale of Arryn has managed to successfully cross the Bloody Gate. A considerable portion of the military forces of the Crownlands has joined them, executing a mass landing at the port of Gulltown thanks to the logistical support and naval power of the fleet of House Velaryon. —"
Upon hearing the mention of Driftmark's betrayal, many of the Northern lords present in the tent began to shout insults and roars of fury, slamming their hands against the tables. After all, the Velaryons were historically known as the oldest, most loyal, and traditional allies of the old Targaryen dynasty—a lineage whose rightful survivors were living in the North now. To the minds of the Northmen, the act of supporting the paranoid regime of Catelyn Tully was an unforgivable betrayal of blood. And I was forced to agree with their logic.
The Emperor raised his black gauntlet in a gesture with his hand, and silence instantly installed itself in the tent.
"— To the mediocre minds of Southern politics, there are no eternal allies and no eternal enemies, my lords... — Arawyn declared, a cold smile full of derision shaping his features. — There are only eternal interests."
He remained silent for a few moments, drumming his iron claws against the mahogany table before continuing:
"— I did not plan to use much of the Northern fleet in this war, but the actions of Driftmark forced me to revise my plans. I could not prevent the cavalry of the Vale and the Velaryon fleet from executing their movement to Gulltown... however, to their ports of origin they shall never return. While we speak in this chamber, their ships are already turning into twisted wreckage at the bottom of the Shivering Sea under the attack of our ironclads."
Arawyn straightened his body posture and pointed directly to the center of the map of the Riverlands, causing most of the lords to lean forward to get a better view of the tactical divisions.
"— For the imminent battles ahead, we will divide our forces in the following manner, —" the Emperor announced. "— Robb, you will lead the greater part of the men and advance at an accelerated pace along the Kingsroad. You will intercept the cavalry of the Vale directly on the High Road."
He moved the golden marker toward the river's southern borders.
"— The remainder of our contingent, composed of a portion of the Western forces led by Ser Jaime Lannister, along with the personal army of Prince Renly Baratheon, will march immediately to the aid of the forces of the Reach led by Lord Randyll Tarly. After clearing the territory, you will march in a straight line into the Stormlands to join a second front of combat, acting alongside the spearmen of Dorne commanded by Prince Oberyn and Princess Rhaenys."
I looked at Prince Renly and noticed that he shuddered visibly under the fixed and piercing gaze of the Emperor.
"— Ensure that the forces of your homeland lay down their weapons, bend their pride, and exit this war definitively, Renly Baratheon, —" Arawyn declared, his voice devoid of any hesitation. "— I have absolutely no interest in ruling or obtaining the territorial submission of the Stormlands, but I will not tolerate them continuing to raise steel against us. Make them surrender and withdraw from the conflict. After all, you still carry the title of lord of that region by right of blood, and the destiny that awaits your people is in your hands. I do not care about the method, as long as they cease to be a threat."
The Emperor turned toward the head of the table, fixing his gaze on the legendary knight Dayne.
"— This joint force in the South will be led and coordinated in the field by Ser Arthur Dayne. Ser... upon the conclusion of the campaign in the Stormlands, you must unify all victorious fronts and march to King's Landing."
Arawyn looked back at the King of the Neck..
"— Robb... if after the end of your battle against the cavalry of the Vale the campaign of Ser Arthur has not been concluded, you will march with your men to join them. Should the Southern front already be pacified, you shall also advance directly to King's Landing."
Analyzing the Emperor's strategy, it was already plain to see that he wanted to finish off all the southern Crown forces before beginning the siege of King's Landing. The capital would be cornered in an absolute siege: by the land forces of King Robb coming from the north, by the unified army of Ser Arthur Dayne coming from the south, and by the sea—this being the one that should finish fastest, since everyone knows the devastating strength of the ships of the North, where just one or two are already enough to completely unbalance a naval battle.
The March and the Shadows of the Past
As soon as the war council meeting was formally closed, the immense military camp transformed into a human beehive of frenzied activity. The armies began to march toward their respective tactical destinations. Our combat column descended at a firm pace along the Kingsroad before diverting the route toward the plains of Tumbleton—a strategic location where the forces of the Reach allied with the southern Crown were gathering in haste, seeking to reorganize their lines after suffering a crushing defeat to the forces of the Reach allied with the Tyrells near Cinderhall.
