Disclaimer: This story is told from the perspectives of Jaime Lannister and Marleya Thaller, OC. No infringement is intended; all rights belong to the brilliant George R.R. Martin, David Benioff and D.B. Weiss. However, please note that there will be certain scenes taken from episodes of the series and rewritten to include my OC as needed. Additionally, all photos used of Nikolaj Coster-Waldau and Nina Dobrev belong to those parties and those parties alone.

Introductions

He staggered along an empty corridor, following the moist steam wafting through the air until he reached the dank bath chambers of Harrenhal. Fucked. That was perhaps the best word Jaime Lannister could use to describe his current situation, which truly meant something considering what an excellent vocabulary the Kingslayer had developed over the years at his father's insistence.

After spending countless weeks as Brienne of Tarth's prisoner, the two reluctant companions came to an unlucky end when encountering a group of Roose Bolton's soldiers whilst traveling the outskirts of the Kingsroad. To say that he'd enjoyed Brienne's company as she transported him from Robb Stark's camp to King's Landing would be far from accurate. However, he would have much preferred continuing his travels with the beastly woman rather than suffering the grim fate he'd become entangled with when Bolton's men had discovered him.

Staring down at the place where his sword hand had once been, he chuckled bitterly at the bandages covering his flesh and bone. As if a few strands of well-placed cloth could hide what lurked so hideously beneath. Jaime's right hand was gone; his glory. Slashed off by one of Bolton's monstrous minions. Everything he'd amounted to had been brought to him through that hand; the honor of becoming a knight of the Kingsguard for not one but two kings, as well as the shame that it had brought upon him when he'd murdered the first. Incredible, how much one meager body part could define an entire person.

"Get me out of these fucking rags!" He growled, his irritable voice echoing throughout the bath chambers as he noticed a figure lingering in his peripheral vision.

At these words, Marleya Thaller raised her eyes from the damp stone floor she'd been scrubbing just outside the archway, pulling the skirt of her work dress down while simultaneously using the back of her hand to brush loose strands of hair away from her face. The young handmaiden had indeed heard of Ser Jaime Lannister's arrival in Harrenhal hours previous, and had been told to stand watch outside the bathing chambers in order to tend to the Kingslayer's needs. While this command had surprised her due to Lord Bolton's frequent desire to keep Marleya to himself, in addition to his known hatred for the Lannisters, she did not hesitate when being told to do so. How could she?

Although young, the handmaiden of Harrenhal was anything but naïve, and she was no fool as to why Bolton kept her close. He liked to watch her work, liked to watch her sweat; liked watching her do anything really, so long as it came from his direct command. Once or twice Marleya had even caught him leaning over to indulge in the scent of her hair whilst she tended to the fire place in his private chambers. Roose Bolton was a proud man who would never admit to it, but he had desires that went far beyond leading in the battlefield as Robb Stark's bannerman, and although he had never tried anything, Marleya constantly felt the man's lustful eyes assaulting her as she moved throughout the desolate castle.

Marleya, known to those closest to her as Mara, grew up on a horse farm a few leagues south of Winterfell. Her father had been a commoner who held nothing to his name, and when he and her mother died tragically in the summer two years previous they'd left their daughter with nothing but a ruined farm that could bring her no possible profit. With nowhere left to go, Mara was able to scrape by for a little over a year by working for a farmer's market in one of Winterfell's adjoining villages, but was then forced to begin work in a brothel once the War of the Five Kings had driven away business. Although she certainly possessed the beauty and talents to please every man who visited the pleasure house, she soon grew degraded and tiresome of the work and departed from that occupation as well.

It wasn't until the Sack of Winterfell that the young woman came into the employ of House Bolton. In fact, she'd only been with Lord Bolton a fortnight when he was anointed Head of Harrenhal, and had traveled to the castle along with the rest of his staff to tend to their lord master. Of all the handmaiden's previous occupations however, she often contemplated whether working for Bolton was an actual improvement over the shameful duties of her past. It was a constant battle to work for such a vile man, in addition to each of his counterparts. Night after night Mara would lie awake, replaying the series of misfortunes she'd seen and heard throughout the day. When she had a spare moment to herself, she often spent her time wondering how much longer she could possibly stand to experience such horrors before it completely broke her spirit.

