Chapter Text
She keeps looking down, his future bride.
He resists the urge to bite the inside of his cheek because her stubbornness is one of the few things that still amuses him.
She seems more interested in the sun and moon pattern that covers the carpet on the chapel’s floor. She acts as if it’s the first time she has ever put her eyes on it, as though the walls, the strong cedarwood scent in the air or the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks outside aren’t something familiar.
This is her island, and he is the intruder; he should be the one looking around, exploring, but, while she keeps her eyes on the carpet, his gaze doesn’t falter from her face. He knows too well the colour of her eyes; he doesn’t need a reminder of that particular shade of blue. He had read about them once or twice in those heavy books that his brother Tyrion used to love with a passion that he had never been able to understand.
He had started reading about Tarth after finding out about the betrothal.
Some infants on Tarth, those books had said, were born with intense, blue eyes, a piercing yet calm shade that reminded one of the blue of the island’s waters. He remembers questioning those eyes, because they seemed straight out of some ancient magic spell, the day he saw her for the first time.
*
At the age of seven, a child like him shouldn’t worry about betrothals.
He should play with his wooden sword, ride up and down the hills of Casterly, dive from the twin rocks and swim until he can graze the horizon line with his fingers.
But Jaime is a Lannister and he already knows that his life will be different, burdened by expectations, dotted with duties and rules that he can only welcome with simpering obedience and condemn in the privacy of his room.
The day his sister Cersei tells him about his betrothal, with her pretty, cruel smile secured on her lips, he doesn’t believe her at first. He takes it as a way to spite him, an entertainment she always seems to enjoy more than necessary. He doesn’t believe her because she tells him about it after one of their fights. He has refused to wear her clothes this time, he’s tired of that charade that always leaves a tightening knot in his stomach. They play that game sometimes, he and his sister. They like to switch, or better she likes to switch and he's annoyed by the fact that he likes it too; he doesn’t even remember why he has played along with it the first time, only that she has been the one suggesting it.
Because everything starts with Cersei.
And he seems unable to put an end to every single thing she starts.
Now, hidden behind the crimson curtains in his father’s council room, he’s holding his breath, afraid of being caught. Maybe he should have dressed up as his sister, pulling up his locks and pinning them on his head in the same way she used to, because Cersei always gets away with her misdeeds, his father seems to act differently with her, like his expectations toward her were somehow less urgent.
That day, though, he wants to be himself when he finds out about his future.
In the hours that follow, crushing his own shirt in his fingers until his knuckles turn white, he listens to his father talking about the betrothal.
His future bride is just born, she’s a toddler and she comes from an island he has never heard about, Tarth. It must be a small one, forgotten by the Gods, an unwelcoming place, cold and distant. His father calls his bride “The Evenstar”, he doesn’t understand how a baby just born can have a high-sounding name like that.
A month later, during his first cursed trip to the island, he’s staring down at his future bride making silly faces in her crib.
His future bride has pale blonde hair, thin locks that stick out from her head in a messy way. She’s too tall for being just born, her chubby legs already peek out from the crib, making him frown in a mix of wonder and disgust. Her eyes are insanely blue and the more he looks at them, the more he feels the urge to look away, because they make him strangely nervous.
She doesn’t look like an Evenstar.
Some quips come to his lips, but he keeps them at bay. She’s just a baby after all, she shouldn’t be blamed for something she’s not responsible for.
He hates it when his sister blames Tyrion for their mother’s death.
He glances down one last time, unhappily wrinkling his nose when a strange whimper comes out from the baby’s mouth. Then her little fingers curl around his index, immediately tightening around it. Jaime tries to free himself from her grip, but she’s ridiculously strong for a new born and he curses under his breath, trying again to pull his hand away.
Her stubborn fingers stay around his.
*
When her hands reach out to fix the cloak he has just put on her shoulders, her fingers are trembling.
Jaime remembers that day when her little fingers were steady and strong in their grip around his, they didn’t want to leave his hand.
His sister used to tell him that he was born gripping her foot. That tale had never been a tender one for him, despite how many times Cersei liked to tell it.
It always left a strange taste in his mouth, made him feel helpless in his need, already longing for something he couldn’t have.
When Brienne, just born, had gripped his finger though, he had felt needed for the first time in his life.
Only now, after years, he seems able to give a name to that sentiment.
Brienne’s dress is a strange shade of white, tending to azure. Her arms are covered, but he can see the outline of her biceps under the thin veil of cloth. There’s a bunch of vivid freckles on every inch of exposed skin, the others, apparently hidden, are still visible through the transparency of the dress. Her hair, longer than the last time, is pulled up in a way that emphasises how wrong and unappealing her features are, but it makes her neck look even longer at the same time, so the effect is not totally unpleasant.
She still seems shy in finding his eyes. He notices that her gaze though, never gravitates toward his golden hand. It’s the first time she has seen him after what happened. For a moment he asks himself if part of her reluctance is due to his missing limb.
