Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the island of Tarth, the day woke slowly, with tenderness. Light rolled across the waves, caressing the sea’s surface the way a mother touches the cheek of a sleeping child. The air carried the taste of the sea — sweet and salty, with hints of algae, amber, and a whisper of distant storms. In the mornings, the sunrise sliced through the azure waters, casting golden glimmers onto the stone cliffs, as if someone had shattered a goblet full of honey and spilled it over the rocks.

The island was a breach in time. People said that life on the mainland moved faster, that everything there was sharper, louder, harder. But on Tarth — time tasted like warm milk and citrus, like sun-kissed clams baked with garlic and a crumble of dried herbs, the kind Selwyn Tarth would bring to young Brienne’s bed on stormy days.

Brienne learned to swim before she learned to speak. In the sea, she found something the world of people never gave her: acceptance. When she submerged herself in the water, she was light, strong, free. No eyes judging her, no voices mocking her appearance or height. Whenever she felt utterly alone — all she had to do was step outside and look at the water. On Tarth, the water would say: “You’re not strange. You’re from here. You belong here.”

Brienne’s relationship with her father, Lord Selwyn Tarth, had always been strained — not openly hostile, but full of silences and mutual misunderstanding. Selwyn was a man with a dimmed gaze, and after the death of his wife and son, he spent more time with a glass in his hand than talking to his daughter. Brienne remembered him as a tall, proud lord, smelling of a subtle blend of myrtle, oakmoss, and sandalwood. When she came to him crying, he would pat her head, but never ask what was wrong. After Lady Tarth’s death — a gentle and devoted woman everyone called the heart of the island — Lord Selwyn began inviting young women to the estate. Women with gleaming hair, soft hands, and artificial smiles.

Roelle was the steward of Evenstar, but in practice — the mistress of everything. She handled the finances, coordinated deliveries, oversaw the servants, and answered to Lord Selwyn — and no one else. To the court, she was indispensable. To Brienne — a cold, razor-sharp presence who ruled the household with a firm hand and a stern smile.

Roelle never said anything directly. Her cruelty lived in the way she looked Brienne up and down, in words laced with politeness but dripping with venom.

“The young lady stained her dress again? Perhaps I should order more fabric… the thicker kind, to better conceal that figure.”

“Lord Selwyn would surely be thrilled if his daughter would, just once, sit like a lady. But I understand — for some, that’s a difficult concept.”

Even as a child, Brienne knew there was no care in those words. Roelle was a woman who prized beauty, elegance, and obedience — and Brienne was none of those things. She tried to fit in, once, twice, ten times. But nothing she did was ever enough. When Brienne washed her hair with lavender shampoo, Roelle might remark:

“It smells nice. Pity it does nothing for volume.”

But the worst were the conversations with her father when Roelle was present. She always managed to wedge herself between them, turning what might’ve been a warm talk into something cold and formal.

“The young lady has everything she could possibly want,” Roelle would say with a smile. “What more could she be lacking?”

As a little girl, Brienne used to sit on the marble steps and watch her father’s lovers come and go — some staying for a few nights, others for weeks. They all looked at her with the same mix of pity and amusement. One of them, named Lysara, once tried to stroke her cheek and called her “a poor, giant chick.” Brienne fled to the stables to cry into her pony’s mane.

Over the years, her dislike of her father’s companions only deepened. They embodied everything she despised — falsehood, appearances, dependency on a man’s favor. Brienne watched them lounging around Lord Tarth in silk robes, simpering, thoughtless, stroking his hand and giggling at the slightest joke. She felt invisible, and yet constantly judged — as though her very presence spoiled the air of light decadence they worked so hard to create. In her mind, she called them ghosts without names.

She no longer knew how to speak with her father. When she tried to tell him she didn’t want another engagement, that she wasn’t interested in the lords she knew only by their fancy names — he looked at her with patient, scornful weariness. As if she were just another burden, a failed plan.

Brienne was first betrothed at the age of seven. Her fiancé was the younger son of Lord Bryen Caron — a ten-year-old boy with protruding teeth and terrified, unsure eyes. The boy died two years later. The second engagement hurt more. It was meant to bind Brienne to Ronnet Connington, a man six years older than her. During their only meeting, Red Ronnet gave her a red rose and, with a dismissive smile, said:

“That’s all you’ll ever get from me.”

That same evening, he broke off the engagement, calling her a “freak” — not the kind of woman he could ever imagine as a wife. She was thirteen then, and she already knew she was too tall, too strong, too different.

But the last of her father’s attempts was the worst of all.

~*~

The hearth hall in the Tarth estate was bathed in the warm glow of afternoon light. Marble columns gleamed like wet seashells, and the air smelled faintly of rose oil — the kind Lord Selwyn ordered the servants to use “for special occasions.” Brienne hated that scent.

She stood stiffly beside her father’s armchair, tense like never before. The dress itched, especially the lace collar, and her tightly braided hair had made her scalp ache for hours. Across from her sat Count Humfrey Wagstaff — a broad-shouldered man, though well past his prime, with a ruddy face, silver hair tied back with a clasp, and a belly so round the buttons on his waistcoat looked ready to surrender.

“Indeed, Lord Selwyn, fortune has truly blessed me with this… extraordinary young woman,” the count said, clutching a glass of brandy. His voice was resonant, theatrical—almost performative. “Tall, healthy, clearly… strong-willed. Women like this bear strong sons.”

“Brienne is the pride of my house,” Lord Tarth replied, with such heartfelt conviction that Brienne almost believed him. “I’ve always dreamed of seeing her at the side of a man who truly appreciates her.”

Brienne remained silent. She knew she wasn’t part of this conversation—she was the subject of it. A commodity, put on display for sale.

After dinner, her father stayed in the drawing room with the musicians, pleased with himself, drunk on light wine and the looming prospect of marrying her off.

Brienne had just stepped into the hallway when the count joined her quietly, seizing her wrist and steering her into a side room.

“Lady Brienne…” he began sweetly, flicking the end of his cigar into a stone planter. “You look lovely tonight. Though… I must admit, after the wedding, I’d prefer to see you in something more feminine. A corset, perhaps?”

“I don’t think I’d look good in a corset, Count Wagstaff. Besides, we are not yet family,” she replied firmly, brushing off his hand.

He smiled. His lips glistened with brandy.

“Oh, but we will be. And then you’ll learn obedience. Girls like you need a firm hand. I know how to tame wild ones.”

His hand slid to her hip, then lower, his sweaty fingers creeping under the hem of her dress.

Brienne froze. For a second, she couldn’t believe it was really happening. Then she felt something inside her snap—something she had held back for years.

She grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and shoved him back with all her strength. The count staggered, crashing into a carved wooden table. The wood creaked and splintered under his weight. And then Brienne moved toward him.

“You have no right to touch me.” Her voice was calm, but cold as steel.

“You stupid cow!” he hissed, trying to rise. “No one will want you but me! You’re—”

Brienne struck. Not with a fist, but with her elbow—just as Goodwin, her riding instructor and her father’s old friend, had taught her. She hit straight into his collarbone. Something cracked. Wagstaff howled, clutching his shoulder, and Brienne didn’t wait—she shoved him again. This time, he crashed to the floor with a groan, hitting his side on the table’s edge. Two ribs snapped like dry twigs.

Servants rushed in, and moments later, so did Lord Tarth, startled, still holding a glass of wine.

Count Wagstaff didn’t wait until morning. That same night, he sent a messenger with a letter formally breaking off the engagement “due to the exceptionally inappropriate behavior of Lady Brienne.”

The final argument, after which she left Tarth, was brutal — not in volume, but in coldness. Selwyn looked at her like she was a stranger. He said she brought him nothing but shame. That he couldn’t understand how she could throw away the chance at a respectable life. He called her ungrateful, stubborn, and unmarriageable. Then he turned away and poured himself another glass of wine.

That was the moment Brienne knew she could no longer stay.

Tarth was beautiful — wrapped in azure waters, scented with salt, quiet as a prayer at dawn. But it was no longer her home. Her father had sold it piece by piece, trading love and family for fresh lips and brimming goblets. And though part of her still yearned for his approval, she knew she had to build her life elsewhere. Without him.

That was the end.

And the beginning.

~*~

The voyage to Storm’s End took three long days, filled with restless waves and heavy thoughts. She kept wondering whether Cortnay Penrose would receive her at all. She had called him and asked for a meeting, without revealing the purpose of her visit — without telling him she had no home, no money. They hadn’t seen each other in years — the last time when she was fifteen — and he had been one of the few adults who didn’t mock her build, her height, or her manners.

Storm’s End greeted her like another world. The wind was sharp, harsher than the sea breeze of Tarth. The streets were paved with old stone, and the walls looked as if they could withstand not just storms, but dragons.

She stood stunned at the harbor, clutching her modest belongings in a single small bag. People passed her by indifferently—some glanced at her with thinly veiled contempt. She knew she stood out from afar. She was tall, too broad in the shoulders. Always too much.

And then she heard a voice.

"Brienne Tarth? Seven hells, I wouldn’t have recognized you."

Cortnay Penrose looked exactly as she remembered him: a little shorter than he used to seem, with a beard that hadn’t yet gone gray, and eyes full of quiet concern.

"Your mother... would be proud of you. Come, let’s get you somewhere warmer."

Cortnay Penrose was the kind of man whose presence was never loud — but steady, like a wall one could lean on when everything else gave way. When Brienne was a little girl and lost her mother, it was he — not Selwyn — who whispered to her about the woman who loved horses and had the most beautiful voice, before all the songs in Evenfall Manor fell silent. Penrose told her about her mother’s mischievous smile that never quite fit the noble portraits, and the strength she carried in her eyes — the same strength that had begun to glow in Brienne’s own gaze. Selwyn, drowned in grief, had distanced himself from his daughter, as if every trait she shared with her mother only reminded him of the loss. It was then that Penrose—informally, without being asked — stepped into a role her own father couldn’t bear to fill.

Years later, he had come to Tarth with the young Renly Baratheon, whom he treated like a son. And it was with Renly that Brienne first felt what it meant to be a woman — he joked with her, not about her. He was charming and kind. Brienne fell hopelessly in love with him, as only someone can who doesn’t believe they’ll ever be loved in return. After a falling-out with Selwyn, Penrose had returned to Storm’s End for good.

He took her to the outskirts of Storm’s End, to one of the old Baratheon residences, which he now managed in the absence of all three brothers:  Robert, Stannis, and Renly. Though he had no wife or children of his own, in Brienne’s eyes, he was something like family.

He didn’t ask about Tarth. He didn’t ask about her father. In his silence, there was kindness.

 "I’ve arranged a room for you in the attic. It’s not large, but the balcony has a beautiful view of the sea. I’ll show you the stables in the morning," he added, handing her the key.

Brienne paused in the doorway.

"Can I really work there?"

 "Do you think I’ve forgotten? At thirteen, you could handle a halter better than all the stablehands combined. We need someone who understands horses — and you always had a good way with them."

She rose every day at five. She cleaned the stalls, watered the horses, brushed them, checked their coats, hooves, eyes, responded to the first signs of distress or illness. She assisted with foalings, managed breeding records — in the meantime, she was accepted into university, and Penrose gave her access to the record system. She updated data, organized bloodlines, managed vaccination schedules. She studied breeding markets — and thanks to her studies, she began to take interest in the financial side of the stables. She took notes on prices, lineage, demand and supply.

~*~

Brienne knew numbers. She understood systems. She loved order and logic. But she didn’t understand people.

The girls at the university wore coats with designer labels, knew the taste of Arbor-imported wines, and didn’t get why anyone would study finance unless they’d inherited at least three townhouses from their parents.

Only Margaery Tyrell liked her from the start.

Margaery was everywhere — in the student council, the choir, the theatre club. And yet she found the time to show Brienne around campus.

Brienne remembered exactly the first time she saw him. It was her third week at the Royal Academy of Storm’s End. She still got lost in the hallways of the Finance Department, and despite the heat, wore an oversized navy sweater that made her feel safer. That day, she went to choir practice only because her roommate — Margaery — had begged her to tag along. Brienne didn’t sing, not really — more like hummed quietly — but she liked listening to others. Singing reminded her of her mother.

After rehearsal, a boy with laughing eyes and hair the color of faded chocolate walked up to them. He had a black sketchbook in one hand and a paint stain on his jacket.

“Need a ride?” he asked, looking more at Margaery, but it was Brienne who felt something stir inside her.

She didn’t answer, just nodded.

“Hyle Hunt,” he introduced himself. “Third year, architecture. And you two?”

“Margaery and Brienne,” her friend replied. “First year. Finance.”

Brienne sat in the back of his car.

Hyle had tousled brown hair, the kind of stubble that made him look like he’d just woken up and couldn’t be bothered with a razor, and eyes — warm, amber, with a spark that never seemed to go out.

He talked a lot. Laughed often. And his laugh — it was deep, full, like life was an inside joke only he understood.

She watched his profile in the rearview mirror. He wasn’t handsome. A crooked nose, a scar by his ear, a cleft chin. And yet… something about him pulled her in.

It started with those Wednesdays — rides in his old, dusty car. Sometimes they stopped in the strangest places: by a rusted gas station, next to a crumbling shopping pavilion, once even in front of an old power plant.

“Why did we just sit in front of that stupid power station for ten minutes? It’s not even a historic building.”

Hyle glanced at her over his shoulder, mock-offended.

“Don’t say that. That’s not a stupid power station. Look at it. The rhythm of the lines, the proportions. See that curve in the roof? That’s brutalism flirting with futurism.”

Brienne raised an eyebrow, amused.

“It’s more than it seems. That concrete arch? It’s not trying to be pretty. It’s like a guy who didn’t come to the party to be liked. He stands in the corner, but everyone still ends up looking at him.”

“Did you just compare a power plant to a charismatic introvert?”

Hyle gave her a pleased look.

“See? You’re starting to get it.”

After that, they often drove without a destination. He showed her buildings no one else noticed. Abandoned warehouses. Bus depots. Kindergartens. Car washes.

“All of this tells a story,” he’d say.

Brienne started seeing differently. Seeing more.

Hyle taught her a new way of looking at the world.

As exams approached, they spent more and more time together. It started innocently — Morning coffees in paper cups, which Brienne brought him when he’d fall asleep on his drafting boards.

His hand on her neck when he greeted her. Evenings spent watching reruns of Grand Designs instead of going out, commenting on terrible tile choices in kitchens.

“I’ll never let you have grey cabinets,” Hyle once said solemnly, as if it were bigger than a marriage vow.

One chilly evening, they stopped at an empty parking lot overlooking the city. Brienne was holding a thermos of ginger tea. Hyle was telling her about a house he’d design one day. For them.

“We’ll live there?” she asked, half-joking.

Hyle looked at her seriously — more serious than she’d ever seen him.

“I won’t build it without you.”

Brienne turned her eyes away. She didn’t know what to say. But her heart was pounding so hard, she was sure he heard it.

~*~

Her first time happened on the kitchen floor of her rented apartment. They hadn’t planned it. There were no romantic gestures, no tender confessions, no soft music in the background.

They had been teasing each other, tossing pieces of breakfast back and forth, when Hyle pulled her down by the wrist. They fell together onto the hard, cold tiles, and he started kissing her like his life depended on it.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t search her eyes. He unbuttoned her jeans with an impatient tug. He wasn’t especially gentle — he grabbed her like she might bolt at any moment. Held her by the hips, his fingers digging into her skin, as if he wanted to anchor her — keep her in place, stop her from slipping away.

It was fast. Rough. Raw. A few hard thrusts that shook her body. There was no time for whispers, for soft touches, for asking if everything was okay. He left red marks on her pale skin — the imprint of his hands. When it was over, he looked at her for a long moment, as if calculating something behind his eyes.

Two days later, looking for his charger in his bag, she found an envelope. Thick. Stuffed with cash. Far too thick for a guy who, not long ago, had borrowed bus fare from her.

She closed the bag.

She didn’t ask.

Hyle stayed one night, then a week — and eventually, he brought his things and never left.

After graduation, Brienne began working as a real estate agent. She didn’t sell the kind of apartments you’d find on billboards or in glossy catalogs. Her mission was different. She helped people find a true home — one with soul. She had a gift — clients trusted her, and she believed in what she sold.

Hyle, on the other hand, got into a small architecture studio. He didn’t design palaces or skyscrapers, but his work was bold, innovative. He landed a project for two small houses, then eventually a villa for a controversial politician. Things were looking up.

After two years, they decided on a joint mortgage. Hyle kept dreaming of designing their own home — a project with his name on it. On Saturdays, they cooked together. On Sundays, they slept in. On Mondays, Brienne went house-hunting with clients while Hyle drew.

And then came the recession.

The real estate market froze. Brienne didn’t sell a single home for six months. Construction halted, investors pulled out, and Hyle lost his job. They started missing payments. Dreams were expensive — and now they had no way to pay for them.

They spent Sunday evening together on the roof of their building. Brienne and Hyle sat on a blanket, a bottle of cheap wine and a pizza box beside them. The city below flickered like ash. Hyle held his drawn-out blueprint — a beautiful house with a white patio and large windows.

A distant siren wailed across the city. A neighbor slammed a window shut.

“We got the final notice today,” Brienne said quietly. “If we don’t pay rent by the end of the month, we’re out.”

“I know.”

“And we’ve got nothing to pay it with.”

Hyle leaned his head back, staring at the sky. The stars barely showed through.

“Brienne… have you heard of Sunspear?”

“The gambling city?”

“The city of chances. The one that never sleeps.”

“We’re not gamblers.”

“Maybe it’s time to try. One trip. One night. One win.”

She looked at him in disbelief.

“You really think you can just sit down at a table and win thousands?”

“Not just like that,” he said. “But if we play it right… maybe.”

Brienne snorted under her breath.

“And if we don’t?”

“Then at least we tried. Because if we stay here, we’ll be thrown out with the cardboard boxes and my sketches.”

He took her hand, squeezing her fingers in his.

“I borrowed some money from an old friend. We’ll go to Dorne and win just as much as we need. One try. One night.”

She was silent for a while. Then she looked down at the sleeping city — a city that had long stopped offering hope.

“One night,” she repeated slowly. “But if we lose…”

“Then I’ll drag you back up to this damn roof and draw a new plan.”

She smiled without humor.

“You’re an idiot, Hyle.”

“I know. But maybe this time, it’ll pay off.”

It was their last chance.

Chapter Text

Jaime Lannister was raised in a house where tenderness was considered a frivolity - something not permitted. His father, Tywin Lannister, was a stern, demanding, and ruthless man. In this family, emotional austerity wasn’t a parenting strategy - it was a philosophy of life. Care? Unnecessary. Individualism? Dangerous. Power, to Tywin, was a divine mandate. What mattered most was legacy, control, and loyalty: to the name and to the business. Tywin rarely showed emotion. Any “kind word” had to be earned with school reports, teacher evaluations, and medals from academic competitions. Even then, praise sounded more like the approval of a quarterly balance sheet than a father’s pride. There was no room for weakness, mediocrity, and certainly not for failure. His love was conditional, and respect had to be earned. He was the kind of man who never smiled in family photographs. Who didn’t give gifts—only opportunities. He didn’t say, “I’m proud of you.” He said, “I expected no less.” When someone failed, he didn’t raise his voice - he deducted their value.

To Tywin, Lannister Corp - an international powerhouse of a Corporation - was his only true child.

He was a legend in boardrooms and negotiation chambers alike, a man whose presence could silence an entire floor. He built Lannister Corp from the ruins of his own father’s reputation - a man too soft, too sentimental, too extravagant - and turned it into a corporate empire with no room for compromise. Or sentiment. Tywin hated weakness because he had grown up in its shadow. He had watched his family become the subject of mockery. And in that moment, he made a vow: never again.

When he took over Lannister Corp, he did it like a surgeon without anesthesia. He cut out everything unnecessary. Liquidated underperforming divisions. Laid off hundreds. Sold off properties that had “sentimental value.” There was no trace of romanticism in him.

In the Westerlands business district, there were two other old aristocratic families: the Reynes and the Tarbecks. Both held significant influence in sectors Tywin considered outdated. Their companies were headed by Roger Reyne and Ellyn Tarbeck, children of the golden age of the western coast. They made one cardinal mistake: they underestimated Tywin.

At first, it looked like an ordinary business dispute. The Tarbecks withheld funds from a joint venture and never paid them back. The Reynes spread rumors that Lannister Corp was “losing control” and that “Tywin was a lion with no claws.” Letters were sent. Meetings were held. But Tywin already had a plan. He began quietly acquiring their debt - discreetly, with white gloves, through proxy funds and shell companies. He followed the old rule: whoever holds the debt holds the throat. Within months, he had secured the mortgages on their estates, stakes in their companies, and even won over much of their inner circle.

He struck the Tarbecks first. During a video conference, Ellyn Tarbeck demanded a “fair restructuring.” Tywin paused for five seconds and then simply said: “Mrs. Tarbeck, we do not negotiate with the dead.”

Days later, their accounts were frozen. Offices seized. Residences secured by bank-appointed guards. Ellyn - a woman with too much ambition and a manic thirst for dominance - couldn’t bear the humiliation. She jumped from the rooftop of her tower in Lannisport.

Then came the Reynes.

Roger Reyne was different - charismatic, articulate, with a toothpaste-ad smile. He thought he could joke his way out, that Tywin would eventually “let it go.” But Tywin didn’t know the meaning of let go. Roger returned to his Castamere Hills estate one evening, opened a bottle of 25-year-old Dornish Red, looked at the balance sheet... and realized there was no air left to breathe. The next morning, he was found floating in his pool, dressed in his finest suit.

Their names were struck from stock exchange registries. Their homes sold off in quiet auctions. Their logos - once the pride of the western coast - vanished from billboards.

Only the old newspaper columns recorded the process under a dry, clinical headline:

“As a result of consolidation processes, Lannister Corp acquired key assets of its former competitors.”

Behind closed doors, people put it another way:

“Tywin brought the rain to Castamere.”

Tywin Lannister hadn’t always been cold as marble. At least, that’s what Aunt Genna used to say when she spoke to Jaime about their youth. As the eldest sibling, Tywin had understood early on that someone had to take responsibility for the family’s future. Their father, Tytos, was weak, gentle, naïve - more of a dreamer than a leader. Tywin couldn’t afford to be weak. He clenched his teeth and took the reins.

He was the one who saved the family from bankruptcy and disgrace. He was the one who made sure Genna’s disastrous, humiliating marriage to Emmon Frey ended without public scandal. What exactly he did remains a mystery, but one thing was certain: Emmon never dared defy him again. Without a word, he handed Genna all the money and walked away, head bowed. Tywin didn’t forgive - especially not when someone tried to hurt his sister.

He looked after each of his siblings. He placed them in high-ranking positions on the board of Lannister Corp, handed out shares, opened doors most could only dream of. But loyalty was the price. Only Gerion, the youngest, had the courage to rebel. He rejected the gilded cage his brother had built for him and left for Essos, where he lived by his own rules - free, though without a fortune.

Tywin made Kevan his right hand. His brother was loyal, dependable, steady. He had no vision, but he had discipline. And that was exactly what Tywin needed: an executor, not a partner. Tygett rose through the military ranks faster than even he expected. He never realized that his brilliant career was not solely the result of talent, but also of quiet intervention. Tywin had been pulling the strings behind the scenes, with his characteristic precision. He helped without asking permission - and never took credit for it. He liked debts to grow in silence, because over time, they became chains stronger than any vow.

For a brief moment, after marrying Joanna, Tywin was truly happy. Love didn’t come easily to him - it was like a foreign language he had to force himself to learn - but he loved Joanna with all his heart. She was his light. And when it went out, something inside him broke for good.

~*~

Cersei Lannister came into the world alongside her brother, but from the very beginning, she knew that although they were born at the same moment, the world had no intention of treating them equally. From childhood, she was sharp, ruthless, and starved for recognition. She was taught that she had no right to be average. She was beautiful – certainly - but in the Lannister family, beauty was just a currency. What truly mattered was strength, power, intelligence and she absorbed those lessons like poison served with honey. Cersei spoke sweetly, but her words cut like razors. She believed she was the only competent person in the family, though her ego often clouded her judgment. In the offices of Lannister Corp, she could detect weakness faster than an analyst spotting a dip on a graph - and she’d exploit it instantly. She knew the patriarchy would try to push her aside, so she played dirty and without sentiment. She was a master of manipulation and self-promotion. Deep down, she believed the empire should be hers. Not Jaime’s - he never wanted it. Not Tyrion’s - whom their father saw as the family's shame. Cersei was the most suited for it. She built her own base of power within the marketing department, took control of the investment holding, extinguished - or more often, started - media fires, then appeared before the cameras with a flawless smile and convinced the world that everything was under control.

Her relationship with her father swung between being the favorite and the scapegoat. Her mother Joanna was her only anchor. And then she vanished. Died from complications while giving birth to Tyrion.

Cersei never forgave her. Not her mother. Not the child. Especially not the child.

From the moment he was born, Tyrion became her target. He was only a few years old when Cersei - already an adolescent girl with a cold gaze and a volatile ego - began locking him in the Lannister estate’s dog cage in the basement. No light. No blanket. When he cried, she smiled. When he screamed, she told him no one would hear, because no one wanted him. By the time Jaime found out, the damage had been done. The nights Tyrion spent in that cage left scars he would never truly heal. For years, he wet the bed.

Tyrion never stood a chance.

He was born on the day his mother died - and that was his first sin. The second? He was short, ugly, and far too clever. Throughout his childhood, he was treated like a system error - an oversight in the golden, gleaming machinery of the Lannister family. Tywin Lannister saw him not as a son, but as a humiliation.

Tyrion learned quickly that words could wound just as effectively as fists. He mastered sarcasm, wielded irony like a blade, and could verbally disarm an opponent before they even realized they’d been attacked. He was dazzlingly intelligent. One sentence from him could cut to the bone, shame someone into silence, dismantle rivals at the conference table, or make a man feel like a fool - even when moments earlier that man thought he was in control. He didn’t destroy people through violence, but with ruthless logic. He exposed the flaws in their arguments with a smile that looked like a knife. The bigger the ego, the more he longed to crush it. He always found the soft spot. Always knew where it hurt the most.

Despite the contempt he faced from his family, Tyrion knew his worth. He graduated from elite schools with top marks, gained experience in firms from the North and the Vale, and eventually returned to Lannister Corp - not for his father’s love, but for power.

Everyone had a role to play. Jaime - the golden son. Cersei - the queen without a crown. Tyrion? He was meant to be the jester. Not the kind in motley, dancing and cracking bawdy jokes for the amusement of the powerful. More the cynical commentator of a spectacle he was never allowed to direct. In a family of masks and polished smiles, he was the one who said the things everyone else tried to bury. When someone tried to sweep a scandal under the rug, Tyrion would bring it up in two sentences - gracefully, but mercilessly. When Tywin boasted of the family’s triumphs, Tyrion would ask how many people had to be destroyed along the way. Casually. Almost playfully. But always with enough precision to leave the room in silence.

He hated his family as much as he craved their approval. More than anything, though, he longed for love, but he knew no one would give it freely. So when he finally fell in love - truly, deeply, irrevocably - he held onto it like a treasure too fragile for the world to see. He rarely said her name out loud. Tysha. It sounded like a secret whispered at night. Something too delicate to survive in the world he lived in. He didn’t speak of her often - not out of shame. Quite the opposite. But the love he felt for her was so pure, he was afraid even remembering it might break it. It stayed with him like warmth lingering on skin long after a touch. Like a scent that still hangs in the air after the door closes. When she laughed, the world seemed simpler.In her eyes, he didn’t see his name, his scars, his "otherness." In her eyes, he was only himself. A man - not a monster. With her, he wasn’t ashamed. Not of his body, not of his tenderness, not of the fears he’d carried since childhood. She taught him that gentleness could be a form of strength. When they married - in secret, quietly, with trembling hands and eyes full of hope - he dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, he deserved happiness. It didn’t last. When his father found out, everything they had built collapsed in an instant.

Sometimes, he still whispered her name when he was alone. As if testing whether he could say it without breaking. Tysha. It sounded like something lost forever, and yet still his. Like the echo of something that once felt like home.

~*~

Jaime had always been seen as the natural heir to his father — the golden son, destined to inherit the empire. The only problem was... Jaime never wanted it.

Jaime had a dream. He didn’t want to sit in a leather chair on the fiftieth floor, staring at metrics and analyzing charts. He wanted to run across the court. He wanted to be like Arthur Dayne — the legend of white sport, world tennis No. 1. Jaime knew every big name in the rankings by heart: Barristan Selmy, Gerold Hightower, Lewyn Martell, Oswell Whent, Jonothor Darry. He dreamed that one day, his name would stand among theirs.

Tywin never understood this passion. But as long as Jaime kept winning and stayed at the top of the junior rankings, his father agreed to fund the coaches, equipment, and travel - under one condition: Jaime also had to study finance and management, so that he could “come back to reality” the moment “hitting a stupid little ball back and forth” stopped being fun.

But Jaime was different. Exceptional. His talent exploded. He won every tournament in the Westerlands junior league. At the Junior Masters Tournament, he defeated Miles S. Knight, known as “The Smiling Knight.” Arthur Dayne himself was in the audience. He was the first to offer Jaime a handshake — intrigued by the boy whose serve was already feared across the courts. Fast. Clean. They called it “The Lion’s Roar.” His backhand? Subtle. Economical. Deadly. “Like a sword driven into an opponent’s back,” as the sports press wrote. And his mind—cold, merciless, armed with biting wit that rattled his rivals:

“Nice serve. Did your grandma teach you that?”

“Are you playing defense or just afraid of the ball?”

“That your game plan? Wait for me to die laughing?”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Losing in under an hour is also an art.”

“Racket of the Morning” — as they called Dayne, because when he served, it felt like the sun rose faster — took Jaime under his wing. He brought him into the world of pro tennis. Introduced him to players Jaime had only seen on rankings. The “Big Six” of the court. Success came quickly. Jaime broke into the world’s top 7 after a dramatic victory at the Harrenhal Open, the biggest tournament of the summer season.

They called it The Year of the Lion. A year when the impossible seemed effortless in Jaime Lannister’s hands.

Dornish sun. Clay underfoot. The second tournament of the season. Jaime stepped onto the court like a predator — not there to play, but to finish. In the final against Lewyn Martell, after a third victorious set ending with The Lion’s Roar — a serve clocked at over 250 km/h — Jaime claimed his second Grand Slam title. When the crowd erupted after the final ball, Jaime looked up and muttered:

“Two.”

The Reach Clay Court — domain of legend Gerold Hightower. Even Hightower, master of flawless defense, couldn’t stop Lannister. Jaime played a perfect match. After the win, he kissed his racket and spoke into the mic:

“Three. And my father said it was just a dumb ball game.”

The capital went wild. King’s Landing Open. Final match against Barristan Selmy — a man known for nerves of steel and silent strength. The match lasted nearly six hours. A clash of titans. Jaime delivered ace after ace. At 6:5 in the fifth set, he sent a second serve — deliberately slower, to make Selmy return it. And Selmy did. Jaime sprinted, launched a backhand in full motion — line shot. Point. Championship. Four slams. One season. World No. 1.

Victory at King’s Landing Open marked a turning point in the history of the sport. Because while Jaime Lannister lifted the trophy with a golden lion atop the podium, the absence of one man loomed like a shadow over the court.

