Chapter Text
Jaime woke up in a song, with Brienne in his arms and a joust to win.
He didn't move, lost in the moment. He just kept hearing her breath, feeling her heart beating, wondering if she was dreaming, if she was dreaming of him , of a Sept of grass and leaves, a wandering Septon, Pod, and, why not, a big dog and a ragged hedge knight for witnesses.
One day. One day, he would wake up with his lady naked in his arms, and his seed drying on her thighs.
Not today, yet.
Today, Jaime was going to crown her.
There was the sea, shining in the distance, and an ocean of people, watching, in a silence thick with expectations. Then she tilted her head, pulling it backward all of sudden, revealing her throat and a trail of freckles that Jaime craved to kiss, and the ring of sapphires and aquamarines on her hair stole the sunlight, and the cheers swallowed Brienne's voice.
Jaime knew what his wench had said, though, and tucked it, for later, to tease her when they would have been finally alone.
Later, finally later, when the first day of the tourney was gone and the night banquet was almost over, they repaired in the red tent, drunk on songs and stars. There, lying down together on a camp bed, she stared at him with just a thin shift up, eyes as big as moons, and Jaime couldn't recall well what he was supposed to say. A hundred quips, about her being the most unlikely of all queens of grace and beauty, probably.
“…but you have such astonishing eyes, Brienne,” he said instead.
She cupped his cheeks, damn serious - why has she to be so damn serious every time, and damn sweet - as she pressed her lips to his, and then let him kiss her back, and they kissed till they fell asleep, and then she kissed him to awaken, already dressed and ready to break her fast with the scums from Dorne and the Reach. Decisively too a dressed wench. Life could be so unfair, with poor lazy knights who slept too much.
“Don’t you go,” he muttered, grabbing at her arm, as she bent again to kiss him goodbye, smelling of lemons.
“You know I have to.”
“Not before having helped me in my armor,” he grinned, not loosening his hold. “A gracious concession.”
Brienne scratched her twisted nose, puzzled. “A concession?”
“Since it’s your name day.”
She scowled and smiled. “Aren’t you going to have a bath, ser, before?” She sent thrills all over his spine, just passing a finger on the thin hairs gilding his jaw. “Shave yourself maybe?”
Jaime’s grin became merciless. “I thought my betrothed prefers me a bit uncouth.”
“It’s, well, it’s better if I go, now.” A wave of flush had raised to cover the light marks left by his stumble on her forehead, and so she left, red-necked and frowning, sending him a last, heated gaze. So, it was true. The wench preferred him bearded.
On the second day of the great tourney held in honor of the Lady Brienne of Tarth, her first champion, ser Jaime Lannister, the Young Lion, entered the lists in his blue steel armor, unshaven, unbathed and sunbathed, the scent of a woman as a token, and, judging from the screams and shouts all around him, he covered himself in glory.
Obviously, the ungrateful wench had something to say about it.
“You should be less reckless whilst jousting, Jaime.”
“So speaks the lady who galloped down the slope sidesaddle.”
She rolled her eyes, her short hair spread on the small pillow. The crimson silk of the pavilion made her glow a Lannister glow, and all he wanted was to ravish her and make her confess what could be so bad to deepen the blue of her eyes.
“I think you shouldn't risk your neck, anyway. Not for a joust.”
“Not a joust. Your joust, Brienne. Ours.”
She caught her breath, gaping like a fish in a fisherman's net. And Jaime was the lucky fisherman, his arms a prison she couldn't escape from, no matter how hard she tried, the bells of the stupid belt the Dornish princess had gifted her chiming, whimpering, and brushing aside. With a trick worthy of Lann the Clever, he managed to pin the wench to the mattress, but then she made him roll on himself and straddled him, her azure-and-golden gown slipping from her shoulder, her lips parted by heavy breathing.
His betrothed was beautifully unyielding, and Jaime’s blood was singing.
A rustle, the tent folds moving, and the song turned into a gasp. Wide-eyed, Brienne rushed to regain her composure, fixing the flowing gown back on her shoulder, whilst the Lord of Casterly Rock scrutinized her, unreadable. Uncle Kevan had the decency to look embarrassed, even sorry, at least.
