my lord, the queen is dead. @ichorai - Tumblr Blog

redfish ; jaime lannister (1)

pairing ; jaime lannister x tully!oc

excerpt ; "You're the first lady I've met who wished to become two things she couldn't—a knight and a maester. Such grand delusions." Jaime saw the anger crackle across her freckled features. This elicited a low chuckle from the white-armored knight. "I can't imagine you buried under all those heavy chainlinks." His eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of the halls. "Armor, though… it suits you."

words ; 11k

warnings / includes ; slowburn, not-so-friends to definitely enemies to not-yet-lovers dynamic, foul language, war/blood/injury/weapons, death, mentions of failed childbirth & c-sections, strong gender envy, do i want him or do i want to be him sort of questioning lol, brynden is a tired single father

a/n ; this first part is set before the events of a game of thrones (last scene is 7 years before book 1) and serves to essentially set the scene for the next part which will cover canon book events (war of the five kings, red wedding...)

read on ao3! main masterlist.

The babe was a red-faced and squalling furiously. Brynden cradled her small, fragile form close to his breast. She was his first child, and the only one he'd ever have. His hands were caked with dark blood, crusted dry. He had yet to wash away his wife's labors, from whence she lost her battle for life on the birthing bed hours before. Maesters and midwives alike corraled him and his dead wife shortly after cutting her open for the babe. Hardly gave him any room to breathe, much less grieve. Brynden sent them all away with a sharp tone and a heavy brow.

He was quite familiar with war. The strategies that came with the terrain and the weaponry and the numbers. It was all natural to him. But the birthing room, he was not at all acquainted with. The birthing room had been worse than war, far worse. The dense air of sweat and copper hung thickly over them. Watching his wife disappear slowly and painfully was worse than anything Brynden had ever experienced, will ever experience.

Brynden Blackfish bent his face closer to the babe. She had his hair, he noticed, her head tufted with red strands, still damp from the birth. The babe wailed with such verocity that Brynden could already tell his daughter had impressively strong lungs.

He laughed, which broke away into an anguished sob. His nose pressed against his daughter's forehead. And he wept and wept and wept.

"Bernie!" shouted Edmure. "Let's go outside and play knights!"

Bernadelle shook her head, wrinkling her freckled nose. She wanted to stay inside and do her sums. The maester always praised her for doing her sums quicker than all the other children. And she was only five, which meant all the other children were older and dimmer than she.

Which included her coz Edmure, even though he was the same age as her, older by just a month.

"Leave her be," scolded Catelyn, who Bernie was very fond of. If she had an older sister, she would very much wish for her to be like Catelyn. "It's not proper for Bernie to play knights. She's a lady."

"Not yet, she's not," remarked Lysa. "She's too small."

Bernadelle was not half as fond of Lysa. "And are you too big for a lady?" she asked, looking up at her cousin and mustering her most innocent, five-year-old expression.

Lysa's face reddened and twisted with fury. "Why you impudent little—"

"She's only five, Lysa, she didn't mean any harm," said Cat, wagging a stern finger at the two of them.

Before Lysa could say any more, the children were interrupted by shouting. It was coming from the great hall. Bernadelle's eyes widened with worry when she heard her father's frustrated voice echoing through the walls.

The children crept out of the solar and padded through the hall, silent as mice, and the four of them pressed themselves against the entrance of the room where their fathers were bickering.

Though Bernadelle couldn't see him, she could imagine her uncle, Lord Hoster Tully, his face crumpled with disdain.

"Have you no shame? No respect for your family?" gruffed Hoster. "Time and time again you embarrass me in front of—"

"I never asked for you to find these ladies for me, brother-mine," replied her father, Brynden. "I have had a wife. I am not taking another."

"I have given you several opportunities," snarked Hoster. "One after the other, to right your wrongs—"

"Do not call her a wrong."

"—and yet you bore a bastard without my leave, and—"

"My daughter is not a bastard!" gritted Brynden, his voice raised. "I married Berna. Just because you weren't present doesn't make it any less true."

"So you say," said Hoster, unyielding. "I offered you up women of all sorts. Fair women, pretty women, fat women, shrewd women, dull women, fiery women, mousy women. Little they shared in common except the fact they were all ladies of noble birth. Only a fool would turn down each and every offer. Yet you decide to slight me and marry a baseborn commoner. A lady of naught but mud and stone."

Silence crackled in the hall. Bernadelle's eyes remained trained to the ground as she listened.

"It was not to slight you," came the Blackfish's tired response, as if they've had this conversation hundreds of times. "I loved Berna. More than anything."

Hoster made an unconvinced noise. "Not enough to stop them from cutting her open for your whelp. Your daughter is no Tully. Your daughter is of the rivers."

It was then that Edmure's hand slipped against the wall and he came stumbling forward with a loud thud. The voices in the hall immediately ceased, and the children scurried away from the entrance, hearts thrumming in frantic tandem in fear of being caught. They all ran outside, into the training field. The master-at-arms passed by them, head bowing at Cat and Lysa, and he reached out to ruffle Bernie's red-auburn hair, then did the same with Edmure. He disappeared into the armory, and the children burst into chatter.

"Did you hear what father said?" asked Lysa, regarding Bernadelle strangely. "He said you're a bastard."

Edmure may not have been as sharp as Bernie was, but he was no lackwit. "But Uncle Brynden said she's not…"

"Of course she's not," said Catelyn. She seemed least affected by the lords' argument. "Bernie is no bastard. She's a sweet thing," she said, and rubbed at Bernadelle's soft, wavy hair, so much like her own.

The people of Riverrun seemed unafraid to whisper about Bernadelle. Everywhere she went, the rumors of her being a bastard of her father with her dead, commoner mother followed.

By the age of six, Bernie had had enough. After a particularly rough day where she had fought with both Petyr Baelish and Lysa on separate occasions, the young girl had slipped into her father's chambers hours after she was supposed to be fast asleep. Tears streaked down her face, still soft and round with youth.

"Father," she whispered. She dared not raise her voice.

Brynden's head snapped up at the sound of her, surprised to see his daughter in his chambers this late at night. "Sweet one," he said, gathering her up in his arms. "What is it? What happened?"

Bernie swallowed around what felt like a stone in her throat. "Am I a bastard?"

The question startled him at first. Then he realized he was a fool to be shocked. Of course she would have heard. It was all they could talk about in her vicinity, even if in hushed whispers.

"I won't tell Uncle Hoster if I am," blubbered his little girl through uncontrollable hiccups. She started wiping at her tears with the back of her hands in the clumsy, uncoordinated manner children always had. "I'd just like to know."

"You are not a bastard," said Brynden firmly.

She gazed up at her father with watery eyes. Dark blue, just like his. "Is that the truth?"