"You've never seen a cripple before?" Jaime grunted, finally turning his head to look at the figure who stood in the doorway.

Slightly taken by surprise, Jaime hesitated as he took in the vision that stood before him. He'd not been expecting a woman to tend to his needs, and had instead assumed that Bolton would have tossed in the feeble old coot who had led him into Harrenhal by his horse to be assigned the duty of cleaning him.

This though . . . this woman.

Her luscious dark hair fell in loose curls down to the end of her slender back. Her skin was olive-toned and tanned, which led him to believe that she was a woman who had traveled; a woman who knew much about the world despite her obvious youth. Her lips were plump and rose colored, breasts full and stomach lean. Of all these features however, he could not stop looking at her eyes. Dark and brown as molten chocolate, yet filled with such an undeniable light. She looked nothing like his twin sister and lover Cersei, nowhere near, yet somehow Jaime found himself completely taken with the girl. Perhaps it was his lightheaded state that had him thinking such thoughts; the fever in his brain, or the heat which surrounded them. Perhaps it was because the closest thing he'd seen to a woman in weeks was Brienne. Whatever the reason may be, this stranger was easily the most beautiful woman he'd beheld in the North, perhaps in all Seven Kingdoms. To think that anyone could hide such a beauty up here was a true injustice. Despite his hatred of Roose Bolton, the Kingslayer could not help but feel a small fraction of gratitude toward the man for allowing him something so beautiful to look upon after his many hardships.

"I've seen worse." Mara replied cooly, her dark hues briefly taking in his disheveled appearance.

"Is that so?" He smirked at the young woman's boldness. "I suppose rather a frequent side-effect, working under Roose Bolton's employ."

Being a Lannister of Casterly Rock, Jaime had long since become accustomed to having people kissing his perfectly shaped arse on a frequent basis. When one was finished, another proceeded, and so the rotation continued again and again. Of course he knew that behind the fake plastered smiles they were all whispering about his betrayal to Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King. Whether this woman knew who he was or not he couldn't be sure. Although he had to admit, at least to himself, that part of him longed to remain anonymous; to perhaps see how a stranger would react to who he was as a person rather than who he was by blood and reputation. Why he cared what a lowly handmaiden thought of him, he couldn't be sure. Perhaps his journey truly had taken a toll on him mentally, as well as physically. Gods, it had been a long journey, not only along the Kingsroad with that great oaf of a woman Brienne, but a long life. Jaime was tired and truly exhausted of feigning a liking to a title he had never wanted in the first place.

It was true, Jaime Lannister had a reputation that far preceded him: The firstborn son of Tywin Lannister, as well as a member of the Kingsguard. Handsome, charming, yet also exceedingly arrogant; all things one would expect from royalty. As it was, Mara's experience with royalty was nonexistent and she had never played the part of the ignorant, doe-eyed girl who spent her time obsessing over the chance to come into the presence of any. Furthermore, Mara's father Ryon Thaller had been a loyal bannerman to House Stark and had never had anything particularly kind to say about the Lannisters. Similarly, Mara's mother Alina had possessed a particular inclination towards disliking the most powerful family in Westeros.

"Do you know why all the world hates a Lannister?"

She could remember her mother's soft voice, tinged with the distinct accent of the South caressing each syllable.

"They think that their gold and their lions make them better than everyone else. But they're not golden lions, and they're no better than you or me."

Even at such a young age, Mara knew that her mother's words had been well-rehearsed. It was the mantra that Alina Jordayne had grown up hearing in Dorne. Lannisters were the enemy, and they had been ever since Tywin Lannister led his army in for the Sack of King's Landing and gave the order that left Elia Martell raped and murdered; her children butchered. Despite her mother's reluctance when it came to speaking of the family she'd left behind in Dorne, it was all too clear where Alina's loyalties had lain. Although there had been many secrets that Alina had kept shielded from Mara over the years, that was one thing she'd never attempted to hide from her daughter.

After a few seconds spent in silence, Mara carefully stepped towards Jaime, lifting her hands to his shoulders and stripping him of his filthy coat. With pursed lips, she let out a slow breath, avoiding inhaling through her nose as she continued down to his tunic that stank of rotten mildew, her deft fingers raising the dirty, dampened cloth.