“A word, Jaime,” Lord Tywin said. His gaze lingered on the unmade bed. “Not here. In my pavilion. Now.” Brienne smiled, uncertain, at Jaime, as he took her hand. “Privately. Ser Kevan will stay with the lady Brienne, in the meanwhile.”
Jaime felt his jaw tighten. “Wait for me, my lady,” he said. “It won’t take long.”
The wench smiled, and put a kiss on the back of his hand, before letting him go. The blue circling her pupils was so dark, now, that Jaime lingered in the doorway, hesitant, before leaving. But he left, in the end, and cursed himself for having left, later, when winter came and the world crumbled on itself.
Coldness irradiated from Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing with the Evenstar’s daughter, but you’re going to end it," he said, flat. "Tonight.”
“Brienne's her name, my lord.”
Jaime didn’t like the sudden glint in lord Tywin’s eyes. “Brienne, fine. Was the lady Brienne the one who asked you to forbid ser Gregor Clegane and ser Amory Lorch to take part in the tourney?”
“No.” Jaime had faced the Mountain and the knight of the manticore only the evening before, hoping to have more time. He shouldn’t have undervalued his father that way. “She doesn’t even know I ordered them to leave.”
Lord Tywin emptied the space with a couple of strides and slapped him. Slowly. With indifference. As if Jaime was nothing but a midge.
“No one but me can give orders to one of my bannermen. Try to recall it, ser.”
The ice in his father’s voice just ignited the fire in Jaime’s. “They murdered Princess Elia Martell and her children.”
“Kitchen tales, unfounded. They always served me well, and never made me doubt their loyalty, the way my son makes.”
“I never did anything against my kin,” Jaime replied, stiff.
“You followed your ignoble brother’s plan, to spite mine and your legacy.” The Lord's gaze became even more piercing when he noticed his son's puzzlement. “Yes, ser, you never mentioned Tyrion's role in this lovely affair, but you should give more credit to my skills, maybe. Did you actually think I knew nothing about it before the amiable confession you gifted me a few days ago?”
Silence fell. Not a completely hostile silence, though. It didn't last long.
“I was aware of the rumors. Anyone in the realm is aware of the rumors. Kevan, and even Genna, reassured me. Then, one morning, Lord Selwyn Tarth presented himself in the throne room with a pile of risible papers signed by you, in which you bound yourself not to consummate your wedding. I never thought you could be that stupid, but I trusted Kevan, again, and decided to concede you more time,” Lord Tywin’s nostrils flared, in loathing, like Cersei's used to do when she wanted something she couldn’t obtain, “All I got back from you was deceive and disrespect, till the point you were eager to give up to Casterly Rock for that maiden and now, just a few hours ago, you kissed her in front of everyone. Why? Have you come back to your senses, son? Is it my forgiveness you seek?”
“You can keep your damn Rock. All I want is her.”
“Why? What has she promised you in exchange for your alliance? To become the new Hand?” Jaime looked at his father, the scales finally lifting from his eyes, and didn’t like what he saw. Nor he had liked to notice, a handful of minutes before, the small garrison of red cloaks standing at the entrance of the huge tent. “Or the new King? That's what you want? A crown? ” The whiskered, old man paced again towards him. “Tell me everything, Jaime. It’s not too late. You’ve always been rash, impulsive, but you’re still my son, my only heir. Who told you about Joffrey and Robert’s will?”
“I have no idea of what you’re babbling of, my Lord.”
This time Jaime intercepted the slap.
His father looked him in the dead of the eye, and jerked his wrist free from Jaime's grasp, receding.
“No, you haven’t.” The Lord paused, his mouth no more than a thin, twisted line , then he went to a small table and poured wine into two chiseled goblets. "We're going to have some enhancements in Westeros, quite soon. According to Pycelle, Robert should be already dead: he pisses blood and sometimes retches blood too. Still, he keeps on drinking and whoring. The Great Maester’s surprised by the man’s resistance, but the time left to him is a few weeks, a couple of moons, no more.” He offered a goblet to Jaime, and Jaime took it, mechanically. “Unfortunately Joffrey is unfit for the throne, whilst Myrcella and Tommen are too young, and this is quite a complication, because nor Cersei, nor any other Lannister can become the Regent. Not with Dorne, the Reach, the Stormlands already in unrest.” The Lord sipped, slowly, gingerly, as if it was his last sip. “That’s why I made Robert name Myrcella his heir in his will, indicating the Regent in the lady that was supposedly your lady wife.”
