Author's Note: So first of all, I wrote this mess in 2 days so if it's awful LOL DON'T BLAME ME hahaha [said somewhat frantically]. Meant to publish it last night so it would have the Halloween date stamp but oopsie.
Thanks to Mikki, sea_spirit, and Janie Tangerine for their feedback, you don't even want to KNOW what condition it would have been in without them to catch my wild inconsistencies and oopsie-daisies.
Dedicated to DanyelN because she loves Hallowe'en so much (IDK why but she's damned cute about it) and Laura because she's strong and wonderful and I'm *so* proud of her.
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Everyone knew only good people, the best people, were able to shift, that the gods looked within each person and saw the true quality of their hearts and blessed only the finest of them with such a sacred ability.
Brienne had therefore felt certain that she'd have no problem at all being in such close quarters with Jaime Lannister as she escorted him from Riverrun to King's Landing. It wasn't a prime situation, to be sure, but with all the sins he'd committed, there was no risk of him Changing. Surely the gods would not gift such a man with that highest of Their blessings?
The first full moon came and went with naught but a faint twinge in Brienne's nethers, when she caught a whiff of the earth and musk of him, but even that was completely unacceptable, so when they came to some water, she tied his rope to a nearby tree, plunked half her precious lump of soap into one of his bound hands, and shoved him in the river.
The Kingslayer spent the duration of his bath laughing at her, because she sat with her back to him, trying valiantly to clean the rags he wore with the other half of the soap. By the time she was done, she'd used up all the soap, the rags were only marginally less filthy, and he'd been lounging around buck-naked for an hour, drawing as much attention to his cock as was possible.
He wasn't laughing that night, though, when he clued into the reason for Brienne's restless pacing around their campfire.
"What do you Change into?" he asked. "Something enormous, I'd wager. A horse? Bear? Elephant?" He leered comically at her. "I just hope you can find a male big enough to fill your equally huge—"
She punched him.
"I'm not sure you've room to be casting aspersions," she commented as he lay there, dazed, sputtering on the blood trickling from his split lip. She cast an unimpressed glance over his groin. "From what I saw at the river, you aren't big enough to be felt even in this smaller form."
His eyes were like shards of glass, gold glowing hot in them as he glared. "It was very cold water," he said, the words pronounced very carefully, but it was her turn to laugh, then.
"That's what they all say," she replied, feeling quite merry all of a sudden. He was securely tied and wouldn't be going anywhere, it was the full moon, and the river was barely a mile away. Why shouldn't she indulge her need to Change, to enjoy her other self, to feel water in her fur and moonlight in her eyes?
She was aware of his eyes on her, always on her, as she removed her armor, then as she cleaned it with a rag while waiting for sunset to approach. She'd caught and cooked dinner; grease from the plump rabbit still gleamed on Lannister's mouth and when she noticed it, staring far longer than she should, she told herself it was because of the moon, of the Change to come, of her body and the blessing the gods had given her by permitting her another form.
Armor piled neatly on her side of the fire, anticipation firing her blood, she stood and addressed her captive.
"I'll be back in…" For how long would the Change take her? It had been a while since she'd indulged in a swim in her other form; at Renly's camp, and then the Starks', she'd passed the full moon closeted in her tent or room; no need to stir up trouble with the other shifters. Homely she might be in human form, but such things mattered little when the animal urges came upon them, and self-control became more of an option than a necessity.
"I'll be back by morning," was what she settled for saying, and Lannister did not reply, but there was something of yearning on his face, the expression of a man who knew what she had and what he did not.
Brienne said nothing about it then, but tucked the observation away for a later time. Just then, she had more important matters to attend to.
It was the work of only minutes to reach the river; this part of it had widened almost to a lake, with a shallow cove deepening until the clear water became black and the moon no longer shone through to the stones lining the bed.
She stripped, folding and stacking her clothes and boots, mentally noting how they were beginning to wear through in places where her armor rubbed. Might she have enough of the coin Lady Catelyn had provided to replace them, at some point?
A matter for later. Just then, she had no duty beyond honoring the gods and becoming the creature they had bestowed upon her. She stepped into the water, shivering at the frigid rush of it over her feet, relieved that in a moment its chill would be welcome to her well-insulated form.
With a rolling shudder, Brienne of Tarth was gone.
She propelled herself forward, faster and faster as the water, its velvety muck and slick plants and fish darting silver around her, filled her senses. Ah, she thought as she slid into cool liquid silk, I'm home.
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Jaime was furious when he realized the wench had left him to sit tethered to a tree like a sodding dog so that she could prance about in her other form. Not furious that she'd left him behind; it was only to be expected, him a captive and all.
No, he was angry because she could Change at all, but of course she could, the gods granted Their gift to those worthies who had earned it through goodness and decency and honor, and if there were a person in all of Westeros who deserved such an honor, it was Brienne of Fucking Tarth.
He'd only known her a few weeks, had only been traveling with her a few days, and already Jaime was aware he was in the presence of someone so blindingly good that he half suspected she'd be able to shift into two creatures, or three. Perhaps even four. Boring, she was, and as humorless as a log, but so damned good she damned near stole his breath every time he was reminded of it.
Which was often. How many others would have taken on a task such as escorting him hundreds of miles, into enemy territory, for no other reason than because she'd been asked to? Because she felt it was the right thing to do? Though Jaime had teased her about being slow, Brienne of Tarth was no fool. She knew she was walking into a situation where she could be executed, would assuredly be taken hostage. The best she could hope for was ransom; the worst was unthinkable, even to a man such as he, who in the course of his travels and campaigns had truly seen it all.
He fumed for hours, until the fire burned out and the evening's mist settled in his bones, and still she did not return. He caught a few restless hours of sleep as the black of night edged toward dawn, and when he awoke, she was there, hair wet and tunic clinging to her shoulders in patches of damp as she stoked the fire into a blaze once more and set some fish speared on sticks over the flames. The smell of her near-blinded him with a heady rush of lust, and he knew that she avoided meeting his eyes in a futile attempt to hide how poised she was to act on the sexual need riding her in the wake of shifting back to human.
When he was able to speak, after he'd calmed a bit, he was seized with burning curiosity to learn more about her, this huge bizarre impossible woman.
"What do you Change into?" he asked, abruptly, and she looked startled at the suddenness of it, and cagey, suspicious of his wanting to know.
"Never you mind," said Brienne. "It's not your concern."
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The second month of their trek found them on the border of the Riverlands and the Crownlands, and Brienne ever closer to losing her temper and killing Lannister thanks to his ceaseless flow of words, liberally peppered with sly goading and outright innuendo.
He'd taken to talking about what she did to assuage her lusts during her Change, pointed questions that had her blushing and scowling in equal measures. The things he said! Without shame, without any seeming awareness of how horribly inappropriate!
How wet did she get? Did she use her fingers or a phallus of some sort to bring relief from the terrible urges, or did she avail herself of a man who could be persuaded to ignore her unfortunate looks when confronted with the lusty seduction of her scent?
"You smell good enough to eat, wench," he'd told her one night, demonic and angelic in equal measure with the firelight flickering over his unfairly perfect features. Even Brienne in her inexperience knew what he meant by 'eat', and it made her blush so hard she thought her ears might burst into flame. "Even I can tell, despite not having Changed in fifteen years."
That had been shocking news. She hadn't reacted wisely, had gaped at him like a simpleton, even as his face distorted with rage at her disbelief and skepticism. How had it never occurred to her that he might have Changed, once?
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"You used to be able to Change?" she asked, incredulous, and Jaime was suddenly, blindingly furious.