He dispels that thought, putting his best smirk in place instead.
“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” he says. He waits for her to close the distance between their bodies. Unsurprisingly she doesn’t, so he clears his throat, reaching for her and taking those last steps separating them. He’s about to touch her lips, when she tilts her face, offering him her cheek instead. He realizes her eyes are a little glassy and he kisses the corner of her mouth without another word.
He shouldn’t feel disappointed, yet the smirk on his face is gone.
After the ceremony, it’s time for the feast.
Brienne has not yet said a word to him, and he tries to restrain his talkativeness to indulge her mood.
He notices she looks at her father every time he coughs a little too loudly.
Her eyes tighten in concern as she sighs next to him.
He wonders if they’ll ever reach the point in which she’ll be eager to share her concerns with him.
People around them eat, drink and dance, unaware of everything passing through their minds.
Their union has been a political matter, everyone knows that. Their fathers have been plotting about their destiny since the day Brienne’s mother found out about her pregnancy.
He doesn’t know what she thinks about their betrothal. If she curses her father, still mourns her mother; he doesn’t even know if she’s relieved or disgusted by the prospect of sharing a bed with him.
He doesn’t know anything about her moods.
He remembers seeing her cry once at her mother’s funeral.
*
He finds her sitting in the meadow under an ancient oak.
Her long, pale legs poke between the daisies.
He’s here because Cersei challenged him to comfort her. She was biting back a smile when she ordered him. He wonders why she smiles like that, they should know the pain losing a mother brings. But Cersei, she doesn’t know how to be sympathetic, she has never learned.
Brienne is painting something on a shield. Her hands are too big for a six year old girl and she struggles with the brush in her fingers.
“What are you painting?” he asks her.
She raises her head toward him. She’s not surprised to see him there or maybe she simply doesn’t care. Her scowl seems more like a habit than something intentional, a way of living. There are so many freckles on her face, for a moment he wonders if she has painted those too.
“This is a tree,” she answers, ungraciously sniffling, “and now I’m painting a falling star.”
“A falling star?”
She nods. “I saw a beautiful shield like this in my father’s armoury.”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t seem like a falling star to me, it seems more like a snake,” he tells her. He doesn’t mean to be funny, but she chuckles anyway, looking up at him. He just manages to get a glimpse of her ridiculous eyes before she squints a little, bothered by the sun.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” he says.
She looks down, resuming her painting. “My father told me my mother wanted me to marry a prince one day. They didn’t tell me who, but I think they’ve already picked one for me.”
He clears his throat, not knowing what to say.
“Are you my prince?” she asks him then.
He opens his mouth to reply, but his sister’s laugh distracts him. He spots her hidden behind a tree, busy spying on them from afar.
“I’m not,” he tells her. “I’m too old for you, don’t you see?”
She looks disappointed by his answer, her eyes grow bigger while studying him. “That’s a shame,” she says. “You seem kind.”
Kind? Jaime is not kind, nobody has ever told him that.
Arrogant maybe, a presumptuous boy who’s really good with a sword. A sharp mouth and a handsome face, but not kind, never kind.
“I’m not,” he says, almost annoyed with her mistake.
She raises the shield to the sunlight to survey her work. “If you’re not my prince, can you be my friend then?”
There’s a certain hope in her voice that makes him wish to have a different answer.
Cersei laughs again. This time her laughter is louder, intrusive in that glimpse of calmness they have created. Brienne turns her head in the direction of the sound.
“I can’t,” he says, taking advantage of her distraction. “I don’t care about being your friend, you’re too little for me.”
Her eyes start filling with tears, Jaime takes one last look at her face before going back to his sister.
*
“You look magnificent tonight, Lady Brienne, a sight for sore eyes. Will you grant me the honor of dancing with me?” a man asks her, approaching their table. Jaime doesn’t miss the cruelty in his voice. The others in his company sneer behind him, backing him like faithful wolves with the king of the pack.
Except they seem more like sheep.
The scene makes Jaime sick.
Brienne shifts next to him, without saying a word, fidgeting with her fingers on her lap.
He covers her fingers with his hand, stopping her movements.
“The Evenstar will dance only with her husband tonight,” he suddenly says. She looks at him sideways, frowning suspiciously. If they had been alone, he would have laughed. “Now, you should grant us the honor of turning your ass and leaving.”
Brienne is fighting the urge to add something, he can see it, but he takes her hand instead, leading her to the centre of the hall. Once in position, he circles her waist with his right arm, shortening the distance between them.
She hisses at their proximity. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Oh, so the mute speaks.”
She meets his eyes for the very first time that evening. It amuses him how much she’d like to intimidate him with the force of her eyes, but he can only find innocence in them.
“I can handle myself.”
“You sure can, I saw how good you were managing them.”
“Their words don’t reach me,” she whispers.
“Keep believing that, your face seems to say another thing, though.”
She ducks her chin, his golden hand shifts on her back. Touching her seems way too natural, it doesn’t require much thought. “You shouldn’t be concerned about their opinions.”