"Careful," She warned, gently guiding his right arm above his head.

Jaime groaned softly in response, not because the handmaiden had purposely caused injury to him, but because he'd had to abruptly change positions, causing a sharp pain to shoot forth as if fire were lancing down his arm.

Studying him with eyes full of concern, Mara opened her mouth as if to apologize, but then stubbornly pressed her lips back together instead. He may have lost a very important piece of himself when he'd been captured by Bolton's men, but at least he still held his life. That was more than she could say for countless northern men who had lost everything during the war. Sliding her hands down his lean, muscular abdomen, Mara made to begin on the top laces of his trousers, but then abruptly came to a stop.

Sensing the handmaiden's hesitation, Jaime raised his eyebrows as if to challenge her.

Feeling his eyes laughing at her, she avoided his gaze. Mara had lived a life full of men underestimating her, and she would not let Jaime Lannister of all people think himself capable of doing the same thing. No matter whose son he was, what king he served, or which body parts he had recently lost. Grazing her fingers along his pelvis, she undid the first few laces before roughly tugging his trousers down past his hips, keeping her almond colored eyes on his emerald ones the entire time.

"There." She stated simply, taking a step away and averting her gaze to allow him a moment's privacy as he climbed into the heated tub.

All around the room, steam rose in a continuous flow from the great pools of heated water. Casting one last look of amusement in the handmaiden's direction, Jaime stepped out of his trousers and limped over to the nearest tub, slipping one aching foot in after the other before allowing the rest of his body to follow suit. Swiping his hand along his side, he probed his ribs with the tips of his fingers, trying not to let the embarrassment of his wounded, malnourished body show on his face. Day after day, night after night, with nothing but a skin full of water and a slop of food here and there after the wolves had their full. This had to be the very first time in all of Jaime's existence that he'd felt ashamed of his appearance, and he had Robb and Catelyn bloody Stark to thank for it. All his life he'd been complimented not only for his skill of sword, but for his golden Lannister looks. He'd never known how the other half had to live, and truth be told, he did not care for it.

Angrily shaking those thoughts of insecurity away, he shot a look of frustration at the handmaiden. "Well? Do you honestly expect me to tend to ALL of this," He gestured with his stump to his overgrown beard, hair and filthy body. "With ONE bloody hand?"

Ripping her apron from her skirts, Mara strode forward, making no attempt to hide her own anger as she clenched her fists to her sides. Lifting a bucket filled with bars of soap, cloth, scrub brushes and shears, she moved over to Jaime's tub and kneeled down by his side, her eyes casually glancing over his bare chest and shoulders as she sorted through her supplies. His chest once strong was now slightly sunken; skin once smooth now littered with cuts and bruises. Although it was obvious that he'd certainly endured many hardships over the past year, there was no denying it; Jaime Lannister was still a very attractive man. Since she was a child Mara had listened to tales and songs detailing the Kingslayer's renowned beauty and, although somewhat hidden due to his current state, he was still beautiful in every sense of the word.

In years past she had never spent much time thinking foul thoughts of the Lannisters, despite her parents insistence of their disloyalty to the Throne. Even now she was unsure of just what to believe with the current war raging on. So many rumors had been told; Houses divided. The only thing Mara could be certain of was the fact that innocent people were dying, and she had no intention on laying blame on any one person due to the mistakes of others. Until more evidence became clear, until she was convinced that one of these great families would do right by her people over all others, she would make no claim to any of them.

Jaime hesitated as the young handmaiden approached him. Despite his reputation as a lady charmer there was only one lady he'd ever lain with; only one lady he had ever loved. His twin sister, Cersei. He'd given up everything to be with her. Lands, titles, marriage, and in doing so; their father's respect and admiration. All of it, just to ensure that he could remain at her side by becoming a member of Aerys Targaryen's Kingsguard, and then Robert Baratheon after him. Day in and day out he'd served as Robert's glorified bodyguard and taken the abuse the man saw fit to bestow upon him. Up until this point no woman, apart from the wet nurses he'd had growing up, had ever seen him so vulnerable. No, not even his beloved Cersei had ever seen him in such a manner before. In fact, the thought of his dear sister actually being able to stay in the same room with him for more than a few seconds in his current state was all too humorous. That was at least what Jaime tried to convince himself as he glowered down at his stump in shame.

