Chapter Text
JAIME
The swords clashed and sprang and clashed again. Jaime put all his weight behind the strokes, anger propelling him forward, dulling the sting of Bronn’s blade when it bit into his flesh. They had long ago abandoned wooden swords for steel during their sparring sessions, but Jaime did not care. He drove the knight around the practice yard relentlessly, heedless of the pain. In truth, it was less a practice yard than a hidden slab of concrete by the sea, and less practice than an outlet for Jaime’s aggression.
His brother had returned. There had been rumors of Tyrion’s whereabouts, of course, of his turning over to the Targaryen cause and traveling across the Narrow Sea to Westeros once more. Actually seeing him in person was an entirely different matter. The rage and betrayal Jaime had felt upon discovering his father’s corpse had come bubbling up then, a terrible blinding fury that reminded him of his promise to kill his younger brother should they ever meet again. But when the dwarf had waddled in his direction after the Dragonpit parley, intending to engage him in conversation as well as Cersei, Jaime had simply walked away. Doubtless his twin had done the deed for him; while Jaime had always harbored affection for Tyrion, the same kind that had prompted him to help the man escape certain execution during the trial of Joffrey’s murder, Cersei had hated him since he drew his first breath.
Jaime knew not what had kept him from unsheathing his sword in that arena, only that the anger had simmered the entire journey back to the Red Keep, and he had craved a good fight to release it. Now he and Bronn circled each other, blades at the ready, panting and sweating despite the chill. Cold salt spray filled Jaime’s lungs, and his blood was singing. They had been at it for the better part of the afternoon, yet the overwhelming exasperation had not left, and surged through his veins anew whenever Tyrion’s face swam before him.
“Come on, then,” Jaime urged, and sent a cut to Bronn’s side. The knight dodged it effortlessly, then met his upstroke with a downward blow that shot tremors through Jaime’s arm. He hissed in frustration and rushed forward, swinging in high arcs over Bronn’s head, creating sparks where the blades came together and slid away. Satisfaction bloomed when the ex-sellsword stumbled backward suddenly, catching himself in a crouch. A smile graced Jaime’s lips as he brought his sword point to the man’s throat.
Then Bronn’s leg kicked out and sent him crashing to the ground. Pain lanced through his spine as his left elbow took the brunt of the impact. His sword flew from his hand, skittering across the concrete. Jaime groaned. Judging from the needling in his chin, he’d be picking gravel out of his skin for days.
“Cunt,” Jaime spat as he rolled onto his back, but he took Bronn’s offered hand and allowed him to help him to his feet all the same. Despite the man’s incessant need to humiliate him, Jaime was glad for his return.
The stable boy had indeed found him in a brothel, about a week after Jaime’s homecoming. Bronn had appeared at the entrance to his room one morning, leaning against the doorway in that no-fucks-given way he had, looking for all the world like nothing of importance had transpired since their last encounter.
“You Lannisters are hard to kill,” he’d said finally.
“I could say the same for you,” Jaime had retorted. “How’d you make it out of the Neck?”
Bronn had scoffed. “Not everyone’s as directionally challenged as you are, cunt.”
“I was captured.”
“Aye, I remember. And I also remember the bog devils leadin’ you on a merry chase through those swamps beforehand.” Jaime had glared at him then, and the man had laughed as he’d taken the empty chair across from him and poured himself a glass of wine. “Is your horse still alive? Rode ‘im pretty hard, the poor bastard. After you were taken, all hell broke loose. Thank the gods those mud-men have no experience with horses. Wouldn’t even touch ‘im. Neither would the rest of your men, the cravens. Didn’t have no problem stealing mine. Guess they thought the commander’d come back and kill ‘em for daring to sit on his palfrey. I figured you were as good as dead, and dead men don’t need a mount.”
Jaime recalled the night of his capture. The ambush had come well ahead of dawn. He hadn’t even had the chance to don his armor before the crannogmen had been in his pavilion, holding spears to his throat. He had seen Honor outside his tent as he was led away, but there had been no way to reach him without getting killed first.
“I rode out of camp and found the kingsroad, then made for King’s Landing,” continued Bronn. “You hear Bracken’s already got a child in Lollys? Your sister works fast, I’ll give ‘er that.”