Arthur Dayne. Racket of the Morning. Legend. Mentor. Idol. He hadn’t played a single tournament that season. A serious injury during spring sparring had sidelined him indefinitely. Some commentators even said it out loud:

“It’s not a real dethroning if the king didn’t defend his crown.”

When the final score was announced, cameras caught Jaime glancing toward the upper stands. Arthur’s seat was empty. That evening, Jaime didn’t celebrate. He skipped the banquet. According to reports, he went alone to the sports hospital where his mentor was recovering. A nurse said the visit lasted no more than five minutes. Jaime walked in, removed his cap, approached the bed, and said quietly:

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Arthur, witnesses say, just smiled faintly and replied:

“I knew you’d beat me one day. I just didn’t expect to be so damn proud of it.”

All good things must come to an end. For Jaime Lannister, that end didn’t arrive on a grand court, under the blinding lights and the eyes of millions. It came quietly, during a minor tournament in Pentos. It was supposed to be routine. A warm-up before a bigger event. Just a formality. But across the net stood Vargo Hoat - a player infamous for his ruthless style, skirting the line between aggression and outright foul play. Dirty. Vicious. Effective. When he started losing, he bit back.

It was the end of the fourth set. Jaime was leading 2–1 but was clearly fading. The temperature on court had climbed past 35°C. The air was thick as soup, and sweat poured down his face like he was playing in a sauna rather than on clay. Hoat served. The ball cleared the net. Two bounces and then came the drop shot. Cheap. Petty. Placed just behind the net with almost mocking intent.

Jaime didn’t hesitate. He sprinted forward, muscles burning, breath ragged. He saw the ball - almost there - one more step, just one more… and then it happened.

A slip. A bead of sweat. A chalk line. A misstep. No one could say for sure.

Jaime fell forward with full force. No time to brace. He crashed onto the court - right shoulder, elbow, wrist. The crowd froze. The ball rolled to a stop. Jaime didn’t get up. The umpire called a medical timeout. Trainers rushed the court. Jaime sat hunched, clutching his arm to his chest, face pale as chalk. He didn’t scream. Didn’t swear. Just stared at the clay.

The diagnosis came later: a spiral fracture of the radius and a joint crack in the elbow. For days, the media stayed silent. No one wanted to say it out loud. But the truth was simple: This could be the end. Not just of the season. Not just of another Slam dream.

The end of his career.

~*~

After that, Jaime vanished. His penthouse near Lion’s Gate lay in perpetual twilight, even when the sun blazed outside. Since returning from the hospital, he hadn’t once drawn the curtains. Light irritated him. Daytime no longer mattered. The TV played on mute - just for company. Takeout boxes piled on the table, half-drunk sports drinks lined the counter. Tennis balls were scattered across the floor, as if time itself had abandoned them mid-bounce. His rackets, propped against the wall and coated in dust, looked more like relics than tools of victory.

On the wall hung a photo - crooked, glass shattered - of Jaime holding a trophy aloft, that grin on his face now belonging to someone else. He barely recognized the man in that image. Couldn’t look at him. So he’d taken one of his rackets - his left hand - and smashed it.

Now he sat on the couch, wearing the same sweatpants for the third straight day, when the phone rang. He glanced at the screen. He knew the number. Never saved it, but he always knew. Tywin Lannister. He wanted to ignore it. He truly did. But his thumb moved on Instinct - like a soldier saluting a general he despised.

“Well, well. You actually picked up. Miracles do happen.”

“Hello, Father. Always a pleasure.”

“I don’t care if you’re depressed, broken, or sleepless. Your little tennis hobby is over. Time to return to reality.” Tywin’s voice hit like a corporate ultimatum - cold arithmetic with no hint of empathy.

“You think tennis was a hobby?” Jaime knew his father had never respected the sport, but part of him still clung to the foolish hope that his success had meant something.

“It was an escape. One I allowed far too long. I bought you time, space, a career and gave you a name. Now it’s time to do something meaningful with it. At my company.” It was a slap in the face.

“I’m not coming back to Lannister Corp.”

“That wasn’t a question. HR will send the paperwork next week. Your office is ready.”

“This isn’t my life.”

“No, Jaime. It’s your duty. And it’s high time you stopped wallowing in self-pity and became something more than just a pretty face on a sponsorship poster.”

Silence. The air in the apartment felt heavier. The clock ticked. The TV flickered quietly.

“Don’t expect a visit from anyone in the family. Genna, Kevan, even Cersei - they all have their own lives. No one’s going to come babysit your misery just because you’ve holed yourself up like a soap opera prince.”

“You’re not even trying to pretend you care.”

“I care about your future. Not your tantrums. If the Lannister name is to mean anything again, you’ll come back. The company needs you. And whether you admit it or not - you need us. The door only swings one way. Either you come back to the family... or you stay alone.”

Jaime should’ve ended the call. But before he could even form a reply, the line went dead. Tywin Lannister always hung up first.

The phone rang again one evening, cutting through the silence like a blade. The screen lit up with a familiar name: Arthur Dayne. Jaime stared at it for a moment, as if in disbelief. As if that name, like his own, belonged to another life.

He picked up.

“Jaime.” Arthur’s voice was low, calm — just as he remembered.

For a beat, Jaime said nothing. Then:

“You don’t need to pity me.”

“I’m not calling out of pity,” Arthur replied, pausing as though choosing his words carefully.

“I’m calling because I’ve been where you are. Maybe deeper. Remember my shoulder? I thought that was it. I sat in my apartment with a bottle of whisky, asking myself whether, if I hadn’t hit that shot… maybe things would’ve turned out differently.”

He fell silent. Jaime listened.

“This isn’t the end of your life, Jaime. Just the end of a chapter. Or maybe not even that — maybe just… a pause.”

“A pause?” Jaime let out a bitter, dry laugh. “Feels like the longest pause of my career. You trying to drag me back onto the court?”

“No. But I want to drag you out of this hole. Rhaegar wants to meet you.”

A few days later, Jaime found himself in Rhaegar’s penthouse — a space filled with vinyl records, paintings of skies, black-and-white photos of empty courts. Minimalist, but full of soul. White walls, dark wood, soft jazz murmuring from unseen speakers. And a view of the city that seemed to kneel at the feet of its crown prince.

Jaime stood stiffly, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, afraid he might smudge something. He didn’t belong here — not with the week-old stubble, the weariness under his eyes, the battered sneakers. Rhaegar sat at a table, linen shirt unbuttoned at the cuffs, as if he'd just returned from an orchestra rehearsal. He wasn't the man Jaime expected. Not a shark in a suit. Not some overachieving corporate heir. He was quiet. Attentive. Sad. And he looked at Jaime not for who he had been — but for who he still might become.

“Sit, Jaime.” Rhaegar’s voice was soft, but left no room for refusal.

Jaime didn’t sit right away. He looked out the window.

“Nice view.”

Rhaegar tilted his head slightly, never taking his eyes off Jaime. With each passing second, the young lion felt more exposed. Finally, he sat opposite the son of Aerys.

“I heard you've stopped believing in yourself.”

“What if there’s nothing left in me worth believing in?”

Rhaegar leaned forward.

“That’s just your father’s voice echoing in your head.”

Jaime clenched his jaw hard. Rhaegar reached out and placed a hand on his. Jaime flinched, like he’d been shocked. Steam curled from the teacups on the table. Rhaegar poured him a cup.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” he said, glancing at Jaime’s injured arm. Jaime shrugged, as if it meant nothing.

“Your father…” Rhaegar began.

“Don’t.”

“…called me three days ago.”

Jaime, in the middle of lifting the cup, froze. His good hand trembled, spilling tea across the table.

“What?”

“He wanted to make sure I wouldn’t hire you.” Rhaegar took a slow sip. “You know there’s no love lost between him and my father. Actually, that’s putting it mildly. I still don’t know what exactly happened back then, but they can’t stand to breathe the same air.”

Jaime let out an empty laugh.

“So, what did you tell him?”

“I told him I wouldn’t hire Tywin Lannister’s son.”

“Thanks.”

“But Arthur Dayne’s protégé? The one he taught to wield a racket like a sword? Him, I’d gladly hire. Him, I want on my team.”

Rhaegar stood, walked over to the glass wall where a piano sat, opened a score, and began to play: “Dance of the Knights” by Sergei Prokofiev. Outside, Blackwater Bay shimmered in the evening light.

That night, they spoke for hours. About politics. About sport. About the future. About how corporations shouldn’t just extract — they should create. Rhaegar spoke like an architect of something bigger. And Jaime listened with growing awe — because, for the first time in a long time, someone wasn’t asking him to “return to his father’s firm.” They were asking him to build his own.

The next day, Jon Connington officially introduced Jaime to Targaryen Enterprises. He remembers that moment as if it were yesterday — the dazzling headquarters of glass and black marble, lights bouncing off the polished floors like spotlights in a theater. He felt like an actor playing a role he had written for himself. Working with Rhaegar went surprisingly well. They understood each other — both young, ambitious, but in different ways: Jaime was aggressive, bold; Rhaegar, calm, reflective, idealistic.

Soon, they became a duo the media dubbed: “The Prince and the Lion.”

But the king was still alive.

Aerys Targaryen.

Father. Owner. Legend. Monster.

Aerys could be charming. He had a spark in his eye that was impossible to ignore. When he spoke, the entire room fell silent. He understood people. He understood power. He understood manipulation. When he gave a compliment, Jaime felt like a gold medalist, the discovery of the year, half-man, half-god.

At first, he showed no interest in his son. He called him a “little poet.” He mocked his projects in sustainable development, education, innovation. Said they were a waste of time. But when the profits started to rise, when the press began writing about “the new Targaryen,” he started showing up at meetings. With a bottle of whiskey. With a cold smile. And with questions.

The King’s son was everything his father wasn’t: romantic, measured, principled. He spoke of the job market as a moral responsibility. He dreamed of turning the company into more than just a money-making machine — he wanted it to change the city. For the first time in a long time, Jaime felt like he was playing the game again — but this time, for something good. Rhaegar didn’t back down. He proposed transparency in investments. A restructured shareholder model. A limit to informal influence. In one word: revolution.

Aerys said nothing. But everyone could feel something burning between father and son. Whispers spread through the corridors: that Rhaegar had discovered something, that he was preparing to challenge his father, to push him out.

Then — Rhaegar vanished. Gone from the company overnight, like someone had yanked him off the board. The press exploded with rumors: an affair with Lyanna Stark, a brilliant young lawyer and activist. Paparazzi followed them everywhere. Then — the car crash in the tunnel near Dragon’s Square. Everything ended.

The driver died shortly after being taken to the hospital. Rhaegar, Lyanna, and Arthur Dayne — Rhaegar’s best friend — died on the spot. The city froze. People wept. Murals of Arthur Dayne appeared on building walls.

And inside Targaryen Tower… something began to rot. And that’s when Aerys turned to Jaime.

Tywin was ice. Cold, unyielding, methodical. His anger was like a frozen lake — quiet, but deadly when it cracked beneath you. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. One look from him was enough to make Jaime feel like nothing.

Aerys was fire. Bright, fascinating, hypnotic. He warmed. He illuminated. And then, suddenly, he burned. Both were relentless. Both demanded perfection. But Aerys gave Jaime something Tywin never had: The illusion of being appreciated. Even if only for a moment. Even if it wasn’t real.

Over time, Aerys began to change. Or maybe Jaime just started seeing more clearly.

There were days when the entire team walked on eggshells. When late emails sparked shouting matches. When criticism became public humiliation. Aerys despised defiance. He craved loyalty — blind loyalty. Meetings turned into interrogations. He would dig up private chat messages and quote them word for word during video calls. He questioned people’s relationships, hinted at betrayals, insinuated sabotage. Employees began to disappear — overnight.

Jaime stayed. Not because he believed in Aerys — but because he felt guilty. Maybe if he’d stopped them that day, Rhaegar, Lyanna, and Arthur would still be alive.

Aerys, increasingly isolated, made Jaime his right hand. “My golden knight,” he sometimes said, with a bitter smile. And Jaime watched as the empire cracked, and the king lost his mind.

He ordered Jaime to pick him up at 5:40 AM — “to establish rhythm.” He made him read reports aloud, pointing out every mistake with theatrical disappointment. He shut himself in the office with him, sat too close, pressed a hand to his shoulder, adjusted his tie. “You wear it like a boy. Want to look like a man, Jaime?”

It was an ordinary day. As ordinary as anything could be on the 66th floor.

It started with a call from Aerys:

“My office. Now.”

The room was dim. Aerys sat in a leather chair with a glass in hand, wearing a suit that cost more than a year’s tuition at the best university in the city. His shirt collar was undone. A monitor displayed surveillance footage. It showed one of the interns: Jeyne, 23. He zoomed in, paused on a frame where he touched her.

“She’s making noise. Threatening with a lawyer. I want you to talk to her, Jaime.”

“What?”

“We’ll pay her off. But first we scare her a little. You’ve got charm, Lannister. You know how to use your voice. She’ll trust you. Make her back down.”

Something rose in Jaime’s throat. Heavy. Bitter. Not disgust — that came later. First came shame. That he was even standing there. That he hadn’t said “no” immediately.

“This isn’t… This can’t happen, Aerys. She’s right. This can’t happen again.”

Aerys looked at him without blinking — the same cold stillness with which he once discussed energy markets and hostile takeovers.

“You’re not here to judge me. You’re here to protect me. That’s how great companies work. That’s how the world works.”

Jaime looked at the monitor. At the girl who, just yesterday, had brought him coffee and smiled shyly. Then at his reflection in the glass desk. And he wasn’t sure anymore who he was — the man who once dreamed of following Rhaegar’s path… or just another tool in Aerys’s hand.

Each day, Aerys unraveled more. In a conference room, he threw a phone at the Head of IT when the server crashed during a pitch to investors. In HR, he screamed at a woman, saying she “never should’ve been hired — and especially not parading around the office in that dress." In the elevator, he collapsed to the floor, clutching his chest, mumbling about betrayal and spies. He was starting to resemble a man hunted by his own demons. Only now — the demons had the faces of those he had destroyed.

~*~

Cersei and Robert’s wedding was already in full swing. The low thrum of music and loud voices filtered through the stone walls of the old Lannister estate. An eclectic mix of imperial grandeur and the cold detachment of Westerosi high society. Ceilings absurdly high. Tapestries and coats of arms on the walls. Suits of armor meant to evoke tradition, and fireplaces as large as his sister’s ego. Every room smelled of old wood, floor wax, and money so ancient it no longer needed to be shown. Champagne flowed freely in the orangery; a string quartet played in the marble ballroom where an elegant dinner was underway, with a view overlooking the lake. For the Lannisters, it was a minefield.

The staff were as tense as Tywin Lannister would be in family therapy. Cersei, in a dress worth the annual budget of a small kingdom, strutted through her golden cage like a lioness — majestic, theatrical, acutely aware of every gaze she drew, and absolutely convinced that no one else was more deserving of attention.

Jaime climbed the stairs slowly. His hair was still damp from the rain, his jacket wrinkled, his eyes fixed somewhere between the wooden panels — unseeing. He stopped in front of his father's study door.

He hesitated — always did, before going in. With a breath, pushed the door open.

Tywin was sitting by the fireplace. Behind him, a massive mirror in a gilded frame reflected the flicker of the flames. In one hand, he held an empty glass; in the other, a precisely folded newspaper.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up. “To your sister’s wedding. That’s not just rude anymore. That’s pathological.”

Jaime didn’t sit. “I need to tell you something.”

Tywin began to pour himself a whisky. The liquid struck the bottom of the glass with a heavy, resonant plunk, then flowed gently, a soft, silk-like hush. Every drop seemed thick, almost velvety, slowly pooling into a golden puddle. The scent hit the air immediately — deep, warm, rich. There were notes of oak, vanilla, maybe caramel or baking spices. It was a peated whisky, so the faint smell of smoke lingered above it all — like a distant bonfire or damp earth after rain.

“I killed Aerys.”

The fire crackled. The clock ticked. Tywin’s only reaction was to stop pouring — just before the glass was full.

“Say that again.”

“I killed Aerys Targaryen.”

~*~

Dorne, Many years later

The sun hung high, merciless over the court, where fine dust danced in the air like memories of matches long past. Jaime Lannister sat in the place of honor in the stands, under the shade of an embroidered canopy, a glass of cool Dornish wine in hand. Next to him — Ellaria Sand, wearing a dress of silk light as breath, in the color of ripening pomegranates. The fabric clung to her hips and breasts like water to a bathing woman's skin, barely preserving the illusion of modesty. Long slits on either side revealed bare thighs with every step, and a neckline plunging to the sternum seemed designed to invite stares. Gold snake-shaped bracelets glinted on her bare arms, and fine ankle chains chimed softly — like her laughter. On the court, Oberyn Martell moved like a dancer — fast, fluid, unpredictable. Gerold Dayne, younger, stronger, tried to keep up, but lacked that same ease, that brazen grace — as if each of Oberyn’s movements was a challenge hurled at the sun itself. When the match ended, the stands erupted in applause. Oberyn smiled to the crowd, bowed slightly, and looked up — straight at Jaime.

Later, there was lunch in the shade of a lemon grove, where it was almost cool. The air above the fountain smelled of jasmine and the rich smoke of olive oil lamps, and lazy wasps floated between the fig leaves. In a corner of the garden, a pomegranate tree had already burst its fruits — deep red, swollen, as if impatient for a hand to pluck them. A table of pale wood stood beneath a vine-covered pergola. On it: a bowl of green and black olives, sheep’s cheese in oil, marinated octopus, herb bread, and a bitter tamarind sauce. The fruit — dates and slices of fig — lay on a silver platter, still warm from the sun. Beside them, a jug of cloudy white wine chilled slowly. The scents were decadent — though not more so than the two people seated across from Jaime.

Oberyn and Ellaria looked like a couple out of the most sensual arthouse film — loud, fragrant, tactile, full of glances that spoke louder than words. Their closeness was shameless, as if they'd forgotten they weren’t alone. Ellaria, now in a gown the color of ripe apricots, sheer as grape skin and so transparent that the sun painted lace-like shadows across her thighs, sat sideways with one leg draped over Oberyn’s knee, as if his thigh were an extension of her seat. He — half-smiling, holding an olive between his fingers — lifted it to her lips so slowly her lashes had time to fall and rise again. When she closed her mouth around his fingers, grazing them with her tongue, he sighed with mock patience, shaking his head theatrically, as if to say, “Oh, woman. Again?” Then he picked up a slice of fig, sticky with juice, and held it out to Jaime.

“Try this, Lannister,” he murmured. “Dorne ripens in more than just the sun. It needs patience, too. And a different kind of heat. The kind that doesn’t vanish with the first breeze.”

Ellaria laughed, resting her chin on Oberyn’s shoulder, then slid a date between his lips.

“You know what I love most?” she asked, her eyes flicking to Jaime — as if his presence added spice to the game. “Food that stains your fingers. That sticks. That lingers on the skin… like the memory of a good night.”

Oberyn, never taking his eyes off Jaime, licked his lips.

“And you, Jaime? What do you like? Hot, wild things from the South? Women with skin like honey and mouths full of wine? Or cold, pure things from the North? Virgins made of porcelain and milk?”

“I used to like simple things,” Jaime replied, running his finger along the rim of his glass. “Once.”

Ellaria arched a brow. “You’ve grown tired of beautiful women?”

“Not beautiful. And besides, beauty is subjective,” Jaime corrected. “Easy. Predictable. Women who always laugh at the right moment and have nothing to say once the lights go out. They love me for my name or the way I look in a photo, but they have no idea who I really am. And honestly, they don’t want to.”

Oberyn set down his glass, now listening closely.

“So what are you looking for?” he asked. “Love? Truth? Redemption?”

“I don’t know.” Jaime shrugged. “Maybe… adrenaline. A real challenge. Someone who’ll say no. Someone who doesn’t want to sleep with me just because I have golden hair and a well-cut suit.”

“You don’t have to spend the night alone, Jaime,” Oberyn said suddenly, with that familiar half-smile. “Dorne is hospitable. And we… even more so.”

Jaime looked at them — beautiful, free, alive.

Maybe for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the urge to run from his memories.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said, but his voice was softer than usual.

“Some bad ideas are worth the sin,” Ellaria murmured, leaning in so that a lock of her dark hair fell across her bare shoulder.

For a moment, Jaime truly considered it. He imagined the night — long and soft as silk sheets. The taste of wine, the scent of skin, two bodies with no expectations — just sharing what they have.

“Thank you, truly,” he said at last. “But not tonight.”

The Casino in Sunspear was his favorite place to unwind after another exhausting, multimillion transaction. He wasn’t there for entertainment - more for a strange kind of solace, watching from a distance as others drowned in the muck of their small dramas. He observed from above as the young, the poor, the foolish tried to beat the system, only to return to their miserable homes with pockets full of debt and eyes emptied of hope.

It was meant to be an uneventful evening. And that’s precisely why he remembered it.

He didn’t notice her on the gaming floor or at a blackjack table, but rather in one of those expensive, soulless boutiques saturated with citrus-scented perfume - places his sister loved to frequent. He hadn’t seen anyone look so out of place in a long time. The girl was tall, probably his height if not taller. She had the longest legs he’d ever seen - muscular, freckled - a broken nose, likely more than once, and the most beautiful eyes: large, blue, innocent. She was stuffing complimentary chocolates from a side table into her bag when she caught him looking. He winked at her, smiling lazily, effortlessly. She froze like a deer caught in headlights. There was something so pure in her gaze that Jaime suddenly felt like the worst kind of sinner just standing there. She smiled, bashfully, looked away, and promptly disappeared behind a rack of dresses.

That was the moment.

Instinct.

The hunt.

He entered the boutique silently, like a shadow, standing in the corner in his dark suit, hands in his pockets, watching her with quiet focus. She had pulled a beautiful blue dress from the rack - tight-fitting, the exact shade of her eyes. She held it against her body, looking into the mirror with a mix of hope and embarrassment.

That’s when he spoke.

“Why don’t you try it on?” he asked softly, his tone smooth but confident. “It will look beautiful on you.”

She froze. Turned to face him. Now he saw her fully. He took her in from head to toe. Her long legs in those short shorts, thighs taut like a sprinter’s. The loose white shirt, unbuttoned at the top, revealing clearly defined collarbones. She was modest, but intriguing. Unpretentious. Pure.

“I can’t afford it,” she said cautiously, already on the defensive. She hung the dress back on the rack.

“That’s a shame.” Jaime took a step closer. Slowly, like approaching a startled animal. “You should have it. It matches your eyes. Let me buy it for you.” He didn’t even know what had compelled him to say it. He just knew the dress looked like it had been made for her.

“You want to buy me a dress?” she asked, incredulous. She looked at him, then glanced behind herself, as if searching for a hidden camera.

“Yes. I do.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a pleasure to look at. And you deserve it.”

There was a spark of real anger in her eyes. And something else - disappointment.

“That’s not true,” she said with clear reproach. “The dress is for sale. I’m not.”

And she walked out. Head held high, lips pressed tight, in shoes that didn’t match the polished marble floor. She didn’t look back - not even once.

Jaime stood frozen for a moment, staring after her. Something had ignited in him. She wasn't just any woman. She was a challenge. Rare, noble, and unpredictable. Instead of frustration, he felt intrigued. As if someone had thrown down the gauntlet. And he had just accepted it.

Chapter Text

The plane was old, cramped, and shook with every gust of wind as if it might fall apart at any moment. The cheapest airline primarily meant no legroom — just a tight space that an average passenger could somehow tolerate, but for Brienne, with her above-average height, it was a real challenge. Her knees were almost under her chin, and the seatback in front of her seemed to literally press into her shins with every slightest movement of the passenger ahead. Any attempt to straighten her legs was doomed to fail, and every effort to change position ended in pain and discomfort.

The air conditioning in the cabin worked only in theory. The air was heavy, and sticky moisture settled on the skin, making clothes quickly cling to the body. Combined with the tightness and vibrations of the plane, after two hours Brienne began to feel a growing headache — throbbing and dull, caused by the sudden pressure changes during takeoff and turbulence. Every sudden drop and rise made the pain worse, and her head felt like it was about to burst under the skin. She tried to drown out the discomfort by focusing on something else, but with every passing moment, her patience wore thin and her fatigue grew. Hyle, sitting next to her, tried to ease the tension with a light joke.

“Maybe that’s the airline’s strategy,” he whispered, glancing at her from beneath half-closed eyelids, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. “The worse the flight, the better the landing feels. When you finally set foot on solid ground, everything seems like a luxury.”

Brienne looked at him with furrowed brows, barely hiding slight exhaustion and irritation. She wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

She thought things couldn’t get any worse — but she was quickly proven very wrong. The Sunspear greeted them with a blast of heat just after leaving the terminal. The air was dense, heated to the limit, carrying a mixture of dust, hot asphalt, and the scent of something sickly sweet. In the distance, casino and hotel towers flickered, and giant neon signs in daylight looked like props from a cheap movie, though at night they certainly took on a magical glow.

The city stretched out in a valley, bordered to the north by the Red Mountains — a harsh range of rocky peaks that formed an impassable wall separating it from the fertile lands of the Reach and the Stormlands. The Sunspear stood at the crossroads of two worlds: a merciless, dry desert and a vibrant metropolis where the heat of the day blended with the evening aroma of coffee, incense, and hushed rooftop conversations.

The city streets resembled a labyrinth winding between modern skyscrapers shaped like salt pillars made of red sand, and the ruins of ancient fortifications dating back to the times of constant battles and sieges in Dorne. The desert sun scorched the city for most of the year, with temperatures often exceeding 40 degrees Celsius. In the spaces between buildings, a dry, hot wind blew, carrying the scents of scorched earth, dried herbs, and the distant calls of cicadas. Dorne was famous for its unique, exotic products, rarely found beyond the region — and it was on the Sunspear’s bazaars that one could find the richest selection. Olives, juicy lemons, pomegranates, plums, intense spices, and blood-red oranges — all these gifts of the desert and mountains arrived here through a complex network of canals, which like a spiderweb distributed water to orchards and plantations, allowing survival in Dorne’s harsh, hot climate. The spicy dragon peppers, known across the continent, were a daily addition to meals here, and Dornish wines — strong, dark, and sweet, called “Dornish reds” — could be purchased in small, atmospheric wineries scattered throughout the city.

The eastern coast of Dorne was an important point on the trade routes. Numerous marketplaces and bazaars offered not only local goods but also products brought from distant ports of the Sea of Dorne and the Stepstones. Ships docking at Planky Town, the modern port at the mouth of the Greenblood River, unloaded cargoes that then spread along the river and city streets, while traders and merchants from across the region came there to stock up on exotic and luxury goods. During the day, the Sunspear buzzed with street markets where vendors offered spices, dried fruits, handicrafts, and exotic goods imported from the farthest corners. At night, the same streets filled with music and the buzz of bars, while colorful lanterns lit up the rooftops. Even at night, the heat never fully subsided. Then the streets were dominated by the coolness of air-conditioned casinos and luxury hotels, whose facades were bathed in thousands of flickering lights. Casinos bore names such as “Dragon’s Fire,” “Red Viper,” or “Sands of Destiny” — places where tradition intertwined with modernity, and risk with opulence, creating a unique atmosphere.

It was a city of contrasts: beside luxurious apartments and palace-like hotels rose poor neighborhoods where residents struggled with heat and water shortages, and life unfolded in the shadow of powerful corporations, gambling, and political deals.

Brienne dreamed of seeing the famous dornish sand steeds — slender, fast horses considered the most beautiful in all of Westeros. Though lighter and less enduring, in ancient times they served for long desert journeys, needing only minimal water and rest.

The road to the motel was short but full of stimuli and contrasts. From every corner, advertisements exploded — some shouting about “the best show in Dorne,” others tempting with “a chance to win millions in one night.” They passed people dressed in swimsuits, tourists with plastic cups full of colorful drinks, and street performers dressed as dragons and vipers, who posed passionately for photos with passersby.

The motel they chose was the cheapest place they could find online. Checking in at the reception took a while because the queue was full of similar desperates and bargain-hunting tourists. Finally, they reached the room on the seventh floor — the interior smelled of dampness and neglect. The air conditioner emitted only a hoarse, irregular hum, and the window was tightly shut and wouldn’t open. The bedding was rough and unpleasant, and in the bathroom, you had to hold the faucet for water to flow at all.

The first thing Brienne did after checking in was take painkillers and draw the blinds. She lay down on the bed, trying to sleep off the growing headache that had plagued her since the plane journey. Falling asleep, she allowed the silence and darkness of the room to bring the much-needed relief.

When she woke up, the pain had eased enough for them to go for a walk. They went outside together and headed toward the shore of the Sea of Dorne. There, against the backdrop of shimmering waves and darkening sky, stretched a breathtaking view — calm, sparkling sea reflecting thousands of lights of the Sunspear. On the horizon were visible the shapes of distant islands known as the Stepstones, and above all floated a gentle breeze of cool air that brought a moment of relief from the desert heat. It was their first moment of peace in this city — a moment when everything seemed possible, even if fate still had other plans for them.

They couldn’t afford big expenses, so they spent the first hours in the Sunspear simply walking along the main boulevard. Brienne watched the people passing by — wealthy men in linen jackets and women in flowing, colorful dresses — as if they had stepped straight out of a movie set. They stopped by drinking fountains where water danced to music and by displays of luxury boutiques with prices so high that even Hyle didn’t joke about shopping.

For dinner, they went to a small eatery a few blocks from the boulevard. Inside were plastic chairs, a strangely decorated linoleum floor, and a menu printed on a faded sheet of paper. They ordered burritos and two cold beers. They ate slowly, listening to the city’s bustle coming from the street.

Evening fell over the Sunspear like a curtain of flickering lights. When they left the eatery, a different kind of heat hit them — not desert heat, but one fueled by neon lights, the smell of alcohol, and hundreds of human bodies moving in constant motion. The city was truly waking up now. The main avenue looked like a gambler’s dream — row after row of casinos, each competing for attention with louder music, brighter lights, and bigger promises. Huge banners showed smiling winners clutching stacks of bills, while hostesses in feathers and glitter handed out coupons for free drinks.

Hyle stopped in front of the entrance to the “Red Viper” — one of the largest and most prestigious casinos in the Sunspear. The facade shone with lights, and above the entrance twisted a gigantic illuminated neon snake, its red eyes flickering in rhythm with the music inside.

“Well, well…” he muttered admiringly, looking at the building. “If we don’t win all the money here, it means we’re doing something wrong.” He glanced at Brienne with amusement. “What do you say? A little round of gambling in the name of integrating with the local culture?”

The spinning reels of the slot machines flashed in a hypnotic rhythm, their sounds — the clink of coins, mechanical clicks, electronic fanfares — blending into one overwhelming hum. Brienne stopped at the cheapest machine in the room, one of the hundreds lined up in long, glittering rows. She slid a banknote into the machine, felt a slight vibration, then pressed the button. The reels spun at dizzying speed. On either side of her sat players — an older man with a face etched by wrinkles, staring at the screen with a vacant, almost lifeless gaze, and a young woman in a sequined dress, tapping the button as if her life depended on it.

“This is stupid,” Brienne muttered after a moment, watching her balance disappear in seconds. “I’ve already lost ten golden dragons.”

Hyle appeared beside her, full of energy, clutching a handful of chips. He smelled of fruity drink and excitement. “Slots are a sucker’s game,” he said with a smile. “Come on, I’ll show you the real casino.”

