A.N.: I started this as a purely Sansa/Jaime story…but…the Hound… I'm conflicted. Depending on the final death-toll of Season 8 I might re-evaluate what I want to do with this story when I get to that point; for now, it's a Jaime/Sansa fic, but keeping to the books, Sansa does daydream about her scarred, brutal, honest Hound. Rory McCann and Nikolaj Coster-Waldau's portrayals of Sandor and Jaime are gorgeous.
Apparently Jaime in the books is disillusioned with Cersei long before he is in the show - which is wonderful. But it's also a very interesting dynamic to watch, and to write, especially if you were to add people like Brienne to the mix…
There is a video on YouTube, 'Sansa and Jaime - I learned' by BrandyDare which was very influential when I was thinking about writing this story. I hadn't realised there was such a parallel between the two.
This was originally going to be called The Iron Beneath in homage to Ned's quote to Robert about Lyanna… Then I thought, Gilded Steel actually relates quite well to both Sansa and Jaime.
Gilded Steel
01
In the damp, lush Riverlands, he had forgotten the breathless heat, the ripe stench of the city. As his body had wasted away, dragged from army camp to army camp, he had grown accustomed to fresh, dewy dawns shrouded in mist, of warm noon sunshine and gentle rains to break the heat and cut through the humidity. The nights grew chill but he had always been fed stew that warmed him from the inside out, and he had never been denied his ration.
He had been captive, and yet he had breathed more freely chained by his throat to a post within a makeshift cell, than he ever had in King's Landing. He could not breathe. Not in the sweltering heat, and the startling atmosphere.
He remembered the city feeling this way only once before…
And his entire world was off-kilter at Cersei's unsettling reception…she could not see past the hand he had lost, in his attempt to return to her.
Jaime had committed murder of his own kin, wheedled admirable young men who fought with honour, insulted fierce she-wolves who would die to protect her pups… He had lost the best part of him, trying to get back to her. Thoughts of her had kept him going, dreaming of her while he slept, in his waking hours dreading for her a fate he heard only whispers of as rumour spread like wildfire through the Young Wolf's camp, the ravens bringing scraps of news, and Jaime hearing less.
Trudging toward King's Landing with the ghost of his sword-hand haunting him and Brienne of Tarth's words echoing inside his head, he had had a lot of time to think…
Catelyn Stark had freed him - against her better judgement, against the command of her son and King… For her girls.
Because they alone kept her going. Her husband's execution, the news from Winterfell, captured by the Ironborn, her youngest butchered and burned...left defenceless, no mother, no father, no…no legs to run away - it was Sansa and Arya, two little girls Jaime could honestly say he had never given a moment's thought. They kept Catelyn Stark going, kept her son motivated to keep fighting - and keep winning.
Robb Stark the Young Wolf, King in the North - named by his men, who admired him, followed him, bled with him… He fought for his sisters, as his dead father had for his. Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar's queen of love and beauty. He remembered the wreath of roses blue with frost as Rhaegar laid them in Lyanna's lap… He remembered the famed Lyanna as less beautiful than Cersei, but fiercely attractive in a raw, natural way.
Her brother's daughter looked little like her, favouring her mother's auburn Tully colouring, somehow vibrant and delicate at once. Her hair did not curl as the Young Wolf's did, a shining, rippling sheet of copper down her back, but she shared his deep sapphire-blue eyes. They did not have the grim set to them that Robb Stark's had developed over the course of the war, but there was something in them, something dangerous glinting behind an exquisite, practiced smile that committed nothing.
Sansa Stark.
She had grown into a beauty.
"There she is."
"Yes…there she is… And?"
"You made a promise."
"To return the Stark girls to their mother."
"To keep them safe."
"Well, Arya Stark hasn't been seen since her father was murdered. Where do you think she is? My money's on dead… There's a certain safety in death, wouldn't you say?"