“Says the man who keeps his stump hidden behind a golden hand.”
His breath catches in his throat. She’s one of the few people able to make him do that. He wonders if she knows he has hidden his stump so as not to ruin her day. “You’re stepping on my feet,” he tells her instead.
“I can’t dance.”
“You can’t dance, you can’t talk, is there something you can do?” He likes bantering with her, it makes his blood sing in a pleasant way, almost like a duel with an honourable contender worthy of admiration.
“I’m pretty good with a sword, you should remember that.”
He bites his lip, repressing a grin. “There’s a lovely scar that never fails to remind me of that, you almost cost me a leg.”
“It was an accident. Besides, it was just a scratch, you’re so dramatic.”
“Yes, you told me that back then too. I remember thinking you were too well spoken for an annoying child.”
“I loved reading books, I learned from that.”
“I hated it.”
“Another thing to add to the list.”
“Guess who’s on top of that list?” It’s a lie, but he can’t resist. She stirs in his arms, trying to escape his grip, but he puts her palm on his chest, covering it with his hand to keep it in place. “This dress suits you,” he whispers in her ear, “it goes well with your eyes.”
She snorts, retreating. “There’s no need to do that, I know how much you like to call me ugly.”
“I’ve never called you pretty indeed, I’m just saying this dress suits you, learn how to take a compliment, wife.”
She furiously blushes at that and he wants to taste the word another time on his lips.
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s what you are. Don’t worry, you can call me husband.”
When the feast is over, they retreat to their new room.
The room is simple, not too big, with light and candid colors and some lanterns in every corner.
It doesn’t share anything with his old house in Casterly and he’s grateful for that. There are some shells shaping a sun and moon on the mattress, probably a tradition, something he’d like to ask her. Brienne picks them up one by one, her fingertips brushing against each shell with reverence.
Jaime observes her from the corner of his eye. He studies her movements, hears her barely audible sighs of nervousness, sees the blush expanding on her neck every time she becomes aware of his gaze on her.
Suddenly she puts a pillow vertically in the middle of the mattress to separate their bodies.
“There’s no need for that,” he says.
She ignores him, playing with the corner of the pillow, without removing it. “Could you please turn around? I need to take this off,” she says, fisting her dress.
He stares at her a little longer. Then he turns, indulging her. He can hear her fighting with the corset of her dress. A part of him would like to help her, but he doesn’t have the energy to fathom that thought.
“I’m done,” she says in a whisper.
When he faces her, she’s in a short tunic that barely covers her knees. There’s some lace on the straps around her shoulders that seems to accentuate her lack of charm. She holds his gaze with her arms folded in front of her; the gesture makes the cloth ride up on her legs while her biceps look even bigger. She’s probably trying to cover her chest, but he can still see her nipples poking through the thin material.
He feels a thrill along his spine.
“I need a hand with this,” he says, too hoarsely, pointing at the jacket he’s wearing. “I can’t unfasten these laces by myself.”
She doesn’t seem too thrilled by the prospect of helping him, but he knows she would never deny him that courtesy. She reaches him at the other side of the bed. Once close, her fingers immediately find his laces. She frowns, focused, trying to move delicately even if there’s nothing delicate about her.
Her touch though, is barely there.
“There’s no need for the pillow,” he tries again, more serious this time. “I won’t touch you until the day you want me to.”
“What if that day will never come?” When she glances at him, he’s hoping to find another answer in her eyes. Her words should hurt him, but she’s always been too kind to wound him deeply.
“Then I’ll never touch you,” he finally says.
She stops her movements, one of her fingers is playing with a loop in his jacket. She seems unaware of the fact that her knuckles are brushing his bare chest underneath. “We’ll have to.. at some point.”
“Oh right, we'll have to. It’s always about duties for you, isn't it? You and your beloved duties.”
A veil of sadness crosses her face, and he doesn’t like that look on her. It seems out of place. “Then I’ll be gentle,” he adds, “you can trust me with that.”
No one has ever trusted his words, he doesn’t know why she should grant him that privilege.
When she’s done undressing him though, she takes the pillow in her hand and throws it on the chair next to the bed.
They lie side by side, trying to close their eyes, but her breathing is too heavy. He wishes he could find the right words to calm her.
He’s a master of cutting remarks, but he struggles with gentle words.
“You once asked me to be your friend, remember that?”
She flattens her cheek on the pillow, looking at him. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do,” he simply says, a little annoyed. “I wonder if you could ask me that again?”
“Would your answer be any different?”
“It would.”
She contemplates his words, her eyes scanning his face searching for something. He’s grateful for the lack of light when he feels his cheeks reddening under her stare. “Just stop brooding and ask me, for Gods’ sake.”
“Never mind,” she eventually says.
“You’re right, never mind,” he turns around, facing away from her.
He feels the mattress shift behind him.
They stay like this, back to back, the ghost of the pillow still between them.
And yet he has never felt closer to anyone else before.