"Did you think I was always the Kingslayer?" he snarled, straining against his rope. If he'd been able to reach her, at that moment, he'd have choked the life clean out of her. "Always black of soul and bare of honor? I was—"
He stopped, just as suddenly exhausted, and slumped back against the tree. He stared down at his manacled hands, at his grimy fingernails, and remembered when they'd been claws, when he'd padded about the forests of the Westerlands on golden paws, when he'd felt the salt air of the ocean in his ruddy mane.
"You were what?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"I was good," he ground out. "I was good, once, too. You haven't cornered the market on decency, damn you."
The silence that fell was charged, like the threat of a thunderstorm, the air hanging heavy and the only sound the sparks snapping among the flaming logs between them.
"How old were you?" Brienne asked after a while.
"When I first shifted? Eleven," Jaime answered dully. "Every month like clockwork, after that, until I was seventeen."
She tilted her head, puzzlement clear on her features, and the movement made the firelight flicker over her face differently, made her nose seem less crooked and her cheekbones higher and her lips more plush than overripe. Her eyes glimmered red and gold, so foreign now that he'd become used to the blue blue blue peering at him all day. He wondered what she was thinking of.
"What happened?"
"Happened?"
"What happened, when you were seventeen, to convince the gods you were no longer worthy of Their gift?"
He flinched, to hear it spoken so plainly, but… it wasn't as if she were wrong. He hadn't realized the reason at first, himself— it was only after the third moon had come and gone without his Changing, and Cersei had revealed she was carrying the baby who would become Joffrey, that Jaime had made the connection.
"I got my sister with child," he told her bluntly, grimly satisfied at her wince.
More silence. Brienne found a stick, used it to poke at the fire. He knew she wouldn't remain quiet for long and only waited for her to speak again.
"How?" she burst out soon enough. "If you knew it displeased the gods enough to halt your Change, how could you do it again? Not just once, but thrice?"
He couldn't have kept back his bark of laughter if he'd bothered to try. "What did I have to lose, at that point? I'd already fathered one bastard with my sister, and my gift was gone. Why not have another, and another still?"
She stared at him. "Did you really want to be a father that much?"
The question was simple enough, innocent enough, but it sent a shock wave through him like nothing else had ever done. The question of whether or not Jaime had wanted to father children had never occurred to him. He'd never be able to acknowledge them as his own, never be able to show them a parent's affection, never even be able to spend time with them.
And what was a father, anyway? Tywin's idea of children seemed to be the creation of one's own army of pawns, to be used or sacrificed as needed in order to progress in the game of chess he seemed to think was life. Robert's concept of fatherhood appeared to be to ignore his offspring in favor of drunken whoring, only rousing from his inebriated stupor long enough to express his disappointment in Joffrey's failings. He never paid attention to Myrcella or Tommen at all.
How would Jaime have been different, if he could have been a father to his sons and daughter? He tried to imagine a life where he could freely speak to them, where he could know them closely, be aware of them as people. He wondered how it might have felt to comfort them when they were frightened or share in their joy. To be the cause of their joy, somehow. To let them know they were important to him, to be important to them.
No, the issue had never come up. Cersei had wanted children, not only to do her duty as queen to provide an heir but also because she, too, needed pawns if she were to play chess with her life. And once she had told him what she wanted, there had never been a question of anything else. Cersei wished him to spend in her, so spend in her he had.
"I'm sorry," said Brienne, interrupting his stupor. "I didn't mean to— I'm sorry."
She held a handkerchief out to him. Why? Oh. Jaime blinked through hazy vision and realized he'd begun crying. Humiliating, but he'd sat in his own shit for the better part of a year. He had no pride left. Jaime took the linen square and mopped at his face, then tossed it in the fire, to her displeasure if the thinning of her lips were any indication. Good.
"What you had to lose…" she ventured after a while, and Jaime sighed. Clearly she meant to have this discussion will he or nil he. "If the gods can take it away, They can grant it again, you know."
Jaime went still at the shock of it. Every heartbeat thudded through him with the force of a hammer's blow. And she kept talking. Why wouldn't she stop talking?
"So… perhaps you made a mistake, got your sister with child, but… if you realized your error, and determined not to do it again… committed yourself to being better, to no more lapses… you could earn it back, couldn't you?"
Jaime thought of Oberyn Martell, who shifted to a viper some months, and remained human others; of Jon Arryn, who depending on how deeply he played the game might or might not shift to a hawk; of sodding Rhaegar who'd skipped a few Changes here or there— most notably when he'd disappeared with Lyanna Stark— but had, by all accounts, been shifting regularly those last few months of his life.
Thoughts crashed over him, crashed against each other, realizations being made and truths understood like layers of tissue peeled away to reveal something that had been there the entire time. Ability to shift was mutable, he'd known that, but hadn't made the connection, had somehow missed the link between mutability and conscious decision.
Goodness was a choice. He was fully capable of knowing right from wrong, had either made the wrong choices for the right reasons or hadn't realized he had a choice in the first place. Those others, Oberyn and Jon and Rhaegar… they made their choices. The gods were watching. They watched, and They decided. They chose, too, every single month, if a person were worthy of Their gift.
If it were possible for Oberyn and Jon and Rhaegar, why not for him? Why not Jaime Lannister?
For a moment, he could feel the fangs in his mouth again, could smell the dry golden grasses of his home in ways his dull human nose couldn't manage, and knew that he could have it once more. That he could have his other form back. That he could have his other self back, the man he'd wanted to be all those years ago, the boy who'd believed in the ideals of knighthood, the child who'd loved the stories about goodness winning over evil and fairness defeating trickery and honesty trumping lies.
"You don't have to be who they expect," Brienne was saying, her voice distant, or perhaps it just seemed that way. Jaime felt thick-headed and muzzy, like he'd taken a hard knock to the skull. "I'm nothing near what anyone expects. I tried to be. It didn't work. I know I've disappointed everyone, but…"
She gave a helpless shrug, her face rueful in the firelight. "In the end, it's my life, isn't it? I'm the one who has to live it. People are going to despise me for my ugliness no matter what I do, so I might as well try to find as much happiness as possible, and maybe be a bit useful while I'm at it."
He'd never met someone as simple and practical as that; he'd thought his father the most pragmatic person in the world, the most efficient and rational, but Tywin Lannister had nothing on Brienne of Tarth. She believed thus-and-so; therefore thus-and-so it was. The end. It was… marvelously clarifying, and he realized the endless machinations of court life had made him see the world as a muddy and convoluted place.
And it didn't have to be. He'd permitted it to be, had permitted his father and Cersei and even Tyrion, at times, to convince him it was otherwise, that everything was a complex network of tiny, subtle adjustments, all aimed toward the ultimate goal of wealth and power.
Well, Jaime had wealth, and he had power, and yet… and yet, he was not happy unless he was fucking Cersei. A few stolen moments every week or two, always on her schedule and her terms and nothing of him, nothing for him at all besides his climax.
He'd compromised his honor, his Change, his life, for what amounted to a few occasional moments of bliss.
And he was not sure it had been worth it. The longer he was apart from Cersei, the less sure he became, and he wondered if a love that faded with distance was any love at all. He cared for Tyrion as much on that lonely night as he ever had, would take the same risks for him all over again, but… would he still have joined the Kingsguard for Cersei if he had to make that choice again? Volunteered to sacrifice any hope of marriage and open fatherhood for the chance to have the odd clandestine coupling with her?
The specter of the rest of his life, of decades, in that neither-fish-nor-fowl status felt, suddenly, like standing by a meal he had no hopes of eating, left to observe and smell the savory dishes but never to partake.
Jaime swallowed heavily, then shifted until he could lay down, his back to Brienne. No more did he want to speak that night, not about his Change or choices or any other damned thing. He was exhausted, felt as wrung-out as an old rag, but still sleep was long in coming.
