A/N: First GOT fanfiction! Keep in mind that I am only halfway through A Feast for Crows and I might be getting names, spellings, and even places wrong. Let me know, and if I do, I am sorry!
Chapter One: The Lion's Den.
Brienne entered King's Landing for the first time under the full sun of mid-day at the cusp of autumn. Jaime followed in her significant shadow, his greasy hair hiding his expression. Brienne had casually watched his face as they approached the city; his face had lost some of the color he had gained by riding day after day in the sun. Other than that, his handsome face had remained stony and expressionless.
Very rarely had the Kingslayer, no, Ser Jaime, Brienne corrected herself, betrayed any emotion. When his uncle had died, he did not weep or help Brienne dig the grave. When a passing singer brought them news that his nephew, or son, if the rumors were true, was to marry the Tyrell maid, he had barely even raised an eyebrow. He seemed to think he was still in the presence of enemies, though his only companions of late had been the Maid of Tarth and the former Maester Qyburn, who had saved his arm and cleaned his stump.
A filthy man, though admittedly probably cleaner than the travellers, pushed between Brienne and her charge, leading a mule pulling a cart full of fish. The smell overpowered the stench of the unwashed pair. With the cart between her and Jaime, Brienne could see him how others must: dirty, maimed, and above all, common, though he was still blessed with the Lannister features. His green eyes met hers.
He is afraid, she realized. He never thought he would make it home, and now he's too afraid to face it. Afraid of what, Brienne could only imagine. Jaime was haunted by demons she did not wish to become acquainted with. His stern lord father, his imp brother, and the sister that he might be in love with. Brienne shuddered to think of all those relationships running through his head all the time. She was suddenly glad that she was not Jaime Lannister.
Jaime inclined his head at her momentarily, as though saying some sort of goodbye. Brienne's chest constricted for a second. She felt as though she and Jaime had gained almost a grudging respect for each other during the long road they had travelled together. After spending every second of every day together, she hoped they had become sort of like makeshift friends. She felt that uncertain bond was leaking out of Jaime's green eyes as he gazed at her now. She felt as though he was cutting her off, cutting her out. As the cart finally, mercifully, moved out of the way, Brienne sought the strange comfort of Jaime's side.
"Ser Jaime," she asked tentatively, "Are you alright?" Her large hand descended toward his and grasped his wrist almost gently.
Jaime's hand scooted up and away from hers, but his eyes were still green and beautiful, the ones she remembered. "I'm fine, wench," he replied. "I'm home." He extended his arms as to show the extravagance of his former life, but his sling stopped him and he seemed to think better of it. As he moved away from her, toward the Red Keep, the member of the King's Guard studied his face. After a long moment, he realized who he was staring at and flinched, looking from the stump to the ground. It seemed news of Jaime's maiming had not reached King's Landing before the man himself.
In the shadow of the Keep, in Jaime's ultimate domain, Ser Jaime turned back to her and they stared at each other for a long moment. Brienne on the outside, looking in, and Jaime on the inside, staring out. Jaime turned up one corner of his lips and stepped back into the sun, outside the Keep, and pushed Brienne toward the shade. "Let's go," he said. "We have a reunion to attend." He did not sound enthused. After one deep breath full of the stink of the city and a little of naïve hope, Brienne entered the Keep.
Jaime's mind registered a thousand things at once: the rank smell of him, the distressed look on the wench's face, the abysmal pink dress she was still wearing, the disgusted looks he got from members of the King's Guard, and the frantic beating of his heart against his ribs. He had waited so long to be back, to return to Cersei. Now that he had returned, in two disgusting pieces, he considered being an outlaw and living off the land until he died.
For a single, mad moment, he hoped his sister would overlook the stump, overlook his maimed self, but even the single hope could not hold. Cersei loved him because they were one and the same; because they were both beautiful. She would hate him, he realized. She would hate him as she hated their brother.