Cersei had broken her agreement with Bronn before Jaime had left for Dorne, arranging Ser Wyllis Bracken to wed his betrothed instead. He supposed with nowhere else to go, it made sense for the knight to come back to the capital. There were enough taverns and whorehouses to keep him entertained for a few years at least.
“Got myself a nice manse at the edge of the city. It’s no castle, but it’s decent enough.” Bronn had taken a long gulp of wine. “So, you have another suicide mission to recruit me for? Or did you just miss my company?”
Jaime would be damned if he’d admit to the latter. Instead, he’d said, “I thought we could resume our lessons. I’ve spent months in captivity, and I fear I might have lost some of my progress.”
Doubtless Bronn had seen through the façade, but he’d only chuckled in response, quaffing more wine.
Now the knight passed him a wineskin as they sat at the edge of the yard to rest. Evening had already begun to fall, painting the world in varying shades of blue. The bay lapped behind them, slow and rhythmic, the only sound breaking through their easy silence.
“You ever gonna forgive the little bastard?” Bronn asked eventually. Jaime took a swig of wine. The liquid was bitter on his tongue, but he swallowed nonetheless.
“No,” he said.
“Pity.” Bronn snatched the canteen and drank. “Think she’ll actually go through with it?”
“What?” Jaime asked, perplexed.
“Cersei. I’ve never taken her for the compassionate type.” Bronn made to give him the wineskin again, but Jaime refused.
“Of course she will. She was just as frightened as everyone else in that meeting.”
Bronn stayed quiet.
“She promised to send aid,” Jaime insisted. “She wouldn’t be so stupid as to let her whole kingdom go to ruin.”
The knight raised his eyebrows then. There was a question in the gesture, as clear as if he had spoken.
Wouldn’t she?
Chills ran across Jaime’s body as the implication sank in. Had Cersei fooled everyone in that pit? He had never even considered the notion, assuming his sister would see the sense in protecting those she intended to rule, in fighting the plague that threatened to destroy all of humanity.
Then again, he had assumed a great many things about his twin that had turned out to be false.
The doubts lingered in his head long after he sent Bronn back to his manse. As Jaime made his way to the Red Keep, the snow began to fall faster than before, cascading down in an unending sheet of white. Before him the castle glowed with a thousand candles. He could see light emanating from Cersei’s balcony as well, high above the gardens, and that was where he headed.
Jaime traveled the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast until he reached her bedchamber. The door was sentineled by two members of her Queensguard, standing watch in their dark armor.
“State your business,” said one, no doubt squinting through the dimness.
“I wish to speak with my sister.”
The men let him past, and he found her in a chair before the great fireplace, goblet in hand. She wore the same gown from earlier, a fitted black dress criss-crossed with thin lines of silver. The flames illuminated her pale skin and shone in her golden hair.
“We need to talk,” said Jaime.
Cersei did not so much as glance at him. Her gaze remained locked on some point in the distance, out into the stormy night.
Jaime took a step closer. “I thought we should discuss how many men you plan to send north.” Cersei said nothing. He took another step. “As Lord of Casterly Rock, it falls on me to call the Lannister forces to arms. The Westerlands are fifty thousand strong.” Still she was mute. “The Stormlands are ever loyal to the throne, and can raise some thirty thousand men. The Crownlands, mayhaps ten to fifteen.”
The queen brought the cup to her lips, but did not drink. Instead she turned her stare to the fire. Her pupils were pinpricks in the intensity of the flames, yet she seemed to be looking through them, lost in another world.
“I lied,” she said finally.
The admission was a stone sinking in his stomach. He closed his eyes, attempting to quell the outrage that swelled in his chest. The floor shifted under his feet.
“Let the creatures take out as many of those northmen as possible, and the rest of my enemies with them.”
Jaime opened his eyes. His twin sat before him, bathed in the orange glow of the fire, expression unreadable. He had been wrong indeed. She was not the Maid, pure and innocent and radiant as he had told himself all his life. She was the Stranger, shrouded in darkness and death. Aerys reincarnated.
Burn them all, the Mad King shouted in his ear.
“Millions of innocent people will die,” Jaime ground out.
Cersei’s eyes met his for the first time. There was nothing in them. No remorse. No guilt. No contrition. Just the reflection of the flames as they danced across her beautiful face.