"And Sansa Stark? Your father started this war for your brother; and kept fighting for you. Now the both of you are safely returned to King's Landing…"
Jaime sighed heavily, shaking his head, his eyes on the vivid copper of Sansa Stark's thick waving hair. How she was not sweltering in her fine brocade gown, he didn't know; but it was cut in the Northern style, and the simple twists in her hair sent her back to his cage. To Catelyn Stark. To his truth; and the rock in her hand. She should have beaten him bloody with it, for the little boy he had mutilated. Instead, she had released him. For the little girl he wondered if she would even recognise in this young woman kneeling in the godswood amongst the autumn wildflowers, praying to a sprawling olive-tree.
"It's more complicated than that, you know it is," he sighed. They had both almost died - and worse - in the attempt to cross the Riverlands, to return to King's Landing, to fulfil his vow. And like Catelyn's son Bran, the sweet-looking, dark-haired little boy who had stumbled upon them purely by accident…Jaime had had his future taken from him.
Catelyn Stark had bargained his freedom for her daughters'.
He had returned mutilated and altered, to a cold, unreceptive Cersei, a monstrous Joffrey, an absurdly sober Tyrion engaged in his work, and a city belatedly preparing for imminent siege.
"'Complicated' does not release you from a vow," Brienne told him scathingly.
"What do you want me to do? Kidnap her? Thanks to Locke I have only the one hand and her mother and brother are in the middle of an active war-zone," Jaime reminded her. Irritating though she was, the great monstrous warrior-woman…had earned his admiration - his trust. "Shall I sling her over my horse and ride off with her? I'll be dead and she'll be raped a hundred times before they slit her throat. If they kill her after. Doesn't matter which army finds us first. They wanted to fuck you for the novelty; her they'd rape bloody for her purity."
"I'm not one to give credence to gossip but from what I've heard, Sansa Stark's innocence has been put in peril many times within the safety of the Red Keep. Your White brothers have beaten her bloody before the Throne; the Hound saved her from rape and butchery during the riots mere weeks ago."
Jaime sighed heavily, closing her eyes. He saw sunspots behind his eyelids, and yearned for the veiled gentle sun of the Riverlands, for the sharp breeze and delicate warmth, for the green, for the gurgling rivers…the blessed peacefulness. For the dream of Cersei's reaction to his return, rather than the unsettling, hateful reality of it.
"All this I've heard, too; my brother's not hidden the extent of Joffrey's cruelty," Jaime said, opening his eyes again. He remembered the "two quick deaths"; 'They laid with Lions'…the Sack of King's Landing haunted his dreams…the babies draped in scarlet Lannister cloaks to disguise the blood…he remembered Princess Rhaenys, trailing ribbons down the corridors as she skipped and sang softly, kissing her baby brother so fondly…and delicate Elia Martell, who had lived as captive, in dread, whose life had ended with terror and butchery…
He had been held captive, the most hated of all the Northern army's prisoners, and yet the Young Wolf had prevented his bannermen from abusing him, even those whose sons Jaime had slain on the battlefield.
Tyrion had confirmed Sansa Stark had been afforded no such privilege. What Jaime heard had horrified him, and reminded him all too vividly of Aerys and Elia Martell.
And he remembered stern grey-haired, grim Rickard Stark in his dusty leathers, and the fierce Wild Wolf, Brandon…calling for Prince Rhaegar's head for the kidnap and rape of his sister…
Jaime had murdered his King to put an end to his tyranny.
If Joffrey continued…with his mutilated whores, the streets of King's Landing running red with the blood of King Robert's butchered bastards, the hunger and festering rage in the eyes of the smallfolk grown as emaciated as he was from hunger because of the war Joffrey had started when he took Ned Stark's head… How long did Joffrey have?
"Look me in the eye and tell me you think she'll be safe here in King's Landing," Brienne challenged him. "The mob almost raped and murdered her, what happens when Stannis's army lays siege to the city?"
"Stannis Baratheon won't hurt the child of Ned Stark," Jaime said quietly, his eyes on the copper-haired young-woman below them, still praying.