He led her through the hall full of slot machines, blackjack, and roulette, until they reached an area separated from the rest of the room by velvet ropes and discreet security. There, the world looked different — quieter, more dignified, as if someone had turned down the volume and raised the stakes. The tables had gleaming wooden tops, dealers and floor managers wore impeccable tuxedos, and the players — women in silk gowns, men in tailored suits — looked like they had stepped straight off the front pages of magazines.

Brienne squinted. “What is this?”

“The high-stakes area,” Hyle replied proudly. “Minimum buy-in? Ten thousand golden dragons per table.”

“High rollers have their own tables?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Tables, limousines, hostesses with private bars, free rooms on the top floors…” he listed it as if describing paradise. “Just deposit enough money at the casino, and they’ll treat you like royalty.”

Brienne grimaced. “Then we could come here and lose everything in ten minutes.”

Hyle smiled broadly, like someone who believed in his luck more than in the laws of statistics. “We won’t lose. We’ll win.”

The floor in the table games area was soft with thick navy carpet that muffled footsteps. The scent of polished wood and perfume mingled with the quiet rustle of cards and the low, rhythmic clacking of chips sliding across the felt. Brienne and Hyle walked along a row of tables until they reached a free spot at blackjack.

Hyle pulled out a chair for her, gesturing encouragingly to sit. Brienne hesitated for a moment. “Sit down,” he said, with that tone mixing confidence and challenge.

Brienne grimaced slightly.

“Hyle, this stresses me out,” she replied. “Remember when, before we started seriously seeing each other, your friends invited us to a house party and we played strip poker? I didn’t do so well then.”

The memory of that evening came back vividly, as if only a few days had passed. It was a strange time — she still wasn’t sure what to think of it. The party was at Edmund Ambrose’s apartment, one of Hyle’s few friends who had a place off-campus. All of Hyle’s closest buddies showed up: Ben Bushy, Richard Farrow, Hugh Beesbury, Mark Mullendore, Raymond Nayland, Will Stork, Owen Inchfield, Harry Sawyer, and Robin Potter. Brienne was there only because Hyle had asked her — and she immediately noticed she was the only girl among them.

The beginning was pleasant: talking about studies, jokes, playing board games. They drank a sweet punch that later turned out to be heavily spiked. Only after a few rounds did someone — Brienne couldn’t recall who — suggest a game of strip poker. She was already warmed up by the alcohol, but even then she didn’t want to expose her large body to a group of drunk guys.

Yet they all started one after another showering her with compliments, convincing her it was just for fun, that nobody here was a model anyway. Richard Farrow even sang a song for her, Edmund wove a flower into her hair, and Ben Bushy poured her some more punch. Mark Mullendore, with a wide grin, said, “You only live once; sometimes you gotta do something crazy!”

And so Brienne was persuaded. At first, she did quite well — the men stripped off shirts, socks, belts, and the atmosphere was light and full of laughter. Finally, she took off her shoes, socks, cardigan, and tank top. When she was left in her bra, she noticed their looks had changed — they looked at her like one usually looks at beautiful girls, not someone to joke about.

The next thing to go would have been her shorts, but then Hyle unexpectedly stopped the game. Without a word, he threw his sweatshirt over her and said it was time to go home. A few days later, in very different circumstances, she lost her virginity to him.

Now, standing in the casino, she looked at the chair before her and felt the same knot in her stomach as then — a mixture of uncertainty and awareness that Hyle was pushing her again into something she wouldn’t have chosen herself.

Hyle smiled under his breath, resting his elbows on the back of her chair. “I remember,” he said, pulling her from her thoughts. “That was the peak of my youthful life.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

“You have forty golden dragons in chips,” he added, placing them before her with exaggerated care, as if handing over royal jewelry. “This time, stay clothed.”

His tone was light, teasing, but in his eyes was that familiar spark — a mix of provocation and curiosity about how far she’d go. Behind them, the dealer was shuffling cards, and the clatter of chips nearby suddenly seemed louder, as if the whole table awaited her decision.

Hyle squeezed further through the dense crowd, looking for the table where the real action was. Brienne watched him pass several spots where players slowly pushed chips around, the atmosphere resembling a Sunday afternoon at a retirement home. Finally, he spotted a focused group surrounding one table — chatter, shouts, and applause mixed with the sound of bouncing dice. He sat down at their table.

Brienne’s chip stack shrank to two. She looked at her cards — two eights. Across the table, the dealer revealed a ten. Next to her settled a fat, sweaty man in a crumpled shirt. He glanced at her cards and smiled lecherously.

“You should always split eights,” he said, leaning in closer than necessary. “And by the way, I love your perfume.”

Brienne didn’t even look at him.

“I know how to play, so piss off,” she said coldly.

The truth was, she didn’t know the rules. She didn’t split the eights, only indicated she wanted another card. The dealer laid a nine in front of her. Game over. Brienne grabbed her last two chips, stood up from the chair, and walked away without a word, not granting the man beside her even a glance. She decided to visit the casino’s clothing shops to get some air away from the crowd and the stuffy atmosphere of the gaming hall.

~*~

Brienne pushed her way through the dense crowd toward the dice table. With every step, she heard louder shouts and laughter, and when she finally spotted Hyle, she understood why. He stood in the middle like a general on a battlefield, focused and composed. He was rolling the dice in his hands, and in front of him towered a pile of chips so high it looked like small, colorful walls.

Brienne stopped, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Oh gods!” she whispered.

Hyle looked at her and wordlessly handed her the dice. “Kiss them,” he said in the tone of someone who knows the ritual of victory.

She did so with theatrical exaggeration and handed them back. Hyle threw. The dice danced across the green felt of the table, came to a stop — and a point was scored. The crowd erupted in cheers. Their bet doubled. The dice came back to her. She felt a thrill in her fingers. Kissed them again and threw. Point. Another burst of joy, and Hyle laughed loudly, pulling her into his arms.

“Have I ever told you I love you?” he asked in an excited whisper, where the adrenaline of the game mixed with something deeper.

“No,” she replied dryly, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a barely noticeable smile.

“I love you,” he said simply, as if it were an ancient truth.

“Still?” she asked quietly, looking him straight in the eyes, without a hint of coquettishness.

“Always” he answered without hesitation, then pressed a brief kiss to her lips.

A few hours later, in the stuffy, shabby motel room, they lay amidst money. Banknotes were everywhere — on the floor, on the bed, in her hair. Brienne stretched out on them like a cat, running her fingers over the rough paper, lifting them up and letting them fall like a green rain.

Hyle sat nearby with a piece of paper and a pen, counting. He looked up.

“Twenty-five thousand golden dragons.”

Brienne sat up abruptly.

“Twenty-five thousand! In less than two hours! One more night like this, and we’re saved!”

She pulled him close, showering him with kisses. She shoved bills under his shirt, tucked them into his belt, laughing. The heat of money, adrenaline, and youth surged through their veins. They were already starting to undress when the vibration of a phone interrupted everything.

“Don’t answer…” she whispered, rubbing his crotch through his pants.

Hyle groaned but looked at the screen. Suddenly, he grew serious. He pushed her hand away.

“Be quiet. I have to take this. Lie here and wait for me.”

He got up, taking the phone to the bathroom.

Brienne propped herself up on the bed, leaning against the headboard. The thought returned — about the man from the boutique. The most handsome she’d ever seen in her life. A tall man with impeccable posture and that kind of confidence that draws glances and commands respect before he even speaks. His figure betrayed someone who cared about fitness: athletic but not overly so — more natural elegance than gym obsession. Golden, slightly longer hair gracefully falling over his forehead resembled the Westerosi ideal of male beauty, yet showed a certain rebellion against stiff rules. He looked at her in that strange way… and wanted to buy her a dress! What absurdity. She knew he was mocking her. Beautiful people always mocked her. It was just a nasty joke, nothing more. She decided not to tell Hyle about it. She didn’t want him to get aggressive again.

Suddenly, she heard a raised voice from the bathroom. Brienne approached the door to catch the words.

“…I’ll give you that damn money, I swear… I’ve already won twenty-five thousand dragons… yes, I know it’s not much… please don’t hurt her, she’s just a kid, she has nothing to do with this… alright… tomorrow… I’ll have the full amount…”

Brienne’s heart raced. She stepped back quickly and returned to the bed. She arranged herself as if she had been lying in the same position all along, waiting for Hyle to come back. She didn’t want him to know she’d overheard.

The bathroom door opened with a quiet creak. Hyle returned slowly, looking at the floor as if trying to shake off the remnants of the conversation he’d just had. When he raised his eyes to Brienne, a smile reappeared on his face — somewhat forced but wide.

“Where were we?” he muttered, approaching the bed.

He sat beside her, running his hand along her thigh and then moving upward. Brienne grabbed his hand and gently pushed it away.

“We have to go to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. If we want to win even more, we need to be in shape.”

“Brienne…” he began, his tone turning insistent. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this.”

She tried to stand, but he grabbed her arm. Not gently — with all his strength, as if trying to dig his fingers into her skin. The pain was immediate. Brienne knew she’d see a bruise there in the morning.

“Let go…” she said quietly but didn’t move to avoid provoking him.

Hyle clenched his jaw sharply. “First you provoke me, seduce me, touch me like a willing little slut, then pretend indifference,” he suddenly spat, voice tense.

For a second, they stared at each other in silence. Brienne felt something inside her break. Wrapping her hands around his face, she looked him straight in the eyes. Her own filled with tears.

“Please… calm down.”

Something in her voice — maybe the tremble and fear — struck him like a blade. Hyle released her arm as if burned by fire. He stepped back and then sat on the edge of the bed, hiding his face in his hands.

“Gods… I’m sorry. Brienne, I’m sorry… I don’t know what came over me.” He repeated it over and over quietly, like a chant.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand but said nothing. The room became stuffy again, but this time not from the heat of money or adrenaline. It was a weight squeezing her chest — the weight of words, gestures, and tension filling the space between them. The silence was thick and impenetrable — like an invisible boundary neither wanted to cross.

The morning came quietly; light slowly filled the room, and the air felt less stuffy than the night before. Brienne was still lying in bed, wrapped in a quilt, when the door quietly opened. Hyle entered carrying a breakfast tray — a simple meal: coffee, fruit, and a few slices of bread.

He stood by the bed, eyes full of remorse like a beaten dog, avoiding her gaze but at the same time hoping she would look at him more kindly.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said softly, setting the tray down on the bedside table. “I really didn’t mean for things to turn out that way.”

Brienne looked at him for a moment, then nodded and reached for her cup of coffee. The silence between them was gentle but filled with unspoken words. Still, it was a new beginning to the day — and maybe, if they managed to overcome what had happened, the future would be a little easier.

The day passed peacefully, as if they both needed to catch their breath after a turbulent night. In the morning, they walked together to the shore of the Dornish Sea; the sand beneath their feet was warm, and before them stretched an endless expanse of blue — calm, though small waves on the horizon betrayed that the depths still pulsed with life. They entered the water without a word; it was pleasantly cool compared to the heated sand and immediately awakened their bodies, as if washing away the remnants of the night, heavy thoughts, and sleepless hours. Brienne submerged herself deeper until the water reached her shoulders. She closed her eyes. She dipped her face under, letting the waves wash over her without resistance. For a brief moment, she could pretend that nothing had happened — that she was somewhere else. The touch of the sea was familiar and simple. It brought back memories of Tarth’s green shores, of rocky coves where, as a girl, she played with her brother while their father still looked at her with pride. Something in the ebb and flow, in the cool embrace of the sea, reminded her of home. Not a place. A feeling. A safety she hadn’t felt in a long time.

After their swim, they strolled through the lively markets of the Sunspear. Colorful stalls tempted with spices, fruits, and handcrafted goods. Hyle held her hand; his touch was tender and full of care, as if trying to atone for what had happened the night before. At one point, he stopped by a small wooden crafts stall. He picked up a beautifully carved ring — handmade, with a small blue stone that perfectly matched Brienne’s eye color. Without a word, he slipped the ring onto her finger. His gaze said: forgive me.

That night, the casino’s atmosphere was completely different from the day before. The air felt heavy, as if saturated with failure, and the lights seemed sharper, almost painful to the eyes. Brienne sat in a small café deep inside the building, slowly stirring her coffee. She didn’t look at the cup — her gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, trying not to think about how many dragons had disappeared from their pouch over the past hour.

Hyle sat across from her, hunched over a crumpled sheet of paper. His long fingers moved along the lines of numbers, adding some, crossing out others, silently calculating something. Finally, he sighed and put down the pencil.
“We’ve exceeded the limit,” he said quietly, but there was steel in his voice. “We agreed not to go below five thousand.”

Brienne only nodded.
The waitress brought them the rest of the bill. A single coin clinked on the table. Brienne picked it up, turning it over in her fingers.
“Dragon — we go all in. Tail — we stop.”

Hyle raised an eyebrow, then nodded. Brienne flipped the coin. It spun, glinted in the air… tails.

She should have felt relief, but before she could say anything, Hyle reached for the coin.
“Two tries,” he said.

It was already very late, and the casino was shrouded in a thick, grayish haze of cigarette smoke. The sounds — the clinking of coins, the sliding of chips, the slap of cards against the tables — came muffled, as if through a wall.

Brienne sat at a dice table. Her last chips had disappeared from under her hands, taken swiftly by the dealer. She stood up, stepping cautiously on the thick carpet that muffled every sound. Through the smoke, she spotted Hyle’s silhouette by the blackjack table. When she approached, he didn’t even look at her.

“I’m broke,” she said.

“Me too,” he replied, his tone dry.

They headed toward the exit, but passing through the high-stakes area, they noticed a crowd gathered around one table. Someone was drawing the entire room’s attention.

A man in a perfectly tailored dark blue blazer sat at the center of it all. He said almost nothing — only flicked his fingers slightly, signaling the dealer whether to hit or stand. His calmness was hypnotic. Brienne studied him and suddenly was pierced by a flash of recognition. The blue dress man.

“Who is that man?” Brienne whispered.

A tourist nearby, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, leaned toward her.

"Jaime Lannister. Son and heir of Tywin Lannister. The Lannisters are the richest family in all of Westeros. He could buy us all with a single transfer and not even check his balance. This guy used to be a great tennis star — believe it or not. Now? Everyone just calls him the Kingslayer. You know, behind his back, of course. He’s already burned through over a million dragons. Real champion."

“Kingslayer?” she repeated, surprised, but the man didn’t answer because he leaned closer to the table, as if afraid the scene unfolding before him might vanish from sight.

Lannister seemed completely unfazed by his losses. He smiled at the comments of his neighbors at the table as if they were playing for pocket change, not a fortune. Suddenly, for a brief moment, his gaze swept across the room…and stopped on Brienne. His lips curled into a faintly ironic smile. Then he returned his eyes to his cards.

“Is he playing with real money?” Brienne whispered.

“Each chip is ten thousand dragons,” the tourist answered.

They saw Lannister place five gold chips. Fifty thousand dragons in an instant. The deal, a quick reveal of the cards — and a win. Five chips were returned to him doubled.

“Let's get out of here” Hyle muttered, but then something strange happened.

Lannister raised his hand and gestured toward them. His movement was slow, controlled. Hyle glanced back as if expecting Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters to be standing behind him. Lannister repeated the gesture.

“You,” he said when Hyle stepped close enough to hear.

Hyle pointed to himself, looking somewhat ridiculous.

“Me?”

Lannister squinted as if amused by the question.

“Could you do me a favor and lend me your… girlfriend?” he said, looking directly at Brienne.

Hyle looked strangely flattered as he turned to Brienne. Warmth flushed her face, a blush spreading down her neck.

“I don’t understand,” she said sharply.

“He wants you to sit next to him so you'll bring him luck.” the tourist interjected, as if explaining the obvious.

Brienne looked at Hyle, sensing it wasn’t as innocent as it sounded.

“No, Hyle,” she said firmly.

“Try it, it’s just for fun. Come on, what do we have to lose?” Hyle smiled reassuringly, as if trying to ease her worries.

The hostess pulled aside golden ropes. Brienne felt as if she was stepping into an arena. All eyes were on her. Lannister pulled out a chair for her. She sat, avoiding his gaze. Lannister turned once more to Hyle, nodded in thanks, then pushed all his chips onto the table. The dealer dealt the cards. Lannister revealed his slowly. Blackjack.

The crowd thickened by the second, creating a heavy, electric atmosphere around the table. The casino lights reflected off the gold and red chips, sparkling like jewels. Brienne glanced at Hyle — their eyes met briefly. He smiled encouragingly, as if giving her courage.

Suddenly, above the murmur of voices, a familiar, confident tone rang out:

“I lost all day,” Jaime Lannister said, drawing her gaze like a magnet. “The moment you showed up, I won. You brought me luck. I think it’s a sign. And you?”

Brienne felt her heart beat a little faster. She stared into his eyes — mischievous, sparkling, insinuating, with a hint of mocking certainty — then lowered her gaze to her hands.

“I don’t know,” she answered evasively.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked warmly, as if not noticing her distance.

“No, thank you.”

“Maybe… a chocolate?” He raised an eyebrow, a smile dancing at the corner of his lips. He said it so playfully that Brienne was sure he was referring to the previous night and the contents of her bag.

She couldn’t help but laugh quietly, and that brief moment of carefree amusement made her forget the crowd watching her every move.

“Please bet. One hundred thousand,” Jaime announced, sliding a stack of chips toward her.

“Just like that?” she asked, astonished.

“Just like that,” he replied, staring at her so intently she felt as if the table suddenly shrank, leaving only the two of them.

Brienne pushed the chips across the table, but an awkward shove scattered them messily.

“Not like that,” Jaime murmured, leaning in to gather them. At that moment, her hand touched his. The contact was brief but enough to send a familiar shiver down her spine. His hands were slender, smooth, with long fingers and well-groomed nails. So delicate.

“I’m… sorry,” she whispered, not looking up.

The dealer dealt the cards.

“We need a nine,” Jaime said, leaning closer. She felt the warmth of his shoulder, the scent of expensive, sensual cologne. “No… I don’t like that,” he remarked with a slight grimace after looking at the cards.

“The player stands. Dealer’s cards. Dealer wins,” the dealer announced.

“Looks like I didn’t bring you luck after all,” Brienne said, watching him lose the whole pot.

“Do you like cards?” he asked, completely indifferent to the loss.

“Not really.”

“Too bad I didn’t ask earlier. Dice?”

“I guess so.”

“Peck,” he called over his shoulder to a young man.

“Yes, Mr. Lannister?”

“One.”

Peck nodded and beckoned another man over. He leaned in and whispered something in his ear.

“Maybe I should go,” Brienne said, rising from her seat.

“It won’t take long.” Jaime placed his hand on hers, stopping her. At that moment, a check for a million golden dragons landed before him. Lannister signed it as if the amount was a minor formality.

Brienne stared at the paper; for a moment, the world seemed to stop. She felt the pounding of her own heartbeat in her temples.

Jaime stood up, pulled the chair out from under Brienne. They moved together to the dice table, and the crowd flowed after them like a wave, heated with emotion. People nudged each other with elbows; Hyle pushed forward.

“Put it all on,” Jaime said, sliding chips toward her. Brienne did so without a word.

“Winning is eleven or seven,” the dealer announced. “Please take two dice.”

She picked up the dice, showing them to Lannister.

“And now throw a seven. If eleven comes up, that’s good too,” he said with a smile.

Brienne tossed the dice in her hand, about to send them onto the table when Lannister’s hand stopped her movement.

“Didn’t you forget something?” he said, looking meaningfully at her lips. “Please. Kiss them.”

Surprised, she hesitated a moment but lifted the dice to her lips and brushed them quickly with her mouth — without looking him in the eyes. Jaime took the dice from her, did the same while looking at her intensely, and handed them back.

Brienne threw the dice, silently praying to the Seven Gods. Time slowed, the dice rolled across the table and stopped. Seven.

The crowd erupted in euphoria, bursting into cheers. She turned toward Lannister, baring her large teeth in a grin. He looked at her as if she were someone special, the only person in that crowded, noisy world. For a brief, fleeting moment, she felt like he wanted to kiss her.

They laughed out loud together as the people around them started applauding.

“Should I stop now?” Jaime asked, suddenly serious. His voice was low and calm.

“I definitely should,” Brienne answered, nodding and turning to look for Hyle. Behind her, she heard Lannister calmly instruct the dealer to transfer his winnings to his account.

Brienne approached Hyle. He rushed to her with a broad smile and embraced her in a strong, bear-like hug.

“You were amazing. Gods, I can’t believe it…” he whispered into her ear, voice trembling with emotion.

He loosened his grip on her, they both looked toward the table. And then Jaime Lannister stood before them — upright, elegant, confident.

“Jaime Lannister. Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.

“Hyle Hunt. Congratulations,” Hyle shook his hand with clear respect. “And this is my fiancée — Brienne Tarth.”

Brienne frowned, giving him a quick look. Fiancée?

“Thank you both,” Jaime said without looking away from her. “You’ve been very generous, Kyle.” He pronounced the last word with clear malice. “"Are you staying here?"

“It’s Hyle,” Hyle corrected stiffly. “No, we’re leaving now.”

“Don’t do that,” Lannister raised his eyebrows, as if disbelieving. “We need to celebrate. I’ll get you a room here.”

Brienne opened her mouth to refuse, but Hyle beat her to it:

“That’s very kind, but…”

“I insist,” Jaime interrupted, with the same calm, confident tone that left little room for refusal. “I want to make it up to you for your help. My treat. Whatever you want.”

He turned and walked away with nonchalant grace. After a moment, he tossed over his shoulder one last teasing smile:

“Oh, I almost forgot. There are charming shops downstairs. Have you seen them?”

Chapter Text

The sun was already rising over Dorne, spreading gold and pink across the horizon. The young man Lannister called “Peck” took Brienne and Hyle up to the eleventh floor in an elevator. Inside, the scent of fresh leather and expensive cigars lingered in the air, and the cabin moved silently, as if they were gliding upward in some kind of luxury capsule. The doors slid open quietly, revealing a long corridor lined with soft black carpet. The walls were adorned with golden frames holding paintings depicting scenes from the history of Westeros, each illuminated by subtle spotlights.

Peck led them with a calm, almost ceremonial stride until he stopped in front of a door on the left. He took out a key card, swiped it through the reader, and the lock emitted a soft click.

“Please, follow me,” he said, holding the door open and letting them inside.

The interior of the apartment almost took Brienne’s breath away. The place was dazzling. The floor was covered with a plush ivory carpet. In the center of the main room stood a massive four-poster bed draped in white, soft bedding, with pillows that looked like clouds. Heavy curtains in a deep navy shade swayed gently from the air conditioning breeze; nearby, on a glass table, lay a remote control that could be used to cover and uncover the panoramic windows with a single click. The entire wall opposite the bed was filled with a television that looked like a cinema screen. Behind frosted glass doors lay the bathroom — floor-to-ceiling glass enclosing a marble bathtub positioned so that one could admire the distant horizon and the shimmering surface of the Dornish Sea while bathing. In a corner, beneath the window, stood a bar stocked with neatly arranged bottles of liquor with names that sounded like they belonged to another world.

“Thank you very much,” Hyle said, reaching into his pocket for a tip.

Peck raised his hand in refusal.

“No need.” Then he nodded slightly and left, closing the door almost silently behind him.

Hyle dropped his bag to the floor and for a moment looked at Brienne with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. Then he burst into loud, sincere, almost boyish laughter. He approached her, wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her off the ground, and spun her several times in the air. Brienne giggled, wondering where Hyle found so much strength. He often complained about her being too tall.

“You’ve won a million golden dragons!” he shouted enthusiastically.

“He won them, Hyle. Not me,” she replied calmly as he set her down.

“You won it for him,” he insisted, as if her presence at the table had been a spell that changed the course of the game.

They decided to make the most of their time in the apartment. Hyle immediately approached the bar, pouring himself some expensive Dornish wine, while Brienne sat for a long time by the glass wall, staring at the calm sea shimmering in a thousand shades of blue. Later, Brienne went to the bathroom, where she could immerse herself in hot water scented with oils, while Hyle, lying on the sofa, browsed through the books and magazines available in the apartment, commenting on the most absurd articles. Afterwards, they both sank into the soft bedding, watching old movies on a screen so large that the actors’ faces seemed to enter the room. The afternoon passed slowly, until someone knocked on the door. At first, they decided to ignore it — Hyle lay lazily on the huge bed, smoking a cigarette, while Brienne ate dried fruit and nuts she had found in one of the cabinets. But the knocking came again, louder this time.

“I’ll get it,” Hyle finally muttered and went to the door.

On the other side stood Peck, holding a large, elegant red box tied with a gold ribbon. He handed it to Hyle with cool professionalism.

“A delivery from Mr. Lannister for Lady Brienne.”

Hyle took the package, frowning. He threw a questioning look at Brienne, who had just risen from the bed. She paused for a moment, wondering why Peck had addressed her in such a polite manner. No one had called her that in a long time.

“What is it?” she asked, looking at Peck with visible surprise.

“I’m not authorized to reveal anything. Please, open it. Goodbye, Lady Brienne.” Peck bowed his head slightly toward her and added, “Mr. Kyle.” He nodded to Hyle and left.

Hyle rolled his eyes.

“Is it so hard to remember such a short name as Hyle?”

Brienne stifled a laugh, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

Hyle placed the decorative box on the table and began to unwrap it. When he lifted the lid, his eyebrows rose in surprise. He grabbed the soft fabric and slowly pulled it out. A beautiful blue silk dress appeared before Brienne's eyes — the very one that had caught her attention in the boutique earlier.

“There’s a note attached,” Hyle said, tearing it off and reading its contents. He looked up at Brienne. “Lannister wants us to come to a private party in his apartment tonight at nine.”

“Oh…” Brienne replied briefly, taking the dress from Hyle’s hands almost as delicately as if it might fall apart from too firm a touch. She approached the large mirror, held it against herself, and the silk fell smoothly along her figure. The material gleamed in the sunlight. She knew she shouldn’t accept it — such a gift was far too expensive. But she already felt that she would wear it tonight if that was exactly what Jaime Lannister wanted.

~*~

The main room was enormous — and not in that exaggerated sense the word is often used, but genuinely overwhelming in its scale. If Brienne had thought their apartment was big, here the sense of space seemed doubled. Panoramic windows stretching from floor to ceiling encircled the hall like a glass crown. To the east, the calm sea shimmered, reflecting the last golden streaks of sunlight. To the west stretched the desert — harsh, rolling, as if still stirred by the breath of the day reluctant to yield to night. It was like the meeting of two worlds: water and sand, silence and clamor, coolness and heat.

Soft sounds of live music floated in the background, played by a group of musicians seated on a raised platform. The violin, piano, and double bass wove a harmonious, slightly melancholic melody that wrapped the entire room like a silk ribbon. Nearby, a vast buffet was laid out with plates full of exotic delicacies, and an open bar displayed crystal glasses glinting under the light of the lamps.

The guests were dressed formally — gowns, tuxedos, perfectly coordinated accessories. For the first time in a long while, Brienne felt she did not stand out. The blue dress she had received from Lannister made her look… different than usual. The fabric hugged her tall, slender frame so that every movement seemed fluid and measured. The neckline subtly revealed her collarbones and the line of her neck, while the waistline accentuated proportions she usually concealed under plain clothing. The long skirt with a slit highlighted her long legs with every step.

Hyle, in a simple but elegant suit, looked surprisingly presentable. They held hands, slowly moving through the room, both scanning the crowd. Brienne searched for the host of the party, but among so many elegant faces, he was hard to spot.

“Come on,” Hyle said suddenly, leading her toward the dance floor.

They stopped in the center, and he placed his hands on her hips. Brienne hesitated for only a fraction of a second before placing her own hands on his shoulders. They began to dance slowly, moving to the rhythm of the music, whose notes seemed to fill their very breaths. Brienne let her head rest on his shoulder. She smelled his cologne mingled with something familiar and earthy — the scent of leather and cigarette smoke.

Hyle leaned closer, his lips brushing near her ear.

“This dress makes me want to take you right here, in front of all these prudes,” he whispered, his breath grazing her skin.

“Stop it,” Brienne hissed, feeling her cheeks start to burn. She lifted her head and glanced nervously around the room, as if someone could overhear.

“Blushing?” he asked with amusement. When he saw the flush deepen, he added softly, “I know exactly where that blush leads.”

Brienne raised a hand to strike his arm, but then she noticed a familiar figure in the corner of the room. Jaime Lannister stood there, talking with three men: one tall, with dark copper hair reaching his shoulders; another massive and powerfully built, whose booming, tubular voice repeatedly cut through the music; and the third — with a turned-up nose, long thick blond hair, and an equally long beard of the same color. In the last one, Brienne noticed a certain resemblance to the host himself.

Lannister laughed at something the red-haired man said, then raised his gaze. Their eyes met and held. There was something electrifying in it, something that suddenly compelled her to do the thing she couldn’t explain. She turned to Hyle and kissed him squarely on the lips.

It wasn’t a fleeting gesture — their kiss was long, deep, and deliberate. When she finally pulled back, she glanced again at Lannister. He hadn’t flinched, blinked, or looked away. He was captivated and… fascinated. A slight, knowing smile curved his lips, and then he returned to his conversation with his companions.

When the song ended, they left the dance floor amidst a mixture of laughter and the clinking of glasses. The air was heavy with the scent of alcohol, perfume, and cigar smoke, which lazily drifted near the ceiling. The flickering lights of the lamps reflected off crystal glasses and glossy tabletops.

Then Lannister approached them. He looked the embodiment of elegance — a deep black tuxedo fitting him with almost unsettling perfection. Satin lapels gleamed subtly in the warm lamp light, and a flawless white shirt with a concealed placket and perfectly tied black bow tie completed the ensemble, where nothing was left to chance. Golden cufflinks glimmered on his wrists, too subtle to shout, but clear enough as a discreet sign of his name and status. Black polished shoes reflected the light like mirrors. Every movement he made was calm, measured, devoid of the haste of those who feel the need to prove something. He approached with a smile barely touched by irony and, with a simple, elegant gesture of his hand, invited them to a more secluded, intimate area. Soft dark green velvet armchairs surrounded a pool table, its wooden frame gleaming in the subdued light.

“Shall we play?” Jaime asked Hyle, his tone polite but challenging. Confidence danced in his green, catlike eyes, along with something else — something hard to ignore.

Hyle nodded, Brienne stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back. Lannister picked up one of the pool cues, weighing it in his hand as if assessing its balance, then chalked the tip with precise, short movements more reminiscent of preparing for a duel than a casual game.

Then, almost silently, the red-haired man appeared beside him, leaning in to whisper something. Jaime listened in silence, smiling crookedly.

“That’s Addam Marbrand,” he said, straightening and glancing at the guests. “A friend of mine. Someone I trust implicitly. He handles uncomfortable matters for me.” He paused, and an unwavering seriousness crept into his voice. “He once killed a man.”

Yet a provocative smile danced across his lips when he noticed Hyle stiffen and the color drain from his face. Brienne recognized the joke, and the corners of her mouth twitched.

“Jaime, don’t scare people,” Marbrand sighed, rolling his eyes indulgently. “Sorry about him; he never could behave.” He turned to Brienne and smiled gallantly. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“Yes, I… just recently met Mr. Lannister. I’m Brienne. Brienne Tarth.” She extended her hand, but Addam, instead of shaking it, leaned forward and kissed the back of her hand briefly.

“Pleasure to meet you, Brienne.” His gaze lingered on her a second too long before shifting to Hyle.