The Blackfish tucked her hair behind her ear and kissed her head. "It is. Even if they say you are, they are wrong. And regardless, you're my child. That is incontestable."

By the ripe age of seven, Brynden had begun properly training Bernie how to swim. Of course, she knew how to wade across shallow rivers and tread over gentle waters, but her father had told her it was time for her to learn how to swim against truer currents.

The first several dozen times she dove into the river and tried to paddle herself against the rush of water, she was pulled away in an instant, tumbling over the smooth rocks beneath the river. Her father had to drag her out of the river like a wet kitten more often than not. She'd swallowed more river water than any other child alive, she was quite certain.

At some point, Edmure grew into the habit of watching her attempts to swim and tried to give her needless advice despite not trying himself. At this, Brynden commanded Edmure to swim with her, much to his dismay. After training, the two often found themselves shaking by a lit hearth by nightfall, wrapped in warm fabrics and dripping riverwater over the carpets.

When Bernadelle reached eight years of age, she had grown to be a proficient swimmer. Stronger than half the cavalry at Riverrun already, but not yet satisfactory to the standards of Brynden Blackfish.

Jaime Lannister was a squire to Sumner Crakehall, and son to the king's Hand, Tywin Lannister. Bernadelle had heard much about all of them from her lessons with the maester, and word from her father. Jaime was to spend a fortnight in Riverrun.

He was golden-haired and had a loud presence, even if he was silent—which he often wasn't. Jaime was only slightly younger than Catelyn, at four-and-ten, whilst Bernadelle had only recently turned ten herself only two days prior.

On her nameday, her father had gotten her beautiful chainmail to wear beneath her dresses, light as the rain, and the maesters gifted her a book of advanced sums they used to train the boys looking to be maesters. Edmure gave her a misshapen wooden carving of a fish, which Bernadelle couldn't tell it was a fish at all until he told her. "I made it myself!" he had said, and Bernadelle replied dryly that she could certainly tell. Nonetheless, the little wooden fish sat in her chambers to accompany her.

Lysa had gifted her the sweet relief of leaving her alone for the day. Catelyn had given her a hairnet of pearls, which Bernadelle was not wont to wear, though she had adorned it for this luncheon to appease her.

Hoster had Jaime sit next to Lysa during the meal. Lysa, ever so shy, fiddled with her fingers and grew red-faced every time she so much as looked at the golden boy sitting beside her.

But Jaime hardly paid her any attention. Instead, his eyes were fixed on Brynden Blackfish, for he was a famous and well-renowned warrior knight, and Jaime also took mild interest in the Blackfish's daughter, Bernadelle. Not for any particular reason, except to try to figure out if she was a mute, a half-wit, or both. Bernie was mashing at her peas with the wrong end of her spoon, looking bored. She only took her eyes off the plate when Jaime asked her father for his stories of war, but was quick to grow uninterested again considering she'd heard these stories hundreds of times prior. She went back to her now-mushy peas, trying not to laugh at the moon eyes Lysa was making at Jaime. Edmure was kicking at her feet from under the table and Petyr Baelish was on her other side chattering up a storm to Catelyn.

After poking at her food for a little longer, Bernadelle finally tugged at her father's sleeve.

"Hm?" He turned to look down at her. "You want to be excused? You've hardly touched your food."

Bernadelle pulled a sour face, to which Brynden only narrowed his stern gaze, but relented nonetheless. "Go on, then."

She smiled at her father and pushed herself from the table, glad to be rid of her mushy peas.

She could feel Jaime's curious eyes, brighter green than the limes imported from Essos, boring into her as she skittered towards the mouth of the hall. She glanced back to look at him before she left. Jaime found it entirely amusing when the younger girl pointed at an unaware Lysa, then at him, almost in an encouraging manner.

Several hours after the meal, Bernie had taken off for swimming, as she always did. She swam several turns both following and against the current, until her muscles ached and threatened to cramp. It was a terrible thing when muscles cramped beneath the water. She remembered her father having to dive in after her when she began sinking due to her leg seizing up. Brynden had given her a stern lecture on the importance of stretches for loosening muscles before swimming.

Bernie sat down by the stony banks of the river to dry off, wringing out her clothes and her damp hair, cursing the length. It always grew far too quickly for her liking.

A shadow fell over her. She peered up thinking it would be Edmure, as usual, but saw golden hair instead of red. Bernadelle blinked up at the boy in confusion.

Jaime sat next to her, but put enough space between them so her clothes dripping riverwater wouldn't touch him. "Are you a mute?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Are you a half-wit?"

This offended her. She had a mind to show him the book of sums the maesters had given her and would ask him again if he still thought her a half-wit. But her books were squirreled away in her chamber, and she was still sopping wet. She simply shook her head once more.

"Good," said the Lannister boy. He studied her strangely. "Why did you point at me before? When you left?"

"I pointed at you and Lysa," correctly Bernadelle. "She fancies you."

For some queer reason, the golden boy laughed. "I certainly do not fancy her."

"Why not? She's pretty," said Bernadelle. "Almost as pretty as Cat is. She has dimples." And dimples were far prettier than freckles, she recalled Lysa claiming once.

"I can't quite recall what she looks like," said Jaime.

"All the same," replied Bernadelle with a shrug. "Lysa is in love with Littlefinger, too."

"The short boy?" asked Jaime. Him, he remembered.

Bernadelle nodded. "They deserve each other. Lysa is sweet to everyone but me, and Petyr makes japes that aren't very funny." The girl's sour expression turned into one of curiosity. "What exactly are you doing here, anyways?"

The squire had the grace to appear sheepish. "Your coz Edmure told me you were a better swimmer than half the men in Riverrun. I thought it impossible, and wanted to see for myself."

Bernie smiled. Not at him, but down at the waters. It was a crooked, unpracticed smile. Catelyn had always told her she ought to smile with both sides of her face.

"Do you still think that?" she asked him.

One of his brows quirked. "I have yet to make up my mind. But you are the Blackfish's daughter, after all. It wouldn't be too hard of a truth to believe."

Determination settled heavy in her chest. Her father left her much to live up to. "You ought to watch me on the morrow, then."

Jaime plucked at a blade of grass. "Fine. I have little else to do around here." He took a moment to consider her. Dark red hair flowed to just below her shoulders, framing a freckled face and deep blue eyes. She was every bit her father, Jaime marveled. "What is it like to have the Blackfish as your kin? It must be nice to have a famous knight for a father." Something bitter laid behind his words, but Bernadelle didn't quite know how to ask the older squire.

The girl took a moment to consider his question. "He is kind and strong and brilliant in all the ways necessary. I am glad he is my father."

"High praise," said Jaime. I dare not say the same about mine, he thought.