As he brooded, Brienne fell into step beside him, as she so often did nowadays. Her curiosity and unasked questions leaked off of her ungainly body in waves. He allowed himself one last, final look at her profile. To be sure, it wasn't much to look at, but he felt a warmth in his chest that he could only attribute to respect or companionship. But when she turned to look at him fully, her magnificent blue eyes wide and guarded, he felt the warmth in his chest expand and had to suppress a smile. The wench saw the change in his face, damnably observant as she was, and furrowed her brow unpleasantly.
"Relax, wench," he said to quell his nervous laughter. "You got me home safe, your oath has been fulfilled."
Her face was still troubled. "I still must return Sansa Stark to her mother," she answered. "My oath is half-kept. Now it is your turn, Ser Jaime."
The sound of his name, this knightly title and given name, made him appreciate her even more. He knew letting go of his nickname of "Kingslayer" had been breaking a habit for her, but she had not so much as slipped up once. Then his chest felt warm and he thought of Cersei again. Soon, his hands were shaking like a damn squire and he hated himself again.
He, Brienne, and Qyburn were taken immediately to the Tower of the Hand, to Tywin Lannister. Jaime felt an absurd sense of dread at the idea of a father-son reunion. Brienne, the blissfully ignorant wench, looked as strong and determined as ever.
Lord Tywin was seated in his solar, a cup of wine in his hand. When his son entered, he did not rise, but let his eyes scrutinize every inch of his travel-worn offspring before they settled on his hand . . . stump. The phantom fingers tingled.
"Who did this?" He asked, his voice stern but flat. His eyes went to Brienne, who stepped forward. Jaime, seeing the potential disaster, interrupted her before she could speak.
"The Goat, they call him. One of the Bloody Mummers. Father, this is the Lady Brienne of Tarth, who saved my life to return me to King's Landing, and Qyburn, who saved my arm."
Tywin did not acknowledge them. "But not your hand, it seems."
"That could not be helped," Jaime insisted. "Father, I know we have much to discuss, but I must insist on a bath and fresh clothes for myself and my companions. We have travelled far."
Lord Tywin waved dismissively at Qyburn, who bowed and took his leave. Brienne, stubborn as a mule, stayed.
"My lord," she said, "My lady Catelyn Stark sent me to return to you your son. In return, I am to bring her Lady Sansa and Lady Arya."
Lord Tywin gave Brienne the half smirk Jaime had learned to dread. Something terrible was about to be dropped on the Maid of That, but Jaime could fine neither the words or the courage to warn her. She continued to stare at the Lion of Casterly Rock with expectation and absolutely no fear. Jaime admired it, and pitied her all the same.
"It pains me to say this, my lady," his father put emphasis on the word "lady," as though he did not believe her one, "But your lady is dead."
Brienne physically deflated so significantly that Jaime wanted to rush to her aid, though how he would defend her, he did not know. She would never allow it. He stayed where he was.
"She, her traitor son who called himself the King in the North, and probably Arya Stark as well," his father continued without sparing Brienne. "As for Sansa Stark, I'm afraid she must go where her lord husband believes she should go."
Since Brienne was still too shocked to respond, Jaime asked for her. "Husband?"
Tywin turned his smirk to his son. "Why your brother, Tyrion," his smile grew. "The girl is a Lannister now."
Brienne did not remember getting escorted out of the Hand's solar, did not even remember being led to her guest chambers in Maegor's Holdfast. Jaime seemed to be almost as lost as she, and they spent a long while in silence, sitting on either side of the featherbed.
"I'm sorry," he said, so quietly that she thought she imagined it. But his head turned toward her, and she knew she heard correctly.
"How did she . . ." Brienne couldn't finish. Jaime sighed, and pushed himself across the bed to her side.
"Father said she, Robb, and most of his soldiers were slain at Lord Edmure Tully's wedding to Roslin Frey. The Red Wedding, they call it," he stopped, unwilling to continue.
"What else?"