“Hyle Hunt.” Hyle extended his hand, and Addam gripped it more firmly than necessary, which Hyle betrayed with a small grimace.

“It was nice to meet you,” Addam repeated, ostensibly addressing both of them, but his words were clearly aimed at Brienne. “I hope this won’t be our last meeting.” He winked at her knowingly, his piercing gaze briefly flicking to Jaime. Lannister leaned casually on the cue, squinting at Marbrand. After a moment, Marbrand nodded and turned away, leaving them alone at the table.

“So, what brings you to Sunspear?” Lannister asked, raising an eyebrow as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear their version.

“To win big money, obviously,” Hyle replied with a smile of slight disdain, as if it were self-evident.

“And what do you plan to spend this obviously huge amount of money on... which you haven’t won yet?” Jaime asked with apparent politeness, tilting his head and locking eyes with Hyle. “Because planning investments without capital is a new form of optimism. Or naïveté. Dreams are cheaper when you don’t have to confront them with reality.” He smiled without a trace of warmth.

Brienne noticed Hyle clench his fists. His knuckles whitened, his jaw tightened slightly — barely noticeable, but clear enough for her.

“To build a house,” he said slowly, in a deeper, firmer voice than usual. “On our plot, by Shipbreaker Bay” He said no more. Any further words would have been too much like explanation, and he knew Lannister was waiting for that.

“An ambitious plan,” Jaime nodded with apparent approval, though his eyes revealed only slight boredom.

“Hyle is an incredibly talented architect,” Brienne interjected quickly, wanting to ease the tension. “The restaurant he designed won the Westeros Institute of Architecture award this year.”

“Impressive,” Jaime admitted, drawing out the word lazily as if savoring it on his tongue. “As is often the case with architecture… foundations matter most. And they can crack when built on illusions.” The smile stretching across his face didn’t reach his eyes. It was controlled, calculating, and triumphant — like someone who has landed exactly where he aimed.

Brienne reacted instinctively — almost at the speed of light, she reached forward and grabbed Hyle’s hand before he could even think anything reckless. His fingers were tense, like steel cables. He looked at her slowly, his eyes cold, as if the resentment he carried deep inside were spreading through him like poison. Although he said nothing, Brienne knew the Lannister's words had reached him. She stroked his hand to calm him. He smiled at her, seemingly unshaken. After a moment, she loosened her grip and stepped back — quietly, almost imperceptibly, until she leaned against the cool wall.

Silence fell. One of those silences heavier than words. Lannister watched them like a vulture — motionless, with cold interest and the calm of a man who needs do nothing to dominate.

“And when this magnificent house is built…” Lannister decided to break the silence. But he paused deliberately, as if giving them time to picture the scene. At the same time, he leaned over the pool table, assessed the ball positions, and struck precisely. Click. Several balls rolled across the green felt in a straight line, one sinking effortlessly into a pocket. “…tell me, Hyle…” Jaime looked up, and although the question was addressed to Hyle, his gaze fixed on Brienne. “…how do you imagine yourself ten years from now?”

Hyle reached for a cue, but before taking a shot, he smiled crookedly. “Preferably in the shoes of a billionaire like you.” He struck a ball, which fell into a pocket with a dry thud.

“Nice shot,” Jaime praised. “I’m not talking about money. What would give you satisfaction, allow you to sleep peacefully?”

“Aren’t you satisfied with your life?” Hyle replied, questioning, sinking another ball with a mischievous smile.

“And who is?” Jaime answered flatly, glancing at Brienne and then Hyle.

“I am,” Brienne spoke up suddenly.

Silence fell. Jaime glanced at her sidelong, squinting as if assessing her sincerity. Then he smiled his characteristic half-mocking smile. He turned his gaze back to Hyle. “She’s serious?”

“I hope so,” Hyle replied, looking at Brienne.

“You see, you didn’t win in Sunspear, but you’re lucky,” Jaime began, with a suspicious glint in his eye. “I have money and sense of security, but you have something I don’t.” Jaime potted the next balls with near-mechanical precision.

Hyle blinked, then calmly replied, “Well, some things can’t be bought with money.”

“There are few of them,” Jaime remarked.

“Some things aren’t for sale,” Brienne interjected, her voice carrying inner strength.

“For example?” Lannister raised an eyebrow.

“You can’t buy people,” Brienne said firmly.

“That’s naïve, Brienne. I buy them every day,” Jaime said bluntly.

“Their support, maybe…” Brienne nodded slightly, “…but not their feelings.”

“You claim love can’t be bought? That’s a terrible cliché,” he smiled provocatively.

“It’s absolutely true,” Brienne replied firmly.

“Oh, really? And what do you think?” Lannister turned to Hyle.

Hyle glanced at Brienne, then smiled slightly. “I agree with Brienne.”

“Good, then let’s test the truth of the cliché.” Jaime circled the table with nonchalant calm, which in itself was a challenge. He studied them intently. “Suppose I offered you a million golden dragons…” His gaze shifted to Brienne. “…for one night with your fiancé .” He pronounced the last word slowly, with cruelly exaggerated irony.

Hyle froze, exhaled through his nose, and smiled as if hearing an absurd joke.

“I’d assume you’re kidding.”

“Let’s pretend I’m not. What would you say?”

The silence thickened like velvet. Brienne looked at Hyle, expecting a decisive reaction. The silence stretched until finally Brienne answered for Hyle:

“He’d tell you to go to the seven hells.” She said it confidently, though a pang of unease struck her inside.

“He didn’t say that,” Jaime noted.

“I’d tell you to go to the seven hells,” Hyle repeated after her, this time in a hoarse voice.

“That’s an insincere answer because we’re theorizing. But behind the offer is real money. A million golden dragons. One night.” He leaned and struck another ball, pressing the point: “Think about it.”

“I won’t change my mind,” Hyle said firmly, his tone indisputable.

“Then you’ve proven your point. Some things cannot be bought.” Jaime set the cue down, his gaze settling on Brienne. “It’s late; I have an appointment. Before I go… may I have one dance?” He looked at her intently, with an unreadable smile, as if asking not just for a dance.

“You better go to that meeting. Win another million,” Hyle said, staring at him sternly.

“Fair enough; in your place, I wouldn’t let her go either,” Jaime’s smile was provocative.

Brienne couldn’t resist. Agitated, she stepped forward and grabbed his hand. “Come on.” Her tone left no room for refusal. Surprised but amused, he allowed himself to be led to the dance floor. He laughed quietly, and as soon as they stepped onto the wooden floor, he whistled to the orchestra. On cue, the music changed. The first notes of a slow, atmospheric melody began. Lannister stood opposite her, their faces nearly level. He didn’t take his eyes off her.

“It’s an honor for me,” he said softly, placing his hands on her waist with surprising gentleness.

“Oh, shut up,” Brienne growled, placing her hands on his shoulders. They began to move, slightly stiffly, but in rhythm. “What’s wrong with you? Who do you think you are?”

“I’ve already introduced myself. You can call me Jaime,” he replied gently, though still slightly amused.

“Never. It’s cruel, you know?” Her voice broke. “To mock someone like that…” She blinked violently, but tears were already stinging her eyes.

Jaime tilted his head. “Hey. I’m not mocking you,” he said softly, as if dealing with someone made of porcelain. “Really.” He raised his hand and brushed a stray lock of blond hair from her face, as if unconsciously, with almost painful tenderness. “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Brienne stared at him, not understanding. She couldn’t believe him. She couldn’t trust him. Not yet. Only after a moment did she realize what song they were dancing to. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Strangers in the night exchanging glances

Wondering in the night

What were the chances we'd be sharing love

Before the night was through

Something in your eyes was so inviting

Something in your smile was so exciting

Something in my heart

Told me I must have you

“I… I have to go,” she said, breaking free from his spell. She pulled away from him abruptly. Jaime tried to grab her hand, but she was quicker. She started scanning the room for Hyle—but in vain. She moved quickly toward the exit.

~*~

The night was stifling, heavy, as if the air in the room carried the remnants of conversations and glances from Lannister’s apartment. Brienne lay on her back, staring at the dark ceiling that suddenly seemed too close. She tossed from side to side; the pillow was too hard, the sheets too hot, and images pulsed through her mind—his face, his smile, his voice. She turned her head toward Hyle. His figure was just a dark outline against the pale glow coming through a gap in the curtain. He was breathing shallowly, restlessly.

“You can’t sleep?” she whispered.

“No,” he replied from the darkness, his voice dull, tired.

“Me neither,” she sighed, biting her lower lip until it bled. “I keep thinking about it. It’s… weird, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Hyle… I think you’d want me to do it.”

She felt him turn toward her, though she could barely see the movement in the dim light.  “What are you talking about? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“When he asked if you’d agree… for a moment, I thought you hesitated.”

“I didn’t hesitate.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I would never consider something like that.”

“Maybe we should talk about it?”

“I don’t want you to do it.”

“But you’d allow me?”

“No. And would you want to?”

“No, but I would do it. For you.”

“For me?” he repeated, this time in disbelief. He rubbed his face with his hand, as if to push away the image that had just intruded into his thoughts. “How can we even consider something like this?”

He turned his back to her. Brienne moved closer, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Think about what that kind of money could do for us, what it could do for our future.” she said softly, though her throat was tight. “You could finish the house. We’d pay off the debt to your friend. Get rid of our debts. After all, it wouldn't mean anything. It’s just my body. Not my mind. Not my heart.”

The words from the bathroom returned to her mind: Don’t hurt her. She’s just a child. She had no idea what child he meant, but Hyle’s tone left no doubt—that child was priceless to him. Someone was blackmailing him, threatening to harm the child if he didn’t hand over the money. And could there be anything more important in the world than a human life? Than a child’s life?

“Do you think we could do something like this?” he asked, turning to face her again.

“We'd just have to forget it ever happened. And never discuss it, not even once. I mean, because nothing will have happened. Nothing that matters, anyway. ”

“Alright.”

“You mean you’re okay with it?” She was surprised he didn’t protest more. That he agreed so easily.

“Yes. I think so. And you?”

“Yes,” she answered, though something twisted inside her.

A long silence fell. Thoughts circled in her mind like irritated wasps, bouncing off one another, getting lost, then colliding again.

Suddenly, she felt him wrap an arm around her.  “Gods, you’re incredible,” he whispered. “I can’t believe this. I love you.”

His lips met hers. At first, she felt fear—because now it was real. But the kiss lingered, and the fear began to fade. In its place came something else, dense and powerful. Desire. She was wanted. By the most beautiful man she had ever seen. A man who would pay a million golden dragons for one night with her.

“Wait…” she whispered, breaking the kiss. She lifted her hand and brushed her finger across his lips. “If I’m worth a million, how much for one finger? Ten thousand?”

He took her hand, kissing each finger slowly, one by one, looking her in the eyes.
“Twenty thousand… thirty… forty… fifty…” he whispered between kisses, his voice carrying a mixture of tenderness and something Brienne couldn’t name.

~*~

Since dawn, Hyle had been in constant motion. His phone buzzed in his hand every few minutes, short messages sent almost without lifting his eyes from the screen. He disappeared into the casino corridors, only to return a few minutes later—always with the same tense, stony expression. He moved nervously, in quick, uneven steps, like a man chased by time, though no one else could hear the ticking of the clock. He offered no explanations; he only said he was “securing them,” and then melted into the crowd of players and staff.

In the afternoon, they entered Lannister’s apartment together. The office where they were received smelled of polished wood and the heavy, sweet smoke of cigars. Lavish, yet devoid of ostentation, the interior exuded cold authority. Jaime sat behind a massive mahogany desk, deep in a leather armchair. Sunlight streaming through the tall windows cut golden streaks across his hair; his gaze was alert, piercing, as if he already knew the answers to questions not yet asked.

Brienne took a seat on the sofa by the window, feeling a bit like an audience member at a play she had no desire to watch. Hyle stood before the desk, opposite Lannister, holding documents in his hands.

“Do you want to elaborate on the verification clause?” Jaime asked after flipping through the first pages of the contract.

“That means you pay even if the relationship isn't consummated.,” Hyle answered matter-of-factly, in the tone of someone reciting a formula.

“You mean, if I'm impotent?” Lannister raised an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.

“In that case, all circumstances must be anticipated.”

“I see… I can live with that.” Jaime’s gaze moved over the papers. “And the Myranda Royce clause?”

“That’s in case of death during the act.”

Lannister chuckled briefly, then looked at Brienne as if to see how she would react to the words. She suddenly felt like a brood mare at an auction—her “qualities” and “flaws” being measured. Her heart beat faster, and a sticky heat gathered in her hands.

“And what about the confidentiality clause?” Jaime asked lightly, as if speaking of something trivial. “We wouldn’t want anyone unauthorized to find out about our arrangement, would we?” He sounded like a man whose reputation was the last thing he would worry about. Yet his eyes met Brienne’s, and she knew it wasn’t about him—it was about her.

“Page six,” Hyle replied briefly.

“You’re pretty good at this, you know?” Jaime said to Hyle with a smile, in which barely concealed sarcasm rang through. “Ever considered a career as a lawyer? In my father’s company, you’d fit perfectly.” His tone carried not just irony but something sharp, disdainful.

When the formalities were complete, the three of them rose and moved to the main room of the apartment.

“Tomorrow morning, I’ll deposit a million gold dragons into your casino account,” Lannister said, fastening a button on his jacket with the casual ease of a man used to everything going his way. “You can go now,” he directed at Hyle, but his gaze lingered on Brienne.

For a moment, hesitation flickered in Hyle’s eyes. He turned toward her, and she offered a gentle smile—a silent assurance that nothing would happen to her. He approached, brushed his lips against her forehead, then, after a brief, hard look at Lannister, left without a word.

The room fell silent. Brienne turned toward Jaime. He didn’t take his eyes off her—studying, analyzing, as if every gesture and twitch of her face were pieces of a puzzle he intended to solve.

“Relax. I don’t bite,” he finally said, his tone so light it contrasted sharply with the thick tension hanging in the air.

Brienne stood still, feeling her leg muscles tense from holding one position for too long. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to step closer. Her teeth lightly bit her lower lip; her gaze wandered to the side.

“So… should I undress?” she asked quietly, almost a whisper, as if afraid that her very words might trigger an avalanche.

“No.” Jaime answered calmly, almost softly. “Come with me.”

Brienne, in the same blue dress she had worn the previous evening, walked beside Lannister down the corridor. The fabric, elegant as it was, suddenly felt too thin, and her footsteps too loud in the empty space. She sensed his presence like a light but persistent pressure. They entered the elevator. Jaime pressed the button for the top floor without a word—the rooftop exit. A red light blinked on, and the metal doors closed with a soft, decisive click. Brienne cast him a worried glance, a mixture of question and cautious distrust in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, we won’t be jumping,” he said lightly amused. “I think Ellyn Tarbeck and Lysa Tully are enough for the statisticians.”

“Jokes about death are inappropriate,” she replied coldly. What a man… she thought, crossing her arms.

“Many things are inappropriate, yet here you are, riding this elevator with me,” he countered, his smile thinner now, less amused.

Brienne felt her cheeks flush. She had to remember why she was here, what she had to do. She couldn’t allow herself to be rattled by him.

“Ah… sorry. That was out of line,” he added after a moment, his tone slightly softer. “I want you to feel at ease.”

“You’re not making this easy,” she said sharply, but didn’t avert her gaze.

The elevator halted with a gentle jolt. The doors slid open, and a rush of hot air hit their faces. Brienne stepped onto the rooftop and froze, stunned by what she saw. On the helipad stood a sleek black helicopter. Sunlight glinted off its polished bodywork, the rotors spinning lazily, preparing for takeoff.

“Where are we going?” she asked, raising her voice over the growing roar of the blades.

“You’ll see,” he replied, lifting his voice but still tinged with the same note of mystery. He gently placed a hand on her back, guiding her toward the machine.

He helped her in first. Once seated and buckled in, she felt a mix of excitement and anxiety. She had never flown in a helicopter before. As they lifted off, a sea of rooftops and streets spread beneath them, then the view expanded to reveal golden sands and the endless sea. The sight stole her breath. Dorne stretched below like a painted parchment, in shades of amber, ochre, and blue.

As the helicopter tilted slightly to the left, Brienne felt her stomach jump and instinctively grabbed Lannister’s hand. Only then did she realize what she had done—she tried to pull back, but Jaime squeezed her hand tighter, intertwining his fingers with hers.

She looked at him, expecting a sarcastic remark, but none came. He smiled softly, without a hint of mockery—so naturally that even his eyes smiled.

The helicopter arced over the waterfront, and Brienne, trying to maintain a stone-faced expression, couldn’t tear her eyes from the view below. Golden beaches stretched along the coast, sparkling in the southern sun. In the distance, the walls of Sunspear were visible, and after a few minutes of flight, something that looked like a fairytale oasis rising straight from the sand.

The helicopter landed on a small platform by the coastal road. Lannister helped her out, and the warm, salty breeze from the Sea of Dorne hit their faces.

“The Water Gardens,” he announced with a note of pride. “They say it’s the most beautiful place in all of Dorne.”

Brienne looked around, her eyes absorbing every detail. Light pink marble paved the paths and courtyard, leading to terraces overlooking numerous pools and fountains. Tall blood-orange trees cast cool shade, and the air was heavy with their sweet, heady scent.

The fountains and pools gleamed in the sun, reflecting patches of blue and gold. Children of various ages ran through the water, their laughter echoing off the marble walls. One climbed on an older boy’s shoulders, another jumped from the pool’s edge into a friend’s arms.

“Doran allows children from all over Dorne to visit here,” Jaime explained, leading her down narrow alleys between lush orchards, the ripe fruits hanging heavily from the branches, their leaves gleaming like polished emeralds. Here and there, water murmured through small channels, and fountains shot into the air, forming silver arcs that sparkled in the sunlight.

“You mean Prince Doran Martell?” Brienne frowned.

“Yes, but the title has long lost its significance. I’m sure you understand it perfectly well, Lady Brienne.”

“How do you know…?”

“Rumors in higher circles are daily bread,” he replied with a slight smile. “Your spectacular escape from home did not go unnoticed.”

Brienne froze. Her heart raced, a whirlwind of surprise and unease forming in her mind. She hadn’t expected her flight from years past to be a topic of conversation in such distant circles. She felt a chill run down her neck—not just the wind, but the knowledge that Lannister knew her past, knew who she was, while she knew so little about him. Jaime stopped beside her, watching her carefully.

“You could be more precise,” she said reproachfully. She knew her irritation was irrational, yet she could not control it.

“I associated your surname when that boy introduced you. You lived in the Baratheon family home, and Renly… Renly has quite the tongue.”

“You know Renly?”

“Of course I know him. His brother, Robert, is the husband of my sweet sister.”

“You’re Cersei Baratheon’s brother?” Brienne took a step back, now noticing the resemblance: incredible beauty, green eyes, blonde hair, the same ironic smile. Tabloids wrote endlessly about Robert’s numerous affairs… She couldn’t understand how anyone could be unfaithful to a woman as beautiful as Cersei.

“Cersei Lannister,” Jaime corrected. “My sister never formally took the Baratheon name. She values her own too much.”

Brienne nodded, understanding. She herself was attached to her surname—the only thing still tying her to the past. To home.

“And you?” Jaime interrupted her thoughts. “Were you planning to take Kyle’s name?”

“Why do you keep mispronouncing his name? It’s Hyle. And no, I had no such intention. Why would I?” she said sharply, feeling her blood pressure rise. This man is raising my blood pressure.

“He introduced you as his fiancée. I don’t have much experience in these matters, but I think that’s the penultimate stage… right before the wedding?”

“We… well… it doesn’t matter,” she replied, trying to remain calm.

Jaime smiled, pleased with himself, as if he had won a game whose rules Brienne had yet to understand.

“How did you meet Doran Martell?” she decided to change the subject as they continued along the path.

“Through Oberyn, his brother. We are quite close. He and Ellaria often visit the Water Gardens. There’s also a horse stable nearby, run by Doran’s daughter, Arianne. She manages it with Oberyn’s daughters.”

“The Sand Steed stables?” Brienne raised her eyebrows, her voice a bit higher-pitched than intended, betraying her excitement.

“Yes. What surprises you?” Jaime looked clearly surprised at her change in demeanor.

“Nothing… I just… I love horses. I’ve always dreamed of seeing Dornish mares.” She replied shyly, glancing at her feet.

“Oh, that’s no problem.” Jaime stopped before her, lifting her chin. Emerald catlike eyes met the sapphire waters of hers. “I’ll take you there in the morning.”

Morning. In that word, Brienne felt a sudden rush of awareness. She remembered why she was here. Lannister must have seen it in her eyes, because his features softened.

“Come on.” He took her hand and led her along.

Soon they reached the courtyard of the actual palace. Towering colonnades surrounded them, their marble pillars adorned with intricate ornaments and mosaics. At the center of the courtyard lay a vast pool, its waters shifting between turquoise and sapphire, reflecting the sun and the blue sky. Fountains encircled the basin, streams merging into a symphony of water sounds, giving the impression that the entire palace lived and breathed.

The palace interiors were equally breathtaking. The walls were covered with vividly colored mosaics depicting scenes from the life of the Sun Court—processions, gardens, wild animals. Soft oriental rugs covered the floors, and tall windows opened onto gardens and fountains. High ceilings with intricately carved beams created a sense of spaciousness, while the rooms were filled with the scent of fragrant oils and spices, as if each chamber were the essence of Dorne itself.

The apartment they entered was immense yet cozy, imbued with an exotic charm. Soft rugs led from one room to another, past low seating and ornately decorated tables. Jaime guided her through the main salon, then led her out to a terrace where dinner awaited. The table was laden with dishes, and from the terrace stretched a view that took Brienne’s breath away: to the west and north, fountains and expansive gardens bathed in the golden light of the setting sun; to the east, the sea stretched calm and boundless, mirroring the colors of the sky. Every detail, every perspective, made Brienne feel like a heroine from a fairy tale—yet simultaneously like an intruder in a world that was at once luxurious, wild, and dangerously beautiful.

Jaime invited her to sit in an exquisitely carved armchair, piled with soft cushions.

“It’s Doran’s obsession. Cushions everywhere. His gout,” he explained, sliding a plate of seafood toward her. Brienne reached for a clam but hesitated for a fraction of a second.

“I didn’t poison the food, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said with a half-smile.

“That’s good.” A hint of a smile touched her lips. “I’d rather die in a fight than at a table.”

“And I’d rather you didn’t die at all.” He said it so calmly that something tightened inside her chest.

Their conversation flowed slowly, interspersed with bites of succulent shrimp and delicately saffron-flavored fish. Jaime spoke of his first visits to Dorne, of Oberyn and Ellaria, of the cuisine that here bordered on art. And of aphrodisiacs.

“W-what…?” she asked, peering at him from beneath long lashes, feeling her cheeks warm.

“Seafood, Brienne. Potent aphrodisiacs—didn’t you know?” He sounded self-satisfied, his smile widening as he noticed her blush.

A silence fell, one neither seemed willing to break.

When they rose from the table, the air had cooled, and only the distant splash of fountains filled the gardens. Jaime offered his arm. She didn’t know whether he did it out of courtesy or to keep her close—and perhaps she didn’t want to know. He led her through the expansive room to another chamber. The glass of wine she had drunk with dinner seemed to have taken effect; her legs suddenly felt soft as cotton.

Jaime opened a door for her, and Brienne’s eyes fell on a spacious bedroom. Its centerpiece was an enormous double bed, stretched beneath a diaphanous canopy of light, pale fabrics that fluttered in the quiet Dornish breeze wafting through the open windows.

She stepped further into the room but stumbled over the thick, plush carpet, too rich and dense to easily keep her balance. Or maybe her legs had simply betrayed her. Before she could fall, Jaime was already there—his hands firmly on her shoulders, steadying her mid-step.

“Easy,” he said softly, looking straight into her eyes. She thought he sounded like he was calming a skittish horse.

Jaime guided her slowly forward until she sat on the edge of the bed. He knelt in front of her, resting his hands on her knees.

“I won’t do anything against your will,” he said in a calm, assured tone. “If you want to leave now, I’ll take you back to the casino. And if at any point you decide you want to stop, just say the word.”

Brienne looked at him for a moment, as if weighing every word, then nodded. “I want to stay.” There was still a shadow of tension on her face, but her voice carried determination.

“In that case,” Jaime said with a slight smile, “let me help you relax first. A massage will do you good.”

He sat beside her, then asked, “May I take off your dress?”

Brienne hesitated for a moment, then whispered, “Yes.”

Jaime stood and held out his hand; she took it without a word. He stood behind her, unzipped the back of her dress, and let the soft blue silk slide down from her shoulders and hips until it pooled in a gentle fold at her feet. She remained in her undergarments, goosebumps rising from the sudden contrast between the warm fabric and the breeze drifting into the room. Jaime noticed and began gently rubbing her shoulders to warm them. Suddenly he stopped; she heard him inhale sharply behind her.

“Where did this come from?” His voice was tense, and Brienne had no idea what he meant.

“Where did what come from?”

“That ugly bruise on your shoulder — how did it get there?” Damn, she had completely forgotten. The long sleeves of her dress had hidden it well. From Jaime’s tone, she knew he wouldn’t let it go easily.

“It’s nothing.  My skin bruises at the slightest touch. Sometimes I bump into something lightly, and it appears.”

“Brienne.”

She turned to face him so she could look into his eyes. True concern was written across his face. She felt something warm spread through her chest. “It’s okay, really.”

“If someone has hurt you, you can tell me.” Brienne knew exactly who Jaime meant.

“I’m a tall and strong woman. Do you think I let anyone hurt me?” she replied with a laugh, trying to turn it into a joke. When he opened his mouth, no doubt to say something wise, she stopped him, placing her hand gently over his lips. For a moment he looked surprised, then pressed his lips lightly to her hand without breaking eye contact. Brienne shivered. She lowered her gaze, suddenly reminded that she was standing half-dressed before him.

“Will you lie down on the bed for me, on your stomach?” he asked softly.

Brienne passed him without looking in his direction. She carefully lay face down on the bed, burying her face in the soft pillow and stretching her arms along her sides. She felt the mattress sink slowly under her left side. Then came the touch—first light as a feather, barely a brush of fingertips along her neck. His hands were warm, moving cautiously, as if he feared that a firmer touch might leave a lasting mark on her skin.

Jaime began massaging her neck, kneading the tense muscles slowly and deliberately. His touch was gentle but firm, as if he wanted to lift the weight she carried on her shoulders. His hands glided down her arms, moving fluidly, following every muscle, soothing every tense spot. She felt the warmth of his fingers, and their touch became increasingly intimate yet remained subtle.

Brienne felt her tension slowly melting away, and her body—despite its initial resistance—began to relax. Jaime moved his hands over her shoulder blades, then along her sides, teasing lightly as if testing her reactions. Brienne twitched slightly, not from fear, but from the mingling of surprise, ticklishness, and the first flickers of genuine pleasure.

His hands moved down to her hips, then gently massaged her thighs, first the outer side, then the inner, always pausing where he sensed Brienne was the most tense. She closed her eyes, letting all thoughts drift away. With each movement of Jaime’s hands, she felt more present, more connected to her own body—her senses slowly awakening as if from a long slumber.

His hands continued downward to her calves, then her feet, which he massaged gently, occasionally brushing a fingertip along the soles, drawing involuntary giggles from her.

The whole massage was like a quiet dance of hands over her body—slow, tender, full of care and respect. Brienne felt a stirring within her, an awakening not born of fear or uncertainty, but a sensory blossoming, an openness to whatever might follow, should she choose to embrace it.

When Brienne felt completely relaxed, as could be heard from her quiet murmur into the pillow, Jaime rested his hands back on her shoulders. She sensed him watching her. She turned her head toward him and slowly opened her eyes. He looked so beautiful, his cheeks slightly flushed, the flame of the nearby candle reflecting in his eyes.

“May I… unfasten your bra?” His voice was low, husky, barely a whisper.

Brienne felt her heart beat faster. She froze for a moment, struck by the tone of his voice—full of gentleness, respect, and an unmistakable longing. He sought her consent in her eyes, and she felt a quiet satisfaction, realizing that the massage had affected him as well. Finally, she nodded, keeping her gaze on him, allowing this gentle gesture to become the beginning of something more.

Jaime slowly unfastened her bra and carefully slid it down from her shoulders, his fingers gliding over her delicate skin with tender precision. His movements were full of respect, as if handling something fragile and precious. After a moment, he gently guided Brienne to lie on her back. She did not try to cover herself with her hands; the sense of embarrassment had melted away along with the tension in her body.

Jaime’s hands slowly began massaging the front of her body, starting at her neck and shoulders, moving down to her chest, barely grazing her skin. Then he moved to her abdomen, each movement releasing the tension that gave way to rising warmth and growing anticipation. He repeated the process once more before daring to touch her chest again.

Jaime gently cupped her breasts with his hands, moving slowly and sensitively, massaging them with gentle pressure, relaxing her chest muscles and at the same time stimulating Brienne's body in a way she had never experienced before. When his fingers touched her nipples, at first it was a light, almost shy touch—circular, soft movements that awakened her senses without causing any discomfort. His fingers caressed them slowly, sensing every change in the tension of her skin, responding to the slightest movements of Brienne's body. Soon his hands began to slowly squeeze and knead her breasts, his fingers teasing first one nipple and then the other, nibbling and twisting them, causing subtle tremors throughout her body. Her nipples grew more sensitive, hardening under his touch, and Brienne began to whisper quiet sighs—the first, timid signals of pleasure that filled the space between them. His hands slowly slid further along the sides of her body, massaging gently until they reached her long legs. 

Jaime, running his hands along Brienne's inner thighs, casually brushed the edge of her panties with his fingertip. This subtle, almost unintentional touch sent a warm tingle through her, which quickly spread throughout her body. The air in the room seemed to suddenly thicken. 

Jaime repeated this gentle, seemingly accidental movement once more, and then again—more consciously sliding the tip of his finger along the edge of her panties, approaching her most sensitive spot. Finally, without any shyness, he began to slowly move, first with one finger, then with two, over her clitoris covered by fabric, causing a wave of tremors. 

Her panties were already visibly damp, and Jaime's fingers didn't let up, gently but firmly exploring every inch. Brienne began to moan softly, unable to contain the growing wave of pleasure. Finally, she grabbed his hand, looking at him feverishly, almost pleadingly.

Jaime withdrew his fingers, brought them close to his face, and inhaled deeply, sniffing intensely. He fixed his gaze on her, his voice sounding even more hoarse than before: “Do you want me to stop?”

“No... but... I'm so close.” Brienne stammered, trying to collect her thoughts.

“That's good.” He smiled with a hint of triumph and tenderness at the same time. “Can I take off your panties?” he asked in a soft voice, as if afraid to break the delicate thread between them.

Brienne nodded eagerly, unable to take her eyes off him. Jaime moved his hands to her hips, his fingers catching on the edge of her panties. He began to pull them down, slowly revealing her smooth skin. Once he had pulled them off her long legs, he held them to his face and inhaled their scent. His eyes flashed with a darker glow of desire. Brienne could see a distinct bulge in his pants. 

“Spread your legs for me,” he commanded in a deep voice, full of quiet authority that left no room for objection.

Brienne obediently spread her thighs, feeling the pulsing tension between them become almost palpable. Jaime slowly lay down between her legs, his gaze resting on Brienne's most intimate place. For a moment, she felt panic rising within her; Brienne hadn't shaved in a long time. Hyle had once insisted that she start shaving her bikini area, but after each shave she felt an unpleasant itching and her skin was irritated. In the end, he gave up, and anyway, he never touched her there with his mouth. 