I rode a few paces away from the leadership of the retinue, keeping my mount aligned with Jaime, Prince Renly, and Ser Arthur Dayne. As the miles of earth of the Riverlands were left behind, I noticed clearly that Jaime remained in absolute and melancholy silence since the start of the morning march.
Even knowing of the childish taunts of my companions, I moved my horse subtly, pairing my saddle with his to try to offer some kind of silent support on that journey. The events of King's Landing still seemed to haunt Jaime devastatingly. But after spending those days living intimately with him on the front and observing the rectitude of his character, I had the absolute certainty that he was not one of the many knights who existed in Westeros who were unworthy of the title of knight. Without realizing it in my thoughts, I had abandoned the use of his pompous titles; in the privacy of my mind, I called him strictly by his first name: Jaime. And he, in an equally subtle way, referred to me only as Brienne, forging a silent and intimate connection that ran alongside that bloody war.
After days of forced march, we reached our tactical destination on the outskirts of Tumbleton. Our advanced scouts quickly returned with the confirmation that both the enemy army and the allied forces of Randyll Tarly were already positioned in the field. The realists of the South, after the defeat suffered at Cinderhall, had received significant reinforcements from some lords of the Stormlands who bordered the region; however, they clearly did not expect our sudden and massive presence on that flank.
While walking with Jaime through the Western camp that was being set up in haste on the plain, we arrived at the quarters of his private command tent. I assumed the task of helping him put on the heavy pieces of his combat armor before the inspection of the troops. As I buckled the leather straps and adjusted the polished metal plates over his body, I could not control a short and genuine laugh that escaped my lips.
Jaime, who until then remained thoughtful, raised his golden gaze in my direction, an eyebrow arched curiously.
"— What was it that aroused your laughter this afternoon, Brienne? —" he asked, a slight smile appearing on his features.
"— It is just... well... —" I pointed to the pile of metal on the table, trying to contain my smile. "— It became clear to me that you, the members of House Lannister, truly like gold."
I said that looking at the breastplate and the scabbard of his sword, which were decorated with sculpted lions and covered in a bath of gold so bright that they gleamed intensely under the sunlight.
Jaime let out a clean and relaxed laugh, the sound instantly dissolving the tension that hung in the room.
"— Well... I think my father lives with a constant fear that people will forget that we have a lot of gold, —" he ironized, shaking his head amusingly. "— It is a heavy heritage to carry on one's armor, I admit."
After the completion of the adjustments, we met one last time in the main war tent to receive the final strategic directives from Ser Arthur Dayne. The veteran reviewed the vanguard positions with surgical precision and, as soon as he finished tracing the movements on the leather map, made a casual gesture with his hand, dismissing the presence of the other captains and lords of the West.
"— You may go to your posts, my lords, —" Arthur ordered with his firm voice. "— Except you, Jaime. I ask that you remain in the room for a few more minutes."
I turned my body to accompany the exit of the other lords, not knowing for sure if the order to remain extended to my presence or if I should leave them alone. Ser Arthur noticed my hesitation at the edge of the tent flap and offered me a calm and welcoming nod.
"— You can stay too, girl of Tarth, —" the Sword of the Morning declared, walking over to a large oak chest at the back of the tent. "— The truth is that my old bones no longer possess the same flexibility, and I need someone to help me put on the rear buckles of my armor before we mount the horses."
Jaime and I approached respectfully, assuming the task of helping the legendary knight raise and fasten the heavy plates of his immaculate white armor. While I pulled the leather straps on his shoulders, Ser Arthur Dayne glanced at Jaime's precise movements over his shoulder, a nostalgic smile shaping his weathered features.
"— Well... from what my eyes could observe just now, it seems you still have the technical skills of a true squire, Ser Jaime, —" Arthur commented in a relaxed tone.
Jaime tensed the muscles of his arms instantly upon hearing the honorific title, interrupting the adjustment of one of the buckles for an eternal second. After a brief and painful silence that weighed over the tent, he lowered his head, his voice coming out in a tone laden with a deep and choked bitterness:
"— I... I am no knight, Ser Arthur, —" Jaime whispered, his eyes fixed on the dirt floor.