Sensing his unease, Mara took her time as she dipped a cloth into the warm water, grabbed a bar of soap and began lathering the suds up along the smooth material. "Close your eyes," She instructed softly, to which he hesitated for the briefest of seconds before willingly obeying.

Pressing the cloth to his face, she gently wiped away the matted blood and dirt that had been collecting in his beard for gods only knew how long. With each swipe of the cloth, she began to glimpse a closer look at the man she knew so well by reputation. No wonder there had been so many ballads written about him; so many stories told of his prowess. It had to be a great loss to him, no longer possessing his sword hand. Although she had by no means forgotten how rude he'd been to her just moments before, Mara could not deny Jaime the devastation he must feel over the entire situation.

Easing her way lower, she made quick work of scrubbing his chest and torso, then moved onto his arms and shoulders. Finally coming to a stop at the stump where his right hand had been, she looked at him hesitantly. "You're in a lot of pain," She began, ignoring the slight roll of his eyes that greeted her obvious statement. "I can get Qyburn to bring you milk of the poppy."

"No, thank you," He replied swiftly. "I'd prefer to keep my wits about me while under Roose Bolton's roof."

Smiling at his answer, she gave a slight nod of her head. "Wise."

Hearing this, Jaime couldn't resist allowing the tiniest of smiles to grace his own features. Handmaiden or not, this young woman was obviously well aware of her master's ruthless reputation in the Seven Kingdoms. It made him almost proud, to see such a lowly creature taking an interest in the politics that went around the realm. Most of the handmaidens in King's Landing were dumb and dull as posts, and were only capable of emptying out chamber pots and spreading their legs for the various lords who roamed the castle. This one though, she obviously knew a thing or two about the going's on in Westeros, which meant she likely knew a thing or two about him as well. But Jaime had to wonder, exactly how much did she know?

"What happened?" Mara finally asked, her gaze never wavering from his face.

"Slight altercation," He replied with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

It was hard to take the situation lightly, but he couldn't exactly whimper about it in front of the young woman. Hours previous, Jaime could not have said the same even if he had so wished. Whilst Qyburn carved away the rotting flesh and burned out the corruption from the inside of his wrist with boiling wine, he'd cried and wailed out in the worst pain he was like to ever experience in his life. It was a wonder they hadn't heard him throughout the entire castle — throughout all Seven bloody Kingdoms.

"Did that altercation go by the name of Locke?" She questioned.

"I don't concern myself with the names of dead men." He replied bitterly.

Jaime had taken note of Roose Bolton's shock and anger at finding that one of his men had taken the punishment of a Lannister into his own hands. As they marched under the iron portcullis, he remembered Bolton's face falling all too clearly as he watched Locke taunt him with his own severed hand. Jaime had every intention of using that as his leverage to get out of this hellhole, and if there was any justice in this world he would make the savage pay for the crime of removing his sword hand before he left Harrenhal. A Lannister always paid his debts after all, and he intended to pay this one with interest.

Once she had finished washing his body, Mara returned to Jaime's face, combing her fingers through his matted beard whilst glancing down at the pair of shears nestled in her bucket.

"Cut it all off," He demanded softly, nodding his consent.

Over the course of the next several minutes Mara began to cut away the pieces of wet beard from his face. Lathering the suds up in her delicate hands, she smeared her palms and fingers along his cheeks, then gently followed the path she'd made with the sharp edge of her blade. It occurred to her more than once during this process that, in that moment, she held the Kingslayer completely under her control. She could do anything she wanted to him — slit his throat; end the Lannister's bloody reign against the Starks and Baratheons — all with one swift slash of her blade.

Studying the handmaiden's eyes, Jaime soon came to the realization that she knew exactly who he was. Whether she had been aware of this fact from the beginning or had just discovered it now that the grimy beard no longer hid his features, he couldn't be sure, but those lovely doe-eyes were too honest to keep this fact hidden from him any longer. Whether she wanted to or not.

Throat slashed by a beautiful handmaiden . . . He mused. There are worse ways to die.