Just as she was about to close her legs, Jaime sighed with appreciation. “You're so real and natural. Beautiful.” 

Jaime began to slowly massage the spot with his fingertips, moving them with extraordinary delicacy and precision. His touch was light as a feather, tracing tender lines on her skin, awakening an avalanche of pleasure that spread throughout Brienne's body. With each stroke of his fingers, she felt a fever rising within her, her heart beating faster, her breath becoming shallow and uneven. When she felt herself approaching the peak again... Jaime suddenly stopped. Brienne, her body throbbing under his touch, sobbed quietly, as if she had lost something priceless. He rose slowly, shedding layer after layer of clothing until he was left in only his underwear. The thin fabric did not hide his impressive, steel-hard, erect penis, which seemed to demand attention.

Without a word, he returned to the bed, his hands and mouth beginning to explore Brienne's body with extraordinary tenderness. He started with kisses on her neck, leaving behind a burning trail of lips and tongue. Brienne gasped when he reached her breasts. His lips closed around one nipple and sucked hard. As if trying to squeeze milk out of her, his lips worked fiercely, while his other hand kneaded and squeezed them. Brienne had never felt anything like this before, moaning and writhing beneath him. He lifted her arms, exposing her armpits. He sniffed her scent again, then began to lick her sweat. Before she could protest, he was already sliding lower, kissing and licking her stomach. When he slipped his tongue into her navel, Brienne trembled with laughter and ticklishness. He didn't stop there—he kissed her legs, working his way down to her feet, which he held gently in his hands as if they were the most precious treasure. Brienne, barely conscious with excitement, whispered his name like a mantra, immersed in an ocean of pleasure.

When he finally reached the moist heat between her legs, Brienne was already completely soaked. Jaime took pity on her, lowering his face to begin licking and sucking her pussy with the intensity and passion of a man thirsty for rain after a long drought. When he sensed she was close, he slid two fingers into her hot, wet entrance and bent them, massaging her G-spot with precision. Brienne went wild, her hips rising above the bed, but Jaime quickly pinned her back down to the mattress. When the fingers of his other hand began to squeeze and twist her nipples, she began to thrash about on the bed, screaming, “Gods, gods, Jaime!” 

He pulled away, and Brienne was close to kicking him straight in the face with all her strength if he hadn't been holding her so tightly. His face glistened with her juices. He looked at her, his pupils huge, dark with desire. “Brienne,” he rasped. “I want to taste you, all of you.” 

Brienne had no idea what he meant, but she nodded vigorously, unable to utter a word as Jaime's tongue resumed its assault on her clitoris.  He was relentless, his mouth and fingers working together in perfect symphony of pleasure. Brienne's orgasm hit her like a wave, flooding her and leaving her breathless and trembling. She squirted a milky-white, extremely abundant secretion into his face. She thought she had lost consciousness for a moment, and when she came to, Jaime didn't let up, his tongue licking her pussy as she fell from pleasure. She had the impression that he wanted to suck every possible drop out of her. Brienne turned into a trembling mess from the excess of stimuli. 

Tears ran down her cheeks, flowing slowly, as if washing away the weight of all the emotions she had carried. Her breathing became uneven, and her body trembled under the surge of feelings that filled her to the brim—a mix of pleasure, emotion, and unexpected vulnerability. Jaime looked at her, alarmed. A shadow of worry crossed his eyes, as if the thought had suddenly struck him that he might have hurt her.

He rose from the bed and quickly leaned over Brienne. “Brienne, are you all right? Did I hurt you…? Please, tell me.” His hands rested gently on her shoulders, and his concerned gaze never left her eyes.

Brienne, sobbing quietly, tried to catch her breath and force out words that would reassure Jaime. “It’s… it’s all right,” she said in a trembling voice, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

Jaime wrapped his arms around her gently, drawing her closer, and his lips rested softly against her temple. She felt his warmth and the sense of safety that, in that moment, was all she needed.

Brienne melted limply into his embrace, a quiet, remorseful voice escaping her. “I’m sorry… I don’t know what came over me. I just… it’s never happened to me before.”

“What do you mean?” he asked quietly. 

Brienne wiped away her tears and tried to calm her breathing, looking at Jaime with slight concern. “Jaime... what was that? What came out of me?”

Jaime smiled gently, trying to ease her tension a little. “That, Brienne, was your orgasmic fluid,” he replied calmly. "It's a natural reaction of your body when you're highly aroused and reach the peak of pleasure. Many women experience it in different ways, some more intensely than others. Sometimes, with the right stimulation, they manage to squirt, just like you did. It's nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. It's a sign that your body is truly responding to what's happening to it." 

She was embarrassed that Jaime had to explain to her exactly how her own body worked. She had never read about it before, and her experiences with Hyle were far from what she was feeling now. Their encounters were sometimes painful, more often rushed, and on better days ended with him satisfying her with his fingers only after he had already reached orgasm himself.

Her breathing grew calmer. Just moments ago it had been quick, almost trembling; now it softened, deepened. She closed her eyes—not because she wanted to sleep, but because the light in the bedroom seemed too bright for her tired eyes. His hand rested lightly on her hip, tenderly, without need or possession. Fatigue came suddenly, like a warm summer rain. For a moment she tried to fight it, but she felt herself losing the struggle.

A long sigh escaped her lips as she nestled into the hollow of his neck, as if it had always been her place.

“I’m sorry, but I think I might… fall asleep,” she murmured, trying to stifle a yawn, but failing.

“Sleep,” he whispered softly, stroking her back.

And so, to the sound of his steady breathing, soothing like opium, she drifted into sleep.

When she woke, the glow of morning was seeping through the tall windows, painting golden streaks across the sheets. Jaime lay right beside her, turned slightly in her direction, his breath deep and steady. He must have covered her with the blanket after she fell asleep; he himself slept in nothing but boxers. Brienne allowed herself to look at him without hurry now, certain he wasn’t watching her.

He was handsome in a way that bordered on the absurd — golden hair falling in a gentle disarray over his forehead, honey-colored skin gleaming in the morning light. The line of his shoulders, the sharp definition of his abs and thighs, spoke of years of discipline and effort. Only now did she notice a pale scar running along his right forearm, as though from a fracture or surgery. Once, it must have been something serious. She remembered he had played tennis, and suddenly she felt a soft, quiet pang of sorrow — compassion mingled with a strange urge to run her fingers over that scar, as if by doing so she could take away all the pain he must have endured.

Her gaze drifted down to his groin. Last night she had seen clearly what was hidden there. An irrational impulse came over her — to slip her hand beneath his boxers. At that very moment, she heard a soft chuckle. She lifted her head.

“Do you like what you see?” Jaime asked, his half-lidded eyes fixed on her. A lazy, drowsy smile played on his lips — the kind of smile that could dismantle any defense.

She felt the blush spreading through her body at the speed of light. “Last night… you just…” she began, stumbling over her words.

“I didn’t come, I know,” he said with a gentle smile. “Don’t worry about it. How did you sleep?”

“Good. Really good,” she replied honestly. For the first time in a long while, no nightmares had haunted her.

“How about a bath?” he suggested.

She shifted on the bed, and the memory of last night — along with the feeling of wetness  she still felt — made her wince slightly. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Jaime looked at her as if he could read her mind. “Hey, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Remember?”

“Yes,” she whispered, trying not to drown in the depth of his green eyes.

“Good. Then I’ll go and run the bath.” He rose from the bed, and she followed his every move with her eyes, admiring the way his body moved as he walked into the adjoining room.

From the bathroom came the sound of running water, and a few moments later his low, warm voice called out: “Brienne, come. The water’s perfect.”

She wrapped the sheet tightly around herself, as if Jaime hadn’t already seen her completely naked. With her heart pounding, she crossed the bathroom threshold, feeling the warmth of steam brush against the back of her neck. He stood by the sink, leaning against it casually, still half-naked, wearing that same calm, slightly roguish smile, as if he knew exactly what was running through her head.

“Come here,” he said, reaching out his hand to her.

She hesitated, and he stepped closer. His fingers caught the edge of the sheet near her shoulder. “Let me…” he whispered.

He carefully peeled the fabric away, making her skin flare with heat even before it fell to the floor. There was no rush or judgment in his gaze — only warmth, which made her feel lighter, as if the weight of years of shame had been lifted from her.

“You’re more beautiful than you think,” he murmured, guiding her toward the bathtub.

Only now did she take in the bathroom. It was spacious and bright, filled with the warmth of the colors of the rising sun. The walls were covered in mosaics of sand and turquoise tones, with tiny golden accents glinting between them. The centerpiece of the room was a massive, polished stone bathtub, wide enough to comfortably hold two tall people.

The water embraced her with warmth as she sank into the tub. Jaime knelt beside her, adjusting his height. He picked up the soap lying nearby and lathered his hands, never taking his eyes off her. He began to glide the soapy hands over one of her shoulders, then leaned over to reach the other. She didn’t know why she allowed him to wash her. She shut off her thoughts and focused on her senses.

He moved his hands lower, along her forearms, down to her fingers, briefly intertwining them with her own, as if he wanted her to feel his presence in every gesture. Then he slowly withdrew his hands, touching her chest. His movements were calm, deliberate, more mechanical than sensual, as if his true intent was simply to wash her.

His hands paused at her thighs. His fingers glided slowly, giving her time to adjust to every movement. Then he traced them higher, toward the inner thighs, and the warmth of the water suddenly seemed nothing compared to the heat of his touch.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

When she lifted her eyes, she saw him watching her intently, searching her face for any sign of resistance. Finding none, he gently slid a hand between her legs. She felt her entire body respond — her abdominal muscles tensing slightly, her breath quickening, and a familiar, thick heat spreading across her neck. There was no force or hurry in his touch, only slow, deliberate gestures that made washing feel far more intimate than she had ever imagined.

She felt a sudden, intense desire inside her for Jaime to fill her — to fill the emptiness she carried within. “Take a bath with me.” She was surprised by her own voice, which echoed loudly in the quiet space. 

She didn't have to wait long. Jaime got to his feet and slid his underwear off his legs. At the sight of his erect penis, her pussy tightened. It was perfect, both in length and width. She never thought a penis could be so aesthetically pleasing. She felt him watching her, and she reached out of the water and carefully touched his foreskin with her fingertip. She heard him gasp sharply. 

“You’re killing me,” he rasped, then, in a firmer, more commanding tone, added, “Make some room for me.”

She shifted forward and felt him step into the tub behind her. Once he had settled comfortably, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He pressed his nose to her neck, inhaling her scent. Then he placed a gentle kiss on the shell of her ear. When he blew a warm breath across it, she let out an involuntary moan. Her ears were extremely sensitive. Something in the sound she made awoke a sudden hunger in him. His hands found her breasts, enclosing them in a firm grasp, while his tongue teased the soft curve of her ear, eliciting more uncontrolled sounds from her. She began to moan louder and louder as she felt his hard penis digging into her lower back. 

“Wait,” she gasped, almost breathless. 

He stopped, and she untangled herself from his arms to stand up for a moment and turn to face him. She knelt in the bathtub on either side of Jamie, her pussy hovering over his penis. 

“I'm on the pill,” she said quietly, as if to dispel any doubts.

“I'm clean,” he replied, devouring her body with his eyes. 

She touched his shoulders and slowly slid down onto his waiting cock. As he began to fill her, Brienne found herself losing control. She looked at his lips through half-closed eyes, and he leaned toward her as if on cue. The kiss was long, deep, passionate. When she sat down on Jaime completely, and his cock filled her perfectly, she began to move. Up and down, she started riding him like her favorite stallion. When she thought she had completely taken the initiative, Jaime grabbed both her wrists and joined them with his hand behind her back. She was straight as a string, unable to lean toward him. Jaime grabbed her nipple between his teeth and bit it a little harder. She squeezed his penis like a vice. Lannister gasped and then started attacking her nipples with great enthusiasm. Slowly, she felt that he was close. His breathing was getting more and more ragged, and the sounds he made were becoming more and more animalistic. He slipped his free hand into the water to massage her swollen clitoris. He was relentless, but she was not giving in. She was now jumping in the bathtub, splashing water around them. When she was sure she was about to come, she heard a loud knock on their bedroom door. 

“Don't you dare stop,” Jaime growled through clenched teeth.

Brienne didn't even think about it. One more touch of his fingers on her clitoris and she flew away in ecstasy, screaming his name loudly. Jaime came right after her, thrusting into her a few more times as she collapsed into his arms.

Suddenly, the bathroom door flew open. Brienne turned her head in that direction with the last of her strength. Addam Marbrand stood in the doorway, frozen like a statue. His lips moved silently, like a fish washed up on shore.

“Get the fuck out of here. Wait outside the door.” Brienne heard Jaime's angry voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“I... I'm sorry. I knocked,” Marbrand stammered, his gaze fixed on Brienne's naked figure.

“What's so fucking important that it couldn't wait?” Brienne looked into Jaime's face. He looked as if he might lunge at him at any moment. She realized she wouldn't want to be in Addam's shoes right now.

“Tyrion. Shae.” Marbrand had a clear problem articulating his thoughts. 

“What about them?” Jaime hissed.

“They split up. Tyrion is gone, Jaime. He disappeared.” The words came out of Addam's mouth in a rush. He sounded scared.

The words hit Jaime hard. He drew in a sharp breath and looked at Brienne with something like panic in his eyes. Instinctively, she rose from the tub, slipping slightly on the wet floor. Addam moved to help her at the same moment Jaime stood and grabbed her hand, steadying her.

“Out. Now. Don’t make me say it again,” Lannister growled through clenched teeth, addressing Marbrand.

Addam nodded, giving Brienne one last, lingering look before retreating and closing the door behind him.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Jaime muttered repeatedly, rubbing his face with his hand as he stepped out of the tub.

“Are you… okay?” Brienne asked, though she knew the question was pointless. Something was clearly wrong.

“Not really. I have to go back to King's Landing. I'm sorry. I promise I'll take you to the stables next time.” He approached her and kissed her gently on the lips. Brienne involuntarily deepened it, causing Jaime to grab her buttock and pull her closer to him. When they pulled apart, he pressed his forehead against hers. 

“We’ll meet again.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. He kissed her once more, this time on the temple, and then walked out of the bathroom naked, closing the door behind him.

Brienne dried herself with the towel, and once she was reasonably dry, she draped the sheet over herself. When she entered the bedroom, Jaime was fastening the last buttons of his shirt. Addam stood off to the side, eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding her gaze.

Lannister walked over to her, took a business card out of his wallet, and handed it to her. “Here’s my number. Call me.” When she furrowed her brow at his officer-like tone, he added softly, “Please.”

Brienne took the card from his hand.

“My driver will take you to the casino. Don’t worry about anything. The money will be in your account once you get there.”

Brienne nodded absentmindedly. Jaime gave her one last long look, then turned to Addam. “Let’s go, Marbrand.”

And then they were gone.

Chapter Text

I was bruised and battered
I couldn't tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself
Saw my reflection in a window
And didn't know my own face
Oh brother, are you gonna leave me wastin' away
On the streets of Philadelphia?

Gray tenement blocks in the working-class district stood in tight rows, looming over narrow alleys that drowned in half-shadow. The cobblestones were uneven, cracked, and caked with dirt. Clogged drains, stuffed with trash, left stagnant water lingering in the streets, reflecting the overcast sky. Smoke from factory chimneys rose like a fog, seeping through cracks in old windows, mingling with dampness and the stench of mildew. The entire neighborhood seemed suspended in a state of permanent gloom. Even the sun, when it sometimes broke through the heavy clouds, appeared faded and stripped of warmth. The stifling air pressed into lungs, while the omnipresent bitterness seeped into thoughts, weighing them down and forcing children to grow up too quickly. People walked hunched over, as though the very weight of life were pressing them into the ground; their tired eyes, joyless faces, and hands cracked from factory work told their own stories. They returned to their cramped flats, spent evenings in pubs or in front of the television, and each new generation repeated the same cycle of life.

The imagination of young Hyle was his only form of escape. The dreary reality vanished before his eyes whenever he held in his hands a roughly whittled piece of wood that served as a sword. Other children kicked a ragged ball, shouted over one another, or banged sticks against fences, pretending to play the drums. But Hyle stood apart, in the middle of the backyard, his cheeks flushed from running, hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes gleamed as he raised the stick with both hands, as though it truly were steel forged in dragonfire.

“I am Aemon the Dragonknight!” he cried, brandishing the stick toward an imaginary foe. “Lord Commander of the Kingsguard! Protector of the realm! Surrender!”

He spun swiftly, pretending to parry a blow from an unseen enemy. His imagined opponent was strong, wielding a great hammer, but Hyle was fearless. He lifted his wooden sword and slashed at the air, then leapt, rolled across the ground, and struck from behind. For a moment, he forgot everything: the damp in their flat, the endless lack of money, the reek of alcohol, the constant fear. In that instant he truly was someone else — a hero, a knight, a protector of those who could not protect themselves. A few children glanced at him with amusement; someone jeered, “Look at the little knight!” Laughter rang out, but Hyle paid no heed. Their voices slid off him like rain off steel armor. In his imagination he stood upon a battlefield, surrounded by smoke and fire. He heard the clash of swords, the whinny of horses, the pounding of shields struck again and again. And he himself, a poor boy from a shabby home, was the only one who did not yield. Moments later he stopped, panting heavily, his face flushed. He stood motionless in the shabby backyard of his building, as though he had truly declared victory over the whole world. Only when the sun began to sink behind the rooftops and the air grew cooler did he leave his imaginary battlefield and head home.

Hyle ran up the steps of his row house, breathless, still clutching the wooden sword. He knew he was late for supper, but his mother allowed him to stay out longer whenever his father worked a double shift. Hyle’s father worked in the factory — a vast, rusting hulk that for years had consumed the health of the men in their district. He rose at dawn and left without saying goodbye. He came home in the late afternoon or evening, exhausted, reeking of sweat, and most often of alcohol as well. Some days he collapsed straight into the old, springy armchair and fell asleep with one boot still on, snoring like a truck engine. But more often he came home irritable, filled with a rage he couldn’t name, and vented it in shouting and with his fists.

Since childhood, Hyle feared the sound of the front door creaking open. That was the signal his father had returned — and that he had to be careful. He would try to make himself invisible, hiding in the corner of his room or under his blanket. He knew his father could find fault with anything: shoes not lined up, notebooks left on the table, even breathing too loudly. Fear was his constant companion, burrowing into his childhood like cold into bone. Worst of all was watching his father beat his mother, or humiliate her in ways Hyle hadn’t understood then but came to understand later. Sometimes he curled up in his room, hands pressed over his ears, trying not to hear her sobs.

And yet his mother never allowed him to speak ill of his father. When Hyle once gathered the courage to ask, “Mommy, why is he like that? Why does he hurt us?” she only laid her hand gently on his head and whispered, “Your father works hard so we have a roof over our heads. He… he carries a lot of pain inside him. You must never think badly of him, Hyle. He is your father.” She was like a wall — shielding him from the worst, but also refusing to let him hate.

Once, his mother had been a nurse, but she gave up her job when Hyle was born. She stayed home, caring for him, trying to create at least a semblance of safety. She had a beautiful voice. She hummed softly while cooking soup from scraps of vegetables, while cleaning, while patching his trousers. Those melodies soothed him more than any warm blanket. Most often she sang old folk songs she remembered from her own childhood. They carried a peace their home otherwise lacked. When his father struck him so hard that the skin above his brow split open, it was she who stitched the wound with trembling hands. She sat him down in the kitchen chair, lit the only lamp, and with needle and thread — just as she once had in the hospital — leaned over him. Her hair brushed his cheek, and her voice — gentle, soft — hummed an old lullaby. “Just a moment more, sweetheart… just a moment more…” she murmured, her eyes brimming with tears.

Now he opened the front door, calling out from the threshold: “Mom! I defeated him!” always, as ever, full of hope she would answer with her warm voice. But instead he heard a crash, as if something heavy had fallen to the floor, followed by a slurred mutter. His heart clenched in his chest. Carefully he stepped inside, and as he passed through the narrow hallway, he saw a sight he would never wish to remember.

His mother lay on the kitchen floor. Her hair was disheveled, her house dress torn and stained with blood. A bruise darkened beneath her eye, and her lips were cracked. She braced herself on her elbows, trying to rise, but trembled too violently. Above her stood his father. Massive, hunched, fists clenched.

“Don’t whimper, bitch,” he growled hoarsely. “You provoked me yourself.”

Hyle felt the wooden sword in his hand suddenly turn as heavy as lead. Moments ago he had been the Dragonknight, a hero from old tales. Now he stood frozen, paralyzed, drowning in guilt that he could not protect his mother.

“Dad…” he whispered, with a trembling voice.

His father turned toward him. His face was purple with rage and drink.

“And where the hell have you been so long, you little shit?!” he bellowed. “You want to learn what it means to be a man? Then stop sniveling and watch! Watch, because this is what life looks like!”

The boy stepped back. The sword slipped from his hand, clattering dully against the floor. His mother’s eyes, though filled with pain and fear, pleaded with him not to come into the kitchen.

“Hyle, go to your room…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please…”

“Shut up, woman. Come here, boy.”

That night he lay awake for a long time. After finally managing to escape upstairs, he curled up in his bed, listening to every sound coming from the kitchen. He could still hear his father’s shouting, then the crash of broken glass, and at last something that sounded like heavy footsteps retreating down the hallway. The door slammed. Silence fell.

A moment later, someone gently pushed his door open. It was his mother. She had thrown a sweater over her torn dress; her face was swollen with bruises and tears, and in her hands she carried a bowl of water and a clean bandage.
“Sweetheart…” she sat down on the edge of his bed. “Show me your hand.”

The boy hesitantly held it out. The skin was red, throbbing with pain, and a blister shimmered on top. His mother looked at it with deep concern, her eyes glistening in the half-dark. His father had flown into a rage when Hyle tried to defend her. He had grabbed his wrist and pressed his hand against the hot iron stove. The tiles had scorched his skin instantly. The pain had been sharp, searing, as if a fiery hell itself pulsed beneath his flesh. Now the burn was swollen, sharp, and still stinging.

His mother bathed the wound in cold water. Hyle gasped quietly from the sting, and she held his hand close to her, whispering words of comfort. Then she carefully pressed the gauze to the burn, wrapped it, and tied the bandage.

“See? Almost over,” she murmured, brushing his hair back. “You’re brave, Hyle. You’ve always been brave.”

He stayed silent, not wanting to worry her more.

“He shouldn’t have made you watch. None of this is your fault. None of it.”

She may not have known, but Hyle always watched. He listened. And he knew. He knew everything his father did to her. She never once called him a monster, even though she was his victim. Hyle could not understand it. He loved her for her tenderness, for soothing him, for healing both the wounds on his body and the ones no one could see. But deep down, he also resented her for not standing up to his father. Every song she hummed was also a spell of silence: don’t speak ill of him, don’t hate him, even if he hurts you. That torn feeling - fear of his father, disagreement on his mother’s silence - shaped him for years. In his heart he carried her voice, soft and pure, and on his skin the scars left by his father’s cruelty.

In middle school, Hyle was an easy target. He had no new shoes, his backpack was patched and sewn together, his clothes worn thin from countless washes. To children from wealthier families, he was someone they could humiliate without risk. Sometimes he came home with a split lip or a ripped sleeve, but he never told his mother. She had enough burdens of her own. Hyle learned quickly that sorrow and tears had to be hidden. He felt alien, as if he belonged to two worlds at once: one of childish games, shoving and taunts, the other full of father's screams, fear, and the sense that he would never be like the others.

But Hyle had something that set him apart: a gift for seeing space. In his notebooks he sketched buildings he imagined—houses unlike the one he had grown up in: full of light, with large windows, places of warmth and safety. He could capture proportions, lines, and perspective as if an invisible compass guided his hand. One day his class teacher saw one of the drawings and kept him after a lesson. “Hyle, you have a gift. Don’t waste it. Think about architecture. That could be your life.”

At the start of high school, Hyle tried to keep to himself. He walked the corridors with his head down, books clutched to his chest, as if he wanted to vanish. He knew too well what it meant to be a victim—he had lived it at home. Then they invited him—the boys who ruled the class. They weren’t smarter or better, but they had a confidence that made everyone else step aside. “Want to sit with us at break?” one of them asked, and in the others’ eyes Hyle saw it was a test. He understood this was his chance.

He joined. At first he was silent, standing by while they mocked others. Then came the nervous, forced laughter, but laughter all the same. Later, small gestures: kicking someone’s chair, shoving in the locker room, a cutting remark that drew roars of approval. Each moment burned him inside, but it also gave him what he had craved all his life: untouchability. No one pointed fingers at him anymore, no one mocked his height or his second-hand clothes. He had gained a shield. The price was steep, but Hyle decided it was necessary.

Mary entered his life quietly. She was new in town, a transfer student who joined his class. One day she sat beside him, her eyes lingering on his hand as he tried to hide a burn scar. A mark left by his father’s last drunken rage, when he had pressed a cigarette into Hyle’s skin.

“Was that from a cigarette?” she asked suddenly, softly, but without hesitation.

Her question caught him off guard. His instinct was to shove his hand into his pocket, to deny, to joke. But her gaze was unlike anyone else’s - not curious, not mocking, only concerned. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, too quickly.

Mary narrowed her eyes. “It looks fresh. And painful.”

Hyle let out a short, nervous laugh, trying to regain control. “What, do you want to be my nurse?”

She didn’t smile the way other girls usually did when he tossed out lines like that. She only shrugged. “No. I just know what it’s like to be hurt.”

The words hung in the air. For a moment, he lost his breath, because it was the first time he had met someone who carried the same kind of burden.

The next time they met was in the school library. He had been looking for an excuse to talk to her; she had come to avoid the noise of the hallways. They sat at the same table, books spread in front of them, neither reading a single word. Mary spoke first. She told him about her abusive stepfather, about the night her mother finally gathered the courage and whispered: “Pack your things. Quickly, before he wakes up.” They took only what they could carry. They left the house, the furniture, their friends — everything.

“I didn’t ask where we were going,” she said quietly, her eyes turned away, as if afraid to meet his. “It didn’t matter. What mattered was never hearing him smash plates against the wall again. Never watching Mom serve him dinner as if nothing had happened.”

Hyle sat frozen, every word cutting into him sharper than a needle.

“We came here,” she continued. “To my aunt, whom Mom reconnected with after years. She took us in, helped us. Mom said we had to start over, as if the old life had never existed. But it did. It still does. I still hear it, sometimes — in my head, in my body. Even in dreams, I hear him opening the door to my room.”

Hyle felt his throat tighten. He couldn’t find words wise enough, so he let the silence stand. After a while, without thinking, he slid his hand across the edge of the table, reaching for hers. Mary hesitated only for a heartbeat before her slender, restless fingers rose and met his halfway. She gripped his hand firmly, more firmly than he expected. The touch was simple, but it carried something more. Hyle felt as though someone had finally broken the wall of loneliness he had lived behind for years. Mary tilted her head slightly, a lock of hair falling across her cheek. “You’re not alone,” she whispered, as if naming the thing he could never put into words. Her hand didn’t pull away, didn’t tremble, as though to prove she wasn’t afraid of his scars or the story behind them.

From that day, they began spending more and more time together. They laughed, shared secrets, and her touch, at first tentative, grew warmer, closer. She caressed the scars left by the buckle of a belt. Taught him that touch didn’t have to mean pain, that it could be transformed into something tender. They made love shortly before his departure. For Hyle, it was a revelation, almost sacred: the warmth of her body, the gentleness of her movements, the respect in her eyes. There was no fear, no anger, no violence — only closeness, something entirely new to him.

Afterwards, he tried to keep his distance, cool and practical. Her presence stirred memories he longed to bury — his past, which he wanted to sever. They both knew their relationship couldn’t last. After graduation, she would stay, while he would move on. Hyle already had a promise of work from Mr. Tarly in Horn Hill — hard labor, but honest. The money from those summer months would be just enough to cover tuition until he could earn a scholarship. It was his ticket into the world he had always dreamed of.

~*~

The first months at the Architecture Department were like stepping through the door to an entirely new world. After years of living in his father’s shadow and within the narrow confines of a small town, Hyle suddenly found himself in a place where every building, every street seemed to breathe history, possibility, and the promise of adventure.

From the very first day, he felt that he had finally arrived where he had always belonged. The classes consumed him completely - he sketched, drafted, and redrew plans for hours until his hand ached, yet instead of exhaustion he felt only exhilaration. In the evenings, he would sit with new friends in the dormitory or on the steps in front of the library. They argued about architectural styles, about their favorite buildings, about visions of the cities of the future. Hyle often ended those conversations with more questions than answers, but that was what fueled him - the uncertainty that held within it the promise of discovery. He was happy. For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel as though he were running from his past. Instead, he was running toward a future that stretched before him like an endless horizon.

One afternoon, Hyle was staring at the class schedule spread across his desk when his phone vibrated in the pocket of his jacket. On the screen appeared a name: Mary. He froze for a moment, surprised; they had not spoken since he had left for Horn Hill.

“Hey,” he answered, unsuspecting, his voice light.

“Hyle… we need to talk.” Her voice was not as he remembered it. Tense, carrying a weight he had never heard before.

“What is it?” he asked, suddenly uneasy.

“I’ve been putting this off for a long time, but I know I can’t anymore. You deserve to know. I… I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air, heavy as lead. Hyle felt his heartbeat falter, the rhythm breaking. In an instant, all his hopes, the joy of those first months at university, that intoxicating sense of freedom—they collapsed like a house of cards.

“What… what?” he whispered, barely able to form the words.

“It’s true…” Mary continued, her voice wavering between hesitation and resolve. “I can’t hide it any longer. I will not have an abortion. I want you to know.”

Hyle sat motionless, the world caving in beneath him. Images from his past rushed through his mind: a home full of shouting, his father’s violence, poverty, loneliness. And now—suddenly—responsibility. A responsibility he wasn’t ready for, yet one he couldn’t turn away from. Silence filled the room, broken only by his uneven breathing and Mary’s trembling sigh on the other end of the line. Everything that had once seemed simple, possible, open, was now tangled, irreversible.

“I’ll… I’ll help you. I’ll send money. We’ll do everything we can so that… so that our child has a good life,” he said at last, clinging to the hope that those words might ease her fear, even a little.

“I know…” she replied, her voice breaking. “I believe we can make it.”

~*~

When Hyle learned about Mary’s pregnancy, the sense of responsibility overwhelmed him with full force. There was no longer any room for mistakes or postponing decisions – he had to act. Each day became a balancing act between studies, attempts to maintain a semblance of normality, and a desperate search for the means to support Mary and the child that was on the way.

The first step was carefully recalculating all his savings and expenses. He knew the scholarship wouldn’t arrive immediately, and that the dorm room, food, tuition fees, and everyday necessities in the city devoured every coin. Hyle began searching for additional sources of income – he spent every free hour working on projects for private clients, painting, designing small spaces, and helping with renovations wherever he could.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Hyle heard about Ronnet from a few older students who had once turned to him themselves when they needed quick cash for tuition or rent. They spoke of him in whispers, with a mix of respect and faint fear, as of a man who always found a way to make money appear – though no one ever asked about the details.