Jaime turned and left her.
His mind spun as he walked the keep absently, passing over the dry moat of Maegor’s Holdfast and under the iron spikes that lined it, through the middle bailey, up the serpentine steps, around the Sept and the stables and the Tower of the Hand. By the time he arrived at the throne room, his hair and eyelashes were damp with snow. Jaime hardly noticed.
Fires roared in the braziers along the marble floor, yet the space appeared deserted. Cersei must have held court after returning from her discussion with Tyrion. There, beside the Iron Throne, Widow’s Wail was perched on its ornate wooden display, unsheathed. When the sword was not at his sister’s hip, it sat next to her as she took complaints from her subjects, bare for all the world to see. Even the most simpleminded of smallfolk understood what it meant to greet a guest with naked steel.
Jaime found himself drawn to it, pulled forward by some invisible force, and soon he was standing at the top of the dais. The blade truly was beautiful, rippling red and black in the firelight. Oathkeeper’s twin.
Unbidden, Brienne’s sapphire eyes flashed in his mind. He saw her standing across the sand, hand on the hilt of the sword he had given her, cheeks roseate from the cold. He felt the tenderness of her lips against his own, the heat of her body pressed close. Heard the determination in her voice as she defended his honor to the Stark children.
Suddenly the fog lifted from Jaime’s head. In its stead blossomed a clarity he hadn’t felt in months, a sense of purpose that had abandoned him along with his white cloak.
He knew what he had to do.
Grasping the ruby-encrusted hilt, Jaime lifted Widow’s Wail from its rack and sheathed it in the garish leather scabbard showcased below. The sword was heavy in his hand as he carried it across the yard to the stables. He found his palfrey in the same stall as before, clouds of steam rising through the air as he whinnied and tossed his head. Jaime saddled and bridled him, then tied the Valyrian steel longsword amongst the saddlebags. He swung onto Honor’s back and spurred him forward.
The streets of the capital were desolate at this hour, although occasionally a drunken brawl exploded from a tavern, or a group of whores called out their prices from a corner. Jaime galloped past them all, riding straight for the edge of the city. He had visited Bronn’s house on several occasions in the last week, needing a change of scenery from the castle that had come to feel like a prison. He hoped the knight was not out drinking and whoring.
When Jaime arrived at the manse, he dismounted, then rapped the metal knocker loudly against its huge oak doors. A servant appeared, and Jaime asked after Bronn. The girl ran to fetch him.
The knight was disheveled when he came to the door, either from sleeping or fucking, nude save a pair of knee-length linen braies. He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw and yawned.
“This had better be good.”
“You were right,” Jaime said.
“I’m always right, twat.”
“Cersei’s going to let the entire kingdom fall to pieces. I’m heading north-”
“And you’re here to ask me to come with you,” Bronn sighed.
“She’s going to want revenge once she realizes where I’ve gone. No doubt she already knows where you live. She’ll have you gutted in your sleep for your connection to me.”
“I’m not so easily killed, you arrogant bastard,” Bronn said, but after a moment he seemed to think it over. He was lucky the queen had been too preoccupied during Jaime’s imprisonment to murder him then. Cersei had no love for the ex-sellsword due to his past service to Tyrion, and now that Jaime was leaving, nothing could stop her from branding him a traitor and placing a bounty on his head just for the sheer satisfaction of it.
In the end, Bronn agreed. Once he was dressed and mounted, they rode out the Dragon Gate together, sticking as close as possible to the kingsroad. This near King’s Landing the highway was little more than two narrow dirt tracks poking up through the snow, and the darkness did naught in the way of visibility. They pushed their horses hard even so, weaving through the shadows of towns and holdfasts, never slowing.
They almost missed the encampment as they approached Brindlewood in the wee hours of the morning. The tents shimmered pale in the dying embers of the firepits, and Jaime had to squint to make out the sigil snapping above. Direwolf.
A watchman stood vigil over the camp, pacing along the edge of it with a torch. He walked over when he heard the snorts of their horses.
“Who goes there?” the sentry called. A loaded crossbow sat in his hand.
“Jaime Lannister and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” said Jaime.
“Kingslayer? You’re supposed to be back in the capital.”