"You of all people should remember what happens when a city is sacked," Brienne said quietly, and Jaime squinted at her in the sunshine, concealing what flew through his mind, that the King was insane, the city was bubbling close to its boiling point and felt horrifyingly similar to the King's Landing of his nightmares, the hushed, fear-riddled, hungry city waiting in dread for news from the Trident, the threat of siege imminent, a pretty, frail princess held captive in emotional terror… He remembered Aerys, and Elia…he remembered Queen Rhaella, whose eyes had been closed for years…in his nightmares, Jaime could still hear her crying as the King raped her…
He shouldn't have told Brienne all those things…but somehow, he had. Delirium and pain festering in his mind, the humiliation…he had collapsed in her arms, and had known he was safe there. She had watched his back, and kept his counsel. She was a truer knight than any in the old songs. A woman…
"Are you sure we're not related?" he asked, to disguise his discomfort, and throw her off. "Ever since I've returned, every Lannister I've seen has been a miserable pain in my arse! Maybe you're a Lannister too…you've got the hair for it…if not the looks." Brienne's vibrant eyes narrowed.
"You swore an oath, Ser Jaime," Brienne said, drawing herself to her full height, and he swore she called him Ser to rub it in, that he was an anointed knight and the least honourable of any Kingsguard in history. He had bargained for his freedom with a woman desperate for her daughters' safety… No-one had told her the little dark-haired one was lost. Whether she was dead or not, Jaime knew the worst thing he could do for Arya Stark was to mount a full-scale search for her. Not even Varys' or Littlefinger's networks of spies could locate her; if Arya Stark was alive, she had no wish to be found, and Jaime wasn't going to help his family track down another direwolf to skin alive and add to their collection of furs.
"Do you think it's as simple as sending Sansa back to Winterfell? The castle was set to the torch by the Ironborn after they butchered everyone, including her little brothers," Jaime told Brienne, and the little dark-eyed boy flitted through his mind, the way he had gasped when Jaime gave him that push. He stifled a flinch. "Sansa Stark is the key to the North should her brother fall in battle…and as he shows no promise of doing so…she may be the only bargaining tool my father has to negotiate a way out of the Young Wolf's continued humiliation of the family name."
"The family -" Brienne broke off, biting her tongue, disbelieving. She glowered at him, and Jaime shifted uncomfortably in his new leathers. They had been tailored to conceal how emaciated he was; he was carefully nourishing himself back to his pre-captivity weight, but without his hand, the muscle in his right arm would be tricky to strengthen like it was before. He had been trained to fight with both hands, but he would never be as good with his left - Ser Arthur Dayne had fought with two swords, always, and Ser Jaime had never been breathless watching a fight until he had seen Ser Arthur spar… It was music made visible, watching him… Killed by Ned Stark at Rhaegar's tower of joy… The things we do for love, he thought grimly, his eyes returning to that vibrant sheet of copper…
"Yes, the family name," Jaime muttered bitterly. "It's all my father's ever cared about since my mother drew her last breath. The family name. His legacy…" He straightened, watching Sansa. Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West… He remembered Father leaving this city, dragging Cersei with him, when Jaime was named to the Kingsguard by Aerys. One of the proudest moments in Jaime's life, and Tywin Lannister had taken it as an insult meant to deprive him of his heir… Cersei's plan, to keep Jaime close as part of the Kingsguard, when she married Rhaegar…
He looked down at his arm, the bandages wrapped around the still-healing stump. Stump. It was such an odd word. All that remained of a tree that had been cut down. A candle that had been burned low. His sword-arm. His future.
His identity as a brother of the Kingsguard. As the Kingslayer.
What was he without his sword-arm? Who was he?
Who was he without his love for Cersei? Or her love for him…
His last chance at honour.
Jaime watched that copper hair shimmer vividly in the sunlight. He remembered the delicate Elia; he remembered Tyrion's stories of Joffrey's treatment of Sansa Stark, and the sound of Queen Rhaella crying; he remembered the babies, wrapped in Lannister red; he remembered Bran with his dark eyes and innocence, and his gasp as he fell…
He remembered trying to ignore the sound of the little body breaking on the ground beneath the tower by ploughing Cersei, the sorrowful baying of the boy's little wolf preventing him from going away inside, as he always had. No, Jaime remembered. He had fucked Cersei hard enough to leave bruises, punishing her for the revulsion he felt.
The things we do for love…
He remembered the tree-stump, the whistle of the blade, his heartbeat's incomprehension, and the shock. His stump seemed to burn as he remembered the boy, who had had no legs to run when the Ironborn had swarmed over the ramparts of Winterfell…
"Brienne…if I was to ask your opinion on the matter of marriage…what would you say?"