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Lannister was quiet for days after that night, keeping his words to a bare minimum, and when he spoke it was without the usual sarcasm-laced invective Brienne had become so accustomed to. She began to feel, perversely, lonely even when he was right there in front of her, and wondered when she'd actually come to enjoy his endless prattling. Or at least to find it diverting, something to perk up the monotony of walking, walking, walking.
Thus she was almost relieved when he took advantage of a rare moment of Brienne woolgathering to steal her second sword and attack.
She'd come to believe, over the course of their journey, that he couldn't possibly be as good as his reputation, certainly nowhere near as good as he asserted. But even after a year of inactivity and lack of proper nourishment and exercise, he was every bit as good as she was. In peak condition, he'd have finished her off within moments. It was humbling and yet thrilling, and Brienne found herself hoping there would be some way, once he had been safely delivered to his family's chilly bosom, that they could spar, that she could test herself against him in his prime, perhaps learn from a man she had to admit was a master.
Thus it was disappointing on a variety of levels when their battle was interrupted; her dismay at having to stop increased exponentially when they were taken captive by a filthy band of miscreants calling themselves the Brave Companions. Worse, Lannister had begun speaking again, in his fashion of old, no less: arrogant, condescending, infuriating.
It's a miracle they don't just kill him, she thought, but her tune changed when they decided she'd be their evening's entertainment. What her fighting and screaming couldn't accomplish, his declarations of "sapphires!" did, though it had her stunned and gaping like a haddock— why had he bothered? Why did it matter in the slightest, whether or not she was violated?
Her confusion mounted as they approached an inn and claimed a private room, dragging her and Lannister within. It wasn't as if he were any more pleasant or kind, so why expend the effort to protect her? Brienne's safety was irrelevant to him; in fact, his life would likely be far easier without her in his way.
But as she sat and listened to him quip and cajole and banter with the lisping fool who missed half of Lannister's japes and became madder and madder at the other half, a sick sense of foreboding rose within her, a knowledge that something bad was going to occur, and a conviction that she could not permit it to happen.
Lady Catelyn put him into my keeping, she thought. I cannot let them hurt him.
One of the men grasped Lannister's hand, stretched it out before him on the crude table, and the fat Dothraki had his arakh out, candlelight glinting on the curved blade, and the wrongness of it swelled within Brienne like a wave. The otherness of her animal form writhed and fought to be free, just like on the full moon, but that was weeks ago and weeks to come, it shouldn't be possible, couldn't be happening except it was and she was bursting free of her clothes, of her skin, of everything that made her Brienne.
She reached out with everything she had, knocking men away, flinging them aside, slapping them down. The fat Dothraki was made of sterner stuff, and wouldn't go down with a mere blow to the chest; she had to tear his throat out, her jaws effortlessly rending flesh and cartilage. Dimly she saw Lannister watching her with absolutely poleaxed astonishment, astonishment that melted into nigh-hysterical laughter when it was all over and they were the only ones in the room yet alive.
The danger is over, she thought through the haze of cotton wool that seemed to veil her thoughts when she was in her other form. I can be Brienne again.
A lurch, a shudder, and he was catching her as she fell, huge powerful body shrinking to something half the size, naked and vulnerable and shivering without the stiff brown fur that had covered her.
His hands were gentle and careful as he lowered her to the ground, keeping her more on him so she avoided being directly on the dirty floor, and were completely at odds with the way he continued to laugh and laugh and laugh.
"You're a lion!" he gasped before letting out another peal of hilarity.
"A sea lion," she corrected breathlessly, still winded from the exertions of shifting back and forth.
And, if she were honest, from the prickling awareness that always gripped her after shifting, the animal-sharp alertness of senses almost painfully acute. She trembled at the feel of him all down her body, the coiled power of his muscles and the scent of him rising in the air. It wasn't enough that he looked golden; somehow he even smelled golden, all fresh-split wood and vanilla and honey and clove, making Brienne's mouth water, and she knew the moment he could tell that she wanted him.
He went still beneath her, and his arms banded around her, tight as steel before slowly releasing. His hands flexed convulsively around her waist where he had gripped her as she fell; then, in the span of a heartbeat, he was on his feet and hauling her to hers.
"Sit," he said shortly, shoving her toward a chair. "I'll… go find someone. Get you clothes. Something. I don't know."
And then he fled, leaving Brienne standing, nude and quivering, in a room with the half-dozen men she'd just killed, wondering if she'd somehow gotten them into more trouble than she'd delivered them from.
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It wasn't until he'd found some servants and issued orders— You, find two sets of clothes big enough to fit me! You, prepare a bath! You, I want a meal for two ready within the hour!— and was on his way back to the room where he'd left Brienne that Jaime realized he was no longer bound by rope and shackle, no longer a prisoner, no longer held back from running free. He could leave her to tremble in a room full of dead men, could get a horse and be on the road heading toward the Crownlands and King's Landing and Cersei in minutes.
Then he realized what it was, precisely, she'd saved him from: they hadn't been about to kill him. It had been far, far worse: they'd intended to maim him, to take his sword hand and leave him a cripple, weak and shamed and useless. Nausea roiled in his belly and he had to stop, to place a hand against the wall to regain his balance as he contemplated the ruin his life would have been in that event.
He wasn't brilliant like Tyrion; he wasn't crafty like his father and Cersei; he wasn't even long-suffering like his Uncle Kevan or driven like Uncle Gerion or sharp-witted like Aunt Genna. All he had was his talent with a sword. All he was was a sword to be aimed at the Lannisters' enemies. If he couldn't serve that purpose, what good was he?
The nausea settled into a shiver of horror that soon reminded him that she would likely be shivering, too— the shock of Changing was always hard on a body: losing all that strength and size was disconcerting; losing the fur, to be left with vulnerable soft skin that didn't retain heat, was damned chilly.
That wasn't the only lingering effect of a shift, he realized upon pushing open the door and inhaling the air Brienne had permeated with her scent. Her fair skin was pale and goosebumped, and she was shaking, but not from the cold: even as dull as his senses had become, once he'd stopped Changing, still he could tell when a woman was in rut, and he didn't even have to see the gleam of moisture on her thighs to know she was aching for satisfaction.
As he stood frozen in the threshold, staring at her hard-puckered nipples and inhaling the thick tinge of lust surrounding her, she lifted her eyes, fixed them upon him with an expression that was nowhere near the hazy glow of excitement he'd expected. No, her eyes were sharp, focused, peering at him like a hunter to her prey, and desire roared through him, coursing from his scalp to his feet and leaving him breathless.
It took everything within Jaime to keep from striding over and pushing her to the floor and— no. No. To keep from striding over and offering himself to her, a willing sacrifice to slake her needs on his cock. He could picture it, clear as if it were a memory instead of just a fantasy: her wrenching open his trews, slinging one strong-muscled thigh over his hips and taking him deep, wet and scalding and strangling-tight. His cock leaped in arousal.
Whatever way it manifested in reality, Brienne must have seen something of his thoughts on his face because her eyes widened in realization and acceptance, and a sort of bone-deep yearning that had everything in Jaime responding, body and soul both. A sense of certainty, of inevitability, rose within his belly and spread outward.
It is going to happen, he thought, and instead of being repulsed at the idea of fucking any woman but Cersei, or this woman in particular, his blood pounded through his veins in longing, a tide of relief at his surrender to it.
"M'lord?" asked a timid voice behind him. Jaime turned to find the servant he'd commanded for the bath behind him. "If you'll follow me?"
"Brienne?" he said hoarsely, turning back to her. She took a step toward him, and the sheer monumental quantity of her naked flesh had him near to launching himself bodily at her. Somehow he found the strength to pull the ragged cloak from his own back and wrap it around her shoulders, the symbolism of it not lost on either of them, if the flare of her eyes in the dim lantern light were any indication.
