"You're here? But I was going to pick you up in a couple of hours!"

"I got an earlier flight. Did you know your airport has car rental as well as a doughnut kiosk? I may have to upgrade it from the worst airport I've ever used. You know. Just." He turns back out on the road proper, grimacing as the rear axle of the elderly off-roader makes a decidedly clunky noise in protest. "This heap has no GPS. Does everyone on your island drive stick? There was one automatic left, Brienne. One."

"Are you driving now?"

Jaime groans at the sharp concern suddenly evident in her tone and glares for a split second at the cheap plastic contraption barely holding his phone in a measure of safety. "I'm hands free, petal. Good job too. The maps are terrible and I've gotten lost up three separate dirt tracks so far. Do your people not believe in the overuse of asphalt? Too sciencey for you? And where the hells do you live?"

There is a marked pause before Brienne asks, "Are you back on the main road?"

Right on cue, the front right wheel judders through a pothole, shortly followed by the rear. "If that's what you call it," Jaime says, through gritted teeth.

"Above the treeline?"

He chances lifting his gaze from the rutted road ahead for a split second and sees the end of the twisted trees that have grown over the road, forming a canopy of sun-dappled greenery above. "That's just ahead."

"Then there's a yellow gate on your right, about a minute or so from you. That's it."

Jaime waits until the car shoots back out into direct sunlight to reply. He has always loved that sort of moment when driving, as it reminds him of the space ships narrowly escaping destruction in the sci-fi movies that he watched a lot when he was very young. But that moment of childish joy aside, he sees no reason to be particularly easy on Brienne about her outlandish choice of home. "What, no hour long trudges through swamps to add to my journey?"

"No. But if you're going to do nothing but complain, you might want to turn around and head straight back to the airport."

"No can do," Jaime says, unable to stop himself from grinning at her tone, which is meandering into the distinctly schoolmarmish. "I'm afraid I've now tried their extensive range of two whole types of doughnut. Mmmm-mmm." He spots a flash of yellow in the old stone wall running along the side of the road and draws the car to a halt by the promised gate. "I've got it."

Leaving the engine running, for gods forbid this island should offer him a car with an ignition switch he can comfortably access, Jaime opens up the gate and drives through it. He doesn't comment on yet another moment that sets his teeth to rattling until he's closed it up again and is back in his seat. "Was that a cattle grid, Brienne? Do you have cattle?" Jaime asks, as he starts to follow another blasted dirt track up and over the gentle ridge in front of him.

"Yes and no. This used to be a hill farm. For sheep."

"Shouldn't it be called a sheep grid then? If you can't even name - ," the car tops that rise and a vista, like none Jaime's ever seen, opens up before him. "Hells' teeth, Brienne," he breathes, as he applies the brakes to let it all sink in. "It's beautiful."

"Yes," Brienne softly confirms. He can hear her smiling as she says, "And the kettle's warm. I got in some of that hideously strong coffee you like."

"That sounds -"

But Brienne has ended the call, so Jaime gets out of the shabby vehicle he's actually had to pay to drive, leaving the rickety handbrake more firmly on at the second attempt, only to forget everything as he simply looks. It is a perfectly clear day, though the air is sharp, with a cool breeze up this high, yet still marked by the tang of the sea. And every detail of the landscape seems to sing.

The mountain is, in fact, topped by a rounded hollow, perhaps a half a mile across, with a ridge surrounding it, as if to cut it off from the world. That ridge undulates up and down, and what appears to be one mountain from sea level actually has three small peaks, the highest of which is topped by a low wall of dark stones.

There are no trees up here, nor even any low bushes or scrub. It is all grassy, a brilliant, lush green, except for a few clear paths and, in the very bottom of that hollow, a small lake. That, in itself, is a startling blue, though if it is the sky reflected or the waters themselves, Jaime cannot quite tell.

It is stunning, the sort of place in which he can imagine old rituals being performed in the aeons before known history, perhaps under the cover of mist by men with long beards.

Off to his left and further down towards the lake, maybe a quarter of a mile off, is a rambling and low two-storey home. It is sturdy and if it is whitewashed, the windows and roof looking perfectly sound and modern, it has the feel of something that is very old at it's core. It is the sort of building that has clearly never been subject to any kind of overall plan, bits and pieces having been tacked on here and there when they were needed, over many generations. He can well believe it will be nothing short of a rabbit warren on the inside, though he can feel the warmth and coziness in it from here, as if it is seeping out through the bricks and into the land around him.