"I'll be just like my father one day," said Bernadelle, quiet as the burbling river in front of them. "A strong knight."

Jaime laughed at that, sharp and cruel. "You're sure you're not a half-wit?"

The young Tully frowned.

"You're just a squire," said Bernie. "You wouldn't understand."

"And you're a girl," said Jaime, "I don't think you'd ever understand."

Bernadelle drew back at that, as if Jaime had swatted her.

"Any knight could make a knight. My father trains me." Her face was growing hotter as she tried to defend herself.

"Grand shame, then," said the boy. "Any knight could make a man a knight. There have been no girl-knights in history, if ever I recall."

His words had already wounded her terribly, yet on he went.

"I wonder if your father wishes you were born his son instead of his daughter."

Bernadelle bristled at this. Jaime watched how her the freckles across the bridge of her nose creased in her anger. Without another word, she stood up and stormed back towards the castle, flicking him with river water as she took her leave.

Lysa was pacing Catelyn's chambers restlessly. She wrung her shaking hands in a repetitive motion.

"We've been seated beside one another for every meal so far!" she cried. "He's hardly glanced in my direction!"

Jaime had been at Riverrun for only two nights, and he had another thirteen to go. Lysa was being terribly dramatic.

Catelyn shook her head and patted Lysa's shoulders consolingly. "Take heart, sister. You are a fine, proper, young lady and any lord would be lucky to have you."

"Jaime is no lord," drawled Bernadelle from Catelyn's bed, lying spread across the furs. "He's just a squire. A rude one, at that."

"How do you mean?" asked Cat, intrigued. It was not often Bernadelle voiced mislike for a person, as she was typically amiably silent.

"Nothing," murmured Bernadelle, lapsing into a sullen silence.

Though Catelyn could tell it wasn't actually nothing, Lysa's frustrated groans roped her attention away.

"Honestly, all he's ever interested about is Uncle Brynden this, Blackfish that! What could possibly be so fascinating about war? I've worn all my best silks already, do you think he would notice if I wore the green one again? With the violet embroidery?"

"I'm sure he wouldn't," said Cat, which proved to be the wrong thing to say, because this sprouted another bout of frustrated wailing from her little sister.

Bored of the conversation, Bernadelle rolled off the bed and nodded farewell to her cousins. It was approaching midday, and her father had promised they would practice sparring.

When she made her way to the training field, dismay fouled her belly upon seeing Jaime standing beside her father near the armory, clutching at a sword that was far too large for him.

"Bernadelle!" called Brynden once he caught sight of her. "Come. We were waiting for you."

It embarrassed her when Brynden handed her a blunted wooden practice blade instead of real steel. Granted, she was never allowed to spar with real steel before, but she felt all the more like a babe in front of the golden squire. Jaime's smile was sharp and cutting, and she wondered if he was taunting her.

If her father took notice of her unsatisfied face, he did not say. He put a large hand on her shoulder and led her to the clearing. The two sparred often—not as often as she swam, but enough so that she was already comfortable with the routine they fell into.

After brief stretches, they practiced defensive maneuvers like parrying, deflecting, and ducking, then finally they had a session in which Bernadelle would attempt to best her father. Of their hundreds of practices prior, she'd never gotten close. It hadn't bothered her before, but with Jaime watching, she felt fire ants crawl beneath the chainmail she'd donned.

From the sidelines, Jaime watched intently with keen eyes. He observed the deftness that Brynden worked with. He did not patronize his daughter by making it easy for her. In fact, he did not patronize his daughter by treating her like a proper lady at all, as it was simply in a father's nature to be patronizing to his daughter—Jaime thought of his father Tywin with Cersei—but he was intrigued to see the Blackfish teach his girl just as he would a boy. A son. It was truly fascinating. Something akin to jealousy wormed in his chest.

As he watched Bernadelle spin around her father, chainmail flashing iridescent silver like scales beneath the sun, Jaime found his mind wandering again to Cersei. He used to don her silks so that she could traipse around wearing his garb. He wondered if Bernadelle and her coz Edmure ever swapped just as he did with his twin. Though, he supposed it would be easy to tell them apart even if they did switch garments—Bernadelle was freckled and far more comely than Edmure was.

She was near tears when her father parried her fifteenth strike, sweeping his own practice blade on her heels and knocking her over. She fell into the mud with a muffled oomf. Her cheeks were aflame. When her father held his hand out to pull her up, she accepted, but none too happily.

"Come, now, little fish," her father said, seeing her trying to blink her tears of frustration away. "You'll get better. Eventually, I'll rue the day I ever put a blade in your hands, I'd wager."

It was no surprise to Bernadelle when Jaime offered to raise sticks with her father, but it still angered her all the same. Brynden Blackfish was her father. No amount of boot-licking on Jaime's end would ever change that.

To Bernie's mounting irritation, Jaime fared far better than she did. He was cleaner in his strikes and faster on his feet, so deft with the practice blade that even Brynden had to properly hone his focus on the boy. In the end, to her great relief, the Blackfish sent Jaime's blade flying away, and Jaime yielded with a shallow bow and that sharp smile of his.

That grin was leveled with her when she strode up to the pair.

"Could I have a go?" she asked.

"With me?" Jaime pointed a hand at himself. "If you wish to be beaten again."

Brynden clapped her on the shoulder. "Remember to aim for the hands. Not their soft fleshy bits. The hands hold the imminent danger."

She nodded up at her father, and he walked about twenty strides away to give the two space.

The squire's green eyes shone as he watched her. The two began to slowly circle one another.

"I've never fought a girl before," he said. "Should I be gentle with you?"

Bernadelle gave him no response, striking forward to arc her blade down over him, but Jaime was quick to react, parrying her away. He was close to swinging at her unprotected abdomen, but Bernie danced away, just as her father taught her. Bernadelle aimed her blade lower at his legs in an attempt to throw him off balance, but Jaime caught it and turned her away effortlessly. In the blink of an eye, Jaime was delivering a blow to her other side, and Bernadelle only barely managed to catch his practice blade with hers, the wooden sticks clashing with a dull thunk. They struggled at a standstill for only half a second before the boy of fourteen bested the girl of ten, and she buckled beneath the force.

Jaime Lannister knocked the Blackfish's daughter onto her arse. She went stumbling back down into the mud with a yelp.

"Well done," said Jaime. "You lasted longer than I expected you would."

He offered her a hand, just as her father did earlier, but Bernadelle refused to take it. Instead, she glared up at him, the deep blue of her eyes stormy with anger. She shoved his palm away from her face, uncaring of how it may have looked to her father.

She stood up on her own as Jaime watched her, that smug smile still stretched across his lips. "I'm sure if we were swimming, I would be leagues behind you," said Jaime. "But we aren't fish, if you haven't yet noticed. We fight on land more often than not."

