Jaime gripped the reigns tightly with both hands: had he been the man he was before all this, he would have dug his spurs into the beast, urging it onward, far past the columns of men — nothing would have prevented him from rejoining Cersei as fast as was possible. He was very far away from being the man he had been before all this, however. Now, he was a man who knew what it was to fight and lose, to be held captive, to be completely at the mercy of those who cared little for his fate or worse — who would rejoice at his demise. As far as his appearance went, he was now in far better condition than he had been: his father had naturally ensured he was bathed and provided with clean clothes, although the said garb hung off his emaciated frame. Nevertheless, his hair remained unkempt and his face unshaven: war was no place for personal grooming, and if the combined Lannister-Tyrell forces were not on a battlefield when Jaime and the Maid of Tarth happened upon them, they were certainly headed toward one.
He thought of the wench then, his stubborn, stalwart companion on the journey that had started when Catelyn Stark defied her son for the chance of saving her daughters. Brienne had blanched when they had seen the golden roses flying beside the Lannister lions as they'd reached the camp. He would have told her to run then, if he'd thought she would consider such a practical but dishonourable suggestion even for a second. He'd managed to ensure they were brought straight to his father's tent. Jaime wondered if it was the closest his sire had ever come to feeling surprise. Tywin had stood, approached him, grasped his shoulders, his eyes taking in his son's poor physical condition, the array of small injuries, the bedraggled hair and clothes.
"Jaime. You escaped the Starks."
It had not been a question: Tywin expected nothing less of his son, but, not for the first time, his son would disappoint him.
"I did not escape, father, Catelyn Stark let me go. She wishes to barter the release of her daughters: I was escorted here by her sworn shield, Lady Brienne of Tarth."
Jaime had prayed even Brienne would have the good sense to know this was not the time to declare she was not a lady. Tywin had barely glanced her way, and his eyes, which had softened upon the return of his erstwhile son, had acquired the metallic glint Jaime was more familiar with.
"And you agreed to this? A negotiation you had no authority to enter into? I was under the impression the armies of the North were being led by Robb Stark — did he approve of his mother's attempts to barter?"
Before Jaime could speak, his father had continued.
"It is of no consequence. The Starks have been foolish enough to let you slip through their fingers, and you are safely returned to us. In any case, your sister was careless enough to let the younger girl escape King's Landing, and nothing has been seen of her since Ned Stark lost his head."
Jaime had heard Brienne's sharp intake of breath at that. He had watched as his father returned to his writing desk, always a sign that a discussion was closed. After some moments, Tywin looked up:
"Jaime, you are clearly in no condition to command any part of this army, but I will be damned if my son will ride into King's Landing looking like a vagabond — go with my squire and wash."
As they followed the lad from the tent, Jaime had grabbed Brienne's arm, knowing he was short of time:
"Wench, you need to go, and you need to go now: if the Tyrells find you, I won't be able to protect you from their wrath."
Predictably, she had glared at him, and he had swiftly changed his approach:
"You heard my father: Arya Stark isn't in the capital, by all accounts she's a wild little creature, she could be somewhere out in the kingdoms. Perhaps she'll try to make her way back to the Stark camp or to her brother on the wall."
In truth, Jaime had little faith in what he was saying. He'd experienced first-hand the brutality of life on the roads, without the protection of a large retinue. His main objective was to get the wench to safety: no one would believe her ridiculous story about a shadow killing Renly Baratheon, and while she had safely delivered him to Tywin, he wasn't fully confident his father would defy his Tyrell allies when he had little to gain from it. Brienne looked him square in the eye:
"And the Lady Sansa? Will you ensure that she is safely returned to her mother? I will not leave unless you swear to do so."
In spite of everything Jaime had almost laughed: an oath from the dishonourable Kingslayer? Only Brienne of Tarth could set store in such things.