The Maid of Tarth raised her eyebrows at him dubiously. "Best entered into as one would enter battle…prepared for any eventuality."
"I knew you were a romantic."
"Why do you ask?"
"I cannot defend the King," Jaime said quietly, and Brienne glanced down at his arm with a frown.
"You can train with your left," she said gently. It was more than that.
Jaime would not defend this King.
"Kingsguard are the finest swordsmen in Westeros. The King needs the finest to defend him… Simply put, I'm not the man I was without my right hand," Jaime said quietly.
"Kingsguard is a sworn brotherhood for life," Brienne reminded him. She had been named to Renly Baratheon's Kingsguard, after all; he knew she would have gladly taken the blade that killed him. She was all Jaime might have been, once, a very long time ago…the Young Lion, they had called him, when his future was bright and burnished, and they hadn't realised just how deep Aerys' madness went.
"There is a precedent," Jaime murmured. He had already checked. He sighed, shaking his head. "And Cersei wouldn't allow anyone but the very best to protect her son…" That little monster. He glanced down at Sansa Stark in the godswood, wondering if that brocade concealed bruises.
Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin…
He had given Cersei his seed and she had created a monster.
It was an uncomfortable process, realising that everything pure he had ever given her - his love - she had warped and turned foul.
Brienne frowned at him, concerned. "What do you intend to do, Ser Jaime?"
"I can only think of one way to protect Sansa Stark, that won't end with her throat being slit open," Jaime said, sighing heavily.
"And what would that be?"
"I'm going to have to marry her."
Brienne stared.
"Lady Catelyn freed you on your oath to protect her daughters. Not take one to wife!"
"Think about it. I can't send Sansa North, to be butchered and raped in an attempt to perhaps get back to her family… What if she is reunited with them, in the Riverlands, in an active war-zone…what if my father wins a decisive victory and the lot of them are slaughtered just as they're reunited? I pledged my life for Sansa's safety; for the rest of my life I will ensure her safety," Jaime sighed heavily. He had been overthinking this for weeks. He had sworn an oath to Catelyn Stark…to keep her daughters safe. He shook his head. "My family would never allow Sansa's freedom. But - to leave the Kingsguard, to claim my inheritance as heir to Casterly Rock, is all my father has ever wanted since Aerys named me to the Kingsguard when I was sixteen years old. To take Sansa Stark as my bride…the heir to the North… There is nothing my father would allow to jeopardise that. Protecting Sansa Stark would be intrinsic to promoting our family's legacy."
Brienne frowned, looking thoughtful and solemn, weighing it out. Slowly, she asked, "And her family?"
"If we lose the war, Sansa can tell her brother we forced her to marry me. Or Stannis Baratheon. Whichever army reaches this godsforsaken city first," Jaime sighed, shrugging.
"You would leave the Kingsguard, something that has rarely been done outside of death…and marry Sansa Stark…to keep her safe? And allow her family to believe she was forced into it should her honour and loyalties be questioned later?"
"I'm rather unfamiliar with the ceremony, but during a wedding does not the bridegroom give his intended a solemn oath of his protection?" Jaime said sardonically.
"I've heard that he does."
"You're very persistent in reminding me of the oath I made to her mother; perhaps I should make it official, and declare in front of all that Sansa Stark is under my protection…until the end of my days," Jaime said grimly.
"Well, you certainly sound like a man headed for the sept," Brienne said lightly, and Jaime cut her a sidelong look. She was gazing down at Sansa, a gentle smile on her face. Sadly, almost wistfully, she said, "She's pretty."
Grimly, hopefully, Jaime agreed, "Very."
"You should probably ask her opinion on all this before you start making your grand plans," Brienne remarked offhandedly, "Unless you intend to throw her over your shoulder and carry her to the sept?" Jaime grimaced.
"How d'you think she'll take it?" He glanced at Brienne, who gave him one of her classic looks, one of those sharp, exasperated, embarrassed, flustered, impatient looks she so often gave him when she thought his provocative comments were absurd.
She sighed. "Firstly I'd make the necessary arrangements… No point in raising the girl's hopes before the ink is dried," Brienne advised him. "And…perhaps speak to her, a few times, before you broach the subject of marriage?"