The pristine red front door, with a brass door knocker he sees glinting even at this distance, opens and Jaime watches Brienne come out to greet him. "Well, Brienne. Aren't you just full of surprises?" Jaime whispers to himself as he gets back into the car to drive down to her. But if he takes the track with care, his eyes keep being pulled back to the astonishing view around him, and he can see by the time he reaches the gravel in front of the house that there are even a few points where the sea beyond this place, that separates Tarth itself from the world, can be sighted. If anything, it makes this strange landscape feel even more isolated, yet more special.

However, he pointedly does not look at his host until he has awkwardly laced his left arm through the steering wheel to remove the car keys and grabbed his duffle bag from the seat beside him. In fact, he only looks at her properly once he has gotten out and slammed the car door shut again.

He starts to walk towards her, and only understands he has stopped when he registers he is no longer hearing the crunch of the stones beneath his feet. For he is stunned again.

Brienne should look out of place here. That is no cruel thought; it simply is. For all of their constant jokes on the matter, he is not blind and Jaime, in spite of already having come to look on her with a kinder eye, is all too aware of how she is viewed by people who do not know her in the slightest. Until relatively recently he was one of them, after all.

Yet she does not look out of place. Not here.

She fits. She fits in here in a way he would have thought impossible, even laughable, mere seconds ago. It is as if she were grown here like some form of impossible tree, with actual physical roots connecting her to everything around them.

The woman who he has seen in the television studio and even, at arm's length, at so many sporting events over the years, seems to have shed the blunt defensiveness she always wears like a cloak. In its place is an endless calm, a sense of peace.

There is an edge of real grace to it, one that is not even broken when she pushes the arms of her enormous, dark jumper up her arms, a slight furrow forming on her brow.
For a few seconds more, Jaime simply looks at her, at the fine strands of loose hair fluttering across her face in the breeze. When one of the arms of her jumper slides back down without any prompting, Jaime decides it is high time for him to stop staring.

"Hi," he offers. It is all he can bear to bring himself to say, as he knows he sounds somewhat punch drunk.

"Hi, Jaime," Brienne says, that flicker of concern in her morphing into the smallest of grins as she turns to lead him into her home.

-

Brienne

-

“Grip that rail any tighter, and you’re bound to break the ship in two.”

Brienne turned. Jaime Lannister stood framed by sail, the wind running salt fingers through his golden hair. He nodded to Brienne’s hands--they were white-knuckled, clutching the wide wood beams of the bark that bore them lurchingly over the Straits of Tarth.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” he said. “We could go below.”

Brienne normally had good constitution for sailing, but nerves and an already upset stomach had weakened her. She released the tension in her muscles and smiled bravely at her husband.

“The fresh air is much better. And I want to see Tarth at first sighting.”

The isle was not yet visible--everything more than a stone’s throw in front of the ship was blanketed in cold fog. Jaime curled his left arm around her waist, giving it a gentle squeeze. As they gazed out into the mists together, she felt herself relax into his touch.

“Thank you for coming with me,” she said.

A frown creased his brow.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“The Westerlands. Your duties there, now that the war is ended.”

“You mean our duties there,” he said warmly. “Have no worry, there’s plenty of time yet for us to play Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock.”

She firmed her lips, stifling a smile. “I’m hardly a lady--”

He reached for her chin and stopped her mouth with his. “You, my love,”--he spoke lowly, his lips brushing hers--“are every inch a lady.” He lavished kisses on her cheek, her chin, and all the way down her neck.

“Jaime!” she burst, but did not protest. She smiled into his golden hair. He smelled of salt, sea spray, and something else that was distinctly him. He peeled away the cowl of her thick winter cloak, and his mouth found the soft skin above her collarbone. His lips were cool from the sea air, but his breath was warm. Brienne closed her eyes, forgetting the waves and ship entirely. Days slipped away like sand.

They had wed quietly in the godswood at Winterfell some two months prior. Bitter cold and darkness fell all around them as they stood before the heart tree, yet it was the sweetest, warmest of nights--the likes of which Brienne thought she would never know. We hid our hearts from each other for so long...