Jaime’s cup fell to the ground, untouched. Lord Tywin glanced at the dark stain growing large on the carpet with the same, calculate indifference he feigned towards anyone, including his kin. It was nothing new, and yet, Jaime had never realized it with such strength.
“It could work, son. The Evenstar’s hugely respected in the Stormlands and his daughter has enough Queen Nymeria's blood in her veins to appease Dorne and enough dragonblood to attract the Targ loyalists across the Crownlands or on the Mander. And, if it didn’t work, it would still oblige the beloved guests that are enjoining your pretty tourney to make their moves against Myrcella, and consequently discover their plots, their alliances, all in favor of Tommen,” Jaime's stomach rolled, and stared disgustedly at the hand grabbing - squeezing - his shoulder, “or of the son you’ll father one day.”
“You talk of all of us as if we were pieces of a cyvasse game.”
“We all are, Jaime. I just do what it’s needed, for the good of the family.”
“Let me pass.” The knight was sick of listening. “I told Brienne I’d be back soon.”
The lord didn’t hint at leaving him free from his grasp. “Forget that girl. She's not loyal to you as you believe her. She shunned your bed because her father planned to marry her to Prince Doran’s son. Quentyn, a boy fostered by Lord Ironwood.”
“You don’t even know Brienne, how can you...”
“I don’t need to know her to order my son to forget her.” Breath and words hissed through the lord's white teeth, and they were both stale. “That girl is just a disease. I made her almost a queen, and she ruined you and everything else, plotting against us with Dorne, then plotting against the King to free Stannis and relying on Lord Varys for it. How foolish of her. I don't know why, but the eunuch hasn't done his move yet, so you're still in time to put her aside before Robert will pour his rage on her. The fact she's still a maiden can reveal itself quite useful, in the end. The King will be glad to forget that any marriage between you has been celebrated when you'll give him the girl along with her confession, written and sealed.”
Jaime froze, outside. Inside, something as hot as dragonfire was spreading. “Free to disinherit me, my lord, but never presume to give me orders, or threaten the woman I love.” He followed his father’s glance to the tent's entrance - and laughed. A bitter laugh. “Call for the guards, if you prefer, but remind yourself it was me to increase their salary of late, and it was Brienne to donate a good part of her jewels to grant a dowry for each girl of the Rock and of Lannisport, including the red cloaks’ daughters and sisters.” He recognized the doubt, only partially concealed by specks of golden ice, in the lord’s flecked irises. “Then call your loyal bannermen, any knight or archer or footman of the Westerlands, and ask them whom they’ll prefer to follow in a battle between me and you.” The lord retired brusquely his hand as if the contact with Jaime had scorched it. “Finally, call for the smallfolk and tell them you want to harm the Maid of Tarth.”
Silence followed, arid, but the mighty lord couldn't endure it.
“It was a kind of a rant, wasn’t it? No need to waste my time about crap, for I never intended to harm your ...maid.” Lord Tywin said, his true, lined face soon replaced by the usual, smooth mask. “We'll keep her safe in the deep of the Rock, and blame her father for everything since the Evenstar escaped the same night Stannis fled, thus I presume...”
“Escaped?” Jaime was bewildered, but, then, he understood. All. Brienne's silence, her sadness. “Lord Selwyn was held captive. By you.”
“It was the only way to impede the fool spreading the news of my son and heir being not able to blow a candle off and break a maidenhead. Brienne was smart enough to find it out and bold enough to free her father, and I’m prone to appreciate her for both things, but why ask the help of the most dangerous of all men, why free Stannis?”
“Because Stannis is innocent, like Tyrion, the son you forgot to have, is” And a true knight defends the innocents , he wanted to add, but it sounded useless, a thing that Lord Tywin would never understand.
Without further delay, Jaime circled past the man that used to be his father and broke through the bunch of red cloaks, his gaze on the entrance of the place where Brienne was waiting for him to bring her far, far away from Robert before she could do such a crazy thing like telling the King she was the one guilty to save those who had helped her freeing her father and Stannis.