Jaime bit his lip, glancing down at his stump. He'll be a cripple, a grotesque…give me a good, clean death any day, he had so arrogantly told Tyrion. Without his hand, his life was everything. Those dark, bright eyes and sweet face. His gasp. The things we do for love… 'You took too long'…
"Do you think it will matter to her?" he murmured, glancing up at Brienne with a slight wince. Brienne's vivid blue eyes dropped to his bandaged arm, and after a moment, she sighed.
"From what I've heard of Lady Sansa…if it did, you'd never know it," Brienne said quietly, and Jaime squinted at her in the sunshine. Brienne sighed sadly. "She's a lady. The kind they sing songs about."
"The ladies in the songs always die at the end," Jaime said grimly. Elia, Lyanna, Ashara… All beauties; all ladies; all dead. He glanced down at Sansa Stark. "Perhaps I should speak with her…" Jaime frowned. Brienne watched him expectantly. He glanced uncomfortably at her. "What should I say?"
Brienne gave a short impatient huff. "You're one of only two people in King's Landing to have set eyes upon what remains of her family… You lost your hand in the attempt to return to this city to fulfil the oath you swore to her mother. Surely there is something an intelligent man like yourself can think of to say to her."
"I have an idea: You're her mother's sworn-shield, why don't you go and speak to her for me?"
"Ser Jaime. You just told me you may marry her. Have you created some new sort of marriage where the bride and groom never have to meet?" Brienne asked, raising her pale eyebrows. "Go and speak to Lady Sansa." With that, Brienne gave a courteous nod, gripped the hilt of her sword, and trudged off.
"Definitely a pain in my arse," Jaime grumbled, watching the sunshine ripple on the water beyond the godswood. Here and there amongst the olive-trees, magnolia flowers and lavender he caught glimpses of copper…like the flashes of shimmering red-throated trout amid the gurgling grey-green foam of the Tully rivers… He swore softly under his breath, and made his way down the carved steps into the godswood. It was alien there, a place of tranquillity and nature, the scent of lavender and magnolia and sun-warmed olives and a touch of brine from the ocean, the whisper of the sea breeze chasing away the humidity, away from the bustle of the city, the gloomy chill of the sept with its sickly incense and droning, bone-aching ceremonies.
"Lady Sansa…" Amid the soft greyish-greens, delicate purples and creams of the godswood, her vibrant hair set her apart, reminded Jaime vividly of the enormous weirwood he had seen towering over the godswood at Winterfell, near the broken tower… Dark sapphire eyes lifted to his face, and Jaime was brought back to the present, to the unblemished porcelain skin and fiery hair of the young-woman before him, startled to find his body stirring, wondering what was hidden beneath that rich fabric.
Sansa Stark had a woman's figure. Modest as the Northern styles were, they accentuated Lady Sansa's slender waistline - and hinted at her full breasts. He remembered her mother's figure, slender after five healthy, strong children… He was curious that Sansa favoured the Northern style of dress, even in this heat…and he realised it was the only way she could maintain some tie to her history, her family, her home. The home she was likely never to see again.
"Ser Jaime," she answered, and he saw the loneliness in her eyes as her lips spread into a beautiful smile, dipping into a perfect curtsy.
"I…" Jaime opened his mouth to speak, to tell her a thousand things, and at that sad-eyed exquisite smile, the expression that was at once courteous and coaxing, as if she could not wait to hear what he wanted to tell her, he found he had no idea what to say. He blurted, uncomfortably, "I apologise, for interrupting your prayer."
Her smile widened, a simple winking in one cheek, but it still did not reach her eyes. It was practiced, and hollow. A perfect little doll, fashioned to forever smile…he remembered Myrcella's and Cersei's beloved, ill-used dolls over the course of their childhoods, cherished and neglected, until the painted smiles faded and the porcelain cracked and the fine frocks turned grubby from tiny hands clutching at them. Sansa had the porcelain face, the painted smile…from what he had heard, she had been dragged about and abused, Joffrey's own little doll to do with as he chose.