"Bath," he said. She nodded.
They left the room, followed the servant, not to a bedroom with a full tub awaiting them, but an actual bathhouse, the huge chamber a bit run-down, cracked tiles and peeling plaster ruining the grandiose effect intended. But the floor was dotted with a two pond-sized tubs steaming away, and Brienne slipped past him with a murmured ohhhh of pleasure, discarding his filthy cloak to submerge herself in the nearest tub with a sigh.
"Bring the clothes here," Jaime instructed the servant. "Leave them at the door. We'll expect a meal when we come out." He paused, anticipation tightening his muscles. "Do not disturb us."
The servant's expression was knowing but confused as she sketched a curtsy and bustled away, but he didn't care. What could she know of shifters, and the Change that gripped them? He turned back to the tub Brienne had entered and began to disrobe as he watched her dunk herself and scrub, dunk and scrub, finally coming up clean and gleaming-wet to stare at him with wary eyes as, nude, he approached at last.
He was hard, achingly so, and stood beside the tub to let her look her fill and understand what was between them. She swallowed heavily, then inched back until she was wedged in the far corner of the tub, knees drawn up and arms banded around them like the shackles she'd once kept him in. She was going to make him fight for her; good for him he was up to the challenge, though he did feel a pang of disappointment that she wouldn't be making good on the promise of conquering him that she'd presented back in the room of dead men.
He lowered himself into the water, unable to bite back a groan of pleasure at the hot water on skin that hadn't enjoyed it in a year. He, too, dunked and scrubbed, over and over until his hair squeaked between his fingers and his skin glowed pink from the force of his hands and nails working the soap in. It wasn't until he decided he was finally, blessedly clean that he realized Brienne had relocated herself to the next tub over, no doubt to avoid the murky gray he'd turned the water with his filth.
He was smirking as he hauled himself up, intent on following her, until he realized her eyes were closed, her head thrown back, and her hand was between her spread-wide legs. She bit her plump lower lip and shuddered once, twice, sending ripples coursing over the surface of the bath before letting her body go slack in the wake of release.
"You didn't wait for me," he said lightly— at odds with the affront he felt that she'd started without him— as he clambered in, much closer than he had before.
She jerked in alarm, eyes flying open, wide with horror. Oh. She thought she'd get herself off while he was distracted and none the wiser. Hoping to avoid touching him, having him touch her?
"Wench, this has been coming for a while," he said tiredly. "I thought we could call a truce."
"You need trust to have a truce," she replied, her voice soft and hesitant.
"I trust you." Seeing her skepticism, he had to laugh. "Should I not? You've done nothing to show me you can't be trusted. Just the opposite, really— you're the most disgustingly honorable wench I've ever met."
"Honor isn't disgusting," she muttered, glowering at her knees, which she'd rucked up into a bulwark against him once more.
"And I'd hoped I'd earned your trust, in return," he continued, ignoring her grumbling, then scowling at her snort of laughter.
"How can I trust you?" she demanded, incredulous. "We were captured because you stole my sword and tried to kill me, so you could escape!"
"That was— that was before," Jaime protested. This wasn't going as he'd expected; he'd thought they'd strip off, bathe, and then lose themselves in each other for an hour or two. "Before you shifted and kept them from—"
He stopped, unable to even put words to what he'd narrowly escaped.
"How did you even do that? Last night was the new moon. It shouldn't have been possible."
She bit her lip, clearly unhappy to reveal her motivations to him, and was silent so long he thought she wouldn't reply.
"I think I have a right to know, wench," he prompted, but gently. "You did it for me, after all."
"They were going to— to hurt you!" she burst out at last, face flushed— from heat or emotion?— and eyes bright with anger. "To take off your hand. And I knew that would be— that you— it wasn't right. Killing is one thing, but to purposefully— to do that to a man, to you, knowing how it would ruin your life— no. You were placed in my care, under my protection. Mine. You're mine."
And Jaime couldn't breathe, all the air in the bathhouse gone, or perhaps it was just that his lungs no longer worked. Lust crashed through him again, just as before, at the notion of her claiming him, taking him, owning him, of his belonging to her, belonging at all, having a place he fit into, where didn't have to fight for every scrap of approval, didn't have to question his every word or act for fear of rejection, where he was wanted and protected and safe safe safe.
"Yes," he said wonderingly. "I think— I think maybe I am."
She'd been panting from the exertion of near-shouting, she'd been that agitated about it; at his words, she froze, eyes huge and shocked and he met them without flinching, unguarded, letting her see whatever she could in his own.
"I don't believe you," she said at last, shakily, arms trembling as she held them out to him, but she did it, did it in spite of her fear, the brave wench,. "Or maybe I do, just for today. But come— come here."
And he went, so gladly, his lips on hers almost before he was in her embrace. The smell of her rose around him, a cloud of water hyacinth and peony and sandalwood and pepper making his mouth water to have the taste of her on his tongue just as her scent was in his nose. His greedy hands were everywhere, relishing the wet satin of her skin against his palms, the faint ridges of scars under his fingertips reminding him he touched a warrior, not merely a maid.
The tune of a song unspooled in his mind, but the lyrics were different… I loved a maid as fierce as blood, with beauty as her name, she kissed me and she killed me both, the pleasure all the same…
Her hands were greedy, too, scrabbling over the water-sleek planes of his body, and he felt nearly frantic to get closer to her, to live within her skin. This is what had been missing from his trysts with Cersei, this wildness, this primal need. He'd thought them above it, that their love had been destined and fated by the gods Themselves. How willfully he'd ignored the clear message They'd sent him. How many years he'd wasted, chasing something that could never be caught.
"Jaime…" she whispered. Her pupils were blown, her lips red and wet from how she was biting them. "Let me taste you."
He gritted his teeth against the crashing pleasure her words brought him. "Only if you let me taste you first."
She was silent, waiting so long he thought she wouldn't do it, but then she drew her hand from under the water and slowly, tentatively, offered it to him. Jaime gripped her wrist and brought her hand to his mouth. It was soaked, her own juices thicker than the water, lingering on her skin as the scent of her rose, heady and pungent, in the steam around them. They whimpered together when he lapped at her forefinger, her taste filling his mouth with musk and salt and sweetness. He groaned and sucked her fingers into his mouth, one by one, then licking her palm.
"Now you," she panted when he released her hand, and he was so glad of it that he went a little dizzy even as he knelt on the bench built into the tub, lifting his hips from the bath.
He was so aroused that instead of one drop at a time, a little stream was leaking from the tip of his cock. He gripped himself tightly as he pulled his hand from base to head, milking more of the fluid from himself until his hand was as wet as Brienne's had been, then held it up to her.
She did to him as he had to her, lapping and licking and sucking, little moans escaping her, her eager tongue stoking him higher with each caress.
"What are you thinking about?" he demanded. "Tell me, Brienne."
"Want to suck it out of you," she whispered.
"Do it," he said, feeling urgent, desperate, and the moment her lips closed on him he felt his control splinter as pleasure, long-denied over the last year, shattered him. He tried to pull from her mouth but her hands had clamped on his thighs, refused to let him shift even an inch back, and he poured himself down her throat with a shout.
"I'm sorry," he gasped when he could speak again.
"I'm not," was her reply, and she pulled him back down into the water, against her. Their legs tangled and she pressed her mouth inexpertly to his, but he very much felt it was the thought that counted rather than the execution: she wanted him enough to initiate a kiss, to part his lips with her tongue with such boldness. Her want of him was so honest and intense that he could wait no longer to begin once more, obeying the commands of his body, which needed to rub against her and peak again and again.