"I'll swear it, wench, as long as Stannis Baratheon hasn't torn her in two as a traitor, she is my nephew's betrothed."
He'd been harsh, he knew, but he was short of time and the realisation that he was almost on his way back to Cersei had caused tension to seep through him. He had done what he could for Brienne: Tywin had been amenable to providing her with a good horse, supplies, and even a lad to act as a squire, and he had let her slip away unobtrusively. A Lannister always pays his debts. Jaime wondered if it was the last he'd ever see of the wench.
Jaime rode on, his thoughts drifting to darker memories. There had been a time when he'd thought plunging a sword into the back of the king he'd been sworn to protect was the worst thing that could happen to him. That had been before he'd been a chained prisoner, starved and taunted by a boy. Still, even that had been nothing compared to the brutality he and Brienne had been shown by Locke: notwithstanding his outwardly arrogant persona, Jaime had felt fear many times in his life. But the sheer terror and despair he had been brought to by the Brave Companions had shaken him to his core. They had told him over and over again, he would be nothing without his sword hand, they could take it from him any time they chose. Locke would have his men stand on his hand, force him to hold it over a fire; he had already been physically weak, and they had bled him frequently, exacerbating his condition, the cuts marred his limbs. By the end of it all, several of his fingers had been broken and then Locke had forced his sword into his hand, the whole band laughing as he tried to fight. Not even when he had been imprisoned by his enemies or called "Kingslayer" far and wide, had he felt as wretched as when he had seen how little he really had and how easily it could be taken from him.
Perhaps, he should thank the Maiden in her mercy, he reflected sardonically, that the marsh fever had struck the band before they could maim him irrevocably, and, by pretending to be afflicted like the rest, he and Brienne had been able to escape. He shook his head, as if to free himself from these reflections. There was no point in dwelling on all that had come before: he was free now, he was riding back to Cersei, every beat of the horse's hooves bringing him closer to her.
As they approached King's Landing, the tension within him increased to a fever pitch. Jaime was not unfamiliar with the reaction of a man's body and soul to battle, but this was completely different, less a craving for release and more a feeling of losing all control. He was not in command of men, and, as they entered the city walls and made for the Red Keep, it was all he could do not to abandon his steed and run, for although this would not bring him to his destination quicker, it would at least give an outlet to his feelings. He did run once inside the Keep. She would be in Maegor's Holdfast: that was where the women and children were meant to wait. However, when he reached his destination, he found his cousin Lancel, whimpering on the ground. He sent the men accompanying him to carry his cousin to a maester. The boy had looked terrified when he laid eyes on Jaime, but Jaime had no time for boys, no time for anything.
"Cersei, where is she?" he had asked.
"The throne room," the youth had gasped out.
The tension was becoming unbearable, he felt as if his body would snap. He approached through the passageways used by the Kingsguard coming to the throne from behind. He heard her voice before he saw her, but he couldn't make out the words over the buzzing in his ears. He approached the throne and, for the second time that night, spoke her name as he stepped forward.
"Cersei."
There she was, as beautiful as ever. He noticed Tommen on her lap and then a small vial in her hand. Instinctively, he moved to grab it; he couldn't say how he knew what it was, but he knew. She looked up at him.
"Jaime," she breathed, standing, moving away from their son and towards him. Her face seemed to change as she took in his appearance, and she moved no closer.
"What have they done to you?"
Again, he moved to grab the vial, but she held it tight. He looked into those green eyes, the mirror of his own, but before he could speak the throne room door was flung open to reveal Tywin Lannister.
He slept long and well. When was the last time he had slept in a bed? His mind may have been in turmoil, but his body demanded its due. When he did wake, it was to another familiarity turned novel: a hot bath. As soothing as the water was, he did not linger: it was the first time he'd been alone, and he felt uncomfortable looking at his ravaged frame. As he dressed, he was acutely aware of how his clothes hung off him. He thought about the way Cersei had looked at him last night.