The Sword of the Morning turned his body slowly toward him, his expression serious and attentive.
"— And why do you say that with such conviction, my boy?"
Jaime raised his eyes toward his old mentor for the first time, and the intensity of the emotion contained in his golden gaze made my own chest tighten with empathy. His features were contorted by the pain of the ghosts of the past.
"— I am only a oathbreaker... a kingslayer, —" Jaime declared, his voice already visibly emotional and romantic in suffering. "— I stained the cloak I was supposed to protect with the blood of the man I swore to defend. How could I be minimally worthy of being considered a true knight in this world?"
The imperial tent plunged into a sepulchral and freezing silence. I felt my own hands tremble over the leather of the armor, desperately searching for some word of comfort, but the words seemed to freeze in my throat. Fortunately for all of us, Ser Arthur Dayne spoke first.
The legendary warrior sighed deeply, resting his heavy hands upon Jaime's golden shoulders. His gaze emanated a weary wisdom and an ancestral compassion that seemed to have been chiseled by the snows.
"— You know, Jaime... for many long years guarding the royal blood in the North alongside the others, protecting Elia, Lyanna, and the children, I spent my nights nurturing thoughts very similar to yours, —" Arthur began to speak, his voice echoing firm and welcoming through the room. "— I blamed myself daily for the past. And more recently, when I accompanied Prince Aemon and we crossed the Wall toward his castle at the Fist of the First Men, when he assumed as King of Beyond-the-Wall, I spent sleepless nights facing the cold wind and thinking about oaths and honor and something that someone told me. I think living in the North for so long served me to be able to think about everything that happened with a cold head."
He let out a short and light laugh, as if sharing an extremely funny joke he had just told himself.
"— I thought a lot about what it means to be a good man. Is giving your life and dedicating the entirety of your existence to protecting someone so evil and sadistic solely for the bureaucratic validity of a written oath truly the right thing to do? I spent years without getting that answer... until I had the definitive confirmation from the lips of Emperor Arawyn himself, who at that time was just a boy king. He looked into my eyes and said that before I was a member of the Kingsguard, I was a knight first, and swore to the world to strictly fulfill the codes of chivalry. He reminded me that we of the white guard forgot that as the generations passed; we had transformed into mere silent executioners in white cloaks, into cowardly jailers of a helpless little girl. But the Emperor pointed to the past and affirmed that at least one of those men had still remembered that he was a knight who swore to protect the defenseless and be just, and not the executioner of a mad king. That man was you, Jaime."
Tears began to flow freely and uncontrollably down Jaime's cheeks, completely undoing his posture of an arrogant lion.
"— We were the true witnesses unworthy of being called knights in that hall of King's Landing, my boy... we were the cowards, —" Arthur continued, his voice solemn and emotional. "— Fortunately for the realm and for your own soul, you did the right thing when steel needed to be drawn. And I know perfectly well that I did the right thing in the past by dubbing you a legitimate knight of our order. Never question your worth before me again."
Before that historical absolution coming from the lips of the man who represented the pinnacle of perfection of chivalry in Westeros, Jaime broke down emotionally. Seeing the suffering of his former prodigy, Ser Arthur Dayne took a step forward and enveloped him in a firm and paternal armored embrace, thumping his white gauntlets against his back in a gesture of pure comfort and warmth. After a few moments, Arthur stepped back slightly, displaying an amused smile.
"— Right... now stop crying immediately, Jaime, —" Arthur teased, wiping his face with the back of his glove. "— You are a grown man now, a leader of armies, and no longer that runny-nosed, scared little boy I used to knock into the mud during training."
Jaime let out a boisterous laugh through his tears, wiping his face with the back of his golden gauntlet in a hurried manner.
"— I... I am not crying for any reason, Ser Arthur, —" Jaime lied shamelessly, trying to regain the dignity of his voice. "— It is just... well... an immense amount of dust just fell directly into my eyes because of the wind from the tent. That was all."
Ser Arthur Dayne let out a clean and generous laugh, while Jaime suddenly turned his body in my direction, fixing his violet eyes on my features.