He was trying to make light of their duel. Bernadelle had half a mind to scoop up a fistful of mud and hurl it into his perfect teeth.

Despite their mishap during training, Jaime and Bernadelle found themselves talking often throughout the fortnight that Jaime stayed at Riverrun. The squire often accompanied the girl whilst she fished or was there to watch whenever she swam her laps. Only twice he called upon her whilst she was doing her sums—and grew bored within half a heartbeat, leaving just as quickly as he came. He told her the numbers and symbols blurred in his eyes.

It was mostly Jaime doing the talking when he saw with her—he spoke of Casterly Rock, and his father, and his little brother Tyrion, and his twin sister Cersei. He told Bernadelle of all the renowned knights he'd met, and all the fat lords he had the displeasure of serving. Jaime was no stranger to complaining about Riverrun without shame, as well. He made his comments and his japes, and the Blackfish's daughter listened in simultaneous annoyance and interest. The two liked to bicker about famed knights in history, such as Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Ser Duncan the Tall, who were her two personal favorites. Bernadelle found that she quite liked having such heated debates with the squire, even if she would rather choke on her own tongue than admit it. Edmure was also fond of conversing with Bernadelle about knights, but the Tully boy was always inclined to agreeing with her instead of coming up with his own ideas to contest her with.

They trained together only three more times after that disastrous first occasion. Jaime could already see her improving by the second time their practice blades clashed—she was a quick learner.

During the final supper before his departure first thing in the morn, Jaime was chattering to Bernadelle about packing and all the salted fish he was stuffing into his pockets before the journey.

"I'll be sick of saltfish by the time I reach Casterly Rock, I'm sure," said Jaime as he forked another piece of buttery fried cod into his mouth.

"The fish will surely be sick of you, too," quipped Edmure, jesting in a boyish manner that made Hoster grumble at him in warning.

"Untrue," said Jaime with a smug smirk. "Bernie would miss me. Who else would she be able to consistently lose against in spars?"

Bernadelle decided not to grace him with a response, only giving him a glare that lacked any true heat, and glancing towards her father, who was pretending not to listen to their conversation.

She decided to talk of other matters, leaning closer to the table to ask the squire, "Who do you think would win in a fight—Barristan Selmy or Arthur Dayne?"

This snagged Jaime's rapt attention. "What kind of fight? Tourney or combat? Are they armed with the same weapon?"

The two had only started to yammer about the made up rules of their hypothetical duel when there was a sudden loud scrape of wood against stone. Lysa had stood up, eyes blown wide with fury and humiliation, and she fled the room weeping. Jaime had barely even given her a glance, hardly even noticing her departure. Catelyn, with a stony face, excused herself so she could comfort her sister.

Hours later, once Jaime had already departed from Riverrun with that sharp smile of his glinting from the back of the wheelhouse's opening, Bernadelle wandered back into the castle in search of Cat.

She found her coz in her chamber, brushing out her thick auburn hair. It looked red as blood, even in the darkness.

"What is it, Bernie?" said Cat, bordering between kind and wary, a tone perfectly mastered only by an eldest daughter. "I tire of the day's activities."

"What was Lysa so upset about during supper?" asked Bernadelle, hanging by the doorway and tracing a finger along the ridges of the wooden frame. When Catelyn looked at her young cousin, she could see the face of a child plagued with guilt.

"She thinks you've stolen Jaime from her," said Cat.

Bernadelle's mouth parted to object.

"I've assured her that's not the case," Cat told the younger girl with a raised brow.

Bernadelle snapped her mouth shut.

"She only frets," sighed Catelyn. "Lysa does that, you know how she is. Father was considering betrothing them, you know. That was why she was seated beside him for every meal."

The thought of the golden squire marrying her cousin was one hard to picture, if not slightly amusing. The two of them would drive each other mad. A crooked grin grew across Bernadelle's lips.

"What are you smiling about?" asked Cat, though it seemed she didn't have to ask, because she was now smiling, too. She hurriedly returned to brushing her hair. "You're unkind, Bernie. Very unkind."

By the time Bernie turned one-and-ten, she was one of the best swimmers in Riverrun. Faster than even the strongest of Hoster's garrison. Edmure oft complained about their races, as it was no use to even try against her anymore. And so she allowed him to tie small rocks to her ankles to try to slow her down—typically to no avail, because the rocks always fell away whilst she swam, anyway.

To Edmure's credit, he still bested her with a sword, and the two were both on-par with their archery skills, which was barely above mediocre, to her father's disappointment.

When Bernadelle turned twelve, war had broken out. Robert's Rebellion was in full effect, and Hoster Tully had joined the northern forces, led by Eddard Stark, supporting the rebel cause. Both Hoster and Brynden were to go south come daybreak to meet the royalist army, led by Jon Connington, who was now the Hand of the King.

Edmure and Bernadelle were abuzz in their chambers that night, childish excitement stirring in their bellies—still blind to the truth of war. Her cousin had even helped cut off all her fiery hair so it was the same length as his. It was choppy and uneven, but when Bernadelle gazed upon the looking glass, she didn't see a lady in the reflection, but a boy who would one day grow to be a knight.

"Now you're more a man than Littlefinger is!" Edmure had japed.

Bernadelle had abandoned her coz in her chambers, streaking down the halls to find her father, who was absent from his own sleeping quarters, but in the solar, observing maps and effective routes for battle. He was clearly busy, but Bernie needed to tell him right then and there.

"An ambush is out of the question," Brynden murmured to himself. "They would surely be expecting us…"

"Father?" whispered Bernie, peering into the solar.

At her voice, he turned, brow furrowed. She should've been abed at such a late hour. His brow furrowed even further when he noticed the state of her hair.

"What happened to you?" he asked, reaching out to touch her head.

"I want to go with you on the morrow," she said, brushing off his question. "I can fight. You've been training me for so long."

There was a flicker in Brynden's eyes, one of regret and sorrow. Had he erred in how he raised his daughter? Should he have schooled her to be as prim and proper as her lady cousins?

His coarse palm ran along the side of her head, his fingers coming to stroke her brow, something he used to do when she was a new babe—something she wouldn't remember by now. A fresh sort of grief filled his chest.

"The practice field is far different from true battle grounds," he said, not unkind, yet still firm. "You must stay here, sweet one. I would not lose you, too."

He could see the crestfallen look in her keen blue eyes, eyes so much like his, but she slumped in disappointed acceptance. Brynden blew out a sigh of relief. He would rather his daughter be disappointed in him than dead on a field.

She was only twelve. Even if she was a son, the Blackfish knew there would be no chance he was bringing his child to war with him.

Before he left for the Battle of the Bells with his brother, Brynden ordered for a dozen guards to keep the children safe, even behind the castle walls. One could never be too careful in the Riverlands, especially not when war was knocking on your door.