Almost helplessly, he took her, tongue thrusting in imitation of what he longed to do with his cock. He grasped her thigh, wrapped it high around his waist, and she used its strength to clamp him against her, strong enough to hold him there even on the very remote chance he tried to get away. The realization that she would be able to match his power, that grapplings between them could end with her victory instead of his, had desire roaring through him and for a moment he teetered on the edge of coming again.
No teetering for her, however; she writhed and ground herself against him in orgasm.
"Gods, yes," she whispered, eyes wide, star-blind with ecstasy and hands hard on him as she spasmed.
He tore himself from her embrace and knelt on the bench. He grasped her waist and hauled her up, ass on the lip of the tub, hands frantic as he pressed her open enough for him to get his mouth on her, raking the blade of his tongue from where she welled with fluid all the way up to her clit, gathering up her moisture, licking her clean. The scent and taste of her was fresh and hot and she was so wet he could actually swallow it. He groaned against her swollen flesh, echoing her moans as he catapulted her into a second climax.
"Yes, Jaime, yes, yes."
Her hands were in his hair, his name on her lips as she came, and he was every bit as satisfied as if he'd come, himself, fiercely proud that he had taken her apart, this maid, this untouched girl, him, no one else. The rest of her life, it was he she'd remember who had shown her this. Jaime Lannister would be imprinted upon her for all time.
As Brienne lay back, chest heaving with her breaths, he hoisted himself from the water to lay beside her and rolled to his side, blatantly watching her. He felt like a fool for missing the sensuality of her, all this time, for failing to note the smooth skin and bare suggestion of gold-glinting hair and undulating hills and valleys of her muscles and bones, her body having a striking sculptural quality that had him riveted. He began to stroke himself lightly, lightly, exquisitely sensitive from his recent peak.
"You've got me hard again already, wench, look." He waited, but she shook her head, eyes clamped shut.
He gave himself another long, slow stroke, circling the head with his thumb, smearing the drop of liquid at the tip around and around. He wouldn't fuck her, though he longed to, though something that felt tantalizingly like his lion yearned to spill deep inside and know his seed had found fertile ground in which to take root.
But no. There was no future for them; the idea was laughable, was ridiculous, was unthinkable. His father wouldn't permit it. Cersei would be in hysterics, to have been displaced by a woman she'd feel so far beneath her. Joffrey was, frankly, a nightmare made flesh; Jaime was loath to draw the king's attention to a woman the foolish boy would think ripe for mockery and humiliation.
And she'd have the Stark girls to march back to their family at Riverrun. He knew she'd be on the road at sunrise the following morning, if she were able, intent upon fulfilling her vow to her precious Lady Catelyn and permitting no obstacles to bar her path.
So when he climbed between her legs, he didn't put himself into her as he wanted, as she wanted, if the way she clutched his ass and ground her cunt up at him was any indication. He merely rocked against her, rigid cock sliding between slippery folds, and gave himself up to the delight of it all.
Brienne loved like she fought, with a slow thoroughness that stole his breath and conquered him, relentless, unforgiving, driving him to writhe and flex and cry out again and again when he stopped trying to hold on and let her win.
They'd both won, really.
When they could breathe again, they exchanged a last lingering kiss that tasted of goodbye and left a stubborn pang of loss in his belly. They finally detangled their limbs and stood, groaning at the stiffness they'd acquired from laying on hard tiles and the bruises they'd just given each other.
The sets of clothes lay in neat stacks outside the bathhouse door, as directed. They dressed in silence, but not a hostile one, like those they'd endured during the first weeks of their enforced company. There was something companionable about it, something comfortable, something already-full, not needing to be crammed with anything else until it brimmed over.
They were shown to a room and given a hot meal, which they demolished in record time. The innkeeper's sour mood improved greatly after Jaime invited him to do whatever he liked with what could be found on the dead men: coin, armor, weapons, even their horses and tack. He was welcome to it all.
Except…
"One of them survived," the innkeeper informed them. "Took a hard knock to the head, he did, though."
The man had been stowed in the smallest of the bed chambers— a closet, really, but it was more than he deserved.
"Vargo Hoat," Jaime muttered. He'd have preferred the fat Dothraki to be the one avoiding death at Brienne's hands— flippers?— because Hoat was a vengeful little prick; he'd want blood in return for having his vicious plan thwarted and receiving such an injury, especially from a woman.
But Hoat had already had a raven sent to Harrenhal to inform Roose Bolton of his location. Someone had informed him that Jaime and Brienne remained at the inn; he was sure to have included that detail to Bolton. He pondered, briefly, the wisdom of lighting out, trying to avoid Bolton altogether; they could take two of the dead Companions' horses, ride away at speed, but they had no coin— ah, he'd been hasty in promising it all to the innkeeper— and wouldn't last long in the wilderness with the meager things they'd been given to wear and nothing else.
Reluctantly they accepted having to wait for Bolton, hoping he'd be reasonable and keep Hoat from seeking revenge. Exhausted, it was barely nightfall when they fell into the same bed, only to wake when the minute sliver of finally-waxing moon was high to turn to each other once more. That time, there was nothing of feral urgency to it, just wanting to give and receive comfort and pleasure.
"Why did you Change yesterday?" he asked her in the aftermath of their crisis, relishing the feel of her in his arms and her breath against his neck. That sliver of moon had reminded him of how this time of the month was weakest for shifters.
"What?" she replied sleepily, cracking one blue eye open to peer at him in confusion.
"Why did you need to protect me so much that you'd shift?" he clarified. "They wouldn't have killed me; you'd still have fulfilled your promise to Catelyn Stark, returning me alive. You didn't give a fig about me before yesterday. I've half thought you'd kill me yourself."
She was silent a long time before speaking.
"I've… thought more of you for a while, actually," she said at last. "Since that night we discussed why you don't Change anymore."
He barked a laugh of surprise. "That should have made you hate me more, not less." He'd not acquitted himself well, that night; he'd been cruel and too brutally honest about his own sins.
Brienne propped herself up on an elbow to stare down at him. "You killed the king when you were fifteen."
"…yes." Confusion; where was she going with it?
"But you didn't stop shifting until you were seventeen."
"Yes." What significance could it possibly—
"That means that the gods still felt you were worthy even after King Aerys died." Her tone was infinitely patient, and her eyes were gentle enough to soften even the stoniest of hearts. "If breaking that sacred a vow wasn't enough to change Their minds about you, then… there must have been something about it that They agreed with, that They felt was right instead of unjust."
Jaime gazed up at her, stupefied, speechless.
"So if your kingslaying had the approval of the gods, what other reason did I have to hold you in contempt? There's nothing honorable or right about loving one's sister in that way, or cuckolding your king, or begetting bastards. But…"
She bit her lip, worried it with prominent teeth as he lay spellbound beneath her. "We don't really get to choose who we love, do we? There are a lot of things we can control, but not how the heart beats. It can make us feel that some things are… reasonable, when if we had clear heads, we'd see they're anything but."
She shrugged, her blush evident even in the dimness of the fire in the grate across the room.
"I can't judge you for an unwise love when I've had one of my own, and likely will acquire another in the future. And I feel I can trust the gods' opinion; if They felt you worthy of Their gift even after killing the king, who am I to nay-say Them?"
Fortunately, she didn't seem to expect a reply, which was just as well, because Jaime could not have come up with one had his life depended on it. Just as he'd been proud to be the first lover of the Maid of Tarth, to mark himself indelibly upon her heart, he realized that she'd made her mark on him as well. Jaime Lannister would never be with such a fine girl again, he knew, because none other existed in all of Westeros.
Once I'd been in the right place at the right time, he'd be able to say in his old age, and the best woman in the kingdom honored me with her body.