"I rarely pray anymore, Ser," she admitted to him quietly, her eyelashes fluttering as she glanced down at his feet. They flashed like embers sparking in a fire. "Here in the godswood is the only place people won't speak to me."
"Then please forgive me, my lady; I've invaded your privacy," Jaime said.
That wistful smile winked again. "There's nothing to forgive, Ser… You must be enjoying the freedom to roam once again," Lady Sansa said.
"My freedom, I owe entirely to your mother." He hadn't known how to broach the subject, but found himself blurting it out, that sad smile compelling him to just tell her, to just say everything he wanted to. Those embers flashed again as Lady Sansa's sapphire eyes flicked up to his face, he thought, barely daring to believe she had heard him correctly. He winced, glancing around them, suddenly uncomfortable. "Is there…may we sit, somewhere?"
"There is a stone bench, overlooking the water," Lady Sansa said, and Jaime offered her his arm. His right arm, out of habit. Lady Sansa looped her arm without a word, without even acknowledging that where his hand should have been there was now a gruesome stump wrapped in linen bandages. Lady Sansa's features were once again devoid of any emotion, doll-like and exquisite, guiding him through the godswood to the water's edge, under the shade of a large magnolia sighing in the sea breeze. He could almost forget that the city lay behind them, it was so tranquil…he could see why Lady Sansa returned here, day after day. He had been told she walked the godswood most mornings, before breaking her fast.
He sat beside Lady Sansa, and in the stench and claustrophobic heat and muggy air of King's Landing, it was she who gave him his first clean breath of air in what felt like weeks. It was the scent of her soap, or her perfume, as he sat beside her in the shade, delicate and sharp and cold; it was the scent of snow on pine, of dew clinging to the rolling moors of Winterfell, white flowers and under-ripe strawberries growing in the glasshouses, of riotous Northern herbs growing in abundance in every hedgerow, comfrey and parsley. He remembered the summer snows still clinging to the dainty white clean-scented snowbells Myrcella had braided into her hair so happily, chattering about her little friend Bran who climbed even better than one of the trained monkeys an exiled prince had gifted her from the Summer Isles… It was the invigorating scent of snow, those deep blue eyes, and the modest cut of her gowns that cut through him and filled his lungs.
Still didn't make it any easier to speak to her. He saw the vibrant-haired Lady Sansa with her blue eyes and immaculate courtesies, and remembered a dark-eyed princess with flowing hair like black silk, who had learned to make herself invisible, to never speak unless spoken to, and had learned to anticipate exactly what she was expected to say. He recognised the signs of Princess Elia's abuse at the hands of Aerys in Lady Sansa. Emotional terror; but unlike fragile, doting Princess Elia, this was reinforced with physical abuse at the hands of Joffrey's Kingsguard. His brothers.
"Have you…heard any news of the war?" he ventured hesitantly. Their families were at war - it wasn't Tyrion who had pushed Bran Stark, though Lady Catelyn had accused him; it had been Jaime. It was his fault their families were at war, though he couldn't lay claim to Jon Arryn's death, which had brought Ned Stark south to the city where his father and brother had been murdered… He had pushed the little boy, provoking the war, and had lost his sword-hand and all that he was, the Starks' captive for the better part of a year… All this had led him to sit on the cool stone bench beneath the magnolia, breathing deep of Sansa Stark's crisp, clean perfume, and trying not to notice the stirring in his breeches as he avoided looking down the simple neckline of her gown.
Up close, her figure was elegant and womanly. And what he wouldn't give for his second hand, to feel the weight of her breasts in his palms.
He shouldn't be thinking about that.
He shouldn't be thinking about any woman but the one he had loved with his entire being… Had loved…
Lady Sansa's fiery lashes flickered like embers in the dappled sunshine, glancing away from him like a skittish mare. "Only what Ser Lancel has told the court. My traitor brother leads an army of direwolves into battle…the Northmen feast on the flesh of the slain..."
It was too tempting to resist leaning closer, and whispering in her ear, playfully, "How do you think I lost my hand?"
She gave him a startled look, as much from his nearness as from him teasing her. He imagined no-one had teased her innocently in ages. Her pretty lips twitched, but she glanced away bashfully.