The battle was won, even if the war was far from over. The rebel party traveled back to Riverrun, and Bernadelle had been one of the first to greet them, throwing herself into her father's arms, uncaring of the blood and muck on his armor.

Her uncle Hoster was badly wounded, and had to be immediately tended to by the maester. It came to her a surprise to learn that there was to be a dual wedding in the castle almost immedately after their return, despite Hoster's injuries. The first pair was Catelyn with Eddard Stark, which wasn't a terrible shock considering she'd been betrothed to Brandon Stark before he was killed by the Mad King. Bernadelle didn't have much of an opinion on Ned, other than quiet respect, since he'd so far proven to be a formidable leader and warrior. Cat had whispered to her that Brandon had been more amiable and handsome, but she prayed to the seven that Ned would treat her well all the same.

The second match was between Lysa and Jon Arryn, which was the truer surprise. Once she learned of Denis Arryn, Jon's cousin and heir, and his untimely demise during the battle, the rushed coupling started to make much more sense. Jon Arryn was quite old, practically old enough to have been her father's father.

Catelyn bore the news with squared shoulders and a strong, dutiful face. Lysa wept all morning, sobbing into her palms. Bernadelle wasn't entirely sure what she was crying about, but thought it best not to pry. Catelyn took to comforting her sister and wiping her tears.

The unions took place in the sept around midday. First was Catelyn, beautiful and mature, to Eddard, solemn and quiet. When it was Lysa's turn, Bernie half expected her cousin to streak right out of the sept wailing, but Lysa was smiling when Jon Arryn draped her in his house's cloak, her face radiant. A bountiful feast followed, which then led to the bedding ceremony. Bernadelle wrinkled her nose at all the men tearing at Catelyn and Lysa's dresses as they carried them off to the chambers.

Bernadelle, full to the brim, linked arms with Edmure and danced with him and a handful of squires, giggling and laughing. A septa had tended to her hair earlier that day, laboriously snipping at the jagged ends so it looked a little less like a patch of field grass. She wore the pearl hairnet Cat had gifted her years ago, and was donned in soft blue silks for the wedding—she felt half a lady again, and Bernadelle found that it wasn't as bad as she would've thought. The young Tully even recalled blushing when one of the squires, a sweet-faced boy of three-and-ten, told her she looked lovely, freckles and all.

The merriment and dancing came to a halt when Bernie heard shouting from the raised dais. She grew worried when she heard her uncle Hoster's hoarse voice, hurrying closer to see him red-faced and waving a fist at Brynden, her father.

"We are no longer brothers, then!" yelled Hoster. He clutched at his injured side in pain. "Go on! Take your things and go! Abandon me, damn you! Damn you, Brynden!"

Her expression creased. She stepped closer to her father, resting a hand on his shoulder. Brynden turned, his eyes softening when he saw her.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Hoster laughed, mocking. He was never fond of his niece, not even when she was a little babe. "Your father is abandoning me. Leaving his family, for what? Sworn in service to Lord Arryn in the Vale. Given up on me, his brother."

The Vale. Mountains and sky. No rivers to be heard of. How would she be able to swim?

"What?" she whispered, eyes wide.

Brynden looked torn apart. "Yes, sweet one," he said, taking her hand. "We're leaving for the Vale."

Bernadelle felt her heart fall to her stomach. "But—"

"Running away from home," snarled Hoster. "It shames me to call you my brother. Take your bastard and go."

She felt everybody's eyes on her. Redfish, Mudfish, bastard of Blackfish. Shame lodged in her throat like a lump of suet.

"There is nothing for us here," said Brynden, leveling a harsh glare at Hoster, drawing Bernadelle closer to him. "Not anymore."

The war was won. Robert Baratheon was crowned King, and the Targaryen dynasty was vanquished.

With no more battles to fight, it was finally time for the Blackfish to depart from home with his daughter.

Bernadelle thought the hardest part about leaving the Riverlands would be the lack of rivers or lakes for her to swim in. It was terrible, of course, but Bernie found that what made her heart ache the most was bidding farewell to her cousins, who she'd known for her entire life. Not a single day had went by without her playing with Edmure, or reading with Cat, or checking over Lysa's sums.

By the time she departed for the Vale with her father, Lysa, and Lord Arryn, Catelyn had already left for Winterfell. Neither of the girls shed any tears as they embraced, but Cat kissed her on the brow before she left and Bernie gave her a sad, crooked smile.

When it was Bernadelle's turn to leave, she hugged Edmure tight, as tightly as she could, it was a wonder his bones didn't snap from the force. When she finally relinquished her death grip on him, Edmure ruffled her bright hair, still cropped short.

"Visit, will you?" he asked. There was a sadness to his eyes. His sisters and his cousin were leaving him, and he was going to be all alone now.

Bernadelle nodded. "You must practice swimming whilst I'm gone," she told him, "so we can race together when I'm back, and you would have a fighting chance at winning."

"I dare not win against you. You get very grumpy when you lose," said her coz.

The two laughed and laughed. She would miss him dearly.

Life in the Vale was not as she expected. There were many things she disliked about the Eyrie. The winds were trecherous, and the sheer heights of the mountains made her feel sick just to think about. Of course, Bernadelle had to cease her regular routine of swimming, and she fretted endlessly about losing her prowess beneath the water.

But it was not all terrible. Bernie, despite being afraid of heights, loved to marvel out of the windows, watching the clouds pass by through the sky like tufts of cotton. She made many fine friends with other lordlings and ladies of similar status and age as her. And though she was never too close to Lysa, the two were there for each other when in low spirits, which was quite often, especially during the first fortnight of their arrival. And even though she couldn't swim as frequently in the Vale, she turned her focus on her sums and her swordsmanship. Lysa left soon after to King's Landing when her husband was named Robert Baratheon's Hand.

As Bernadelle grew older, reaching the sweet age of five-and-ten, she grew more comely. She was tall and lean, wired with muscle from the grueling training sessions she had with her father. Her skin was pale as ocean pearls, densely freckled. She'd kept her hair short ever since Edmure had shorn it off during the war, the dark auburn waves falling just to her brow. Her eyes were a mesmerizing dark blue, and a favorite feature of lords to comment on when they attempted to court her. Of these lordlings, there were many, to Brynden's dismay. She is only fifteen, he would think to himself often, leave her be. Let my girl be.

There was a time she was briefly courted by a young knight, Ser Lucas Corbray, younger brother to Lyn Corbray. He was a handsome thing, with dark hair, a strong nose, and a sharp smile that Bernadelle found strangely familiar. Despite her physical attraction to him, she bore no true love for the boy, since he was rather insipid and spoke terribly slow. Lucas could hardly hold a genuine conversation with her without going red in the face—which was a feat in itself, considering Bernie was not the one talking much to begin with.