Ronnet Connington had once lived in luxury thanks to his uncle’s name, Jon Connington. The family had provided him with everything: education, connections, money. But at some point, relations within the family collapsed under mysterious circumstances – no one knew exactly what had happened. Since then, Ronnet had had to rebuild his life from scratch. He worked hard and effectively, dealing among other things with “bringing in clients” for the company whose logo bore the crow’s eye. He was a master at it – he could sense who needed money, who might agree to risk, whom to persuade with words, and whom with a bit of pressure. At first, Hyle didn’t understand that this world operated under unwritten rules, and that not everyone who helped did so in a strictly legal way.

When Ronnet met Hyle for the first time, he saw in him a young man with talent and ambition, who desperately needed a way to start. He smiled faintly as he handed him a business card marked with the crow’s eye and said:
“I see potential in you. But remember, nothing comes for free. Everything you take from me, you’ll have to give back… with interest. And not always in the way you imagine.”

Hyle took the card, not fully realizing that with it he was stepping onto a path that would draw him into a world of dark dealings he would only encounter later.

Working for Ronnet quickly stopped being simple or straightforward, though at first Hyle thought it was only about “easy” loans. Every day began with checking the list of clients he was supposed to visit or make sure they repaid their debts. Ronnet demanded precision, punctuality, and absolute discretion.

Hyle spent hours roaming the city streets, knocking on doors, talking to people who were often stressed, frightened, or furious. Some visits were calm – signatures, handing over cash, a quick conversation. Others were a test of character: threats, subtle manipulation, sometimes vague suggestions that someone “ought to pay in another way.” More and more, Hyle observed how money and fear became tools of control, and he felt within himself a growing mixture of dread and fascination.

Hyle first heard about Brienne from Ronnet.

They met for a drink after another transaction. Ronnet was oddly amused that evening, his biting humor sharper than usual, and in his eyes burned a hard glint.

“You know, Hyle,” Ronnet began, raising an eyebrow and smiling in a way that chilled more than it relaxed, “I found out something quite hilarious today. The ugly cow my father once tried to betroth me to has fled her sapphire island and started studying at your university. What do you say to a wager? Tell your buddies that whoever takes her virginity will receive a tidy sum of golden dragons.”

Hyle winced slightly, unsure whether to laugh or be outraged. “A cow? Sapphire island?”

Ronnet rolled his eyes, sipping his whisky. “Brienne Tarth. An ugly whore. A sow in silk, though most sows have bigger tits than she does. Tall, with a face that looks like it had a close encounter with a blacksmith’s hammer. Her father is the Lord of Tarth; she may one day inherit the island and a marble quarry that brings in enormous profits.”

His tone was sharp, cutting, filled with a mix of scorn and calculation. Hyle felt within himself a blend of disgust and fascination – he didn’t like the way Ronnet treated people, but he couldn’t deny that his “strategic” predictions always proved true. With his typical ruthlessness, Ronnet had turned Brienne into not a person but a move on the chessboard of interests – and Hyle knew he would start orbiting around her, whether he wanted to or not.

~*~

Brienne was taller than him, yet she seemed to do everything she could to make herself smaller, to blend into the background. She slouched, wore oversized, stretched-out clothes. Her face was stern, her features lacked the delicate softness of the girls Hyle usually found himself drawn to; her nose had clearly been broken more than once. But her eyes… her eyes were beautiful. They reflected what lived within her soul. At the start of their acquaintance, she seemed quiet and withdrawn, speaking little, her gaze distant, as though she were observing Hyle and everything around him with a cool reserve. She wasn’t beautiful, but neither was she the monster Ronnett’s words and the gossip had led him to expect.

He quickly noticed that behind her guarded personality lay extraordinary sensitivity, intelligence, subtlety, determination, and authenticity. She was honest, but never cruel. Every word she spoke carried weight; every gesture — meaning. Her gaze, though initially cold, could capture and hold Hyle’s attention. The longer he spent in her company, the more fascinated he became with her character. For the first time, he thought that true strength and allure did not lie in beauty, but in what a person carried inside. Brienne, though outwardly plain, became for Hyle unexpectedly compelling, unique — someone he could not ignore.

One afternoon Hyle was parking in front of an old apartment block on the outskirts of the city. The car he had only just managed to pay off had become his sole symbol of freedom. Sitting behind the wheel, he was lost in thoughts of an upcoming project when a loud knocking on the window jolted him. He turned his head and saw four men who looked as though they had stepped out of another age, a world without rules. They called themselves the Brave Companions. The first, Zollo, had a wide grin and tattoos on his arms that resembled old pirate symbols. Beside him stood Shagwell — tall, lanky, with a crooked hat that made him look like a clown teetering on the edge of madness. Timeon, short, muscular, with eyes that tracked Hyle’s every movement. And finally Pyg — small, but with an unnervingly menacing stare that gave the impression he could read your thoughts.

“Hyle, mate, you remember what we agreed?” Timeon said, resting a hand on the hood. “The deadline’s passed.”

A cold shiver ran down Hyle’s spine. He knew this wasn’t ordinary debt collection. This was fear, delivered in flesh and blood — their names and their presence commanded respect, and he had no idea how to get out of it.

“Give me a few more days,” he tried, forcing calm into his voice. “I just need a little more time.”

Shagwell leaned closer, tapping a finger against the glass right by his ear. “Time’s up, princeling.” His tone was amused, but laced with threat. “Get out of the car. We don’t like waiting.”

Hyle didn’t think twice. He pulled the keys from the ignition, shoved them into his pocket, unfastened his seatbelt, and opened the door. He hadn’t even set a full step on the pavement before Zollo twisted his arm behind his back and slammed him against the hood.

His heart pounded in his chest. In an instant, he remembered his mother on the floor, his drunk father, every moment he had been powerless. Now, grown, with ambitions of his own, he was once again that same helpless child who didn’t know what to do.

Shagwell grabbed him by the hair and yanked his face around. His grin bordered on madness, several teeth glinting gold. “Hand over the keys like the good little bitch you are. Otherwise, you’ll lose more than the car.”

“They’re in my pocket,” Hyle stammered. “You can take them.”

“Of course we can. We don’t need your permission, you faggot.” Zollo didn’t reach for the keys immediately; first, he deliberately groped Hyle in a way meant to humiliate and assert dominance. When he was done, he shoved him to the ground and kicked him in the stomach.

“You see, Hyle…” Timeon called as they drove off in his car, “we always find our money. Even if we have to dig six feet under.” They honked a few times, then were gone.

Hyle knew the debt was no longer just about money. It was a vow — one that, if broken, would drag him into a world with no rules, no justice, where the line between life and death was thin as paper. The encounter with the Brave Companions left Hyle deeply unsettled. Though he had avoided a full-blown beating, a constant unease had taken root inside him. Every creak in the stairwell, every noise at night brought back the memory of Zollo, Shagwell, Timeon, and Pyg invading his space, leaving him feeling helpless, like a child again.

His relationship with Brienne became unhealthy. In trying to protect his ambitions and dreams, Hyle began repeating the abusive patterns he knew: manipulation, hiding emotions, forcing guilt. When Brienne called him out, he responded with irony or anger, because deep down he feared that if he showed weakness, the world — like his father, like the Brave Companions — would immediately hurt him.

Their bond grew tense, strung with an invisible wire: Hyle craved closeness, yet he needed control. Psychologically, he was split in two: one part the young, talented architect with dreams of creating remarkable buildings, the other still the frightened boy who had learned survival only through force and dominance. And though in theory he wanted to be different from his father, in practice he repeated the same behaviors.

In dealing with others, Hyle was cautious, measuring every word and gesture. Any criticism felt like a threat; every request for help, a test of whether the world would once again turn into a battlefield where he was defenseless. What Hyle had absorbed since childhood — fear, violence, the lesson to swallow his tears — hadn’t vanished when he grew up. It worked within him like rust in metal: invisible from the outside, but corroding from within. At university he could be charming, ambitious, with a spark in his eye that drew people in. But beneath the surface lurked anger with no outlet. He carried his father’s voice. Whenever things didn’t go his way, whenever he felt control slipping, he remembered that tone: “Cry again, and I’ll give you a reason.” And he repeated it — not always in words, but in looks, in gestures, in the silence before an outburst.

Brienne was special to him. He saw in her not just a girl, but a safe haven. And yet it was with her that his worst patterns came out. He grew jealous, irritable. In his subconscious, he resented her for coming from a wealthy family, unlike him — and for rejecting all the privileges that came with it. In arguments, he could pin her against the wall — not hitting, but gripping her wrists so hard that bore marks. He liked to dominate her in bed; it made him feel powerful and in control. Sometimes he shouted that she was stupid, that she understood nothing. And afterward — like his father sobering up — he apologized, promised change, swore it would be the last time.

What hurt most was that he increasingly saw in Brienne’s eyes the same fear his mother had carried. When he shouted, his own hands trembled, as though he feared himself. But he didn’t know another way — no one had taught him how to live with the storm inside. He felt torn: part of him wanted to break free from the cycle, part of him was a hostage, repeating what he had always known.

Sometimes, when alone, he remembered his mother stitching his brow, humming a lullaby. Shame washed over him then. He asked himself: Does Brienne see in me what my mother once saw in my father?

The evening was stifling, the air heavy within the four walls of the small apartment Hyle and Brienne rented on the city’s edge. Brienne returned late from work — tired, her hair in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes from too little sleep. On the table sat the now-cold dinner Hyle had prepared hours earlier.

He sat in the armchair, scattered design sketches around him. He looked at her with barely restrained anger in bloodshot eyes. Something in him simmered, like a gas flame turned up too high.

“Where were you so long?” His voice was quiet, but taut.

“I texted you. A client meeting ran late…” she began, setting her bag on a chair.

But before she could finish, he leapt to his feet. “A client? Which one? That handsome brunette? And I bet you let him do whatever he wanted, didn’t you? Easy enough for you to smile at him, isn’t it?” His voice grew bitter, jealousy boiling beneath the surface.

“Hyle…” Brienne sighed, weary, disappointed. “It was just work.”

But that one sentence was enough. In that moment, nothing she said mattered. Rage demanded an outlet.

He strode toward her, each step pushing her back against the wall. He pinned her with his body. “Don’t make a fool of me! You think I don’t see how it looks? That everyone’s better than me? You fucking him behind my back? Tell me the truth!” he shouted, each word louder, like fists pounding a table.

Brienne tried to pull free, but his fingers clamped her wrist so tightly she cried out. The scene was familiar, a repeating pattern: he, in fury, reenacting the gestures of his childhood; she, struggling for breath and boundaries he crossed.

“Hyle, let go of me!” she said firmly, with the calm that was sometimes her only weapon. “It’s not me who’s hurting you.”

At those words, he froze. His hand lingered on her wrist a moment longer, then fell away. He stepped back as if struck. Suddenly he saw himself through her eyes: grim, unpleasant, full of rage.
“I… I didn’t mean…” he muttered, retreating toward the table. “I’m sorry…”

Brienne stood silently, clutching her wrist, a red mark slowly rising. In her eyes was no anger, only sadness.

After such outbursts, Hyle always entered the next, familiar stage: desperate “repair.” It never lasted long, but in his mind it was proof he wasn’t truly like his father.

The next morning he rose early, before Brienne awoke. In the kitchen he busied himself making coffee, slicing toast, carrying it to her in bed. Sometimes he bought small gifts — flowers from the station florist, her favorite chocolates to sweeten the bitterness of the night before. He brought her sketches of a dream house, each time adding something new just for her: “Look, here you’d have your own space, your own stables for as many horses as you want.”

But his apologies carried a nervous edge. He knelt before her, clutching her knees, speaking feverishly: “I’m sorry, Brienne. Sometimes I lose control. I know I shout, I know I’m awful. But you have to know — without you, I’m nothing.”

In those moments, he looked less like a man than a lost boy. “Hyle…” she would whisper softly, and he would bury himself in her, as if trying to merge into her body.

He truly believed he could change. He bought little things, spoke the right words, promised it would be the last time. Yet inside, the same fury he couldn’t control kept building. The cycle repeated itself: anger, outburst, apologies, tenderness. And then it all started over again.

~*~

Dorne

After saying goodbye to Brienne and closing the door behind him, Hyle stepped into the elevator to head up to the bar floor. It could have been a leap into the abyss, because that’s exactly how he felt: suspended in emptiness, cut off from feelings and emotions. He tried to keep his mind blank, not to think about anything in particular. It was enough to put one foot in front of the other, just keep moving, just don’t stop and feel the weight that was only waiting to crush him.

The main restaurant in the casino was monumental. “Opulence” was the perfect word to describe it. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like sparkling stalactites, casting light on tables arranged in precise rows. In the highly polished floor, one could see their own reflection, but Hyle didn’t dare look down. The chairs at the tables looked as if they had been transported straight from a royal box: heavy, upholstered in thick crimson velvet, which in the lamplight took on an almost bloody hue. The bar stretched along one wall, shelves piled high with bottles arranged like jewels in a display case — ruby, amber, emerald — each color holding the promise of oblivion.

He ordered the most expensive whisky for himself — after all, it was all going on Lannister’s tab. He lifted the glass, letting the amber liquid dance in the chandelier light, then tilted it slowly, as if savoring the taste. But instead of noble depth, he felt only the bitterness burning his throat.

Two days ago, Rorge had called. That’s when Hyle realized he was screwed.

The Brave Companions were no ordinary bandits — they had their own dark discipline and hierarchy, with each member assigned a specific role. He knew that Rorge and Biter were direct subordinates of the Crow’s Eye, and that alone was enough to send a shiver of unease through even the toughest men. They were utterly repulsive, and Hyle was glad he hadn’t had to meet them face to face until now. Even Ronnet, always cocky and arrogant, lost confidence at the mere mention of them. Now they knew about Mary. About her and their daughter. They had told him outright what would happen if he failed. It wasn’t her fault that she had a loser for a father. The money could really change his life. Their lives. And yet, something about it felt completely wrong.

With every passing moment, his stomach grew heavier. He felt like he was about to vomit onto the table. He tried to quiet his thoughts, but images began to press unbidden on his mind.

Blue eyes. The most beautiful and innocent he had ever seen.
A smile — a little horse-like, with lips too wide and teeth slightly too big.
Freckles, a whole sea of freckles.
Legs that seemed to go on forever.
Brienne.

Fuck. What had he done? He had sold his own woman. Turned her over for money to another man. Did that make him a pimp? Did it put him on the level of the Brave Companions? No. He was worse. At least they never pretended to be someone else.

Fuck. Fuck. No, she couldn’t do that. They’ll find another way. They must. But not like this, not this way.

He rose sharply, the room spinning around him. His knees gave out for a moment, but he had no time for weakness. He ran for the elevator, slamming the button as if he could crush it into metal. The cabin descended at a snail’s pace, as if conspiring against him. First it stopped at one floor, then another. Hyle felt he was about to go insane, pounding his fists against the metal doors, as if he could force them to move faster.

When he finally got off at the blonde bastard’s floor, he ran to the door and started banging on it with all his strength. Peck, Lannister’s little dog, opened it slightly, a bit surprised, but with his sweet-faced, deceitful smile.

“Where are they? Where’s Brienne?” Hyle shouted, grabbing Peck by the shoulders and shaking him with all his strength. “Tell me right now!”

Peck took a step back, offering no real resistance, a mixture of confusion and amusement dancing in his eyes. When he realized that the couple was already on their way to the roof and about to take off in a helicopter, adrenaline hit Hyle like a wave of heat. He ran back to the elevator, pressing the button like a madman. His entire body shook with determination. He could not let her fly away with him. He could not.

Time, however, proved merciless, an enemy impossible to defeat. Hyle ran onto the roof, only to see the helicopter rising above the city. With the last of his strength, he screamed her name, but the sound of the spinning blades was so loud that he barely heard his own voice. In his chest, he felt a mix of helplessness, anger, and sorrow — the awareness that he hadn’t made it, that his decision and delay had led to a situation he could not undo. He sank to his knees on the edge of the roof, watching the helicopter recede toward the horizon. The wind whipped his face, and the sound of the rotating blades thudded in his ears. His heart pounded so violently he felt it might burst from his chest.

He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Brienne. No signal.

“FUCK!” he yelled, throwing the phone at the roof of the skyscraper, shattering the screen.

When he returned to their floor, he grabbed the landline in the room and called Brienne again, still unsuccessfully.

He sat on the massive king-size bed, clenching his hands on his knees with all his might, letting the pain in his fingers at least momentarily replace the one in his chest. Thoughts spun endlessly through his mind: Where are they? Where did he take her? What will he make her do? Will he force himself on her? Will she suffer? Every answer he tried to find seemed only to multiply his fear and sense of helplessness. His breathing was irregular, once shallow, then gasping. His heart pounded like a hammer, and his imagination conjured ever worse scenes — Brienne stripped naked, Lannister pinning her down on the bed, him watching her struggle and unable to do anything. With each passing thought, his anger grew, mingled with terror and guilt — for agreeing to the proposal that had drawn him into this nightmare.

Overwhelmed by the tension, he reached for the bottle of wine on the nearby table. The alcohol dulled him but brought no comfort; instead, it intensified his sense of powerlessness, where anger mixed with despair. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and inhaled greedily three times. Then, instead of extinguishing it in the ashtray, he pressed the glowing tip against his own forearm. The pain was immediate, sharp, familiar — it seized his entire consciousness and, for a brief moment, gave the relief he craved. Finally, Hyle collapsed fully onto the bed, resting his head on the soft pillows, his body, overcome by exhaustion, loosening from the excess of quickly consumed alcohol. He fell asleep, unaware that tears had formed at the corners of his eyes.

When the door quietly opened in the early morning, Hyle at first thought he was still dreaming. In the periphery of his vision, he spotted Brienne — in her blue dress, stepping carefully, as if each step might shatter the silence. Her gaze was full of uncertainty, afraid.

Hyle slowly stood, his muscles tense from holding the same position for so long. He approached her cautiously, then circled her slowly, examining her body with his eyes, searching for bruises, scratches, any evidence of what had happened. As if the marks on her skin could tell him the story of the past night.

Finally, he stopped in front of her. He raised a trembling hand and brushed her cheek. She shivered at his touch, her eyes widening in surprise. For a moment, time stood still. Hyle felt his own emotions pour out suddenly and uncontrollably. Only then did he feel tears running down his face. A mixture of relief, sorrow, guilt, and helplessness that had dwelled in his body and mind all night finally found its outlet. He cleared his throat, trying to steady his quivering voice.

“Brienne… I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. Please. I was such an idiot, this shouldn’t have happened. I’ll kill him if he hurt you. Please, tell me if he hurt you.”

Brienne lowered her gaze to the floor, pressing the dress lightly to her body. Her breath was quick, her body tense.

Hyle’s legs suddenly gave out. He knelt before her, as if his whole body and soul had found their natural position in a gesture of remorse and humility. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her waist. He pressed his face to her stomach, feeling the softness of the fabric and the warmth radiating from her body. In that moment, an irrational yet painfully clear and proper thought passed through his mind: he wanted her to bear his child. To bind them together in something nothing and no one could ever break. He kissed her stomach, then lifted his head and looked straight into her eyes.

“Brienne… will you marry me?”

Chapter Text

You, my friend
Have nothing to fear, my friend
You have nothing to fear, my friend
Except for love

We're moles, my friend
We are just moles, my friend
Blind against the dark
That's where we belong

The hungry crocodiles are dancing in the light
But what's up there besides the darkness of the night?

The morning in Dorne brought with it a pleasant relief from the burning sun of the previous day. The air was crisp, and the golden light of dawn gently embraced the marble terraces. From the courtyard of the Water Gardens, a limousine rolled out slowly, gliding down the winding avenue lined with blood orange trees. Once the gates of the estate closed behind them, the car picked up speed and merged onto a wide asphalt road leading toward the private airstrip, hidden far from the eyes of tourists and the residents of Sunspear.

Inside, the limousine was steeped in a soothing twilight, its tinted windows ensuring complete privacy from the outside world. Jaime’s seat was equipped with a touch panel allowing him to control the air conditioning and music, though today he preferred silence. In the center of the car, a concealed minibar held crystal glasses and an array of bottles, ready to be used should the journey call for a bit of “tension relief.”

Jaime sat comfortably, his right ankle resting casually on his knee, watching the companion seated across from him. Addam Marbrand looked like a shadow of himself — pressed into the corner of his seat, stubbornly silent. Since stepping out of the bathroom after seeing Brienne naked, he hadn’t uttered a single word. Now, he stared fixedly out the window, though beyond it stretched only the monotonous desert landscape.

Jaime felt something akin to satisfaction. Addam, usually so confident, so quick with a jest, looked chastened. And yet, that satisfaction was tinged with bitterness, because Marbrand had seen something he never should have. An image that belonged solely to him, to Jaime. The sight of Brienne’s naked form was not meant for Addam’s eyes. If it were up to Jaime, it would never be a sight for any other man. And that knowledge gnawed at him, even as he tried to mask it with a dismissive half-smile.

A few minutes passed, filled only with the low hum of the engine and the distant sound of tires on asphalt. At last, Jaime tilted his head and broke the silence.

“For the Seven’s sake, Addam, stop acting like a scolded child. I know the sight of her takes breath away, but I didn’t bring you along to have you play Ilyn Payne. Tell me everything you know about Tyrion’s disappearance.”

Marbrand stirred uneasily, as if waking from a daze. For a brief moment, he looked as though he meant to protest, but Jaime’s gaze — cold and expectant — left no room for evasion.

“I don’t know exactly what happened between them. There was no sign they were about to break up. You saw yourself how happy Tyrion was lately.”

Jaime felt a familiar pang in his chest. His thoughts strayed to memories of Tyrion, so rarely happy. Happiest with Tysha, and then… fleeting affairs, smiles and touches bought with coin, cynicism to mask an old wound. And yet with Shae, it had been different. Jaime remembered how his brother looked when he spoke of her. As though, for the first time in years, something truly brought him joy. Jaime had been glad for him then. Perhaps he still bore the guilt of what had once happened with Tysha, but at least now he had seen Tyrion claw his way back to life. He had no wish to dwell on old sins at the moment, so he turned back to Addam.

“Go on.” Jaime leaned an elbow against the armrest, drumming his fingers on the leather seat. His eyes fixed on Marbrand, who finally gathered himself enough to continue.

“All I know is that they broke up suddenly. Overnight. Tyrion stopped showing up at Lannister Corp. And you know he was always the first in the office, slipping in past security even before the building opened. He’d sit alone in the conference room, poring over reports…”

“What happened next?” Jaime cut him off. He didn’t need Addam to recount habits of Tyrion he already knew by heart.

“Then he started being seen with Bronn. In the worst places in the city. Tyrion stopped answering calls. Even from your aunt Genna. And you know he always had a soft spot for her.”

Jaime grimaced. Genna was one of the few in their family who showed Tyrion genuine kindness. If he had stopped answering her calls, it had to be truly bad.

“And Shae?” he asked after a moment.

“She moved out. Without a trace.” Addam spread his hands. “As if she never existed. No information, no address, no friends who might know where she went. She just vanished into thin air.”

Jaime pressed his lips together, turning his gaze to the view outside the window. He could feel the anger rising in him — at Shae, for abandoning his brother; at Tyrion, for allowing himself a weakness that had put him in danger yet again. But most of all, he was angry with himself, for being complicit in his brother’s misery.

“So,” he said slowly, “my brother is alone again.”

The limousine rolled onto the airfield. In the distance, their private jet awaited — a masterpiece of discreet luxury and modern engineering. Its fuselage gleamed in a deep crimson with subtle golden accents. Leave it to his father that even the plane bore the colors of their house. Every detail — from the sweep of the wings to the curve of the engines — spoke of aerodynamic precision and elegance. Jaime felt the familiar tension in the back of his neck, the awareness that this trip would not be a pleasant flight. He didn’t want to leave Dorne now, not when he had the chance to spend time with Brienne. Inside him stirred a strange mixture of longing and unease. Longing at the thought of a ride on horseback together, of the wind tugging at her hair, of sunlight glinting in her blue eyes. Unease that every delay might mean losing control of matters that could not wait.

Jaime climbed the steps into the plane. The cabin was just as impressive: seats upholstered in soft cream leather, adjustable in almost every direction, equipped with built-in massage and heating. The floor was covered with a velvet carpet in a neutral shade. A fully stocked bar, with crystal decanters of the finest liquor, hidden in elegant compartments. Fold-out tables, built-in touchscreens, and an audio-video system that allowed for fully discreet videoconferences. Every seat had its own climate control and outlets for charging electronic devices.

“Jaime!” Daven Lannister lounged in one of the chairs, comfortably stretched out, raising a glass of whisky in greeting. Beside him sat Peck with a notebook on his lap, ever ready to jot down anything that might prove useful. “I thought we’d be leaving without you. What luck that I get to travel with my cousin!”

Jaime tossed his bag onto the overhead shelf and dropped into a seat opposite, letting the chair’s softness envelop him. “And where’s Crakehall?” he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“Lyle?” Daven stretched and sighed with mock drama. “He decided to linger in Dorne a while longer, to admire its beauty.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, pouring himself a brandy from the bar. “In which brothel this time?” he muttered.

Daven burst out laughing, while Peck glanced up shyly from his notebook. “Well, perhaps one of those elegant houses in the city center, where you can have the best orgy of your life. Or maybe that dive near the port, where the lamps don’t always work but you can find women from the farthest reaches of Essos. You know Lyle — he doesn’t care either way.”

Jaime watched as Peck’s cheeks deepened in color, his blush spreading hot across his face. “And then you wonder why half my trips are spent cleaning up after your escapades.”

Daven only shrugged and grinned wider, as if Jaime’s words were nothing but a compliment.

The jet’s engines roared with a deep, bass thunder that reverberated through the cabin like a wave. The entire interior trembled as the plane gathered power, wheels lifting from the ground. The weight fell away into a gentle lightness, and the sun of Dorne poured golden light through the windows as the jet tilted upward, nose rising toward the blue. The ground shrank steadily beneath them — Sunspear and the Water Gardens coming into view, the shimmering expanse of the sea, and then the coastline itself fading slowly beneath soft clouds. Now the cabin was filled only with the steady, soothing murmur of the engines.

“Well then, Jaime,” Daven broke the pleasant silence. His cousin was known for being unable to keep his tongue behind his teeth for too long. “So maybe you’ll tell me now where you disappeared so suddenly at that banquet? You were eyeing that long-legged blonde. Brienne, right?” Saying her name, he glanced at Addam, as if seeking confirmation.

Addam, sitting next to Jaime, swallowed hard and cleared his throat loudly, as though trying to suggest to Daven that he should stop digging. Jaime narrowed his eyes, shifting his gaze from Addam to Daven. Perhaps he really would cut out Marbrand’s long tongue and transfer him to Ilyn’s department.

“I’ve always wondered what it’s like to have sex with such a tall woman,” Daven went on, oblivious to the thin ice cracking beneath him. “Did you get the chance to press her up against the bathroom sink and—”

The sound of violent choking cut him off mid-sentence. Addam nearly spat across the table, gagging on a gulp of whisky. Jaime patted him on the back, but there was more force in the seemingly helpful gesture than necessary. He didn’t take his eyes off Daven.

The cabin suddenly fell into an unpleasant silence. Jaime unfastened his seatbelt. The movement was slow, almost lazy, but something about it made the smile fade from Daven’s face. Jaime rose and approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing with an almost steel grip.

“Coz,” he said softly, but there was a dangerous note in his voice. He leaned in, so close that Daven must have felt his breath against his ear. “Don’t test me,” he whispered. “I’ve always wanted to find out whether the cockpit doors can be opened mid-flight. How long do you think the fall would take from this height?”

“You’re joking…” Daven tried to force out, but his voice shook.

“Maybe. Or maybe not. But you know what matters most?” Jaime squeezed his shoulder harder. “That now you’ll think twice before you open your mouth.” He let go and brushed his hand down Daven’s arm, as if flicking off invisible specks of dust. “Peck,” he called to the young boy, motioning with his head for him to step aside with him.

Peckeldon himself looked frightened. Jaime, deep down, hated that people he actually liked were afraid of him. “It’s all right,” he reassured him before getting to the point. “I just want confirmation that the money was transferred to Brienne’s account.”

“Y-yes, Mr. Lannister. I made sure of everything.” Peck smiled shyly.

“Good lad. Thank you.” Jaime patted him on the shoulder in a fatherly gesture.

As he was about to return to his seat, Peck cleared his throat. “Ser, I don’t know if it’s important, but… he was looking for you. You and your lady.”

“You mean Cunt?”

“Yes. I mean… Mr. Hunt. Right after you two took the elevator to the roof, he burst into the apartment shouting for Lady Brienne.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. All right, Peck. You can take your seat.”

Kyle Cunt was looking for them. That absolute piece of shit, lucky that Jaime had to return to King’s Landing now, because otherwise he’d have turned his face into modern art, signed with Jaime’s fist. Had he changed his mind? Or maybe he wanted to demand more money? The thought crossed Jaime’s mind that he’d pay any sum, just to spend more time with Brienne.

He returned to his seat and ran a hand down his face. Why did that tall wench fascinate him so much? He closed his eyes, and images rose in his mind. Her body gradually relaxing under his touch. Her expression when she begged him for release. The tears running down her cheeks when he finally let her come. Her naked silhouette in the light of the marble bathroom in the Water Gardens. Her skin gleaming with water. Her gaze, so uncertain and yet full of courage. The truth was, he had found with her a peace he hadn’t felt in a long time. With her, he felt something again. He had grown used to women who played their roles. The kind who knew what they wanted, and for whom his name was the main prize. Brienne seemed so different from them. Innocent, unpretentious, authentic, a little awkward, and therefore… dangerous. He could live inside her eyes. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and shield her from the world. The awareness that Addam had seen her naked, even for the briefest of instants, stirred something wild and unbearable in him. A jealousy he was ashamed of, and an anger he couldn’t quite quench.

He sighed and opened his eyes. He saw Daven watching him out of the corner of his eye, stiff as a broomstick. Jaime settled comfortably into his seat, as if nothing had happened, and reached for his half-finished glass of brandy. He raised it slightly toward his cousin with a mocking smile on his lips.

“To family, coz. Our greatest treasure and heaviest burden.”

Addam snorted, stifling a laugh, though he didn’t dare meet Jaime’s gaze.

~*~

After landing in King’s Landing, Jaime began delegating tasks. He ordered Marbrand to find Shae — dead or alive, in Westeros or Essos — it didn’t matter. He was to discover why she had left. Peck was tasked with reaching out to Podrick, Tyrion’s assistant. If anyone knew more about his brother, it would be Pod. Daven was instructed to assess how the situation at Lannister Corp had developed during Jaime’s absence. As for Jaime himself, he headed to his apartment, where he expected a visit from the only person in the family who could help him at that moment.

The door to his apartment was already unlocked. Aunt Genna had a spare key. As soon as he stepped inside, he was greeted by the scent of her heavy, sharp, expensive perfume — a mix of sweetness and something seductive. The living room where she waited was elegant and cool, but her presence warmed it. Genna sat in a deep armchair, her ample bosom as prominent as ever in a tight dress. Crimson lipstick painted her full lips, curved in a subtle smile — the kind reserved only for Jaime and Tyrion. Her gaze was sharp, precise, yet softened by something familiar, almost maternal. To Jaime, she had always been something like a mother. She took care of his mental well-being after the dramatic birth of his brother.

“Jaime. Come here.”