"Did… You did not lose your hand to Grey Wind, did you?" Grey…? he frowned, thinking, and realised.
"Now why do you ask that?" he asked quietly, memorising Sansa's profile.
"Grey Wind would be always by my brother's side," Sansa said quietly. "Robb is young; you are an anointed brother of the Kingsguard… I cannot think how you would lose your sword-hand on the battlefield against my brother, Ser, unless Robb's direwolf intervened."
"You flatter me," Jaime said softly, tilting his head thoughtfully as he observed Sansa. They sat so close on the bench his thigh almost touched hers, and he was tempted to move closer to see how she would react. Her posture was perfect, her shoulders back, throwing the long slender column of her white throat into relief, and the shadowed swells of her breasts flirting from the folds of her neckerchief that most men would find too modest to be an attractant. Lady Sansa glanced at him, her blue eyes glowing, and he flicked his eyes over her face, feeling himself almost starting to flush under her gaze, wondering whether he had been caught. "No…your brother's direwolf threatened to give me a close shave, though, quite a few times." He indicated his throat with a wink. "Gorgeous beast. Utterly terrifying."
"How big is he now?" Lady Sansa asked, her expression sombre and heartbroken. He remembered each Stark child had had a pup. He would remember Bran Stark's unnamed little wolf howling to the stars for the rest of his days. He knew Lady Sansa's had been killed on Cersei's orders, and wondered at Sansa's fate had the pup been allowed to grow, and stride at Sansa's side…
"He must stand…tall as your brother's chest," Jaime said, raising his left hand to indicate a vague guess of Grey Wind's height, "and he's grown, too, since you last saw him. War does that to a man. He's surprising everyone."
"Not everyone… My father dreaded Robb becoming a man…he knew the cost," Sansa said quietly.
"Lady Sansa…" He closed his eyes, and sighed. There was no way to delicately approach the subject, and after his recent experiences, it was best to be dealt a lot of pain, sharp, quick and clean, than to malinger in agony. "What happened to Ned Stark…no child should ever see their father butchered."
Sansa's entire body changed in an instant. Her spine went rigid, her expression smoothed to doll-like perfection, even her eyes had turned closed-off and slightly glazed, darkening with dread as her pupils dilated.
"His Grace - Joffrey - the king - he granted my father the mercy of a quick death, a mercy no traitor deserves," Sansa stammered, the colour leaching from her cheeks as she fidgeted and glanced around them subtly. He noticed that beneath her brocade, Sansa Stark was shaking; and though her expression was mild, almost bland, her fists were balled so tightly amid her sweeping sleeves that her knuckles had turned white.
"You're shaking," he said concernedly, frowning, leaning closer, reaching across to gently hold one of her wrists. Her skin was cool, her wrist slender in his calloused fingers as he slowly rubbed his thumb against her wrist, then stroked her fist with his hand, trying to get her to relax her fingers. Unthinking, he put his other arm around her, startled when he couldn't touch her waist; but up close, he could see how frightened she was, that her eyes were glittering, she was both agitated and paralysed with fear, lightly panting.
Suddenly all he wanted was to kiss her until she relaxed in his arms, to unclasp the dragonfly pins keeping her hidden in swathes of brocade, and hold her lush body flush to his until she stopped shaking from anything but need. He wanted to have her, amongst the autumn wildflowers, in the dappled shade of the magnolia-tree, with the sun and the sea at his back and her fresh, pliant body writhing beneath him.
From his vantage with Brienne, he hadn't anticipated her beauty, would never have thought he would find himself…wanting Sansa Stark.
But he did; there was no denying the hard evidence…
His stomach dipped, hollow, as he realised that Lady Sansa was receding into herself. How often had he used such a strategy to cope with the traumas in his life? How often did he still do such a thing? His one remaining hand looked enormous, brawny and scarred and tanned, his fingers criss-crossed with faint white scars from a lifetime of training and warfare: as Sansa's long, clever fingers unfurled, he saw she had elegant hands, white and unblemished, with slender fingers perfectly fashioned for delicate rings…but he was concerned to see the tips of her manicured fingernails bloody… Her hands spasmed, and Jaime saw the diamond-bright tears spill over her cheeks, as her fingers revealed her palms. They were smeared with blood, each palm marked with four identical crescent-shaped sores - not scars; sores, wounds inflicted over and over, never allowed to fully heal, painful and irritated, angry-red…
Sansa Stark was perfect, she was demure and courteous and everything her captors wanted her to be; and she was punishing herself for maintaining the illusion.