“Lord Stark is going to regret having forced Tyrion to take the black,” the lord of Casterly Rock said, low voice, but stern, reaching Jaime and shoving him aside to enter into the wench’s tent before him, “but the Spider's surely already scheming to use what your lady did against us, and I'm not willing to let you and our legacy die for a tall, ungainly…”
Blood smeared the lord’s lips, blood and bile, dripping on his chin. Jaime instinctively went on his knees not to let his father fall into the dirt and the second bolt missed him by a thread. The first shaft, a crossbow quarrel, was stuck in the stuttering body he was holding, at the height of the stomach. No man could survive such a cruel wound, and yet that man was Lord Tywin Lannister. Jaime hoped. In vain.
Something thick and warm went on seeping through his clothes, and Jaime was still so unbelieving, that the third bolt would have caught him, if not for the two women pulling him from under the armpits and dragging him away. Brienne's bedmaid Fran and that Dornish girl, Sarella Sand, curiously dressed up like a man. They both looked as shocked as Jaime was.
“Where's her?”, the dumb-and-deaf servant - what the hell - asked, and her voice was rough and dark like soil, like a man's voice. “Where's Brienne?” The bedmaid added, and was definitively a man, but it was not important, not now.
Not with Brienne still in the pavilion. With a wrench, Jaime freed himself and overstepped his father's corpse to get into the tent, followed the ones who had witnessed Lord Tywin's murder. There was only uncle Kevan, inside. He had no suffered and seemed almost dozing on Brienne's chair, but Lancel broke into tears all the same as the guy incautiously, frightened by the turmoil and still drowsy with sleep, came in, realizing that his sire's doublet was soaked in blood, and not in wine.
Jaime grasped his cousin by the shoulders and shook him until he stopped whining and trembling. “You have still duties towards your father. Take care of his body, your lady mother shouldn't see him like that. Find new clothes, pick a couple of veterans, and made them lay ser Kevan and Lord Tywin over the bed and wash and dress them,” he commanded, and the grief-stricken boy seemed to find relief in having something to do.
Jaime felt no grief, nor relief, instead. He stared estranged at the tear cut on the silk wall from where the murderer had escaped and, then, at the hand that Sarella reached out. Long, caramel fingers with nails cut very short, light like an arrow, and firm on his arm, creating a queer contrast with the girl's voice, which was trembling. “The King's dead.”
The knight shook his head, angered, his eyes so dry that it hurt. “The Hand is dead. My father, and uncle Kevan.”
“Robert Baratheon is dead, we rushed here to warn you,” the girl repeated, her eyes as black and frightened as the night, now full of rattling steel and choked shouts. Jaime started striding in the direction where the panicked sounds were growing as the fierce growl of an unknown beast, a hand on the hilt of the Valyrian steel sword that the unforgivably stubborn wench had refused to take. “The Lord of Winterfell has been killed, too,” Sarella went on. “They say it was Brienne to order the Mountain to assault them before fleeing away with the Mountain's men and Ser Amory Lorch's.”
“They lie. Brienne's not a damn Kingslayer,” the stranger in Fran's gown broke in, panting to keep Jaime and Sarella's pace. In the moonlit, his plain face was dirty. With blood. Lord Tywin's blood. Probably it was even on Jaime's stumble, rubies on gold as his father preferred. It was no good to think about it. “Brienne's in danger. I have to find her and bring her back to Ironwood with me.”
Ironwood. Quentyn Nymeros Martell. Jaime realized but didn't let himself get distracted by the realization. “Who? Who accuses Brienne?”, he asked to the Sand girl, who was surely the most lucid of the unlikely duo of Dornish cousins.
“The Master of Whisperers has been seen beside the King's corpse, but Father says he's no man who can be trusted," she replied.
“The eunuch's word against a highborn lady is not enough. Who else?”
The girl opened her mouth and cleverly shut it, as soon as a few men rushed towards them - Addam and Devan blessedly among them - carrying a corpse. No, not a corpse. Ned Stark was still alive, unconscious, but alive. His arm was broken in two points, and his knee was gone, but not his tongue. If he survived, he could clear Brienne's name from any false accusations.
“Vylarr”, Jaime told the captain of the red cloaks, as he recognized him, “take the Lord of Winterfell to the Rock with Strongboar, and never leave him or let anybody enter his room armed, not even his kin. Tell the Maesters that I want the man to pass the night and regain his lucidity.”
“Ser Lyle's guarding the King's body, ser.”