His body tensed as the blade made its way down his throat, carving away a bit of stubble that had grown just above his Adam's apple. As they both held the same moment of understanding, Mara looked away from Jaime's eyes and moved onto his hair. The Lion of Lannister's usual head of shining golden locks had since turned to a murky brownish blonde, obtained from months spent held in captivity in a place where no sun could shine through. But with each swipe of Mara's blade, Jaime began to look and feel more and more like his old self.

"You said you've seen many cripples in your day," He commented, his attempt at casual conversation.

"Mmm," She nodded as she cut away more of his dark golden hair. "I grew up on a farm with little boys and old men, some of whom couldn't be bothered to learn how to properly wield an axe." Brushing away the fallen pieces of hair that had landed on his collarbone, she continued in a somber voice. "I've seen more bloodshed than I care to admit."

From the ominous tone her sweet voice had suddenly taken, he gathered that the handmaiden had experienced more than just careless accidents on the farm in her time. She was so young, so beautiful. He wagered around eight-and-ten. Alas, she was nearly two decades younger than him and had obviously seen much more than she ever should have given her youth. But what could she have possibly seen to have given her such a bleak outlook on life? Whatever it was, he was desperate to learn, but smart enough to realize that he couldn't simply demand to know the answer within such a short time of knowing her. Curiosity had never been one of Jaime's weaknesses, in fact most people bored him beyond all recognition. But this woman, this handmaiden, for whatever reason . . . she was different. She had secrets, and he was quickly beginning to understand that he was willing to go to great lengths to learn them.

"Have you worked for Bolton long?" He asked, his curiosity piqued with each word that left her lips.

"A few months now," She replied easily, gently moving her fingers through his newly short hair; a gesture of pronouncing her work finished.

Briefly indulging in the feel of her nimble fingers, he hesitated before continuing his earlier thought. "Do you enjoy it?"

"Do I enjoy working for a man who flays his enemies for sport?"

Jaime grinned slowly in response, but made no attempt to reply. He knew that she clearly had more to add.

Quickly processing her own words, Mara looked away, remembering herself. "Forgive me, Ser. I should not speak ill of my lord."

"On the contrary, you should speak ill of anyone who should so warrant it."

"Not all of us are fortunate enough to speak whatever comes to our mind."

"And yet here you are, speaking freely. Some advice, my lady; if you don't speak your mind you'll condemn yourself to an even more dreadful fate than the one you've already chosen for yourself."

Mara froze as she took in Jaime's words of advice. Whether he meant them as a slight or not, she couldn't be sure, but she was certainly going to take them as such.

"And you think that I've simply chosen this fate for myself?" She demanded, narrowing her eyes in disbelief. "As if being Roose Bolton's handmaiden is my sole ambition?"

"We all choose our own fates, one way or another." He reasoned.

"Just as you chose the fate which led to the loss of your hand?" She challenged.

As the bath chambers grew silent, he held the young woman's steady gaze with his own. Around them the sound of dripping water echoed throughout the corridors. For a moment he thought for sure that she would go out of her way to redeem herself, stuttering out her apologies for not guarding her tongue around such a highborn man, but instead the handmaiden merely continued to glare at him. The look in her eyes offered no regret; no apology. Instead, she wore a look of stubbornness in her fierce brown eyes that soon had him chuckling in response.

"And yet you have absolutely no qualms about saying such words to me."

"I hardly know you."

"Let's change that, shall we? What is your name?"

He'd been avoiding the question for fear of the woman responding with an equal interest in knowing his. Now that he knew she was all too aware of his identity however, his curiosity had overridden his fear.

"Marleya Thaller," She replied, her previously cold demeanor slowly beginning to thaw as a slow smile graced her lips. "Mara."

For once in his life, Jaime grew speechless. He now knew with complete and utter certainty that Mara had known exactly who he was, had known from the very beginning, yet she'd treated him just as she would any other man who'd endured his share of hardships. She had given him that small courtesy when she owed him nothing, nothing at all. More than that, she hadn't let his reputation intimidate her for a second. For all of these reasons he appreciated the young handmaiden, even more, he respected her, and respect was not something given lightly from Jaime Lannister.

"You can call me Jaime," He replied, another smile curving the corners of his lips. No Ser, no My Lord, no Kingslayer, no Oathbreaker, no Man Without Honor. No . . . "Just Jaime."