"— And what about you, Brienne? —" the golden lion asked, arching an eyebrow with a mocking smile. "— What is your justification for standing there with your face completely flooded with tears as well?"
I wiped my cheeks quickly with the sleeves of my leather jerkin, feeling my face burn with shame at being caught showing such sensitivity before the two legends.
"— I... I give the same justification as yours, Jaime, —" I replied with a trembling voice, trying to maintain an upright posture. "— The wind brought an absurd amount of dust inside this canvas. My eyes were also affected by the dirt of the field."
We finished adjusting the last rear fasteners of Ser Arthur Dayne's metal armor in the midst of a renewed, light, and relaxed atmosphere. I walked to the large oak chest open at the back of the room and picked up, with an almost religious care, the legendary and mythical ancestral sword of House Dayne that rested upon the cloaks.
I delivered the weapon with both hands extended to its rightful bearer. Ser Arthur received it with a respectful nod and fastened the decorated scabbard directly to the side of his waist. Upon seeing him standing in the center of the tent, arrayed in his polished white armor and bearing the glinting pommel of the blade that carried the glow of a falling star, I could not help but think in my innermost heart that all definitions of honor, justice, and rectitude of chivalry had been created by the gods based strictly on the figure of Ser Arthur Dayne. He was the mirror where every knight should look at himself.
We left the interior of the command tent toward the sunny courtyard of the camp. As we walked between the rows of soldiers organizing the mounts for the imminent advance against Tumbleton, I noticed with immense internal satisfaction that Jaime displayed an infinitely lighter, more upright, and genuinely happier body posture than at any other moment of our march. The invisible burden that crushed his shoulders had been completely removed in the darkness of that room.
Without realizing my own behavior, I found myself walking by his side with a wide and foolish smile shaping my coarse features, observing his joy. Jaime noticed my persistent image and turned his face in my direction, a sly and bright smile appearing on his perfect lips.
"— May I know what the real reason is for you staring at me with that insistent and mysterious smile for five minutes, Brienne? —" he asked, arching an eyebrow amusingly.
Feeling a sudden wave of audacious and playful courage swell in my chest, I decided to take the opportunity to pay back the teasing he had given me in the training yard the day before, using his own words against him.
"— Well... the truth, Jaime... —" I replied, keeping my gaze firm against his as we walked through the grass. "— Is that your green eyes are absolutely beautiful and impressive under the light of this sunset. If I were forced to describe them to the bards of the songs, I would dare say they resemble two genuine emeralds shining in the center of a royal crown."
I expected him to react with the same shock of shame or the guarded behavior I had shown when I received his praise of the sapphires, allowing me to win that small contest of camp banter.
However, Jaime Lannister proved to be an infinitely more astute and unpredictable adversary in the arts of flirting than my Tarth naivety was capable of anticipating. He stopped his walk abruptly and took a step toward me, his smile expanding in such a warm, sincere, and disconcerting way that it caused my heart to skip an entire beat inside my chest.
"— Right... then, in the face of such a flattering revelation coming from your lips, Brienne, I will make a point of staring at you more since you like my eyes so much, —" Jaime whispered with a soft and amused voice, his eyes shining with genuine affection. "— After all, I need to ensure you have every possible opportunity to admire my emeralds up close."
I felt my blood boil and the crimson hue of shame rise violently up my neck, covering the entirety of my freckled cheeks in a matter of seconds. I averted my gaze from his face as quickly as I could, focusing my attention on my leather boots on the dirt, while trying to control my erratic breathing.
Damn him... damn absolute idiot and his handsome face... — I thought to myself, feeling a mixture of irritation at my own vulnerability and a secret, indescribable happiness that quickened my steps across the plain of the Riverlands. Winter had brought war to the South, but in the midst of the iron and the runes of destruction that surrounded our path, the Lion and the Knight had found their own unshakeable refuge of spring.
Author's thoughts:
Regarding the weapons I asked about earlier—well, I'm very indecisive, and even knowing that, I kept looking for more designs. Since I couldn't make up my mind, I'm going with both: I'll make one belong to Brandon the Builder, and the other date back to when the Starks fully conquered the North and became the Kings of Winter.