When he drew closer, she rose from the chair. She was a woman of solid build and decisive movements, and when she embraced him, she pressed him against her chest as though she could shield him from the world’s cruelties.

“My boy,” she whispered softly, the same way she used to when he tried to hide his tears after their father forced him to practice his writing for hours on end. Jaime had always scrawled terribly, and only as an adult did he learn he was dyslexic. Throughout his childhood and adolescence, his father made sure he knew he wasn’t clever enough. That his weakness was a disgrace.

She held him for a long time, perhaps too long for an aunt, but Jaime never had the courage to pull away first. She was the only member of the family from whom he felt unconditional acceptance. She stroked the back of his neck, as a mother would a son, then leaned back to look him in the eyes. “You look tired,” she said gently.

“It doesn’t matter. Marbrand told me about Tyrion. Can you tell me what really happened?” Jaime waited for Genna to sit down again before lowering himself onto the nearby sofa.

“Your brother…” she began, watching him intently. “I never trusted that woman of his. Shae, or whatever her name was. Maybe it was a woman’s intuition, but from the start I felt there was something wrong with her. Her movements were too polished, her smiles too quick.”

She adjusted the silk shawl draped over her shoulders. Her expression grew grave. “But it isn’t only about her. Tyrion hides an extraordinary sensitivity deep within himself. He’ll never admit it, because despite all his anger, he still craves Tywin’s approval. Sometimes… he behaved toward me in ways that were a little inappropriate.” Her tone wasn’t accusing — more tinged with sadness. “He tested boundaries, tried to see how far he could go. He liked it when I humiliated him verbally. As if it gave him some strange sense of relief.”

She looked at Jaime with something like embarrassed tenderness. “I treated it as his way of coping. But when, at last… ah, I don’t want to speak of it. One day he simply stopped talking to me. Vanished. I’m worried, Jaime. We cannot let what happened after Tysha repeat itself.”

Jaime studied her face for a long time, as though searching for some simple answer there. But nothing in their family was ever simple.

There is something deeply wrong with us, he thought. Tywin might have built an empire of red and gold, but rot seeped through its foundations. Tyrion seeking humiliation where he should have found comfort. Cersei…

He remembered how, after their mother’s death, she began slipping into his bed at night. She told him she was afraid of the dark, that she needed his shoulder, his breath beside her. At first he saw it as innocent childish attachment, but later… he understood it was something else. Even when they were older, when he tried to distance himself from her insistent presence, she would suddenly cling to him like a lover, not a sister. Each time he saw that strange hunger for solace in her eyes, he knew it was wrong — yet he couldn’t, didn’t know how to push her away.

Cersei, Tyrion, even himself — they were all part of the same puzzle, where closeness blurred into something that could never be spoken aloud without shame.

Tywin made sure they never showed weakness to the world. So each of them learned to deal with weakness through some form of deviation.

“I won’t let it happen, Aunt. I’ll find him. I promise you.”

~*~

Sometimes deeply buried memories resurface at the very moment we least want them to. Sometimes all it takes is the smallest trigger — a word spoken in a certain way, a familiar-looking place, or a scent. The scent of polished wood in his father’s study. The thickly hewn leather belt draped over the back of a chair. The muffled sob of a child and the long, cold silence of Tywin Lannister.

Jaime must have been fourteen then. Too old to stay silent, yet still too young to change anything. He had entered uninvited. Tyrion sat hunched against the wall, a child with a head too large for his body and eyes like those of a frightened young fox. Their father stood in the center of the room. Unmoved. In one hand he held a crumpled piece of paper.

“He tried to sign my name on this scribbled letter he meant to send to Maester Volarik,” Tywin said, never taking his eyes off Tyrion. It didn’t sound like an accusation. It sounded like: disgrace.

Jaime almost smiled to himself. His little brother was far too clever for his age. He had learned to write as quickly as he had learned to read. He loved stories about the dragons of old and wanted to know everything about them. To Jaime, that letter was nothing more than a child’s attempt to reach for the stars.

“Father, that’s no crime.”

For the first time, Tywin looked at him. The look was cold, heavy as stone.

“It is no crime,” he replied slowly. “But it is proof that this defiant boy does not know his place. He has been a burden from the very beginning. He ought to be grateful and obedient, for he lives only because I allow it.”

Jaime drew in a sharp breath. It was cruel. Too cruel, even for Tywin. In the corner, Tyrion shrank further into himself, as if he wished to vanish, to melt into the wall. Tywin tossed the crumpled letter into the fire without a flicker of hesitation.

“You’ll spoil him, Jaime,” their father sighed, as though disappointed in him. “He’s spoiled enough already.” He left without so much as a glance at his younger son.

Tyrion remained still, hunched and ashamed. Jaime stepped closer and crouched down beside him.

“Hey.” He gave him a crooked smile. “How about, instead of reading stories about dragons, we go for a ride on the pony?”

Tyrion nodded carefully. He didn’t say a word. He only placed his small hand on Jaime’s, as though to make sure he was really there.

Years later, Jaime would remember that touch.

Late at night, the phone rang. He answered half-asleep. He had been lying in bed with another fleeting affair. He didn’t even remember her name now. She smiled easily and undressed quickly.

“Hello?” he replied in a drowsy voice. The woman beside him stirred uneasily on the bed.

“Jai-me? I-I’m sorry. I’m so cold. Will you forgive me? P-please.”

“Tyrion? What’s going on? Where are you?”

All he heard was shallow, labored, quickened breathing.

“Are you home? I’ll be there right away, don’t hang up.”

A surge of adrenaline had him on his feet within seconds. Half-dressed, he ran out of the apartment and made for his car as fast as he could. The route to Tyrion’s place was a blur. Everything that happened afterward unfolded like still frames from a horror movie.

Blood. Vomit. The ambulance siren.

Tyrion was lying on the cold bathroom floor. He looked like a mannequin thrown to the ground, mouth open, lips blue. Around him, vomit mixed with blood stained the tiles. Jaime also saw stacks of banknotes and remnants of white powder on the sink. His brother moved his lips, whispering something unintelligible. Jaime leaned over him, right after calling for help.

“Brother, hang on just a little longer. Help is coming,” he repeated, running his fingers through Tyrion’s sweaty hair.

“M-mama?” His brother’s eyes were strangely glazed, and a faint, broken smile appeared on his cracked lips.

“Tyrion! Please, don’t leave me. Look at me. Look at me, do you hear?!” He shook him gently, tapped his cheek.

It took Jaime a moment to realize that his brother wasn’t breathing.

Then everything happened fast.

He pressed on his chest. He breathed for him. He shouted into the phone. Fear gripped him so violently it lodged in his throat, choking him with every breath.

“Come on, come on!” he repeated, forcing air into his brother’s lungs, then compressing his chest so hard he could feel the ribs give under his hands.

Every second stretched into eternity. Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with tears. Tyrion remained limp, his body twitching from the pressure, yet giving no response.

Finally, he heard noise on the stairwell, hurried footsteps, voices. The door burst open, and paramedics rushed in.

“Please step back!” one of them pushed Jaime aside, while another knelt by Tyrion, pulling out an oxygen mask and defibrillator.

Jaime slid down against the wall. His hands trembled; his whole body was taut as a string. He watched the paramedics work on his brother: one counting compressions, another administering medications, a third placing the mask and pumping oxygen.

“We’ve got a pulse!” came the sudden shout.

Jaime closed his eyes, resting his head on the cold tiles for a moment. Relief washed over him so violently that his head spun.

Tyrion was hooked up to monitors, lifted onto a stretcher. He still looked dead — pale, strange, with a tube pressed to his face. But his chest rose and fell, irregularly, and that was all that mattered.

“Will you be coming with us?” one paramedic asked.

“Yes,” Jaime replied without hesitation, though his voice cracked. He followed them like a shadow, eyes fixed on his brother’s face.

When asked for a name in the ambulance, they were immediately directed not to a city hospital, but straight to a private clinic serving the wealthiest and most powerful. His father’s long reach extended everywhere. Upon arrival, the doors opened instantly; doctors and nurses were ready. Tyrion was taken to intensive care, hooked up to equipment, and Jaime, despite protests, didn’t leave the hallway outside the room. When anyone tried to move him, he only gave a cold stare. At that moment, he must have looked very much like their father, for no one dared disobey.

He spent the whole day beside the hospital bed, staring at his brother’s pale, still body. Machines beeped quietly, IVs slowly dripping medication. Jaime didn’t even leave for coffee; the nurses brought him water, which he drank automatically, eyes never leaving Tyrion. Again and again, he straightened the blanket, wiped sweat from his brother’s forehead with a damp towel. Whispering under his breath, he repeated words meant more to calm himself than Tyrion: “You’re going to get through this. Do you hear me? I won’t let you go.”

The night was even heavier. Time stretched like eternity. Jaime fought the pull of his drooping eyelids, flinched at every sound from the machines, every change in Tyrion’s breathing rhythm. At one point, near dawn, when the window began to lighten, he felt a slight movement in his hand. He froze, holding his breath.

Tyrion, still half-conscious, lifted his eyelids slightly and clutched Jaime’s hand with trembling fingers. The gesture was weak, barely perceptible — but to Jaime, it meant more than anything. Relief poured through him so violently that tears ran down his face. He squeezed his brother’s hand tighter, leaning over him.

“You’re here… thank the gods, you’re here,” he whispered, allowing himself a smile for the first time in hours.

When their father found out, he was furious. The news of the overdose spread faster than Jaime could react. Calls from journalists, whispers in the company hallways, the looks of coworkers. For Tywin, it didn’t matter that his son had barely survived. All that mattered was the scandal, the shadow cast over the family name.

Tyrion, weakened and still unsteady on his feet, didn’t even have a chance to return home. Straight from the clinic, he was taken to a locked rehabilitation center. The decision was immediate and absolute — no discussions, no explanations. Tywin signed the papers, and the rest was handled by security.

~*~

Jaime drove fast, his fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He had just received a message from Peck with the address where Tyrion might be. Peck had gotten it out of Podrick who, though reluctant at first, had yielded under the right means of persuasion.

The district he reached looked utterly forsaken by the gods. Flea Bottom was the city’s slum, known for its extreme poverty, crime, and general squalor. It was like an open wound — reeking, festering, ignored by all those who could afford never to set foot there. For years the place had functioned like a separate kingdom, ruled by its own laws, governed by poverty, violence, and despair. The streets were narrow, winding, littered with trash and abandoned belongings. The stench was nauseating: a mixture of alcohol, urine, cheap chemicals, and rotting scraps of food. In the dark doorways sat the homeless, wrapped in blankets, their empty eyes following the passing car.

Jaime instinctively slowed down, his heart beating faster. He knew he shouldn’t draw attention, so he began searching for a place to leave his car where it wouldn’t tempt thieves. He found a narrow alley, half-hidden by brick ruins. He killed the engine and sat motionless for a moment, listening to the sounds outside. Shouts, laughter, the crash of a broken bottle. Somewhere farther away, a dog barked, followed by a long, mournful wail. He knew that in this part of the city a car could vanish in five minutes, but hidden in the shadow of the tenement, it had a better chance of surviving. He drew a deep breath and got out, pulling air thick as smoke into his lungs.

He followed Peck’s directions and entered a dark tunnel beneath a long-abandoned railway bridge, the echo of his steps bouncing off the walls. Every sound heightened the tension. Jaime pulled his hood lower over his head and quickened his pace, stepping past the decomposing carcass of a rat. On his left, he pushed open an old, rusted metal door and began climbing a staircase. He moved farther down a dark corridor until another door appeared ahead of him. Jaime hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer and knocked.

The door creaked open, and in the doorway stood a massive man, shoulders as wide as the frame. His chest was hairy, face and neck covered with tattoos and his gaze openly hostile.

“Password,” the man barked in a voice as hard as concrete.

Jaime felt a sudden tightening in his chest. This was no game. Diplomacy and Lannister influence meant nothing here. In this moment, only one thing mattered: getting inside and finding Tyrion. He reached back to what Peck had told him and, without blinking once, answered in a firm tone:

“Valar Morghulis.”

A short silence hung in the air.

“Hands on the wall, legs apart,” the guard growled.

“Excuse me?” Jaime narrowed his eyes, clearly offended by what he’d just heard.

“I need to search you and take any electronic devices. Otherwise, you’re not going in.”

He exhaled sharply but obeyed, every moment being too precious to waste.

After confiscating Jaime’s phone, the guard gave a curt nod and stepped aside, letting him in.

The interior struck him with a wave of heat and sound. The space that from the outside looked like an abandoned factory pulsed with life within. The industrial shell had been transformed into something resembling a club for deviants. The perfect place for our family.

The corridor led into the main hall, where the throb of bass reverberated like a heartbeat. The stage unfolded like a theatrical vision of decadence: in the half-light, people in leather, fur, and masks moved with glasses in their hands. Their dances resembled mating rituals more than revelry — slow bodies brushing against each other, gestures steeped in eroticism, thick with unspoken promise. The walls were peeling, but here and there covered in graffiti styled like heraldic crests — direwolf, dragon, lion — as if someone was mocking the old houses, twisting their symbols into perverse decorations.

Jaime felt like an intruder. In his grey tracksuit he looked entirely out of place. And yet some gazes lingered on him, as though they sensed a predator who had stepped into their cage.

On one of the tables stood a naked woman in a silver mask, pouring liquor into crystal glasses so that it spilled down her body. In the corner, a group of men played cards, laughing too loudly, with rolled-up bills and neat white lines laid out before them. Next to them stood a man with his trousers halfway down, while a barely dressed woman knelt in front of him, snorting a line off his stiff cock. Other women brushed up against Jaime, whispered temptations in his ear, trying to draw his attention. This was no ordinary hideout. This was a nest of debauchery, a place where the border of morality had long since been crossed. At last, the bodyguard behind him gestured toward a side staircase leading upward.

Upstairs, the room was smaller, more intimate, more private. Booths lined the dance floor. Jaime scanned the hall, searching for Tyrion, but he couldn’t help noticing how some of the figures in the background moved differently. Their movements were unsteady, unnatural, as if someone were controlling them like puppets, and their eyes gleamed with a strange light. Some sat at the bar, others at tables, while the air was thick with a scent both sweet and acrid at once.

He lingered on several figures barely able to keep their balance. Their lips were strangely dark, as though blood had congealed within, their mouths tinged blue. One man, slackened, slowly wiped his mouth as if feeling a peculiar tingling, and cast Jaime a gaze not entirely sober. The moment their eyes met was brief, but enough to stir unease in Jaime’s chest.

At last he spotted Tyrion. He was half-reclined against a woman with dreadlocks, piercings in her brows, lips, and… nipples—impossible not to notice so close to his brother’s head. When Jaime came closer, she gave him the look of a seasoned knife-fighter.

“Oh, there he is. The golden brother-knight. All aboard, the falcon of morality has landed. Shall we make a circle, hold hands, and pray?” Tyrion drawled. Bronn, sitting beside him, burst into loud laughter at the words.

“I see Shagga’s already introduced himself,” Bronn said, nodding toward the massive, hairy man looming behind Jaime.

“You know him?”

“Of course I do. You wouldn’t have made it in here unless I wanted you to find me. But you’re a little late, Jaime,” Tyrion replied, slurring slightly, but with that same cynical edge that never left him. “I’ve already been adopted by the local community. Shagga has promised that if your sanctimonious bodyguards from Lannister Corp ever come for me, he’ll personally cut off their cocks and feed them to the dogs. A remarkable man, really.”

Shagga bellowed a thunderous laugh and lifted his knife in a showy gesture. “I meant it. Anyone touches the Imp, loses his jewels!”

Bronn smirked, amused, while the woman with dreadlocks — still draped over Tyrion — licked her lip and scoffed, as if the idea of anyone dragging Tyrion out of here were laughably absurd.

“Shagga, you say?” Jaime’s eyes swept over the hulking brute, whose beard seemed to hold remnants of yesterday’s dinner. “Hard to miss him. Smells as if he rolled in sheep shit before showing up here. Congratulations on your new friends, brother. Truly worthy company for a Lannister.”

Shagga moved like a bear poked with a stick. Fingers thick as sausages clenched into a fist, veins bulged along his neck, his face contorted in fury so raw that Jaime half-expected a blow heavy as a club to come crashing down on him.

“What did you say, golden-hair?” he growled, the sound closer to a beast’s roar than human speech.

Jaime was already shifting his weight onto his left leg, ready to dodge the first strike and return his own if needed, when Tyrion — still half-reclined, strangely calm — lifted a hand.

“Shagga, don’t spoil the fun. You don’t hit my brother unless I tell you to. And today, I’m not telling you.”

The giant froze mid-motion, as though weighing whether it was better to smash Jaime or obey the dwarf who, somehow, held sway over this entire rabble. After a beat, he muttered something incoherent, spat on the floor, and backed off, shaking his head.

“Come back with me,” Jaime said firmly, sitting down beside his brother.

“Don’t worry about me, Jaime. At least I don’t have to pretend every move I make is some great duty, some noble obligation to the world.”

“And you don’t have to pretend you’re still in control of your own life either,” Jaime replied without a smile.

“Fuck off.” Tyrion’s gaze was as sharp as a dagger.

Jaime fell silent, but a familiar, volatile spark flickered in his eyes. He reached for a glass of blue liquor carried past on a tray by a passing man. “If you’re so eager to stay, maybe I should try your new life for myself.” He raised the glass toward his lips.

Tyrion moved faster than Jaime expected. The dwarf’s hand smacked the vessel with surprising force. The glass flew from Jaime’s grip, shattering on the floor, the blue liquid spreading in a wide stain.

“NO!” The word tore from Tyrion’s mouth. For an instant, his face twisted with panic Jaime hadn’t seen in years.

The room fell silent. Bronn, Shagga, and the rest of the wild crew stared, dumbfounded. Jaime looked at his brother, shocked by the sudden change in him.

“What was that, Tyrion?” Jaime asked slowly, his voice low and dangerously soft. “What exactly was I about to drink?”

Tyrion agreed to return with Jaime to his apartment. On the way, he told him about a new drug that had recently appeared on the market — Shade of the Evening . Rumor had it that it was brought from Qarth by Euron Greyjoy, called Crow’s Eye. The substance stained the senses, warped perception, yet those who took it longer lost touch with reality, and their bodies quickly succumbed to decay.

Not once did he mention Shae, and Jaime had no intention of pressing him. Instead, Tyrion’s deft tongue somehow drew Jaime into speaking about Brienne. He wasn’t sure why he did it — perhaps he hoped his brother would mock his obsession and thus force him to sober up, or perhaps, on the contrary, he needed someone who would steer him back onto the right path.

Tyrion dropped heavily onto the couch, pouring himself a splash of whisky, as if the conversation could not proceed without it.

“You want her?” he asked casually, peering at his brother through half-lidded eyes.

Jaime turned his head toward him. “Don’t talk about her like she’s an object.”

“But you bought her,” Tyrion replied, with his usual piercing honesty.

“And I’m starting to regret telling you anything at all.”

Tyrion raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “All right, let’s try it differently. Just tell me one thing: do you care about her?”

“Yes.” The answer came without a moment’s hesitation, with such certainty that even Tyrion sobered for an instant.

“In that case, sitting on your hands won’t be enough. You have to go get her.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “Go get her?”

“Leave it to me, brother.” Tyrion lifted his glass in an ironic toast. “Just give me a few days.”

~*~

The following evening, Jaime was forced to attend a reception organized by his father. Tywin Lannister’s penthouse in the Red Keep stood as a monument to wealth and power, towering over the city with a view of the entire King’s Landing skyline. It looked as if it had been lifted straight out of a catalog for the world’s elite — every inch of it designed solely to impress and dominate. Monumental paintings and sculptures completed the effect, each carefully chosen to emphasize the owner’s status. It was a place as imposing as it was cold. There was no trace of warmth, no hint of home — no photographs, no keepsakes. The penthouse served as a stage. Here, Tywin entertained politicians, oligarchs, and CEOs. Here, deals were struck that altered the course of families and corporations alike. And so it was that evening: the reception, to which Tywin had invited the Boltons and the Freys, unfolded like a meticulously directed performance.

Jaime hated this place. Every time he stood within its walls, his mind slipped back to the home of his childhood — Casterly Rock. He remembered the sunrises and sunsets over the Sunset Sea, the way the sky could erupt in purple and gold. The memory came back to him:  riding his horse along the coastline, the sting of salt in his nostrils, the wind tugging at his hair and carrying with it the echo of waves breaking against the cliffs. Best of all was galloping toward the bluffs, where the view opened to the endless sea — vast, merciless, free.

With Cersei, his mirror image, he used to play dress-up. They swapped clothes to fool the servants and buy themselves more freedom. They eavesdropped on conversations, slipped away unnoticed, and later laughed until tears ran down their cheeks at how easy it was to deceive the adults. Those little conspiracies gave them the delicious sense that the world belonged only to them.

But most vividly, he remembered his mother. Her gentle touch, her warm laughter echoing through the corridors like a melody he could recognize anywhere in the world. One memory stood out above all. He had overheard his parents arguing about something. His mother replied with a remark — Jaime could never recall the exact words. It was something small, lightly barbed yet affectionate, tinged with clever humor. And then it happened: his father laughed. A laugh that was genuine, full, and unguarded. It lit up his face, softened his features, stripped away — for the briefest instant — the severity Jaime had known all his life. His mother smiled then, not haughtily, but with the quiet triumph of a woman who knew she had reached a place no one else ever could. Jaime felt as though he had witnessed something sacred. It was the only time he ever heard his father truly laugh. The only proof that Tywin Lannister was capable of love — and that he had loved her.

He was pulled from his reverie by the low, quiet voice of Roose Bolton.
“To the Lannisters, who always pay their debts. To peaceful land and a quiet people.”
The man never needed to raise his voice to be heard. He was a gaunt figure with the coldest, palest eyes Jaime had ever seen. There was something uncanny about him — something that chilled the blood.

More toasts followed, champagne poured into crystal flutes, waiters circulated with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. The Boltons, with their cool detachment; the Freys, with their grotesque swarm of cousins and hangers-on; and at the center, the Lannisters, holding court like the royal family of the corporate world. Daven had reported earlier that the alliance meant a de facto takeover of the market by their triumvirate. Tywin, smiling coolly, looked pleased, and that was a rare occurrence.

Jaime, dressed in his finest tuxedo, stood in his father’s shadow. He felt like a trophy on display — the son, the heir, the successor. His role was simple: look dazzling and say nothing that might irritate Tywin. Yet inside, resentment seethed. He despised the company assembled here: the cynical Boltons, the grasping Freys. Most of all, he hated the cold, measuring gaze of his father — a man who saw him not as a son, but as a piece on a chessboard.

Jaime breathed a sigh of relief when he finally left the penthouse. Driving through the night city, the windows misted over with rain, he allowed himself a rare moment of silence. Only twenty minutes later, as he searched the pockets of his jacket, did he realize his phone was missing. With a weary sigh, he turned back.

The elevator carried him up again, to the now-empty lobby where only moments ago guests and waiters had bustled about. Jaime made his way toward the living room, hoping he’d left the phone on the small table beside the armchair. That was when he heard something strange. Soft moans, breathless sighs, the muffled rhythm of flesh against flesh drifted from behind the door of his father’s study.

Jaime froze in place. His heart quickened. The door was left ajar, just enough for him to see a scene that chilled his blood.

On the massive mahogany desk lay a woman, her forehead pressed to the wood, long dark hair spilling across the surface. Obscene moans escaped her lips. One hand clutched the edge of the desk, as if trying to anchor herself; the nails of her other hand scraped across the polished surface, producing a shrill, grating sound. Her body arched in a way that spoke of pure submission and pleasure.
Behind her stood Tywin — domineering, controlling every movement. One hand pinned her firmly to the desk, the other gripped her hip, dictating a pace that resembled punishment more than passion. His cold control clashed with her animalistic sounds, creating an image of something closer to a transaction than intimacy.

Disgust rose in Jaime’s throat, but with it came something darker — a sense of betrayal. His entire life had been built on the myth of a father who, after his mother’s death, had never so much as looked at another woman. A man severe, but unyielding. His loyalty to their mother had seemed absolute, almost sacred. And yet the truth lay here before him—vulgar, filthy, shattering every illusion.

He didn’t even realize when his hands clenched into fists. He wanted to slam them into the wall, to shout, but he knew that would only betray his presence. He was about to turn away, to leave unseen, when the woman’s voice cut through the air. He froze.

“My lion of Lannister…”

That voice. He knew it.

The woman lifted her head, her eyes glinting.

Shae.

For a fleeting moment their gazes met.

And his world came crashing down.

Chapter Text

Drink the dolls

Legs spread likе butter

We are wifе, whore, mistress, maid, mother

The beauty and the buyer, take the screaming one because

A woman who doesn't want it is much hotter than one that does

Returning to Storm’s End did not bring Brienne the relief she had hoped for. She had believed that the money Lannister had transferred to their account would improve her relationship with Hyle. However, she quickly realized that money was not their biggest problem. Life had indeed become easier in some aspects — paying off their debts had lifted a weight that had been crushing her for months. The only unresolved issue remained the land above Shipbreaker Bay. A meeting with their agent was scheduled for the following week, but with each passing day, Brienne's doubts about building a home together only grew.

Since they left Sunspear, every moment spent with Hyle had turned into torment. It all started in the hotel room when he unexpectedly knelt before her and asked for her hand in marriage. Brienne didn't give him an answer then, too overwhelmed by the situation she found herself in. From that moment on, Hyle behaved as if he were trying to smother her with affection. He began to do everything for her. He wouldn't let her go shopping, take out the trash, or even pour herself a cup of tea. He cooked her favorite meals and watched her favorite movies with her. She woke up to a playlist he had created for her, with songs that meant the most. He was constantly by her side, offering help, care, and tenderness, which quickly took the form of suffocating protectiveness. He began to make it clear to her that he would prefer her not to return to work. He repeated more and more often that she should not leave the house alone, that the world outside was full of dangers, and that he wanted to keep her safe.  

Touch became his next tool. He hugged her at every opportunity, ran his hand down her back, slipped it beneath her shirt to knead her bare breasts when she didn't want him to. At times he tried to coax her into intimacy — pressing his lips to her neck, laying a hand upon her thigh, hinting at what he desired. Brienne felt stiffness in her own body, a resistance she couldn't explain even to herself. When she refused, Hyle did not press her. Instead, he sighed heavily and moved away theatrically, as if he were willing to wait, but at the same time letting her know that he expected something from her. More and more often, he wove subtle allusions about having a family into their conversations. Brienne had never imagined herself as a mother. She hadn't even had the chance to get to know her own mother better. The only woman who played a major role in her life was Roelle. A woman who gradually stripped Brienne of her self-esteem. She wasn't a good enough daughter, a good enough fiancée, so she certainly wouldn't be a good enough mother either. 

That morning, Hyle left the house earlier than usual. Brienne, taking advantage of her unexpected moment of freedom, opened her laptop and began frantically searching the internet for any information about Jaime Lannister. Since that night they had spent together, he had settled in the recesses of her mind like an intruder who not only had no intention of leaving, but was pushing his way in more and more every day, taking possession of every corner of her imagination. Brienne couldn't stop her thoughts, though by the seven gods, she tried. But they came back to her like a wave, uninvited and persistent. Every gesture of Hyle's, every intrusive embrace, inevitably brought back memories of that one night with Jaime. 

Sometimes the image would appear suddenly, in the middle of a conversation, when Hyle handed her a plate of food or a cup of tea, and she looked at his hands. Then she would see Jaime's hands — how he would touch her arm cautiously and pause to silently ask for her consent. When Hyle kissed her neck, she recalled his kisses — not violent or forced, but warm, a little shy, and yet full of unstoppable desire. The memory was so vivid that she felt her cheeks burning. 

She caught herself thinking only of his roguish smile, his mischievously sparkling green eyes, his soft lips, and a touch she had never experienced before. “Call me” — the words kept echoing in her mind, and in their tone she heard both a command and a plea that was difficult to resist. Memories of what he had done to her that evening and the next morning replayed in her head like a broken record. The worst part, however, was the mixture of feelings that accompanied these images. Fear and anticipation. Excitement so intense that just a brief thought of his hands or lips was enough to make her feel wetness gathering between her legs, soaking her underwear. The breathless shame and desire that made her wake up in the middle of the night to slip her hand under her panties and climax after a moment. The disgust she felt towards herself, which never left her for a moment and prevented her from looking at her own reflection in the mirror.   

Yet the cruelest truth was that she couldn't look at Hyle without feeling guilty. She thought of Jaime and touched herself, seeing his face before her eyes, while Hyle slept next to her in bed. She knew that he was partly responsible for the situation she found herself in. But that knowledge brought no relief. On the contrary, it made everything even more difficult. 

Sitting in front of her laptop, Brienne browsed page after page, photo after photo, as if in a trance. Typing the name Lannister into the search engine triggered an avalanche of information. Headlines about Tywin Lannister and his powerful Lannister Corp. empire were interspersed with news of yet another scandal involving Cersei, Jaime's twin sister. Added to this were articles about the marital quarrels and numerous affairs of her husband, Robert Baratheon, candidate for president of Westeros. There was also the endless series of rumors about Tyrion, the youngest of the family, the perpetual whipping boy of the tabloids. 

Information about Jaime was much more limited. He was most often mentioned in the context of his former tennis career. Another photo appeared on the screen: a young Jaime in a white sports outfit, standing with a racket in his hand next to Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy. Smiling, confident, radiating the same cheeky charisma that Brienne remembered from their meeting. He was a star on the courts, winning Grand Slam after Grand Slam, and the cameras loved him. She read the text about his accident. About the hand injury that had ended Jaime's sporting future in an instant. She read line by line, and inside her, different feelings swirled: sympathy, admiration, and sadness for a man of undeniable talent whose fate had forced him to give up his dreams.

She came across an article from many years ago entitled “The Prince and the Lion.” The photograph showed two young men: the golden Jaime, confident and exuding unrestrained charm, and Rhaegar Targaryen with a subtle, somewhat melancholic smile. Brienne looked at the photo for a long time, as if she wanted to capture something that escaped her gaze.

Brienne was a child at the time, but she remembered Arthur Dayne's name well. His death — along with that of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen — was a shock that reverberated throughout the world. Even on the remote island of Tarth, where she grew up, it was impossible to escape the images broadcast on every channel: the wrecked car, the flashes of cameras, the frenzied crowd of paparazzi who chased them until the very end.

She kept clicking. Each successive shot of Jaime drew her in more and more. She couldn't take her eyes off his face — striking, almost unreal. The man's beauty was breathtaking. And for a brief moment, one night, he belonged to her.

She didn't know what to think of him. Neither of him nor his indecent proposal. Was it a joke? A cruel, calculated joke aimed at breaking up her relationship with Hyle? But no, Jaime didn't laugh, didn't mock her. He didn't hurt her — neither physically nor emotionally. So why did he pay such an absurd amount of money for a night with her?

She couldn't understand it, couldn't find even a shred of a rational explanation. That's why this situation kept bothering her. It crossed her mind to call him, to simply ask, “Why?” But she knew that if she did, if she heard his voice on the other end of the line, she would never be free of him again. Jaime Lannister had become a shadow that haunted her dreams and plagued her thoughts during the day.

She bit her lip as she stared at another photo of Jaime. Golden hair, green eyes, a smile that seemed to promise everything. She felt warmth spreading through her body, her hands trembling with the temptation to move them lower, to her panties. She already knew that one move would be enough to lose herself.

