Brienne's throat aches with the effort of not crying and her head is heavy from lack of sleep. It makes no sense that after all the things that she's seen and all of the things that she's done that something as trivial as a rumor should bother her. I rode into battles, she reminds herself. I did not flinch at killing men nor draw back when my own death seemed certain. She should be proud of that and sometimes she is. But now, sitting still in her room in the grey of the early morning, she feels she is thirteen all over again.

She is surprised to find that, somewhere in the back of her mind, she had still thought that if she was good enough, if she was honorable and skilled and brave, that people must accept her. She supposes that she should have known better. She should have remembered that the best she can hope for is for men like Lord Tarly, who would give her the courtesy of telling her to her face that she does not belong in a man's world instead of playing cruel games and spreading lies behind her back.

At least Jaime is such a man. She is nearly certain that he will do her kindness of telling her to her face to keep her distance. She knew that he has been trying hard to live his life with honor. He had done everything he could to keep his promises to Lady Catelyn, even after she wasn't Lady Catelyn anymore. He had treated justly with the Riverlords and would have died in battle defending his king if he could. He had been brave and fair and she had finally heard people begin to speak of him as something more than the Kingslayer. Though she knew it had nothing to do with her and she had no right to feel so, she had been proud of him and glad that she knew such a man.

Ruined now, she thinks. Ruined by her mere presence, just as Lord Tarly had once said her presence among men must always ruin things. Part of her is furious. She wants to storm into the Queen's ballroom, where all the proper ladies sit gossiping, and scream at them that Jaime Lannister is a good man and that he would not dishonor himself by compromising a highborn lady, no matter how the lady comported herself. She wants to crash their pretty heads together and demand that they tell her what she has ever done to deserve their scorn. Thinking of it makes her miss the war. In the war, she could have hit them. In the war, she always knew what to do when surrounded by enemies.

She sighs, reaching for her clothes and stretching the stiffness from her muscles. She should be focused on upholding her honor. She should be thinking about proving herself to the new regime. She should be worried about the way that these rumors would upset her father if ever they reached Tarth. Instead, all she can think of is Jaime Lannister. After hours of hoping for sleep, mainly what Brienne thinks is that Jaime Lannister confuses her. She doesn't know why this bothers her so much – he has confused her since he held out an oar and hauled her into the boat on the first morning she spent with him.

I may be ugly and stupid, she thinks, but I am no coward. They had all been making japes at her expense yesterday; the only difference was that she now knew exactly what they were saying. A knight would not cry. A knight would not spare a moment for the whispers of cowards or the opinions of oathbreakers. A knight would stand tall, shoulders squared, walk into the practice yards, and stare down any man who dared to whisper behind his back. That's what Jaime would do, she thinks. It's what she will do.

She bites her lip as she yanks on her boots.

When she reaches the practice yards, she is surprised to see Jaime leaning casually against the fence, his eyes closed, as if there is not a thing in the world to trouble him. She supposes there isn't – it is not as if the loss of her company could mean very much to such a man. The sun glints off the metalwork lions on his belt and makes his hair look even more like gold than usual. Brienne almost loses her nerve. How can I face him? She wonders.

Then, it is too late to flee. He opens his eyes and catches sight of her. He straitens immediately and opens his mouth as if to call out to her. He seems to think better of it, though, for he closes it just as quickly and leans back against the fence. Brienne takes a deep breath and walks resolutely toward him, stopping when she is an arm's length from him. I have earned the right to hear the truth from you, she thinks. I have earned the right to have you look me in the eye when you tell me to keep away from you.

"Brienne," he says neutrally.

"Jaime," she responds, her voice much calmer than her mind.

"You are well?" He asks. If he were anyone else, she would say that he sounded uncertain.

"You are early," she says. Stupid, she thinks. Why did I say that? I am no fool; I am making it sound like I think he was here waiting for me.

Jaime grins broadly at her. "A pain in my ribs kept me from sleeping. Do try for the other side today, won't you? I hate to feel any more lopsided than usual."

"I do not think I could land such a blow a second time," she says truthfully.

Jaime throws back his head and laughs. He seems suddenly to be in an uncommonly good mood and Brienne, torn between alarm and relief, almost does not mind that he is most likely mocking her.

"Sometimes I forget that you may be one of the only sincerely humble people living in King's Landing. I would say it was refreshing if it wasn't so aggravating."