“Change of plans. I must needs speak with the King in the North.”
“He’s not here,” the man said. “Gone off on a secret mission. Sent the rest of us back this way.”
“Is the Maid of Tarth still with you?”
Bronn went to warm himself by the remnants of a fire as Jaime was led to her tent. The sentry kept the crossbow aimed at him all the while, only stopping when he disappeared behind the flap to inform her of his presence. A minute passed before he returned and nodded Jaime through.
Brienne stood at the center of the tent, wearing a plain cotton tunic and trousers. Her short, straw-colored hair was a mess, and her eyelids were puffy. He felt a pang of guilt.
“I’m sorry for waking you,” Jaime said.
She watched him, wary, as if she could not truly believe he was there. Neither of them spoke for a time. There was a candle on the floor beside her sleeping furs, lending the space a muted yellow light. With the flap of the tent closed, the air was surprisingly warm, and Jaime could smell the faint traces of lye.
“You left King’s Landing,” Brienne said finally.
No doubt she was trying to prompt an explanation out of him, but Jaime found that the words stuck in his throat. What had motivated him to leave? I chose to fight for the living. I chose the North. I chose honor.
The truth came to him all at once. He closed the gap between them with quick strides, halting when they were a breath’s distance apart. Brienne looked at him with wide, startled eyes, those deep blue pools he would drown in if he stared too long.
“I chose you,” he said, and kissed her.
There was a moment where Brienne hesitated, her entire being stiff and rigid, and Jaime feared she would pull away. But then, slowly, tentatively, he felt her lips open against his own. Her kiss was gentle, gentler than any he had ever known, slight and timid in a way that set his blood afire. His hand found the back of her neck, drawing her close, and soon began to travel southward until his fingers grasped the hem of her nightshirt.
Jaime broke away to search her face then. Apprehension creased her brow, but there was something else glinting in her eyes, something strong and sure and unafraid. It looked like trust.
Brienne allowed him to remove her tunic, helping him pull it up over her head to reveal the smallclothes underneath. Soon her trousers were a puddle on the floor as well, and her undergarments quickly followed. Then she stood before him, naked as her name day, all freckles and impossibly long legs. He drank in the sight of her, sweeping his gaze from her small breasts to the white-blond bush at the juncture of her thighs.
“You’re beautiful,” he sighed into her neck as he brought her into his arms again. Jaime moved them to the mound of pelts at the corner of the tent and laid her down. His lips brushed her earlobe, her collarbone, the space between her teats, savoring the satiny feel of her skin. He took a pink nipple in his mouth and sucked until it was firm, eliciting a quiet murmur from the back of her throat.
Jaime ran his fingertips over her body, tracing the sloping curves of her hips and the hard muscles of her abdomen, exploring every inch of flesh. Finally he halted at the warmth between her legs. He flashed her a questioning look, unsure, but she nodded in response, shyly encouraging, and he slid a finger inside her.
Brienne’s breath hitched suddenly, and it was mere seconds before her back arched and her hands dug into the furs beneath them. A soft moan escaped her lips. The sound sent shivers down his spine, and he could feel himself stiffen further against the fabric of his breeches. He placed a second finger in her, and then a third, and soon she was wet around him.
Eventually he pulled away to undress, fumbling with his clothes until they were a heap on the ground. He felt her eyes on him as he moved back above her, capturing her mouth in a kiss once more, tasting the sweetness of her tongue. Her hands gingerly ghosted up his bare chest to lock at the nape of his neck, running through his hair. Waves of gooseflesh prickled his skin at her touch.
Jaime pulled back one last time to look into her eyes, to map the scars on her face, to note the swollenness of her lips and the way a flush had crept down her neck. He kissed the hollow of her throat and her chin and the space between her eyebrows. Then he entered her.
Afterward, when he had spent his seed inside her, they lay breathless atop the pile of furs, still entangled with one another. Jaime sketched lazy patterns along her arm, watching her chest rise and fall, the blush slowly fade from her cheeks. She kept her gaze averted, however, blinking bashfully at her hands. It was as if she only now realized what they had done. Jaime chuckled and bent to nuzzle her neck.
“Get some rest, Brienne,” he whispered. She nodded obediently, but sleep did not find either of them. Instead he held her until the first pale light of dawn.