"Brienne –,"
She turned to him so fast that he thought she meant to attack him. But there were tears in her eyes, not anger. "Please, Ser, I must know."
Jaime reached a hand toward her, hesitated, and withdrew it. Brienne, realizing his intent, placed her large hand over his stump, and looked him in the eye.
"What else?"
He told her all he knew, the bloody details he desperately wanted to keep from her, and soon her shoulders were shaking and her hand had tightened on his stump. He hated himself. As he was telling the story, maids brought in hot water for Brienne's bath.
"If it please you, Ser Jaime, I would like to bathe now," she said in a small voice he did not like. Seven hells, he couldn't just leave her here to drown herself in her bathwater after all he told her, after all she'd done for him.
"You may bathe, but I'm not leaving," he said. Brienne's horsey face looked so surprised her almost laughed in spite of himself. "I don't mean to seem bawdy, I mean only to watch over you and give you comfort in any way I can." Dammit, Jaime, you sound like a fucking retard. He almost slapped himself. He could feel a flush creeping up his chest, but tried to suppress it. If she could fight for him, get hurt for him, and everything else she had done, he could make sure she didn't do anything stupid.
"I think I can manage to bathe myself, ser," she replied stiffly. There was something in her eyes that Jaime did not like. "And to be clear, I don't appreciate mockery." The warmth from earlier was gone; she turned her back on him and started unlacing her boots.
Jaime was confused. "This is no jape, wench. I owe you my life, and a Lannister always pays his debts."
"Oh save your Lannister words."
"I won't look if you don't want, I only mean to keep you company, especially because I'm the one who brought you here."
"I brought you here," she said, almost proud.
"But my lord father will not let you leave, and that fault is mine," he looked into her magnificent eyes, and willed himself not to flush. "This is not a joke. I mean to keep you safe, and in King's Landing, you are in more danger than you will ever understand."
"I am not a dimwitted maid, ser," she spat. "I can take care of myself." She was hastily retreating behind the walls she had up when Jaime first met her, and he could not break them down fast enough. She didn't trust anything coming from his mouth. He felt his control on the situation slipping.
"In a place where a wrongly whispered word can mean death, no, you cannot. The crows will be eating out of your tarred skull in a week."
Brienne's face hardened. "I don't need your help, Kingslayer. I know that I'm just an ugly woman in knight's clothes to you, but I have protected myself all my life. I protected you too. I will survive without you, whatever you think. And I will get Sansa Stark, and I will fulfill my oath. When I do, you needn't ever look on me again."
Jaime's heart ached from the wound his nickname had left, coming from her lips. He felt his patience run thin, and fought for composure.
He lost the fight. "Fine. I'll be sure to have your ugly head bronzed so the farmers can use it to scare away the birds. Good day, Beauty," he spat the last word at her and managed to see the hurt register on her face before he stormed out. The sick satisfaction he felt quickly melted as he left the room.
His sister was waiting for him on the other side. In his anger, he stormed right past her like she was a common maid. She followed, her skirts hissing over the ground.
"Why is it that I heard about your return from Varys and not from you personally?" She asked, the fury evident in her voice. Jaime did not answer, but only held up his stump. This was not the way he wanted to see Cersei, but he was too angry to care what she thought right now. His twin gasped, and her revulsion made him feel queerly proud.
"Has Father seen this?" She asked.
Jaime laughed humorlessly. "I missed you too, sweet sister," he replied, continuing on his way. Cersei sighed and hurried to catch up.
"Who took your sword hand, Jaime?" She asked. "Ilyn Payne will have his head spiked in a fortnight."
Jaime allowed himself a genuine chuckle. "If we're lucky, Vargo Hoat is already dead and decaying," he replied. "Lady Brienne dealt him a mortal blow," he thought of her biting his ear and smiled again.
"Ah yes, the giantess. When will I be fortunate enough to meet this . . . woman? Man? What it is we call her?"
Cersei meeting Brienne was the last thing Jaime wanted. "Lady Brienne. That is what we call her."