Jaime had almost forgotten. “My lord, not ser.” The square-faced veteran paled under the lion crest of his helm. “My father's been murdered," he explained, curtly, "Ser Kevan's dead, too. Tell ser Damion to bring the news to his widow, and, since ser Lyle can't keep the vigil on the Lord Stark, ask the youngest of the Crakehalls brothers. He's a loyal man. " Loyal to Brienne , Jaime thought with relief. "Give him the men he asks for. Now go.” Vylarr bowed, and rapidly lead the trench in the direction of the castle.
The new Lord of Casterly Rock turned toward Devan and Addam. There was no time to allow the shock to fade away from their faces. “Addam, summon our best men and send a third of them to protect Tommen and Myrcella, and our most important guests, Shireen and Renly Baratheon, the Tyrells, the Martells.” He shoved Quentyn against his astonished cousin. “This guy in a pretty dress is Prince Doran's second son and will diligently follow you to explain his sister and Prince Oberyn the situation. Devan, take the other third of men and perlustrate all the camp and the fields. In ordered, quiet, efficient groups. We don't need panic or lies to spread in the dark, do we?”
Addam shared a look with Devan. “Jaime, what am I supposed to tell to the lords of Highgarden and Storm's End, they say...”
“I'm aware of what they say about Brienne.”
“A vile calumny,” broke in Quentyn Martell. Not that bad for a damn Dornishman.
“Not that we'll ever believe it, but a sworn brother of the Kingsguard says he saw the lady with the Mountain." Addam ground his teeth."Ser Gerolt Dayne.”
“Any other traitor?” It came out more like a roar, than a question.
“Ser Greenfield died along with his King. The Mountain's dead, too,” Devan muttered. “There was no other else in sight.”
Jaime looked his cousin in the eye. “You're wrong. Lord Stark was there and he'll survive long enough to clear Brienne's name, I grant you. So, Gerolt Dayne was there with Lord Varys and Brienne.” He had to pause and breathe. Her name burned on his lips. “And Podrick Payne, if I know the lad. It's crucial to find where they are, for we can't leave Gerolt Dayne and the Spider the time to make their moves," he took another deep breath, "The Lord of Banefort is no man to discuss an order of mine. Put him at the command of the last third of men, Devan, and tell him to look for Dayne, Lord Varys, and all Clegane and Lorch's men. Block the roads and arrest all people who'll dare to protest or unsheathe a blade...”
“... or say something against the lady Brienne, but with gentleness. The people's blood is still hot for the tourney and the abundant wine served at the banquet, not all of them are traitors or schemers,” Sarella concluded and Jaime couldn't help but think that the girl was as smart as she was pretty.
“As my Lord commands,” Devan replied, whilst Addam said nothing, but in his hazel eyes there was the promise he would have followed his childhood friend till the deepest of the seven hells. Jaime felt grateful for his men's loyalty, and hollow. He had to find Brienne before the night was over and didn't know how.
The dawn came to enlighten a camp incredibly quiet, and the grass where the fight had taken place turned from ashen to red, glinting sickly wet.
Another shine, a broken one, and Jaime picked up from the ground a small piece of ivory and gold, hacked so sharply to seem a spear point. He couldn't find other fragments of Brienne's cane, nor any other trace of her, except for the belt she had received for her eighteenth name day from Princess Arianne.
He shivered, recalling he had had not enough time to give her his gift.
The grass was heavily crushed where Robert Baratheon, first of his name, had fallen, still holding his war hammer. The Mountain was lying where he had died, instead, so huge and dreadful that even the carrion crows looked afraid to come and taste him. Or maybe it was a form of gratitude from their side. The man had fed so many of them, on Lord Tywin's behalf.
The new Lord of Casterly Rock stepped closer. The giant armor shoved an impressive indentation on the chest, but the dull gray steelplate was so heavy and thick that it had resisted, damn it. It wasn't Robert's hammer that had killed the Mountain, nor Ned Stark's blade, that had left his signature on one of the calves, but Brienne's chain of tiny bells, dug so deeply in the man's throat that Prince Quentyn suggested burying the man with it, and Prince Oberyn agreed with a nod.
Not even Dorne wanted his cursed head, now.