And then a headline appeared on the screen that hit her like a bucket of ice-cold water.

“The death of Aerys Targaryen — accident or murder?

She blinked, unsure if she was seeing correctly. She clicked. Then another article, and another. Each one full of speculation, half-truths, suggestions that Jaime might have had something to do with it.

“Jaime Lannister – Kingslayer?”

The letters screamed from the screen, and Brienne's head echoed with the familiar words of the man from the casino: “Everyone calls him the Kingslayer. You know, behind his back, of course.”

A moment ago, she had felt heat under her skin. Now she felt cold, as if someone had sucked all the warmth out of her. Her heart was pounding like crazy. Could it be true? Could the man whose touch still burned her body in her memories really have blood on his hands?

She closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair, as if the mere act of closing the lid could separate her from the images and headlines scrolling through her mind. She took a sharp breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She rested her elbows on the desk, hid her face in her hands, and began to slowly count from zero to fifty, as she used to do in childhood when she wanted to silence her fears.

The contrast was suffocating. The gentle, attentive man she had met in the apartment of the Water Gardens existed alongside the image of a former tennis star, the son of the richest man in Westeros — and a potential killer. This contradiction weighed on her like a monster sitting on her chest, trying to squeeze the breath out of her.

She heard the key turning in the lock and Hyle's voice announcing his return home. She entered the living room, where she found him shifting from foot to foot, both hands behind his back.

“Um... everything okay?” At her question, he looked up and smiled one of his charming, boyish smiles. He held out a large bouquet of red roses that he had been hiding behind his back. Brienne felt the blood drain from her face. The red petals evoked an echo of old pain, a memory full of shame and sadness. She took the flowers in her hands and hastily placed them on the table, as if they were burning her.

Before she could collect her thoughts, Hyle was already kneeling at her feet. He was holding a small red box in his hands.

“Open it,” he said with a smile that was meant to be gentle, but his eyes betrayed his nervousness. She hesitated. Under the pressure of his gaze, she lifted the lid. Inside, a heavy gold ring sparkled, set with a diamond too large and flashy for her taste. 

“Hyle...” she began, but he had already grabbed her hand and slipped the ring onto her finger.

“It fits perfectly. See?” He kissed her hand, as if sealing the decision. 

Brienne felt the words stick in her throat. The diamond on her finger sparkled ostentatiously, and its weight seemed to crush her with its meaning. The guilt that tormented her seemed to rise to the surface, because she nodded involuntarily. The joy she saw on Hyle's face made her feel like the worst person in the world. Why was she hesitating? Why didn't she feel the overwhelming happiness she probably would have felt a few months earlier if Hyle had decided to propose to her then? 

Before she could react, Hyle was already laying her down on the sofa, showering her with wet kisses.

“You know...” he whispered in her ear as his nimble fingers slipped under the elastic of her pajama bottoms. “...I think this is the perfect time for you to stop taking birth control pills. I read that ovulation can occur as early as the first cycle after stopping the pills, so we wouldn't have to wait long to start trying for a baby.” 

He looked into her eyes, probably expecting her to agree with him, but Brienne barely had time to process the fact of his latest proposal.

“Would you rather give birth to a boy or a girl first?” he asked, wrapping his hand possessively around her pubic mound.

“Hyle...” Brienne tried to find a way out of the situation, not wanting to upset him. He was the kind of person who was difficult to dissuade once he had made up his mind. She often felt like she had to walk on eggshells around him. Hyle didn't let her finish her sentence. His mouth found her lips, and his greedy fingers caressed her clitoris just once before spreading her labia to slide inside her. Brienne was not prepared for this sudden, unexpected intrusion. She felt no arousal, and Hyle's touch was rough, lacking the desired gentleness she had been dreaming of so often lately. She instinctively pushed him away, getting rid of his insistent tongue. 

“Wait,” she croaked, holding her hand on his chest. Her heart was beating wildly, and her emotions were in turmoil: a reluctance to be intimate that conflicted with her guilt at constantly rejecting Hyle. 

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind. He stopped moving his fingers inside her, but he didn't pull them out. “What's going on?” He narrowed his eyes at her, signaling his growing irritation. 

“I don't feel like having sex right now.” She tried to sound polite and gentle, not wanting him to think it was his fault. 

“Right now? You haven't felt like it for a long time. Specifically, since the night you disappeared with Lannister.” He practically spat out the last word, grimacing as if he had swallowed something extremely bitter. His breathing visibly quickened, his shoulders tensed, and the bulge in his pants was hard to miss. “Let me help you relax. Help you forget...” he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of desire and desperation. Maybe she should give him a chance. She exhaled through her nose, trying to calm herself down. Think of something pleasant, she repeated to herself.

Let me help you relax first. A massage will do you good. She heard Jamie's voice in her head. Brienne closed her eyes and could almost feel the warmth of his hands on her skin, the gentle, tender touch moving over her shoulders, her back, every nook and cranny he wanted to explore. She imagined him relaxing her tense muscles, restoring calm to every inch of her body, warming her from the inside. Her body involuntarily began to respond to the memory. Hyle must have sensed the change in her body, because he slid his fingers a little deeper, while his other hand cupped her breast under her thin T-shirt. She didn't usually wear a bra at home. When he twisted her hardening nipple, she moaned loudly, seeing Jamie's mischievous smile behind her closed eyelids as he squeezed her breast, bringing her to orgasm. She gasped loudly as she heard the increasingly wet sounds that Hyle's greedy fingers were making inside her, while his thumb circled her clitoris relentlessly. Suddenly, he bit her earlobe, speeding up his movements, now fucking her hard with his hand. 

“So wet for me, so eager. You don't know what you're doing to me. You keep denying me, playing cat and mouse with me. I can't wait to push my cock inside you. I love fucking you, holding you down, driving you into the mattress. Having you at my mercy.” He whispered, deliberately blowing air into her ear with every other word. Brienne involuntarily clenched around his fingers. He finished tormenting her sore nipple, grabbed her hand, guided it lower, and began rubbing his penis through his pants with it. “Touch me. Can you feel how hard I am? You'll take me all in, I'll go deep inside you. I'll fuck you so long and so often that you'll give birth to a whole bunch of my children.” 

What? No. The mist of excitement suddenly dissipated, bringing Brienne back to reality. In the next moment, Hyle's hand disappeared, and with one movement, he slid her shorts and panties off her hips. She heard him cursing as he struggled with his clothes. Then he was on top of her again, pressing her into the couch with all his weight. 

“Spread your legs for me nicely. Wide.” She automatically clenched her thighs, trying to prevent him from entering her. All the excitement she had felt a moment ago vanished in a second, extinguished like a blown-out flame. Hyle pushed his hand between her legs again, trying to force his way through her resistance. Then she opened her eyes, jumped up from the couch, and grabbed his wrist, stopping his movement.

“I can't, I'm sorry.” Her voice was quiet but firm. 

He froze above her, flushed, his erection protruding from between his thick, dark pubic hair. He looked as if he wanted to protest, as if he was fighting with himself, but instead he sighed heavily and grabbed her chin with his fingers, damp from her own moisture. He held her so she couldn't look away.

“What did he do to you?” he asked in a rough voice, staring intently at her face. He surprised her, because it was the first time he had decided to ask.

“I'm not going to talk to you about it.” 

“Brienne... I need to know.” There was tension in his brown eyes that bordered on desperation. “I need to know what he did to you.” She hated the insistence in his voice. She hated that he was crossing the line they had set together. 

“Remember what we promised each other? That we would never bring it up. That we would act as if nothing had happened.” 

“But it did happen. And it has a clear impact on our lives. I don't want this situation to cast a shadow over our relationship, so you have to tell me what happened between you and him.” He tried to stroke her cheek with his thumb, but she turned her head away with a sharp jerk. 

“No, Hyle. I don't have to.” Brienne's voice was calm, though she felt as if her heart was about to leap out of her chest. “Now... get off me.”

He hesitated for a moment. Looked at her from under his half-closed eyelids, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. She could see him struggling with himself, his anger clashing with his desire. Finally, his hand slid from her cheek to her neck and stopped just above her collarbone. 

“You're pushing me away again. I'm doing everything I can for you. Isn't that enough? Not enough to deserve a warm touch?” He whispered, a note of loneliness and accusation creeping into his voice.

Suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, Hyle changed from rough to tender. His fingertips moved across her collarbone with a movement as gentle as a feather, almost tickling her. With his other hand, he combed through the strands of hair near her ear. He leaned down and kissed her neck, once, then twice, so tenderly that Brienne felt something inside her soften under the influence of this sudden sweetness. The unexpected changes in his behavior always confused her.  

“I love you,” he whispered into her ear, his words warm as summer breath. “Can't you see how hard I'm trying? Everything I do, I do with you in mind. I do it for us. For our home. For our future.”

At the same time, words appeared that were meant to constrain her more than any embrace: "But if you close yourself off from me, if you remain silent, how can I continue to fight? How can I be there for you when you reject me? I did everything to give us a home. I worked, I saved, I pulled us through the worst. Don't take that away from me. Do you think I don't see how your thoughts are drifting away? How you distance yourself with every conversation?"

Each sentence pierced her consciousness like a blade, and his hands, though soft to the touch, burned like iron pressed against her skin. What he said was completely at odds with what he was doing: his low voice sounded so gentle, while at the same time his hips moved slightly and his hard penis rubbed against her thigh from time to time — as if putting her in this situation gave him pleasure. 

“Tell me you need me.” He leaned over her, brushing his lips against the corner of her eye. She felt his tongue, sticky and wet, and only then did she realize that he had licked away a tear she hadn't even been aware of. “Tell me you wouldn’t know how to live without me.”

She tried to answer, but her voice caught in her throat, reduced to a broken, desperate sound. The world around her blurred, the contours of Hyle's face rippled, and he himself turned into a blurry smudge with two dark streaks instead of eyes.

“Brienne?” She heard his voice as if from underwater, now sharper, tinged with more irritation than concern. “For the Seven’s sake, look at me.”

She didn't immediately realize it was a panic attack. She thought it was just dizziness, a sudden hot flash. But her body knew faster than her mind: her fingers trembled, her thighs clenched involuntarily, her stomach turned upside down.She couldn't catch her breath.  One thought echoed in her head: Escape. I have to escape.

“Get off me!” she managed to say, and her hands pushed him away with such force that he fell off the couch and onto the table. It tipped over, along with a bouquet of red roses. They were the last thing she saw as she knelt over the toilet, vomiting violently. 

~*~

Royce Property Management was a leading company specializing in comprehensive property management. For years, it had provided services of the highest standard, combining tradition with a modern approach to investment and customer service. Robar, the son of the strict Bronze Yohn Royce, raised from childhood in a world of hard rules, saw something refreshing in Brienne. He appreciated her reliability, persistence, inability to be false, and a trait that was increasingly rare in this industry — authenticity. Initially skeptical of her “romantic” approach to the market, he quickly noticed that customers who came to Brienne returned with gratitude, recommended her to family and friends, and their stories became the best advertisement for the company. 

Brienne treated Robar with great respect. Although young, burdened by his father's name and the need to prove his worth, he reciprocated that respect, giving her more than just patronizing support. He taught her how to operate in a world where a single oversight could cost a client their life savings and an agent their reputation. He had something of a mentor about him: he was able to explain things patiently, step by step, without hiding his high standards. Brienne absorbed his advice like a sponge, and he quickly noticed that she wasn't just memorizing it – she understood it, processed it, and adapted it to herself. Over time, he no longer had to correct her reports or supervise her conversations. On the contrary, there were situations in which he himself began to model his style of customer contact on hers. 

Seeing her passion and reliability, he began to treat her as a partner. He never belittled her work or dismissed her ideas. Sometimes, after hours, they would have long conversations over coffee, discussing not only real estate, but also what a home really is and what makes a person able to put down roots in a new place. He was the one who handled the land on which Brienne and Hyle planned to build their house. As a boss, he was demanding and strict, but he also provided a sense of stability — until the recession forced the company to make drastic job cuts. Brienne was among those who had to leave. 

That day, Royce's company was unnaturally quiet. There was no sound of the usual clatter of shoes in the hallway or hushed conversations in the open space. Brienne entered Robar's office, sensing that something was wrong. He was sitting at his desk, which was usually buried in piles of files and catalogs, but this time it was almost ascetically tidy. Robar looked up at her from behind the glass of water he was holding in his hand. He didn't look like a boss ready for a business conversation.

“Brienne...” he sighed, setting his glass down on the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

She did so, frowning. She waited for his usual questions about clients, appointments, and sales plans. But they didn't come.

“I don't like these kinds of conversations,” he said quietly, clasping his hands together. “But I have no choice.”

Something tightened in Brienne's stomach.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

Robar looked down at the desk, as if searching for the right words.

“You know the recession has hit our industry. My father is pushing for cost reductions. We're cutting jobs. And...” He paused, looking up at her with his gray eyes. He was a handsome man in a rugged way. “That means we have to say goodbye.”

Brienne felt the blood drain from her face. “But... my performance... I work harder than...”

“I am aware of that,” he interrupted her quickly, his voice without a hint of criticism. “I know you're one of the best. This has nothing to do with your work. If it were up to me, I would never let you go.”

Robar, I... I need this job.” She clenched her hands on the armrests of the chair to hide her trembling.

A look of helplessness appeared on his face. “I know. And it hurts me more than I can express. But there's nothing I can do. The decision was made above my head.”

A heavy, suffocating silence fell. Brienne felt a lump rising in her throat. 

“Listen. What you've learned here... that will stay with you. You have something inside you that can't be taught: passion. Clients trust you because you understand what a real home is. That's what sets you apart.” He leaned forward slightly in his leather chair. “Don't stop believing in yourself.”

Brienne nodded, unable to find the right words.

Robar stood up from behind his desk and held out his hand to her. Not like a boss, but like someone who truly values another person.

“You are my partner, Brienne. And you always will be. I will give you the best references.”

She squeezed his hand, feeling her eyes sting. She smiled sadly at him, though deep down she was fighting not to cry. 

The Royce Property Management office hadn't changed since Brienne was last here. The walls were adorned with large-format photographs of luxury apartment buildings and elegant office towers, which Royce presented as its greatest successes. Brienne sat next to Hyle in a soft armchair, feeling extremely uncomfortable. Since her panic attack, the atmosphere between her and Hyle had been tense. They only spoke to each other when they had to. Brienne felt a sense of relief because she had regained a space where she could be alone. Hyle avoided direct contact, though he couldn't refrain from protective gestures for long — sometimes he would brush against her accidentally or leave her a cup of warm tea nearby, as if he wanted to make up for his behavior.

The office door opened and Emmon Cuy walked in. Cuy was the kind of man who was difficult to like, even though he always behaved politely. He seemed reliable and competent at work, but his manner irritated Brienne — he was overly confident, made snide remarks, and never missed an opportunity to emphasize his superiority.

When Brienne was still working for Robbar, Emmon was her colleague and often made it clear to her that he considered her a novice. His comments were subtly malicious, often laced with irony, and his tone suggested that he could embarrass her in front of a client or superior at any moment.

“Miss Tarth.” The smile she saw on his face at first glance might have seemed polite, but Brienne immediately sensed malice in it. “I didn't expect to see you again at our doorstep.” 

“We're here about the plot of land at Shipbreaker Bay.” Brienne clenched her hands on her knees, trying to remain calm.

Emmon nodded and sat down opposite them, resting his elbows on the table as if waiting for the moment to pass judgment. “Ah, yes, I remember. Two acres, with a beautiful view. An ambitious choice... though, to be honest, a little beyond your means.”

“We're a little behind on our payments, but we're here to settle up.” Hyle straightened up, a hard note appearing in his voice.

“I'm afraid that's impossible.”

“What do you mean?” Hyle frowned. 

“Unfortunately, it's too late. The loan hasn't been paid for two months. The bank has taken over the property, which has been offered to another buyer.” A smile appeared on Emmon's lips, this time openly mocking.

“What do you mean, taken over?” Hyle slammed his hand on the tabletop, a reflex meant to restore his control. “Who did they sell it to?”

Emmon pretended to consider his answer, then spread his hands. “I'm bound by confidentiality. I can't reveal who the new owner is.”

“We applied for an extension.” Brienne struggled to hide her anger. 

“Yes,” Emmon cleared his throat and glanced at the documents in front of him. “But it expired two days ago. No further payment has been received. Actually... I'm surprised you're only coming now.” The tone of his voice made Brienne feel like a student being humiliated by her teacher in front of the whole class.

“Without informing us? That's illegal.” Hyle clenched his fists tighter.

“No,” Brienne interjected quickly, lowering her gaze. “They have the right to do so.”

Emmon smiled wider, with satisfaction, as if he had been waiting for this moment. “It's good that someone here still knows the procedures. We sent you a letter, we even tried to call you. But well... apparently you were busy.”

He fixed his gaze on Brienne. She knew what he was trying to tell her — that she was incompetent and that he remembered perfectly well how she had left the company in an atmosphere of embarrassment and unfulfilled ambitions. 

“Because we left town!” Hyle blurted out.

Brienne felt a hot blush spread across her cheeks. Hyle slammed his hand on the table again. “So that's it? That's all you have to say to us?”

“I'm sorry. But in this business, it's facts that count, not sentiment.” Emmon shrugged and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

Brienne wanted to get up and leave, to leave behind this stuffy room and Emmon's gaze. But Hyle was sitting next to her, trembling with anger, and she could feel that he was close to losing control. She was about to grab his hand in a calming gesture when he jumped to his feet. First, he grabbed the briefcase and threw it across the room, then with one sweeping motion of his arm, he swept the papers, pens, and a cup of hot coffee off the broker's desk. Everything fell to the floor with a crash. 

“Don't use their services!” he roared wildly, and in that sound you could clearly hear how betrayed and hurt he felt. “They sold us out! They'll sell you out too!”

The secretary's frightened voice could be heard behind the door. After a moment, it opened violently and Robar Royce appeared in the doorway, his face contorted with irritation, but also genuine surprise. 

“What the hell is going on here?” he hissed, shifting his gaze from the shaken Hyle to Brienne and finally to Emmon. 

Cuy, who had been sitting with a cold smile, slowly stood up, adjusting his shirt cuffs. “The clients... did not accept that their unpaid plot had been sold in accordance with procedures,” he said with feigned indifference, but there was satisfaction in his voice.

Brienne rose from her seat, lifted her head, and looked Robar straight in the eye. “Emmon allowed our plot of land in Shipbreaker Bay to be sold,” she said firmly, though she was trembling inside.

Robar narrowed his eyes and looked at his deputy. “Damn it, Cuy...” he growled. “You could have at least warned me.”

Emmon raised an eyebrow as if he wanted to add something snide, but seeing his superior's expression, he fell silent.

“Brienne,” Royce addressed her more calmly, his tone softer. “The procedure was completely legal. A new buyer was found, and in the case of payment arrears... well, the regulations leave us no room for maneuver.”

Brienne opened her mouth, but didn't have time to answer. Robar raised his hand. “Come with me.”

He took her by the arm and led her out into the hallway, leaving Hyle, still seething, and Emmon, pale-faced, behind. He closed the door behind him and breathed heavily.

“Listen,” he began in a quieter, gentler voice. “I like you. I remember when Renly Baratheon recommended you to me when I was looking for someone reliable. Now I can do the same. Do you know the Tyrells?”

Brienne nodded. “I studied with Marge.”

“I'll talk to Margaery,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know they're looking for competent people, and you're great at what you do.”

“What about our plot of land?” she asked quietly. “Can you tell me who bought it?”

Robar shook his head, clearly uncomfortable. “I can't. The procedures are strict. But... if I were you, I'd call Margaery.” 

Brienne took a deep breath. She was angry, disappointed, but at the same time she felt that Robar really wanted to help her.

When they returned to the office, Hyle was still tense and ready for another explosion, so Brienne approached him and took his hand, squeezing it gently.

“That's all,” she said calmly, letting him know she was in control of the situation. “Thank you, Robar.”

“Good luck, Brienne,” Robar winked at her knowingly, then opened the door for them, inviting them to leave. 

Brienne led Hyle through the entire building, holding his hand, and when they finally came outside, she dragged them into an alley around the corner. 

His face was still red with anger, his breathing heavy, and his eyes wandering in search of another object on which to vent his frustration.

“Hyle...” She shook him gently, trying to get him to look at her. “Listen to me. All is not lost yet.”

He laughed briefly and bitterly, the sound more like a growl. “We lost EVERYTHING. Do you understand? They betrayed us, sold the plot to someone else, and you say all is not lost?!”

She squeezed his hand tighter, as if to ground him. “I'll call Margaery. If anyone can find out who bought our land, it's her.”

Hyle narrowed his eyes, breathing heavily. A moment ago, he looked like he wanted to throw chairs, but now his shoulders began to slowly drop.

“And what good will that do us?” he asked suspiciously, as if afraid of another disappointment.

Brienne sighed. She wasn't sure if their plan had any real chance of success, but she had to believe in something, anything, to keep him from sinking into anger.

“If we find out who bought the plot...” she began calmly, as if drawing him a map out of the chaos. “...we'll make him an offer. A better one. Maybe he'll agree. We can still turn this around.”

Hyle looked at her incredulously, then rubbed his face with both hands and cursed under his breath. “Do you really believe this will work?”

“I believe we have to try,” she replied firmly, ready to do anything to regain their property. “It's better than giving up here and now.”

There was a moment of silence, and Brienne felt his hand relax in hers. She knew she hadn't completely reassured him, but she had given him something he couldn't find on his own — hope. 

~*~

In the evening, Hyle holed up in the living room, engrossed in work on their laptop. When she went to bed, the glow of the monitor still seeped through the door, remaining on long into the night. When she reached across the bed in the morning, the sheets were cold. Hyle must have left long before Brienne opened her eyes.

However, Brienne made sure that Hyle was definitely not at home before she dared to dial Margaery's number. She still had her contact information in her cell phone, although she couldn't remember the last time they had spoken. After graduating from university, they had kept in touch for a while, but then they lost contact, partly because of Hyle. He seemed jealous of her relationship with Marge. When they made plans to have lunch together, he made no secret of his displeasure. It started with minor jibes about Margaery in their conversations, which turned into suggestions that “she has an easy life” and doesn't understand Brienne's daily struggles. The doubts he planted in her mind created minor misunderstandings, which then turned into real grievances. Her relationship with Marge gradually cooled, and then Margery left for King's Landing and their contact ceased altogether. 

After a few rings, a familiar, melodious voice came on the line. 

“Brienne? Seven hells, is that really you?” Margaery exclaimed, and there was such genuine joy in her tone that Brienne couldn't help but smile.

“Hi, Marge.” Her voice trembled with sudden emotion. “I didn't expect you to still remember my number.”

“Of course I remember it. You're still in my favorites. I missed you, Bri.”

“I missed you too.” Tears welled up in Brienne's eyes before she could stop them. “I'm... sorry. I'm ashamed that I'm only contacting you now, and on top of that, it's because I have a favor to ask.” She gripped the phone tighter, trying to control her voice. 

“Shh. It's okay. Now that you've finally spoken to me, I'm not going to let you off the hook so easily. We'll catch up. Now tell me what's going on.” Margery became serious, her tone turning more assertive, like when they used to solve crises at college together.

Brienne told her about their land by the Shipbreaker Bay, how the Royce company had sold it without warning, and that Brienne really wanted it back. She tried to sound calm, but it was difficult to hide anything from Margery. She easily sensed the tension in her voice.

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Brienne imagined the cogs in Marge's head working intensely. 

“I understand.” Margery's voice suddenly became very matter-of-fact. “Give me the exact address and lot number.”

“Are you really going to...?”

“Of course I will.” In the background, there was the rapid tapping of keys on a keyboard. “Checking the deeds is a five-minute job.”

“I don't want to put you in a difficult position, I know it's risky and borderline illegal...” Brienne began, but Margaery interrupted her after a moment.

“Do you know who my grandmother is, Brienne?”

“Of course I do.” Olenna Tyrell was a walking legend and the epitome of being a badass. Much had been heard about her sharp tongue; after all, she was called the Queen of Thorns for a reason. All the power of the Tyrell family and their company was thanks to her. 

“So you know that risk is my middle name,” she replied. “All my life, I've watched Olenna bend the world to her own rules. When I was little, she taught me that if something is important — really important — you don't ask if it's legal. You just do it.” Her voice now had a different tone. Confident. Almost solemn.

So she gave Marge all the details and waited, listening with admiration to the fluid movements of Margery's fingers on her computer.

“Okay, I've got it,” Margaery muttered. “The change of ownership was registered three days ago. The buyer is a private individual, and his name is...” She paused and took a deep breath. 

“Marge?”

“Oh, gods.”

“What? What's going on?” Brienne was immediately alarmed.

“This guy will never agree,” Marge hissed.

“Who? Who are you talking about?” Brienne exhaled loudly, unaware that she had been holding her breath for so long.

“Lannister. Jaime Lannister.”

Brienne froze, leaning unconsciously against the wall; her legs refused to obey her for a moment. 

“Bri?” Margaery's tone suddenly became very concerned. “Breathe calmly. Just like we practiced.”

She didn't realize she was breathing so loudly.

“I'll kill him. I'll murder that vile man.” The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Wait... you know Lannister?” Margery sounded astonished. 

“I'll call you back, Marge. Thank you again, but I have to go.” 

“Oh, Bri, what have you gotten yourself into? Don't think I'll let you off the hook! You're going to tell me everything!” 

They hung up. She stood there for a moment with the phone to her ear, doing simple breathing exercises as her friend had instructed. 

~*~

Brienne thought her head would explode from the excess of thoughts. It was like a war drum, spreading through her body like a wave, vibrating even in her bones. 

Why?

The question echoed in various configurations. Why did he want to buy her a dress? Why did he choose her at the casino? Why did he pay a million golden dragons for one night with her? Why did he buy their land? What was his motive? Was he so vile and deceitful? Did he feed on their misfortune? She knew she had to confront him to find out the answers to these questions. But first, she had to talk to Hyle, who was still not home, even though many hours had passed. She decided to pour herself a glass of wine to give herself some courage. She was searching through the kitchen cabinets when she heard the front door open and then close with a loud bang. She put the wine opener next to the bottle and two glasses as Hyle stood in the doorway. He looked like he had just returned from the depths of the seven hells. Pale and emaciated, his eyes were ringed as if he hadn't slept all night, and his hair was tousled by the wind. There was something broken about him.

“Would you like some wine?” she asked him.

He nodded in response, staring at her intently. 

Brienne uncorked the bottle with a quiet, muffled pop, but in the silence of the kitchen, the sound was almost like a gunshot. She tilted the bottle, and a thick, ruby stream flowed lazily into the glass, splashing against its sides. She filled one glass first, then the other, carefully so as not to spill a drop. Only when she placed them side by side on the counter did she realize how much her hands were shaking. 

With a glass of wine in her hand, she approached Hyle, who hadn't moved from his spot by the kitchen door. 

“Where were you?” she asked quietly, raising the glass toward him.

Hyle took it slowly, their fingers brushing briefly.

“I needed to think about something.” He sounded hollow, and his heavy gaze seemed to pin her to the floor.  

Brienne felt a twinge in her chest. She guessed immediately that it was the plot that was preoccupying his thoughts, that he was still mulling over the loss of their shared dream. She wanted to relieve him and tell him what she had learned from Marge, but at the same time she was afraid of how he would react to the information.

She took a deep breath. “I spoke with Margaery,” she said finally, her voice calmer than she had expected. She chose honesty, knowing she should not hide the truth from Hyle. 

“And what did you find out?” he replied, not taking his eyes off her for a second. He didn't seem to blink at all. The air between them began to thicken, and Brienne felt uncomfortable. 

“I know who bought the land.” Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. “And I promise you I'll get it back.” She hadn't been so sure of anything in a long time. 

“Who is this man?” he asked in a harsh voice.

“Don't worry. I'll take care of it.” Brienne felt she was delaying the inevitable, but deep down she hoped Hyle would stop pressing her. 

The silence lasted a few seconds, though Brienne felt as if time had stopped. Hyle raised the glass to his lips as if to taste the wine, but paused and hissed through clenched teeth:

"Who?”

Brienne swallowed loudly. She hadn't thought it would be so difficult for her to say the name.

“It's... Lannister.”

The sound of breaking glass echoed through the kitchen. The glass in Hyle's hand shattered, and shards dug into his skin. Blood ran between his fingers, dripping onto his shirt cuff and slowly dripping onto the floor. He seemed oblivious to it, staring at Brienne as if she had just betrayed him right in front of his eyes.

“It's funny,” he said in a tone that was not the least bit cheerful. “First, I found his business card in your wallet. Then I saw that you were looking for his photos on the internet.  And now I find out that, somehow, he's the one who bought our plot of land.”

Brienne stiffened at his words. “You've been going through my things and my browsing history?” 

“Is that your biggest problem right now?” he snorted, a wild look coming over his eyes. “My problem is that my fiancée is a whore.”

She felt as if someone had just stabbed her in the chest. 

“What...?” she managed to say, barely moving her lips.

“I was worried about you,” he said harshly, accusingly. “I thought he raped you and that's why you don't want me to touch you.”

Brienne felt her blood begin to boil.

“Would you have preferred that?” she raised her voice, clenching her fists. “Is that what you wanted when you sold me as if I were your property? For him to hurt me?”

“Answer me one question.” Hyle took a step closer, looking as if he were on the verge of madness. “Was it good? When he was fucking you, did you enjoy it?!”

“How dare you!” Her voice turned into a roar. “I did it for you, you fucking egoist!”

“No.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “You did it because you're a whore. When did you plot it with him? At the casino or earlier? How long have you known each other?!”

He grabbed a bottle of wine, which a few seconds later smashed against the wall behind her. The dark liquid spilled onto the floor, splattering the furniture and staining everything around it. Brienne felt drops of wine on her cheek, her heart beating wildly. She couldn't believe her ears. 

“You're sick, Hyle. Insane. You should seek treatment.” 

Hyle moved toward her. The blow came suddenly, without warning. He hit her in the face with such force that her vision went dark for a moment. She tasted the metallic flavor of blood in her mouth. 

She didn't have time to catch her breath before he grabbed her by the throat and pinned her against the wall. She felt the shards of glass in his hand cutting into her neck. The air was escaping from her lungs relentlessly, and she desperately raised her hands to his to loosen his grip, but his fingers were like steel rings. 

“You think I'll let you go?” he hissed right in her face. “Take away what I've worked so hard for?”

The world narrowed to the pain in her throat and the dark spots spinning before her eyes. But Brienne was not one to give up without a fight. With her last ounce of strength, she dug her nails into his face. Hyle flinched in surprise, loosening his grip. She raised her knee and kicked him squarely in the groin. A scream escaped his throat and he doubled over, gasping for air. 

Brienne broke free like a frightened animal. She pushed him to the floor and ran across the kitchen. Glass crunched under her feet, and wine splashed across the floor like traces of blood after a slaughter.

She ran out of the flat, the door slamming behind her with a bang. She ran as fast as her legs and lungs would carry her, breathing heavily. The air outside was cold and sharp, but all that mattered to her was that she could breathe it in. 

She only stopped when a coughing fit shook her body and her legs refused to obey her. Gasping, she leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees, trying to calm her wildly beating heart and the chaos in her head. 

That’s when the horn startled her.

She jerked upright just as a dark car slowly pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down with a quiet sound. A gentle, unfamiliar male voice came from the shadow of the driver's seat.

“Need a ride?”