"Knights are supposed to be humble," she says, uncertain what is happening.

His grin widens and he grabs up his helm and the practice blade that he had propped against the post. "Well, then. You'd best come and try to humble me," he says, walking away from the fence.

She follows. They fight as usual and there is nothing beyond wooden blades clattering into each other and their feet churning up the ground. Brienne is never confused when they fight. She understands why Jaime swings as he does. She knows the blocks he uses. And, if she pays close attention to his face and body, she can often tell what he will do next. He wins the first bout and she the second. Partway through the third bout, Brienne begins to feel lack of sleep catching up with her. Though she lands a hard blow to his thigh and a powerful jab to his right shoulder, he is finally able to slide his sword up under her guard and she yields. They are both breathing hard and Brienne sees for the first time that they have drawn a small crowd.

Most of the onlookers scatter once they realize the fighting is over and Jaime pulls his helm off to reveal hair dark from the exertion. Brienne removes her helm as well and, glancing in the direction of the fence where several squires are still watching them, self-consciously licks the sweat off her upper lip and shakes her hair into her face.

When she looks back at Jaime, she sees that he is staring at her oddly.

"What?" she asks sullenly.

She expects him to make some crack about being captivated by the ugliness of her features, but instead he looks down quickly and shrugs.

Brienne does not know what to make of this, so she ignores it and begins to stretch the aches from her muscles. A young squire wanders over to Jaime from where he had been standing watching the fighting, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. An admirer, Brienne thinks.

"Ser…Lord Jaime?" the boy asks nervously. Strange, Brienne thinks. She often forgets that Jaime should now rightly be called "Lord."

Jaime stops stretching and turns to look at the boy. "Yes?" he asks.

"My...my lord, my lord would like to speak with you. Later, if it please my lord. Not now. My lord is still breaking his fast, my lord." Brienne hides her smile – the poor boy can't be more than twelve. To her surprise, Jaime doesn't mock the lad's awkwardness.

"Your lord will be Roland Crakehall," he says, glancing at crest on the boy's tunic.

"Yes, Lord Jaime," says the boy, who looks delighted that he is being taken seriously.

"He wants to share more of his thoughts about the trustworthiness of Lord Estren?" Jaime asks, sounding harassed.

"He said I am to tell you that he wishes to discuss his concerns about the future of the Westerlands," the boy says, drawing himself up importantly.

Jaime's mouth curves and he glances at Brienne and raises an eyebrow. She smiles back at him despite of herself.

"Of course he does," Jaime says. "Very well. Tell him I am to meet with Lord Estren at midday to discuss the future of the Westerlands, but that he is welcome to come to me later."

"Yes, my lord," the boy says. "I'll tell him exactly that my lord."

"Good," Jaime says. When the squire still does not leave he sighs. "Is there something else?"

"My lord…" the boy says hesitantly before seeming to screw up the courage to ask "is it true that you were also a squire at Crakehall?"

"Yes, for Lord Roland's father," the squire's eyes grow even wider as he loses what dignity he had been able to muster to a fresh surge of enthusiasm.

"For true? Is Crakehall where you learned to fight like that? How long did it take? Lord Roland says that he's known armies that would follow you into the seventh hell if you asked. How do you get them to do that, my lord? How did you learn-"

"What's your name?" Jaime interrupts.

"Kevan, my lord. Of House Lydden."

"Kevan, anything I have learned I have learned through constant practice and respect for my elders," Jaime says sardonically, though it is clear to Brienne from the rapt expression on young Kevan's face that he had missed the cynicism. She cannot help but laugh. Both squire and man turn to look at her and she blushes.

"Are you really the Maid of Tarth?" Kevan blurts out.

"Yes," Brienne says. She cannot understand why the boy is looking at her with the same wide-eyed expression. She shakes her hair forward nervously.

"I heard that you beat the Knight of the Flowers in the first tourney you ever fought in. And that you slew half of the members of the Brotherhood Without Banners. And that-"

"Yes, yes," says Jaime. "It's all true - she's very valiant; destined to be immortalized in song. Unlike my message to Lord Crakehall, which seems destined to go unheard."

The boy ducks his head, chastened. "Yes, Lord Jaime. I'll go right now. And I'll practice all the time, like you said, my lord!" Then he dashes off in the direction of the Red Keep.

Brienne glowers at Jaime. "Don't mock me, my lord," she says.