Even after Jaime had pledged himself fully to the North, war divided them again and again, keeping her at Winterfell guarding Sansa and sending him ranging into the cold reaches of nothing. One lightless day, there came a time when Brienne thought she would see Jaime Lannister no more. He and the rest of his party had ranged too far, too long. The army of the dead pressed close on Winterfell, tight as an iron clamp. Just when all was lost--when Brienne and her company could hold them back no longer, when she had fallen and almost given herself to the icy maw of death--he returned, sword in hand, reinforcements at his heel. The enemy was vanquished. Winterfell was saved.

Brienne remembered how she lay there in the snow, too weak to rise. How he knelt to her, embraced her so closely that he almost lay on top of her.

You’re alive, he said, over and again. You’re alive.

It was so cold that tears froze to her face and she could barely speak--but his body was warm beneath ice-crusted furs, and the sound of his voice breathed life into hers. She remembered seeing their twin swords, how they lay silent in the snow, one over the other. The truth rushed from her heart and out her lips.

I love you, she said.

He smiled, and he kissed her.

Marry me, he whispered.

So she did.

The ship lurched, and Brienne steadied herself. Jaime laid his hand on the small of her back and gave her a worried look. “I’m fine,” she reassured him. She inhaled the sea air. It was cold, but not so cold as winter’s breath--a scent of spring was on the wind. Bran said he had a dream of spring. Indeed, the days grew long and light again. King Jon had given leave for the lords and ladies paramount to sift through the ashes of their lands, bring peace to them before convening again to discuss a new world order. It was under such circumstances that Brienne sent a raven to her father, informing him she was alive and well, newly married to Jaime Lannister. We will visit Tarth soon, after we’ve been to Casterly Rock. The Sapphire Isle was one of the few places unravaged by the Great War. She had confidence it could wait just a bit longer.

The bird she received in return left her unsettled.

She took the rolled parchment from her cloak, unfurled it. It was her father’s hand, but unfamiliar and strange--the letters were shaky and gnarled like windblown trees.

Jaime glanced over at it.

“May I?”

Brienne nodded, and held one end with her right hand while he gripped the other end with his left. Their wrists crossed. He squinted at the awkward script.

“It’s not nearly as bad as my handwriting,” he murmured. “Perhaps he has only hurt his hand.”

“I don’t know.”

He scanned it further.

“Your father doesn’t mention being ill...all seems well on Tarth.”

“He wouldn’t tell me in a letter if he was ill--not directly,” Brienne said. “There are a lot of things you can say without having to say them.”

Jaime frowned at her, a calculating look in his green eyes.

“Your father does that thing that you do, doesn’t he? Where I’m supposed to read the whole world by two words and a look?”

Brienne looked at him sheepishly and blinked away.

“Worse.”

Jaime laughed bleakly into the wind.

“I’m fucked.”

Brienne sighed. The taciturn ways of Tarths would be a mystery to him, bold lion of Lannister that he was. She wanted to give him comfort--but the truth was, she didn’t know how her father felt about Jaime. In his scrawled letter, he hadn’t once addressed the news of their marriage.

“How long do we have on Tarth?” Brienne asked, hearing her voice go thin and anxious. “Before we have to go to Casterly Rock?”

Jaime tightened his arm around her in a tender squeeze.

“As long as need be,” he said. “After all, your father is the only family we have left.”

Brienne frowned.

“Your brother--”

“--is not my family.”

The words snapped under his breath, silencing any further question on the matter. Brienne knew better than to press it. Enough uncertainty lay ahead for today, and this was neither the time nor place to talk about Tyrion.

“Land ho!” called the sailor from the crow’s nest.

The mists cleared like a curtain quickly drawn from a window. Brienne caught her breath.

The sea shone blue and danced with light--so brightly, it seemed that the sun threw crystals onto a bed of sapphires. But these jewels were base and inferior to the Isle of Tarth; the land rose up in lush green majesty, throned against sky and sea like a king in his hall. Rolling seas of verdant hill and meadow crested into mountains and high cliffs. The silver marble towers of Evenfall crowned the southwestern slopes while a line of sand and rock glittered white underneath, halo-like. A thousand memories came flooding back to Brienne; the fresh smell of mountain flowers, the whispered rush of waterfalls, keeping up with her father’s long strides through the castle corridors. There were darker memories too, but these were brushstrokes of her past--like shadows that creased the sun-soaked hills. Colors blurred together, tears welling in Brienne’s eyes. She blinked them away.

Jaime must have been holding his breath, too, for now he released it. She felt his whiskered kiss on the back of her neck.

“It seems that spring has favored Tarth, my lady.”