"What have they done to you?"
There had been no further chance to speak once their father had arrived, and when he had turned from his sire back to her, the vial was gone. Now he had been summoned to his father's chambers in the Tower of the Hand, and he fully expected both his siblings to be there. Cersei was seated, her composure completely recovered, with a glass of wine in her hand; his father was writing at his desk. Tywin barely glanced at him and motioned for him to sit. Jaime felt dread rise within him.
"Where is Tyrion?"
This time, Tywin did not look up at all:
"It would appear that your brother decided to take an active part in the defence of the city walls. He has sustained a significant injury and is yet to regain consciousness."
Jaime felt his head begin to spin
"Tyrion fought in the battle? How was he injured? What's to be done for him? Can I see him?"
He heard the sound of a goblet being slammed down: clearly, he had overestimated his sister's self-possession.
"Oh yes, that's right, run off to protect our dear little brother. He would have seen us all die last night! As if selling Myrcella like cattle to the Martells wasn't enough! He wanted Joff to lead a sortie, he sent Lancel to demand it, as if I was about to send my son into that murderous imp's hands."
You weren't far from murdering your other son yourself, the thought flashed through Jaime's mind, unbidden.
Tywin ignored his daughter's outburst.
"It is highly unlikely he will survive, however, that is of no consequence. I intend to have you released from the Kingsguard, Jaime, and you will take your place as my heir".
His father's complete lack of concern for Tyrion had long ago ceased to surprise Jaime, so he concentrated on the second point.
"Father, a knight is appointed to the Kingsguard for life, you know this."
"And you don't know that one of your nephew's first actions as king was to dismiss Barristan Selmy from his post."
This sent Jaime reeling; he caught the smug smirk on Cersei's face, and in that moment he wanted to strike her: Jaime revered very few people, but the man for whom he had squired as a youth was one of them. Cersei seemed to sense his desire to challenge her on this. She raised an eyebrow:
"My son is king. He can do as he likes."
"Yes," Tywin cut in coldly, "he proved himself to be of that opinion when he ordered the slaughter of Robert Baratheon's bastards".
Now Jaime felt he needed some wine — how could Cersei have let this happen? What kind of monster had he sired? Had he really subjected himself to shame throughout the kingdoms only to see another Mad King ascend to the Iron Throne?
Tywin spoke again, looking directly at Jaime:
"I have returned to King's Landing to find the city in an uproar, the small folk on the verge of sedition, and the Tower of the Hand used like a common brothel. I find you, having allowed yourself to be captured by a green boy, then making promises you are not in a position to keep. My patience with you both is at an end. You will do your duty to house Lannister, one way or another. This is not open to discussion".
Cersei stalked off down a corridor, but he managed to catch up with her and drew her into an alcove.
"Cersei, did you know father was planning to have me expelled from the Kingsguard? You know what that would mean for us, don't you?"
She gazed at him coldly.
"You're hardly in a fit state to guard the king anyway, are you, brother?"
He'd forgotten how she always had the power to sting him, how she knew exactly where the blow would hurt the most, but right now he didn't care. He was close to her, touching her again for the first time in a long time, and despite the acrimonious exchange, a part of him never wanted to let her go again.
"Robert's dead and gone, let's leave here together, we're not children at father's beck and call any longer."
The look she gave him was one of pure contempt.
"I am the Queen! None of you can take that from me. I am the Queen, and I won't leave my children: someone has to protect them."
"Yes, I saw how you planned to protect Tommen in the Throne Room."
This time her eyes blazed.
"How novel to see you concerned for my children Jaime! And just what do you think Stannis Baratheon would have done to him? What do you think his men would have done to me? Unlike you, I haven't lost my self-respect completely."
Jaime took a deep breath.
"Cersei, ever since I was captured, I have thought of nothing but returning to you, all I've done in all this time is try to get back to you."
"Well, you took too long."
With that, she turned and left him.