Jaime laughs. "I was not mocking you. If you are going to continue to insist on being heroic, you are going to have to learn the difference between ridicule and admiration. Otherwise they will be singing of the great deeds and fine principles of Brienne the Brusque."

That would be better than Brienne the Beauty, she thinks. "I have made many mistakes. I do not think it would be right for anyone to sing of me."

Jaime snorts. "As you are fond of reminding me, I have made a number of poor choices. It does not stop most people from recounting my victories. What is true has very little to do with what people say and what is right has even less. Trust me; boys pay no mind to trivial things like failure and hypocrisy. The Sword of Morning could have flung half the children in the Red Keep from the battlements and I still would have followed him around like a puppy."

She tries to imagine Jaime at Kevan Lydden's age – all elbows and knees and admiration for his heroes. She cannot quite picture it. "Almost everyone I admired as a girl is dead," she says. "Or changed."

"Perhaps that is why my brother likes books so much. It must be much more convenient to have idols that never lived in the first place. Maybe that's why he is always urging me to read." Jaime's grin is fond.

"They say your brother is a clever man," Brienne says. Though she has rarely spoken to him, she mislikes Tyrion Lannister, the kinslayer. Every time Jaime mentions his younger brother, Brienne is struck by a strange urge to grab his shoulders and shake him and yell that the dwarf is not to be trusted.

"He is," Jaime says in a quelling tone. "I've promised him I'd speak to you."

"You spoke of me with the Imp?" Brienne asks hostilely.

"Tyrion, wench," Jaime says, sounding angry. "My brother's name is Tyrion. Not Imp. Not Kinslayer. Not Dwarf. Do you understand? Tyrion."

Brienne returns his stare and does not flinch at the harshness of his words. "What did Tyrion wish you to say to me?" she asks, eyes narrowing.

Jaime sighs, seeming to take her use of his brother's name as a tacit apology, though Brienne did not mean it as such. "I have been at court too long. I've grown too used to scandals and schemes and to being at the center of lickspittles grasping for power to truly mind. You will have to get used to such things as well."

Does he mean that he does not mind that his name is coupled with mine? she wonders. "What is it to your brother if I become accustomed to lies and power mongering?"

"He is concerned that the rivals of House Lannister may try to provoke some mischief or other at your expense."

"That doesn't make any sense," Brienne says, unsure whether or not she should be angry. "I'm of no importance here. I'm-"

"In the habit of underestimating your position to the point of destruction," Jaime finishes for her. "You fought well in the wars. You are known and respected by members of several of the most powerful families in the seven kingdoms and you are an heir in your own right. It is naïve to think that you can avoid politics no matter how much you may wish to."

"I know nothing of politics. I have no reliable talent for tact," she says. She does not know why she is even bothering to respond to such ridiculous assertions.

"If I had any reliable talent for it, I would never have hauled you out to the battlements or mentioned any of these rumors to you in the first place," he says ruefully.

"Why did you tell me?" She asks.

He does not pretend not to know what she's talking about. "I thought you deserved to hear it from me. I supposed I owed you an apology. You know how my family feels about debt." Brienne blinks at him. He looks away, back towards the stables where squires are beginning to mount their horses. "It upsets you."

Brienne thinks about denying it, but she knows that it is too late to hide the truth from him. "Yes," she says, trying hard to keep her face still. She turns and keeps walking back in the direction of the Red Keep.

She is surprised when he reaches out with his left hand and grabs her wrist to stop her. She instinctively whirls back to face him and jerks her arm from his grasp. A warrior's response, she thinks, not a lady's.

"Brienne," he asks, his voice serious, "why did you come this morning?"

She looks down at her boots and takes a deep breath before returning his gaze. "I am a large, ugly woman who fights like a man," she says, relieved to hear how firm her voice sounds. She notices that his arm twitches toward her again, as if to reach out for her, though he does not. She is both pleased and disappointed that he doesn't dare. "If the world must hate me for it then so be it," she continues. "I cannot be otherwise. I will not hide and I will learn not to care what others say of me." She cannot admit to him that she came to see if he would still speak to her. She wishes she did not have to admit it to herself.

"It is a hard lesson to learn, my lady," he says, his expression unreadable.

I don't care so long as I don't have to be alone, she thinks. "I have learned many hard lessons," she says.

"Yes," he agrees. "That I believe."