He closed his eyes briefly, regretting Lady Sansa's fear.
"Sansa…"
"Your brother - the Lord Hand - has been anxious for your release from the traitors' prisons," she said, suddenly anxious, glancing around, tears drying on her cheeks, as she seemed to regain a grip on her composure, as she rose from the bench, and he could feel it; she was dismissing him.
"You don't have to call them that," he said gently.
"My father was a confessed traitor, Ser. My brother and mother rebel against the crown and their King, my beloved Joffrey."
"Lady Sansa, they are your family, they fight for you - don't you want to hear of them?" he pushed, concerned for her reaction. He wanted to know just how far she could be pushed. Just how far their conditioning of her had gone.
Sansa glanced around frantically, terrified. "Please, Ser Jaime…stop it!" She turned, giving him a pleading look that cut right through him, the breath of cold air and clean fragrance from her hair, the fear in her sparkling eyes. "You mustn't tell me of them… They'll find out." The last was said on a whisper breathless with fear.
"Who?" He rose from the bench, and Sansa cowered, her eyes widening, glittering with unshed tears of terror, as he stalked closer.
"Joff - the King - Her Grace, the Queen Regent - please!"
"Which are you more afraid of, Sansa?"
"I have nothing to fear from my beloved Joffrey, or his lady-mother, Queen Cersei… They are wise and merciful; it is my honour to one day become Joffrey's wife."
"His wife? Not his queen?" Jaime pushed, stalking closer, as Sansa glanced about her, searching for a hero who would never come. "And if you were not to marry Joffrey?"
Sansa's dark eyes flitted to his face, blanching, as if he had struck her, it cost her so much to conceal her shock. And her desire. To be free of Joffrey was what she desired most of all: She feared Cersei, he could taste it.
"My family are traitors; the King must do with me what he sees fit."
"As I'm told he has," Jaime growled softly, stalking closer. Sansa flushed with humiliation.
"I - I know I am not worthy to marry King Joffrey."
"That's not the way I'd put it," Jaime said softly, and Sansa's eyes darted fearfully.
"Ser Jaime?" she whispered, confused. He stilled, no longer stalking her; he made sure his posture gentled, no longer threatening, predatory. He had wanted to see how terrified she was, and how well she would react to him pushing her. She had learned her lessons well. He was a slower learner.
"You've been ill-used, my lady," he said softly. It was the closest thing to an apology he had ever given anyone. "For the better part of a year, I was your brother's prisoner, and yet I was never once as frightened as you are, standing before me, afraid to hear a truth about your family lest my sister's spies whisper that you conspire in the godswood to promote the Young Wolf's interests."
"I beg you, Ser Jaime - please -"
"So, they've taught you to beg. Has it ever once worked?" Jaime asked scathingly, not hateful of Sansa, but of his sister, of that putrescent little twat Joffrey. Of himself, for pushing the little boy, which had led to Tyrion's abduction, which had led to the war…her father, his hand…
Suddenly, a wolf stood before him. He was reminded of Grey Wind, and drew back at the steel glinting in Sansa Stark's expression. Her tears of terror had dried, and colour had warmed her cheeks. It was angry colour, and her beautiful features had sharpened and hardened to a direwolf's menace.
With a bite of ice and steel, Sansa Stark told him: "I begged for my father's life. Joffrey promised to be merciful; he cut off my father's head and made me look at it. He called it mercy."
Without asking his pardon, or bidding him good-day, Sansa Stark lifted the hem of her long skirts and strode away in a blinding shimmer of copper, her back ramrod straight, all evidence of her tears gone, nothing but the echo of her crisp perfume lingering to accompany him as Jaime sat on the stone bench, scowling unseeingly at the glittering sea.
A.N.: So, the ending of this story is loosely planned at best; it all depends how things stand as of Season 8… I sort of intend for this to follow the TV show, with a little bit of timeline rejigging so things work out the way I want.