Eventually, to dismantle his efforts, Bernadelle had taken to whispering sweet lies into his ears.

"I'm a bastard," she had told him. Her cheek brushed his when she had leaned closer, and she could feel his blushing skin was sweltering hot. "You wouldn't want to marry a bastard, would you?"

Word spread quickly after that. Redfish, Mudfish, bastard of Blackfish. Everybody knew the tune by now.

Brynden was none too happy when he found out, and had slipped into her chambers that very night, equally as stern as he was cross.

"Anything to say to me?" he asked, his arms crossing over his strong chest.

Bernadelle, sitting by the candlelight with her book of sums, at least had the sense to look guilty.

"I'm sorry, father," she said. The silence rippled between them. "I just wanted Lucas Corbray to leave me alone."

At this, Brynden softened. He blew out a soft sigh, stalking closer so that he could look down at what his daughter was scribbling. Streaks of inky sums, practically a foreign language to his eyes. His hand fell onto her shoulder.

"I would not be like my brother," he vowed. "I wouldn't force marriage onto my kin, least of all my daughter."

Bernadelle wished a silent prayer of gratitude to the gods.

"But you mustn't spread lies such as that. They're far more dangerous than you'd think. You forget, little fish. We're not home at Riverrun anymore."

She hung her head and nodded. This time she felt truly guilty. It was one thing to put herself in danger, but it was another entirely to jeopardize her father's position, as well.

"I miss fishing," she said, once he was done with his chastizing. "I miss swimming. I miss Edmure and Cat."

Brynden bent down to kiss her forehead. "I understand, sweet one. I yearn for home just as much as you." Guilt danced across his features, weathered with war and age. "It's my fault. A small spat with my brother turned into tearing you from your home. Forgive me, Bernie. I wish it didn't have to come to this."

"There is nothing to forgive, father," she told him, winding her arms around him and pressing her head to his chest in a soft embrace. Even though she had grown tall, he still stood a full head taller.

When she pulled away, Brynden examined her features intently. "You look every bit my daughter… but you act much like your mother."

Bernadelle blinked at him. It always saddened her that she never knew her mother. On the nights where she was cold and particularly lonely, she liked to imagine her mother curled behind her beneath the furs, cradling her close, humming sweet lullabies. No matter how hard she squeezed her eyes, however, her mother in her dreams always remained faceless.

Brynden gestured to the parchment of sums. "She was sharp as a whip, just as you are. Stubborn, as well, though I suppose you'd get that from the both of us. You smiled like how she used to." His expression grew wistful at the memory.

"What did she look like?" Bernie asked.

"Beautiful," said Brynden, without hesitation. He gazed out of the circular window in her chambers, eyes distant and reminiscing. "The most wondrous eyes—pale green, like cloudy jade stones. She had soft brown hair, kissed by the sun. I think… you have her nose, if I recall… "

It was a grief that felt so out of touch for Bernadelle, forgetting a beloved face. She never knew her mother to truly feel the loss; she could only conjure up images in the absence of one. Her father's pain of forgetting how his wife looked was entirely his own. Guilt and grief echoed behind him like water ripples, inescapabale.

The Blackfish squeezed at his daughter's shoulder. "You look like me and you sound like your mother, to be sure. But there is a stillness, a gentleness that is entirely your own."

The years danced by in a blur.

By the age of twenty, Bernie was deemed a prolific fighter, skilled with a bow, even better with sword, and best with a sharp dirk. She often lamented to her father that she would surely lose in a swimming race against Edmure now that so many years had passed, and her practices were so few and far in between in the mountains of the Eyrie. The lords, ladies, knights, and squires alike in the Eyrie called her a multitude of names. Redfish, for her hair. Frecklefish, for obvious reasons. Blackfish the Younger, which was her personal favorite, though it was seldom used. In quieter, hushed whispers, they called her Mudfish for the rumors of her bastard origins. Needless to say that Bernadelle wasn't overly fond of the last name.

When the Tully girl reached the age of one-and-twenty, Jon Arryn approached the Blackfish. Jon hadn't been overly fond of how Brynden was raising her; it was unseemly to him to allow a noble lady to train alongside knights and lords. But he was a patient, cordial man, and decided to approach Brynden in a different manner.

Jon Arryn asked if Brynden would like his daughter to be betrothed to a match advantageous to all parties, as it could certainly be arranged, and there would be no lack of suitors for a comely girl like Bernadelle. If only she didn't keep her hair so short and stopped wearing chainmail and don more of those silks she likes, he thought, but Jon kept that bit to himself.

The Blackfish was very near declining, but Jon then offered a tourney be held, so Bernadelle could choose amongst the champions herself.

"I'll speak with her," Brynden reassured the lord.

Later, when the moon was bright and high in the sky, Brynden came to his daughter with Jon Arryn's proposal.

"Marriage?" said Bernie. The word felt thick on her tongue, like a foreign object not meant for her. "Now? I am… I'm not ready."

Brynden grimaced. "If you truly are my daughter, I fear you won't ever be ready, little fish."

"You still married mother," dryly replied Bernadelle.

"True enough," said Brynden. "But she was the one who convinced me. I didn't feel at all ready, not until the moment I recited my vows for her."

That somehow made Bernadelle feel all the worse. "So I wouldn't know if I want it until I've already promised myself to some strange lord I hardly know?"

"No, that's—" Brynden winced. He was going about this the wrong way. "Listen, this tourney… it does not necessarily mean you must marry. It could simply be an event to appease Lord Arryn. Let him try to find you a match. If you truly mislike all of them, I will speak to him about letting you be, if only for a little while longer."

Bernadelle pondered for several moments. It was less than appealing to have a handful of strangers competing for even the chance of her interest… but a tourney was a tourney, and she'd always found them quite fun. She recalled the ones she attended with Edmure, marveling at all the knights on their steeds, their sturdy lances and their glinting longswords.

A deep yearning rooted within her. She wished not to have all these knights parlay for her favor. She wanted to be one of those knights.

Just over a month later, a tourney was held in her name. Lords from all over Westeros traveled to the Vale to joust for her hand. Even the King Robert Baratheon was to ride north for the event, which made it quite the spectacle. Though Bernadelle suspected he was coming because of his close relations with Jon Arryn, instead of any vested interest in her romantic prospects. For that, she was glad. It took a lot of pressure off her shoulders.

Lysa had helped her choose her garb, and she wore a velvet green dress with silver embroidery along the collar and waist, the sleeves so long they were near brushing the floors if she put her arms down. Lysa also insisted that she put on a flowing headpiece that draped over the entirety of her short hair so that she looked: "Less like a boy, and more like a lady they would fancy marrying!"