Neither the Hound was likely to claim his brother's body. The insolent man stood there, strangely silent in the sun, among the representatives of the Lannisport goldsmiths' gyld summoned on Jaime's order, Willas Tyrell and a very pale Robb Stark. The Lord of Storm's End was too sick to come, they said, but Jaime didn't care about Renly, or about the fact that Sandor Clegane had blatantly disobeyed him. Somehow, he knew that the Hound would fail him no more and that he would have gladly taken the Clegane Keep to the ground, like Jaime had ordered him, for a start.
There was nothing left to do there. Before spurring his mount towards the south, Jaime gave the corporation of goldsmiths three days to find a way to cover the Mountain in a layer of shining metal and preserve the monster's surprised look intact through the centuries. The children who weren't already born would know, then, that a maiden, bare-handed and crippled, defeated the worst beast that the seven Kingdoms had ever known.
Dayne and the other traitors had a short advantage. A day and a night, and the company which had departed from Lannisport fell on the runaways and tore them apart. Addam told Jaime that ser Amory Lorch had begged and sobbed to be spared after having been unhorsed by Prince Oberyn, but that happened later. In the right moment in which Lorch's head ended on a Dornish spike, Jaime was riding forward, still chasing the white cloak who had bedded his sister, seized his lady, and used a craven's weapon to kill his father.
Gerolt Dayne denied it, though, when they finally crossed their blades, in front of an inn that looked familiar to Jaime.
“Ask the eunuch, my lord.” the knight of High Hermitage was handsome, in his way, skilled with a sword, and poisonous with words, like the manticore depicted on the blooded banner that the wind brought rapidly away. “He likes crossbows, and lied to me like he lied to Lorch or everyone else.” He parried easily Jaime's thrust, his hair moving like liquid, serpentine silver.
“You left your King to die by the hand of the Mountain and raised no finger to save him.”
“Pretty different from butchering him with my blade, yes.” Jaime shifted just in time to refuse the kiss of his opponent's sword. “I thought it romantic. The Spider's idea, I mean.”
The silver-haired man groaned, his shield whining under the violence of Jaime's blow.
Jaime had to be more cautious. To preserve his energies.
To keep his eyes on the steel swirling in the mild air and not onto the big, shapeless bundle, a roughspun sack covered with Dayne's heavy cloak and securely tied, laying on the ground behind the Dornishman, in the perfumed shadow of a lime tree.
Brienne's life depended on it.
He decided to indulge the kingsguard. “Which idea?”
“The idea of changing the Kinglayer's woman into another Kingslayer.” The scum smiled, even if his lunge was not quick enough to bother Jaime. “He said that the death of King Robert was an opportunity, but that the true monarchs needed time. Time and confusion.” Blood tricked from a little cut on the back of Jaime's sword hand and Gerold Dayne laughed. “I'm a diversion, too, am I not?”
The false knight's laugh turned into a bitter growl, as Oathkeeper pierced through the steel byrnie, leaving a red path on the man's left leg. It was so ironic. Ser Arthur Dayne had taught Jaime how to serve such a blow, and it was a Dayne who was now bleeding because of it. A Dayne of High Hermitage, though, not of Starfall - with venom instead of honor in his blood.
“Am I not?” Gerold Dayne insisted, faking a blow.
Jaime ignored again the lie and kept on pressing the man, forcing him to put too much weight on the wounded thigh.
“You're deluding yourself, my lord,” Dayne said, limping a bit as retreating towards the building hosting the inn. The sensation of having already been there struck Jaime again, maybe he had spent a night here in the past.
The bundle abandoned under the lime tree moved slightly. This time Jaime was sure of it, sure it was not just his imagination, sure that there was someone alive beneath the heavy coverings. His heart enlarged with hope and desperation. He tried to think of a way he might move closer to the lip form emprisoned in the sack, before Dayne might guess his thoughts and get over it with his sword. To Jaime's astonishment, a tiny shadow, no bigger than a child, was slowly closing to it. Jaime spun and spun again, keeping on distracting Dayne, obliging him to parry, bend, and shift to the right, to let the shadow get to the bundle and free Brienne. Because Brienne was inside it. It had to be Brienne, it had to be her, Jaime's mind told him over and over, making him uneasy to follow all Dayne's bullshit.