Except he'd never tell a soul, not from shame or embarrassment but from jealousy and greed, for who could possibly deserve to hear of such a thing? No, those hours with her were his alone. Those acts between them were his alone. For this one night, she was his alone, and the memory would stay pristine and unsoiled by anyone else.
The next morning they lay late abed, and when they awoke, they pleasured each other yet again while sunlight streamed through the window and flooded the room and warmed their skin, and when Brienne's last sigh of bliss was breathed into his welcoming mouth, there came a knock at the door.
"If you would do me the honor of attending me," said a dry voice, "I would have words with you, Ser Jaime." A pause. "And… friend."
The speaker ended up being one Steelshanks Walton, as he introduced himself, and he'd been sent to accompany Jaime and Brienne the last few hours of the journey to Harrenhal, where Roose Bolton was in residence after having judged the Starks to be the losing side and turned his cloak to joined their adversaries.
They were received at Harrenhal without ceremony, Hoat being whisked away for treatment for his lingering head injury and Bolton refusing to meet with them until they'd been attired properly. Jaime had thought that meant "in garments befitting one of his birth and station" but he realized, upon reuniting with Brienne an hour later, it meant "in garments befitting one's gender", for she'd been shoehorned into a singularly unattractive pink gown trimmed with mangy-looking fur, far too short at hem and cuffs to be anything but ludicrous.
The look she gave him was plangent and despairing and he couldn't have held back his laughter even if he'd bothered to try. She just compressed her lips in exasperation, gaze averted as her face colored, and he couldn't resist giving her a kiss to sweeten her up.
"Come, now, wench, you have to admit…" Jaime waved a hand to encompass the picture she presented.
She only sighed. "Yes. I know."
He bit back another grin, put her hand on his arm, and marched them into the room where Lord Bolton awaited them.
.
.
A more dour man Brienne had never met; Roose Bolton was utterly stone-faced, humorless, impossible to affect with either charm or threats, as Jaime came to see when every attempt he made to convince the man to permit her to leave for King's Landing was rejected.
"She stays here," was all he would say to each of Jaime's attempts, with no variation of word nor tone nor volume. He must be a masterful gambler, she thought glumly. His rigid features gave nothing away, and he could not be swayed, at least not by whatever colorful offers or threats Jaime presented. No, what turned his head was something far greater than anything Jaime had to give, something only Tywin Lannister had within his power to grant.
Thus it was with unbowed shoulders and clear eyes belying the conflict Brienne felt in her heart that she bid farewell to Jaime. Ser Jaime, she called him, and wanted to cry when she saw how it impacted him, the acknowledgment of his honor, of his worthiness to bear a knight's title, and the clear statement of her respect. He promised to send the Stark girls back to their mother, and she believed him.
When he was gone, she permitted herself a few minutes of weeping: to have been left behind by him, though it hadn't been his fault; to have been left behind at all. What would become of her? She'd heard some servants whispering. It was said that Hoat vowed repayment for what he'd suffered, and Brienne tried to steel her spine in anticipation of what he might have planned for her. Bolton was aware of her highborn birth, that she was heir to Tarth and a lady in her own right. Surely he would not permit her to be violated or harmed or killed?
But he appeared to have washed his hands of her. She remained in her dingy chamber all evening, and when she woke the next morning, it was to find her door locked and her pleas for release, and requests— then demands— to speak with Lord Bolton ignored. It was nearly noon, she judged by the rumbling in her stomach, when the door was flung open and a half-dozen burly fellows, all armored and bearing weapons, appeared to escort her… somewhere.
"Where?" she asked. "Where are you bringing me?"
"You'll see," said one, laughing nastily while prodding her with the point of his sword, letting it pierce her hideous dress and enough of her skin that she felt a rivulet of blood trickle free.
The pit before her yawned wide; it was innocuous enough, just an oval of ground surrounded by a wooden palisade upon which was a platform where one could view whatever happenef within. But there was a slatted gate on the far side, with ropes to raise and lower it, and from behind the gate came fearsome scratchings and growlings as something strained and fought against the restricting wood.
"I'm not going in there," she said, in a horrified whisper at first, and then again, louder, as realization broke over her: they meant to throw her in there as entertainment, to watch as something slaughtered her.
She fought them, she fought and fought, heedless of their daggers and swords and clubs, but even she could not battle six men while unarmored and lacking a weapon. They lowered her struggling body over the side of the platform as far as they could reach, then dropped her the rest of the way. She landed with a jolt, her head taking a thump when she hit the dew-damp sand, and in the time she spent trying to stand and regain her balance, they lost no time in raising the gate holding back her opponent, which at that moment began to sally forth to meet her challenge.
A bear. They were pitting her against a bear.
"For pity's sake!" she shouted up at the platform, and saw that Hoat had appeared, supported on either side by servants and the smuggest smirk she'd ever seen on a human face, and she included Jaime Lannister in that. "At least give me a weapon!"
But he just laughed. She tried another tack.
"If you don't give me something, this will be over in moments."
That did the trick; the threat of displeasure of the others watching, unhappy they weren't getting a longer show, had him nod to someone, and in short order a wooden sword had been tossed in her general direction. She scowled as she picked it up, but it was better than nothing, at least. Perhaps, if she were fast enough, she could get close enough to jab its eyes…?
When it realized its freedom, and the prospect of a tender meal, the bear lumbered toward her with terrifying speed. It batted aside the sword as if it were a mere twig and raked claws across Brienne's shoulder, scoring the front of it from arm-joint to clavicle.
She hissed in pain, staggering back and to one knee, desperate to regain her footing. She couldn't stay down; if she were going to die, it would be standing on her feet, meeting it headlong instead of cowering. Her frantic gaze searched the pit, located the sword, snatched it up. She whirled to confront the bear once more.
It bellowed in rage, swiping at the sand, muscles coiling under shaggy dark fur in preparation for another attack.
Her poor father; when he got word of her death, he'd be despondent. She'd let him down in every way a daughter could. But she'd been the best Brienne she was capable of, and thought maybe that was enough for him.
Father, I'm sorry, she thought. I'm sorry, Jaime.
But then he was there. He was there, leaping down to the sand in front of her with a thump, back on his feet in a trice.
"What are you doing?" she shouted, horrified and shocked and glad glad glad. Not alone, her heart whispered. Even if we die… not alone.
He sent a gleaming smile back over his shoulder at her.
"Something stupid," he said, and then a lion burst out of him.
.
.
The feeling of wrongness started as Jaime and Brienne said their goodbyes to each other, continued as he left Harrenhal with the 200 men Roose Bolton had granted as his escort back to King's Landing, and worsened as the day progressed.
His dreams that night were riddled with images of his family commanding him to do things no lord or lady should request of their knights, things that would bring him dishonor, and when he refused, they turned their backs on him, one by one. There was only one person who would never want him to compromise himself, or what he knew was right, the same person who'd stand with him no matter how poor or powerless he became if he were no longer considered a Lannister. Only one person, and he'd left her to the mercies of Vargo Sodding Hoat.
By the time he rose the next morning, the first thought in his head was Wrong. It was wrong to leave her there. It was wrong to leave her at all.
Perhaps he'd just gotten used to her, after over three months of constant companionship. More likely it was the woman herself, her innocence and decency shining so bright she'd blinded him to anything but her. She'd reawakened the conscience lying dormant in him for so long and now the damned thing wouldn't shut up.
Go back, it kept insisting. Go back for her.
He was able to ignore that for perhaps another hour, but when it began to whisper She needs you, fool. She needs you, that he knew he had no choice, not if he wanted any peace, not if he hoped to live with himself.
It took some doing, convincing Steelshanks Walton to return, but finally they had circled around and headed in Harrenhal's direction.
That was when Jaime started to pray.