The tourney lists started with a few lesser knights of smaller houses, and the occasional hedge knight. The stands cheered every time a lance broke, and Bernadelle tried her best to feign interest for the sake of her father and Jon Arryn sitting beside him.

A brief intermission was called for luncheon by midday, and Bernadelle was glad. She was growing bored of tossing a favor of a flower wreath each time a new knight asked for it. Her father warned her to stop giving it out as if it meant nothing, and she mumbled back that that was exactly what it meant.

In the hall, whilst piling her plate high with fruits and cheeses, a young knight garbed in white armor with golden hair and smiling green eyes caught her eye. Was that—?

"Half-wit," greeted Jaime Lannister as he sauntered up to her, wasting no time in his greeting. His gaze flickered up and down her form. "You look quite different from last we met."

Her blue eyes were wide with surprise, though twitched slightly at the name he called her. Memories of their brief time in their youth came flooding back to her. "Different?" she echoed. "It's been ten long years since then. I may look different, but I have not changed much. You, however…"

The words died on her tongue, but Jaime was not daft. He knew what she was referencing. Kingslayer, they all called him now. His eyes narrowed. "I haven't changed," he said. "Only my circumstances have. I've always been like this."

She studied him intently. "A pain in the arse? That, I would not contest. Last I saw you, you were only a squire. Look at you now. Kingsguard. It's a high honor."

Jaime smiled that sharp smile of his, as if he knew something plainly obvious that she didn't. Bernadelle looked away with a huff.

"This is quite ugly. Why are you wearing it?"

Jaime's hand raised to tug on her headpiece. It slipped backwards over her head and a few locks of her red hair spilled out the front. Bernadelle didn't bother fixing it, only sparing Jaime an unimpressed look. "Quite the charmer, aren't you?"

Taking a step back, Bernadelle glanced down to observe his white cloak. Jaime watched her watch him, waiting for the inevitable filter of judgement to pass over her face. But it never came. She only admired the way the cloak fluttered in the wind, and the intricate design on the white of his armor. When their eyes met again, Bernadelle saw curiosity amongst the green, likely reflecting hers.

"Your father," said Jaime, cutting the silence like a taut string. "How is he? I heard he fought valiantly during the Rebellion."

"He did," said Bernie, crookedly smiling down at the ground. "This whole tourney was set up by him and Lord Arryn. Apparently Lord Arryn wants my father to find a match for me."

This amused Jaime. "Oh, yes, I heard. It's all the other knights could talk about. Winning the Redfish's favor, your hand, and well…" Jaime smiled that sharp smile once more, his eyes flickering down to the lower half of her dress in a clear indication of what he meant.

She felt her cheeks flushing, and stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Will you keep a secret?"

Jaime's head tilted as he observed her. "Depends on what it is."

Bernadelle rocked on her heels. "I have no intention of watching the tourney for a potential suitor," she murmured, the words spilling out of her like boiling water out of a cauldron.

"What will you do, then?" he asked her, quite amused at the sparkle of excitement in the dark rivers of her eyes.

The Tully smiled her crooked smile. "I'll be participating." As quick as a flip of a copper, her expression turned to one of suspicion. "Don't tell my father, though. It'll be hard enough to get in even one joust without him figuring out what I'm up to."

At this, Jaime barked out a laugh. "I dare not rob myself of such entertainment."

She made a noise of contentment, nodding farewell. Before she could step away, though, she asked, "Will you be competing? Last I checked the lists, your name wasn't there."

The Lannister plucked a grape off her plate and languidly tossed it into his mouth. "Do you want me to compete? It would be quite the trivial entry. I've been sworn to a life of celibacy when I joined the kingsguard," said Jaime. "If I won the tourney, I wouldn't be able to marry you, anyway."

Bernadelle gawped at him. "No, I… that's—I didn't—"

Jaime grinned, clearly enjoying watching her struggle for words.

"Farewell, half-wit," he said, before snagging another fat grape and striding away, leaving the Tully's face nearly as red as her hair.

It did not escape Jaime's notice that in the entirety of their conversation, not once did she call him a Kingslayer.

It was not the jousting that Bernadelle participated in, but the melee. The jousting would have ended in great disaster, as Bernie wasn't a very good rider and she hadn't ever truly practiced with a lance. During the melee, however, any knight was equipped with a weapon of their choosing, and Bernie could choose a typical longsword for herself. Bernadelle had slipped away after luncheon to change out of her dress and don armor and chainmail and helm, taking care to wear ones different from her usual garb so that she wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb to her father. He likely knew her personal armor better than she did, as he was the one who had it commissioned for her.

It was known that melees used blunted weapons, but that did not mean it was any less dangerous. Men were often seriously injured in melees, and it wasn't rare for them to die, either. This would be her first time in a true fight with others, but Bernadelle had trained enough with her father and the other knights in the Vale to feel confident in her abilities.

Bernadelle strode out into the combat field once they announced the commencing of the martial game. Through her visor, she spied her opponents. Many sigils she recognized, and many remained without sigils, like her. Some wielded round morning stars and clubs, others swords and maces. She chanced a glance up at her father and Jon Arryn and King Robert on the raised stands, but Brynden wasn't looking towards the battle, instead sweeping his eyes all over the crowd in search of his daughter.

I'm here, she thought, smiling crookedly behind her visor. Forgive me, father.

Behind King Robert, she saw Jaime. The white knight's mirthful eyes were fixed on the seemingly insignificant knight, the corner of his sharp mouth quirked, as if somebody had told him an amusing jape. For a tourney meant to be held in her name, not many others seemed to be concerned for her absence, or even notice it, for that matter. The thought made her sad. She was far less important here in the Vale than she had been in the Riverlands.

She turned away from the stands and took her place at the sides of the clearing, where the fighters all lined at the ready, muscles tensed to jump into battle. Bernadelle felt her heart dance behind her chest.

Warrior, give me strength.

The game's trumpets blew, and for a brief moment, all she could see was a tangle of metal armor and flesh. The song of steel rang out almost immediately as knights clashed together. From the corner of her vision, she spotted a man running at her with a blunted axe, which she easily ducked and parried, knocking his weapon out of his hands with a single stroke from her sword. The rules of the melee were simple: if your weapon falls, so, too, have you. That was one man down. Another few dozen to go.

Bernadelle ran towards another knight unawares of her presence, and the two clashed their weapons with vigor, taking advantage of his surprise. One trick her father had taught her was to use her legs whilst her opponent had her locked in an upper parry, and she kicked out at the knight, sending him off-kilter, and she was able to easily hack the sword out of his grasp.