“Not that I'm totally ungrateful toward Lord Varys. It's an honor to be the one who will slay the fucking Kingslayer,” The scum boasted when it was his blood that was actually leaving a lovely coral snake on the dirt of the yard. “But I don't like being used by a damn eunuch like a common Lorch, or forced to go where I don't want.”
The man smiled and Jaime had the feeling that the Dornishman had just played till then. The scum's blows became swifter, more insistent, and venomous, and Jaime lost sight of Brienne's sack. Gods, if Dayne was good with a sword. The steel seemed alive in his grip, but he hadn't nor Valyrian Steel, nor the wits that the Gods gave to any Lannister. When the other man pushed him dangerously close to the big painted cart resting in the yard, Jaime threw himself and his shield on the dirt, jerking again on his feet to use the shaft of the cart like the arm of a quintain mannequin and throw it against Dayne's guts.
The Dornishman growled for the blow, and, as he struggled to keep balanced, Oathkeeper met his steelplate and opened a slanting gash in it, from the shoulder to the belly. A girl and a woman screamed, in the background. The girl was in joy, her hands stopping to traffic with the leather strings which kept the roughspun sack closed. The woman, the girl's mother for a certainty, cried in despair, instead, because the dangerous viper wrapped in a white cloak had noticed her daughter, now.
With a scary look in his purple eyes, Dayne's got rid of the useless shield, tossing it into Jaime's direction along with a cloud of dust that blurred Jaime's vision, just to gain the time of emptying the space between him and the girl. Not a girl, a child. Brown-haired and big-eyed and defenseless like a deer. Like Brienne, agitating in the sack. Jaime made out a sound that didn't recognize as human and rushed toward them.
The swords fell and were forgotten, when the two men became one, and then again two.
Dayne's eyes were striped red, no more purple. Blood was spattered all over his face – such a comely face the man had had. In death, with his features all twisted, he looked attractive only to worms. Jaime stood his eyes on the bundle.
“My lord,” said the innkeeper, a woman in her late twenties, clutching her child to her breast, breathless, scared by Jaime's closeness. “You're bleeding.”
He shrugged. “A scratch. Help me with the sack.” Jaime’s fingers were stiff, and they – how odd - they didn’t work well. “Help me”, he insisted, and shivered, and this time the blue-eyed woman went on her knees and began to unlace the though bounds, the sack finally opened, and Addam was shouting at him and Jaime had a small hunting knife buried in his right side, but it was worth to see again Brienne, only... Brienne’s hand was bigger, bigger than Jaime’s, whilst the hands struggling into the open air were small, a lad’s hands - no, two lads’ hands - and Gerold Dayne was no liar but was really just a diversion, a way to keep Jaime far from Varys and Brienne, and he had killed the Kingslayer.
Hazel eyes looked at him with concern. Jaime recognized Addam, and uttered an oath. He shouldn't be that worried. It was just a scratch. It was just a fever.
Then came the innkeeper's child, whose gaze was emerald, like Myrcella’s.
Tyrek’s eyes were a paler green, and the lad often cried for the guilt. The lad wasn’t to blame if he had been taken captive, but Jaime’s throat was too parched to comfort him or Pod.
There were no words that might comfort Pod, however. The page looked lost, always staring out of the window, at the sky. Sometimes, rarely, he sat at Tyrek’s side and talked of a golden dragon, his nut eyes bright with a hope Jaime didn’t need.
Because Jaime had the certainty that Brienne was well. He dreamed of her. Long, weird dreams in which her hair was longer, she held Oathkeeper and Oathkeeper burned blue and golden, like the flames of Brienne’s dragon in the absurd tales invented by Podrick. Jaime often woke up in the dead of the night calling her, and she turned towards him and changed the wet cloth on his burning brow, sometimes singing a lullaby with the voice of a girl who was a long time gone, whose name the man couldn’t recall.
One morning, the fever left him, and eyes of a wrong blue looked at him, half relieved, half... he couldn't say. Or maybe he could.
Jaime blinked, realizing he was still alive, and asked Tysha for a sip of water.
Later, when the evening star wrapped him in its lovely light, Jaime found the courage to tell her about having lied about her to Tyrion, and ask for her pardon. She denied it, and she was right not to forgive but wasn't right to be sorry about Brienne. Because Brienne was alive. Riding her dragon towards the dawn, towards the weak, still weak, sun. He had dreamed of it and closed his eyes to dream of her again.