Let the horses be faster, he began with, and when the horses did indeed seem to gallop at a greater-than-usual speed, and for far longer than they ought to have, he ventured to ask the gods Let me be in time. And when they arrived at Harrenhal in half as long as it had taken them to depart it, and he heard the cheering crowd and climbed the platform and stared down at where she confronted a sodding bear, he prayed with every shred of his foolish heart, every sliver of his blackened soul, Let me be strong enough to save her.
Is she worth your own life? his conscience asked. The answer, of course, was yes. She's worth so much more than I am. She's worth everything.
So he leaped down into the pit, and felt the certainty of death mantle his shoulders. He might only be able to buy Brienne a few moments, but even that meager purchase would have been enough. He'd die a redeemed man, who'd used his life to buy his woman another minute of existence, and felt nothing but perfect satisfaction with the bargain.
Sweat broke out on his back in response to a sudden, fierce heat, and his veins felt like they were writhing, like his blood was itching, like he had to claw at something for relief. Could it be…? After so long? His knees gave that awful crack they had to do so that his hind legs could bend the proper way, and the agony sliced through his joyous comprehension— Yes! Please, yes!— bringing focus and determination and power.
Yes, he thought, and Thank You, and Please hurry, if You don't mind.
"What are you doing?" Brienne shrieked, and he just knew she wanted to berate him for his idiocy, for who else but an idiot would put himself between a bear and its prey?
An idiot in love, he thought with a grin, and said, "Something stupid."
The lion came from him suddenly, not the gradual change of limbs lengthening and bending differently, nor the slow growth of fur and mane and claws and fangs, each moment feeling like an eternity until he could stand on paws, could view the world with breathtaking clarity, could smell the rank must of the bear's fur from ten feet away, could roar until the palisades quivered from the force of it.
The tables were turned now; the bear was no longer the apex predator in the pit. Jaime was nearly as big as it was, and had the acuity of human thought instead of an animal's duller sense-and-instinct reactions. He didn't particularly want to kill the bear, but he was fairly certain it wasn't going to listen to reason and back away peacefully. Claims of sapphires or threats of Lannisterian retribution weren't going to convince it to amble back to its cage.
Jaime roared again, his breath a snarl from between knifelike incisors, and gathered himself for the leap.
"No!" he dimly heard from above. "It's the only bear I have!"
Fuck you, Hoat, he thought, and sprang.
The bear tried, bless it, but Jaime feinted and danced away from its claws. A sudden change in direction, a pounce around to its back, and suddenly Jaime was atop the poor dumb creature, its neck seized between his jaws. The bear roared, too, and its panic sent exultation through Jaime. This was what he'd been created for. Not merely fighting, but fighting for a purpose, fighting to protect and save. The bear was not at fault, but it was a tool to be used by those who were, and Jaime could not let that stand.
With a savage growl, he clamped down and bit through and tore out the bear's spine, right where it connected to the skull.
The bear dropped like a sack of shit, dead before it hit the ground. Jaime vaulted off its back, landing nimbly on agile paws and padding toward where Brienne stood, frozen and shocked. Around them, the crowd seemed to be collectively holding its breath. He knew the bastards were hoping she'd be next, that he'd let his beastly nature supersede and bring her down like a plump, tender doe.
Instead, he pushed his head against her midriff, underestimating his strength and regretful when she ended up on her bottom. He peered at her through eyes gone golden, trying to communicate I'm sorry, and she seemed to understand because she just laughed, though there was a panicky edge to it. His blood began itching again, and he knew the shift back to human was imminent.
He contemplated fighting it. It had been so long, so long since he'd felt truly alive, truly embracing of both halves of himself, but… he knew it had been a temporary reinstatement, a momentary stay of punishment for the greater good of saving Brienne. At least he'd had this one last time, something to refresh his memory so he'd have the rest of his life with clearer recollection of the Change.
And so he gave in, as gracefully as he could, thanking the gods again before They swept back Their grace and left him a man once more, shaking in Brienne's lap.
"Bring clothes!" Jaime heard her bellow, making him smile against her pink-clad thigh. He couldn't wait to burn that gown. It was truly an affront to fashion and taste. "And help us up out of here!"
A cloak was tossed down, then trews and a tunic, and someone even scrounged up boots near his size. By the time they were hauled up the palisade to the platform, he was feeling entirely himself again, and when Hoat shoved his way through the crown to confront them, he was just about to give the man the beating of his weaselly life when Brienne stepped in front of him.
"I thank you, ser, but you've done more than enough," she muttered to Jaime, a martial glint in her magnificent eyes.
Hoat stopped mid-tirade, realized belatedly that the shoe was quite on the other foot; his lord took no more interest in him, the lady was no longer alone without protection now that Jaime had returned with 200 of Bolton's finest to support his interests, and the lady herself looked like she wanted to rend him limb from limb.
"Mercy," he said weakly, bringing his hands up in a gesture of pleading and contrition. "You already did me an injury… you wouldn't strike an injured man, surely?"
"Of course not," she replied, and tossed him over the railing into the pit instead.
.
.
They shared a horse, Jaime claiming there wasn't another to be found in all of Harrenhal for Brienne to use, but she and Steelshanks and everyone else knew it for the blatant falsehood it was: he just wanted to be close to her, not feeling as if it were truly over unless he could feel the thud of her heart against his chest.
She circled her arms around his waist, hooked her chin over his shoulder, and clung like a limpet for the first hour. He knew how it was, to be resigned to death and then somehow miraculously evade it; her limbs still held a fine tremor when they began their second hour of travel, but it was settling steadily as he stroked her hands and forearms and nuzzled his temple against her cheek every time he thought of it, which was several times a minute. Perhaps he was more lion-like in human form than he'd realized, if he had such a strong urge to rub against things.
Not things. Just Brienne.
Once the shock of everything had worn off, and the relief calmed and he could once more feel safe, knowing that she was alive and whole and his, he took a deep breath and spoke.
"Why didn't you shift?" he asked. "You might have had a chance, if you'd been a lion." He smirked. "As you could see, only a lion could be any sort of match for a bear."
"A sea lion," she corrected with her infinite patience. "And… I don't know. It didn't feel as… urgent? As important?"
He swiveled around in the saddle to stare at her. "Are you mad? Since when is your life less important than mine?"
Her only response was a blotchy stain of red rising from the neck of her tunic, and the clarity of her eyes— and the sentiment in them— damn near had him falling off the horse.
"Brienne," he said, and steered the horse off the road.
"What now, Kingslayer?" asked the increasingly-weary Steelshanks.
"I just need a few minutes," Jaime said with one of his brash smiles, confident his whims would be indulged because of course they would.
Hidden behind a thick screen of trees and shrubbery, Jaime dismounted and practically dragged Brienne from the horse, pressing her against the bole of an ancient tree, its pale bark crumbling off with the contact. He gazed at her a long moment, taking in every slope and angle of her now-familiar, now-beloved features, and then he kissed her.
She met him eagerly, and he could taste the relief and gladness and love in her. This, too, was a gift from the gods; not the one he'd had and lost and borrowed one last time, but one perhaps even more rare and precious, one he'd had to prove himself to find and keep.
"How did you do it?" she asked when he drew back, her lips rosy and swollen and her eyes glowing like stars. "How was it possible?"
He traced the line of her square jaw with a fingertip. "I prayed for you."
.
.
They decided to marry before arriving in King's Landing; far harder for Tywin to banish her, or Cersei to assassinate her, if she were already a Lannister rather than a near-anonymous minor aristocrat from the outer reaches of the Stormlands.
Brienne knew Jaime worried that he was making a terrible mistake. He never spoke of it, but she knew he harbored a fragile hope that he could prove himself worthy of the Change, that he could show the gods he was committed to living as They wanted and being who They wanted him to be. It felt clear as writing on parchment that They wanted him and Brienne to be together, husband and wife, but what would They think of his breaking yet another sworn vow?