Just after this second knight's defeat, she was thrown into the ground by a third party, the dirt spraying up and outwards with the force. But she scrambled forward just as the morning star fell down in the space she just occupied a heartbeat ago, making sure to keep her grasp on the pommel of her blade. The man drew the morning star back, intending to have it crashing down on her chestplate, but Bernadelle was quick enough to dart forward beneath the chain, throwing her weight into the lordling shoulder-first—and the two came crashing down together. Bernadelle's sword came slashing at his arm, and his howl rang out through her helm. His fingers uncurled from his weapon, and she gave a whoop of victory.

This was short-lived, because Bernadelle grew wary of two other knights battling just an arm's length away from her. In her brief glance around the clearing, she noticed that most of the players were eliminated, leaving only herself and four others.

The blunt sword was swiftly knocked away from the smaller lordling, and the taller knight didn't hesitate in turning to Bernie. She recognized him as Lyn Corbray, the older brother to Lucas Corbray, who had courted her several moons ago. The two sprang into action, scraping their steel together, forging bruises and slicing fresh cuts along the openings of their armor. Bernadelle was very near dropping her sword when he slammed her down to the ground again. She was growing tired of crawling in the mud.

Lyn Corbray clambered over her, and she tried her best to swing his weight off her, but he pinned her down with his armored knees on her shoulders, making her cry out from behind her visor. She saw the long scar she'd given him straight across his handsome face well with droplets of scarlet. Her visor also soon came off, when his gloved hands ripped her helm clean from her head.

"My lady," he gasped once he saw her bloodied, freckled face and her dark blue eyes. He rolled off her in an instant.

The crowds gasped at the sight. Murmurs rippled through the audience.

The other two knights left had paused in their fight to stare, as well.

Redfish, Mudfish, bastard of Blackfish, a small voice taunted in her head.

Bernadelle sat up. She stared at Lyn Corbray, who watched her with large eyes, and he slowly put his sword down. The other two knights left in the melee had hastily put down their weapons, as well. One of them looked horrified at the thought of unknowingly putting a lady to the sword.

She felt a fool, but a happy one. She hadn't won the melee, not truly, but in technicality, if all of them withdrew, she was the winner.

I've won my first and only tourney, she thought incredulously, hardly believing it.

Lyn Corbray extended his arm to help her up, which was taken with gratitude, considering her legs burned and she felt something that suspiciously felt like blood trickle down her side beneath her armor.

The crowd had mixed reactions. Many of them cheered wildly, some of them booed, unsatisfied that there was no clear winner, or simply because the lady of the tourney had been one of the competitors. Others just stared on in confusion. It was wildly improper, and nobody could recall if it had ever happened before.

When Bernadelle looked up at the stands, she saw her father glaring at her, Jon Arryn looking down with disdain, the king roaring with delight along with the majority of the crowd, and Jaime behind him, smiling.

"You're bleeding," said Ser Corbray, gesturing to her bloodied lips. She must have bitten into it during one of her many tumbles. It was a miracle that was the extent of her injuries in the battle. He called for a squire to hand her a handkerchief so that she could wipe it away.

Hours later, after the tourney had come to a temporary halt to continue on the morrow, after the maester had checked her minor wounds, and also after her father and Jon Arryn had both given her earfuls of chiding, Bernadelle summoned for a bath to be drawn so she would clean herself from the battle. She sat in the steaming waters and studied the blossoming bruises along her muscled arms and legs and waist. The blood from earlier had come from a scrape during one of her falls, nothing terribly major. Her father was so cross with her earlier that she did feel slightly guilty for making him worry so terribly.

"I was frightened for you," the Blackfish said, expression heavy with stern exhaustion. "And I do not frighten easily."

The tourney was expected to continue as normal by the next morn, even after her little ploy, but Jon Arryn had informed her that many lords were appalled by her behavior and had no want to compete for her hand anymore.

Good, she thought. Let them all grow appalled by me.

Jon also warned that she'd better not try any folly again, as they would be keeping a very close eye on her from here on out.

After her bath, Bernadelle rose from the waters and slipped into a pale white sleeping shift. She didn't want to go to bed with her father angry at her. It didn't feel right. Bernie crept out of her chambers and walked through the twisting, narrow halls of the castle, towards her father's sleeping quarters. He was stationed in a different tower, along with the rest of the knights under his say, as he was the commanding guard of the Bloody Gate.

On her way there, she was surprised to pass by Jaime, standing in front of one of the royal chambers. No doubt Robert Baratheon was behind the doors—and judging by the muffled sounds of giggles and bed-creaking, he wasn't alone in there.

Jaime's eyes flashed when he saw her, features morphing out from boredom to wary interest.

"Go ahead," said Bernadelle, tone challenging. "You want to call me a half-wit."

Jaime's smile was almost cattish. "You've given me no reason to change my mind." His head tilted. "Are you hurt? You took quite a few falls out there."

"Nothing I wouldn't recover from," came her reply. "Except a bruised dignity."

The kingsguard hummed. "How'd you find it? Your first melee, was it?"

"Yes," she said. He saw the way her eyes gleamed beneath the torchlight. "The rush of it… it's intoxicating. It's no wonder so many men clamor to become knights, even if they care not for helping the innocent."

His brow raised. Bernadelle glanced at him, knowing he was trying to decipher what exactly she thought of him, then. Let him puzzle over it.

"I'm no half-wit," she finally said, having kept it to herself long enough. "The maester comes to me for help on sums. I do many of the calculations for him." She left out the fact that the maester only left it to her because he considered it menial, tedious work. "He told me if I were born a man, he would've encouraged me to go to Oldtown and study to become a maester myself."

Jaime was clearly amused at the notion of his name-calling bothering her.

"You're the first lady I've met who wished to become two things she couldn't—a knight and a maester. Such grand delusions." Jaime saw the anger crackle across her freckled features. This elicited a low chuckle from the white-armored knight. "I can't imagine you buried under all those heavy chainlinks." His eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of the halls. "Armor, though… it suits you."

His gaze trailed over her short auburn hair, looking like dark flames sprouting from her head, down to her white shift, swaying with the moaning wind that bustled through the halls.

"I'll take my leave, ser," she said, almost awkward. It frustrated her how easily Jaime Lannister's words managed to thorn under her skin. "I must speak with my father."

Jaime nodded, watching her turn and go—but called out just before she turn the corner. "Redfish," he said.

She stopped in her tracks, glancing back at him.

"It's not as glorious as you think it is," said Jaime.

Her brows furrowed. "What isn't?"

"Knighthood," he said, simple and curt.

She watched him for a moment more, trying to make out what he meant, but Jaime had already found something else to stare at. With pursed lips, the Tully whisked away, off to her father's chambers.

a/n: and that's the first part !!! next part is going to be following the canon book events (e.g. war of the five kings, red wedding...) please let me know what you think so far :) i'm super excited to keep writing more hehe

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