The full moon arrived when they were within a mere day's ride from King's Landing, but Jaime insisted they remain outside its walls instead of continuing..
"The Change is a hell of a thing when you're cooped up in a city," he declared, his tone carefully casual, but Brienne knew he was hopeful he would be shifting as well. "Do any of you shift? You must know what I mean."
Steelshanks grumbled and squinted in displeasure but capitulated, and later as Brienne plunged her Changed form into a nearby lake, she caught sight of a giant brindled boar at the far edge of the water. It gazed at her a long moment, tense and wary as she, too, but then ducked its head as if in a salute and trotted away.
After doing a quick circuit of the lake— it was more of a pond, really— and discerning where the most likely spot for good fishing was, Brienne returned to where she'd left Jaime, hopeful that when she surfaced, she'd find herself face-to-maned-face with a lion, but it was just him. Breathtakingly handsome, of course, strong and smiling and happy for her, but she could almost taste his dismay. She heaved herself from the water to sit by him, not wanting to desert him to be alone in his disappointment.
She couldn't speak, so didn't bother trying, but watched him closely, watched as his melancholy faded and he began to grin.
"You really are the sweetest thing," he murmured, bringing a hand up to fondle the tiny ear nubs of her Changed form. She didn't blush, as a sea lion, but she still felt her face heat, and buried it against his chest in embarrassment, to his amusement.
"I'm not a lion— this time— but I can still swim with you, eh?" he said, and she realized he didn't want to be apart from her all night any more than she did. He stripped off and swam in, and they spent hours seeing who could dive deepest (she could) or swim fastest (she could) or catch fish quickest (she could).
"Fine, wench," he said breathlessly, upon coming up for air, "but someday we'll see who's best at running through long grass or hunting deer."
She couldn't wait, and gave him a headbutt to the stomach to express it. It sent him flying back into the water. She dove in to rescue him. He thanked her, when she was Brienne once more, by showing her how to ride him to a clamorous orgasm that had Steelshanks shouting at them for quiet because they were riling up the men with all their carrying on.
.
.
Jaime's family was thunderstruck with astonishment when he and Brienne presented themselves as wedded and bedded the next day, and frankly disbelieving that he'd shifted to save her until Steelshanks was fetched and presented to offer eyewitness testimony.
"Well," said Tywin, eyeing them both in a way that was speculative and cool but ultimately saying nothing else.
Jaime's dismissal from the Kingsguard automatic with his marriage, there was nothing to do in that regard, and he'd have been delighted to spend his time fighting and fucking Brienne in equal measure, but his father had other ideas; he began transferring the responsibilities of Casterly Rock to Jaime within the week.
Jaime, in turn, had whined and cajoled until Brienne conceded to share equal duty in governing his legacy, and thus they had to divide how their time was spent in three ways, rather than the far more agreeable two.
Tywin also ran interference with Cersei, who'd been livid with rage when her golden twin had returned encumbered by a wife. She'd tried to assassinate Brienne anyway, though that little problem had been easily dealt with by the victim and her husband both. After that, Tywin had informed her that if she tried again, she'd be sent to crumbling old Castamere to live out the rest of her days, dowager queen or no, because he wouldn't imperil the future of his house, his grandchildren, to her improper degree of jealousy.
And it turned out to be a prescient worry, because they hadn't been married but a few months before the full moon came and went and Brienne failed to Change. She'd been frantic until Tyrion informed her that she would remain human for the duration of her pregnancies; lacking a mother, she'd never been taught the finer points of being a female shifter and was greatly relieved.
The second month along, she was resigned to not Changing, though greatly saddened, and her empathy for Jaime's loss grew immensely; how he'd suffered, all these years! But she need not have felt so bad, because while she might not be shifting for a few months, they were both greatly surprised when, that second full moon, he frowned, and squirmed, and hissed in pain when his legs bent the wrong way, and shreds of cloth flew everywhere, and then there was a lion in the family solar.
Tywin was nonplussed, Cersei seething with envious rage, Tyrion enraptured. Joffrey was dismissive, but Myrcella and Tommen were terrified, piercing the air with their shrieks of fear. They were soothed by their calm and stoic aunt, who was little affected by heightened emotions in general, a very welcome source of placid energy after a lifetime of their mother's rapid-veering moods of "waspish malignancy" and "sullen drunkenness".
Jaime was so delighted to shift again that he let Tommen ride him like a pony, and permitted Myrcella to braid his mane… the first month.
"A man has to have his dignity," he declared after that, a statement that was met with considerable hilarity by everyone who had ever met him.
He didn't place much hope in the shifting being a permanent thing, however, resigned to it ending after their child presented itself, and indeed on the first moon after Galladon was born, Brienne darted with relief into the Blackwater while Jaime remained on the shore, two-legged and cooing daftly at their son.
The pattern repeated itself twice more, when Brienne carried Joanna and then Alyce: she'd stop shifting, and he'd start, and then they'd switch once the baby was born.
…except that first month after Alyce's birth, he had to thrust her at the closest person— unfortunately Cersei— when he began to feel the familiar twitchings and itchings. Was it due to her latent maternal instincts, that Cersei did not do as everyone feared and cast the infant down on the stone floor before commencing a clog dance routine on her tiny head? More probably, it was the gimlet-eyed looks aimed at her by the girl's parents, both of whom were perfectly happy to grind her into a grease stain in the sand beneath flipper and paw.
In any case, she simply handed Alyce to her Uncle Tyrion, whom Jaime and Brienne did trust with their children, and the next morning— after a lengthy bout of lovemaking to work off the pressing need they always felt for each other after a Change— Jaime ventured to ask about it.
"Why?" he said bluntly. "Why now? Why after five years and three children?"
Brienne was quiet, twirling her fingers in the patch of golden hair between his nipples and thinking hard.
"Perhaps you had to… make up for what you'd done. With Cersei," she clarified, at his confused frown. "Three children with her… good children— well, two of them are— but they ought not to have been born. Not with her. But now you've created three who were meant to be. And perhaps that's balanced it all out?"
She rolled to her front, propped on elbows, to peer into his face.
"And it's not like you're a terrible man aside from giving me three lovely babies," she continued gently. "You've been…"
She stopped, face flaming, and she buried it in her pillow in hopes the cool linen would soothe her red cheeks, but Jaime knew she was blushing. He always knew.
"Yeeees?" he prodded. "I've been what, wench?"
"You've been the bravest, kindest man I ever met," she mumbled into the feathers. "The finest knight imaginable. I couldn't be more proud to have you as a husband."
Silence for a reply. She lifted her head from the pillow and saw he'd pulled his own over his face. She tugged and tugged until he relinquished it, revealing a face that was a bit older than when they'd met, a bit more lined, the beard a little more silver than gold, but just as handsome and even more beloved than she'd ever thought he'd become.
"I swear you make it your life's work to unman me," he grumbled, but there was no force to it. "You make me cry when you tell me we're to have another child, and then you make me cry when you give me the child, and now this."
He rolled his head to meet her gaze, and she saw his eyes were damp, but smiling, and so very loving.
"Well, you just make it so easy," she murmured. "You've a soft heart. I love your soft heart."
A spark kindled in those green eyes. In a flash, he'd flipped and rolled her over and pinned her to the bed.
"And I love your soft—"
She covered his mouth with her hand. "No."
He pried it away. "And your soft—"
"No."
"But—"
"No."
He huffed, pretending exasperation. "Well," he said, "if I can't express my appreciation, maybe you'll permit me to show it."
"Maybe I will," she agreed breathlessly, because his hands had just gone to her soft—
"Yes," she moaned. "Jaime, yes."