I just really wanted to see something like this. Did I mention that I'm having trouble writing in present tense? Mildly inspired in one point by "The Vicious Circle Turns and Burns" by Laine on AO3.
The Old Man and the Sea
He sits on the terrace and looks out on the sea. He has come outside in the first place to polish and sharpen his sword, which he knows is a pointless exercise these days. By now, he merely sits, the sword over his knees, and watches. With his remaining hand he draws the fur-lined cloak tighter around his bent body. Still he shivers. Not a snowflake has yet fallen, not here, but the sky above Pentos is white as a Kingsguard cloak, then grey as steel, then white once more. The sea below reflects those colours; grey waves tall as houses and dirty white froth. In the distance, a purple sail blowing strongly in the gale, destined for Braavos. Only Braavosi, death-seekers and Stannis Baratheon would ride into such a storm.
The sea makes him sick. Being on it, being near it, just watching it. It is colder by the sea, and the waves twist and turn his stomach. He is made for the land, for a horse of flesh and blood beneath him instead of one of wood and cloth. All his life he had lived by the coast, first at the Rock, then at the capital, and yet it had never pained him as much as that narrow strip of water that lay between the continents. He even seems to remember a time when he had been a bold swimmer and braved every wave and every storm.
But watch he must, and wait. He searches the horizon with the diligence of the Night's Watchman and the alertness of the Kingsguard knight, but neither Wildlings nor would-be kingslayers ever make their way here to their refuge. He waits for news, as always, for ships from his homeland.
One of them may carry orders to return him to King's Landing, he knows, in chains if need be. It would not be the first time the dragon queen changes her mind. What is it to him? He serves at her pleasure. For her he holds this house with the red door as her "castellan," and if she proves desirous of his wretched head at last, well, it is there for the takings, right there on its neck.
Another ship might bring a gloating letter, from the queen or from his brother, informing him of his own death in the dungeons of the Red Keep. He still dreams of it, near every night, but the fallen knight is no Ser Barristan, and the black cells are not Duskendale. And yet it itches him to try his stretched luck one last time and state his own defiance. If he is lucky, he will at least catch a glimpse at her before they kill them both, as it should be. If not … he wonders if the dragon queen will throw them into adjacent dungeons. It is an axiom amongst kings and monarchs that he who is cruel to his enemies is not cruel at all. Perhaps it would amuse her to see them languish, within grasp from each other and yet unreachable. A worm divided lives and dies in pain even after the wound of his body has healed.
As of late, the dreams have become more sparse. Now he dreams hardly at all, and he seems to taste a milky sweetness in his food and wine. It is kind of his companion to care, or perhaps she merely wishes for a night's sleep without him crying and lashing about beside her. Still, he wants to ask her to stop. He is a knight, a Lannister, and he must bear his shame. He is a brother and a lover, and he must suffer for his failure. And, if he is honest to himself, he awaits those dreams like an old friend, he revels in them. They show him what he is too craven to seek out himself, glimpses of his sister. As long as he has those dreams, he lives.
A lightning strikes the sea in some distance and he watches as it unravels, the purest white against steel. Then thunder. For a moment he wonders if the children will cry, then he remembers they are too big to be frightened by a little noise. As the first raindrops fall on his head, the fallen knight closes his eyes and throws his head back. Soon, he is drenched. Water runs down his cheeks like tears, runs through his hair like a caress. His cloak clings cold and heavy to his form. A voice calls out for him, his restless companion, ever so loyal, and asks him come inside. He pretends not to hear.
The horizon darkens ever so slightly. Idly he imagines the lightnings are sparks of the Smith's anvil, the thunder the clamour of the Warrior's sword on his shield, the raging wind the breath of the Father, and the darkness the Stranger fast approaching. All the gods uniting to punish his sins. "Come, sers!," he shouts into the wind, "Destroy me if you can!" No storm can reach a dungeon cell, and thus no storm can kill him.
A large hand roughly grasps him by his shoulder, takes the sword from his lap and raises him to his feet. He offers no resistance, only turns and looks back at his companion. "You should come inside," she says in a voice gentler than her touch, and the fallen knight nods and follows her into the house. He does not see what difference it makes, the windows are large and protected only by silken curtains, not by wooden shutters and thick glass as at home. Here at last is a place where winter never truly comes, where Eddard Stark's derision and scorn are meaningless and laughable because he is meaningless.
The fallen knight is not surprised to see his nephew and niece … his wards … his children sitting in the dining room by the sea. The king offers him a brief smile, but Myrcella's eyes are, if not cool, then expressionless. "How are you to-day, ser uncle?," she asks with perfect courtesy. He says something meaningless, they both know it is a lie. They still call him uncle or ser, but never father – he has no right to that appellation which neither she nor Tommen will bestow upon him. He has never known his children. Their mother would never let him act as a father should, but he knows it is false to blame his sister and be done with it. Even then she would have let him be an uncle, and even as an uncle he would have been more of a father to them than Robert ever was. It is his own fault, and only his own, that all he can see in the children's faces are coldness, indifference, and always his sister.
Brienne has the handful of servants the dragon queen will allow them bring a light dinner and they sit down to eat. Normally he would have grabbed a bite in the kitchen or not eaten at all. Before, he has only ever dined as opposed to eaten when he was expected to be present at some function – or with his sister, always with his sister, at every opportunity until she pushed him away. But Brienne insists that they dine, and dine together, and pretend. He wonders if she thinks forcing them to sit and eat in silence will forge them into a family, or if she is the last one left to understand that no such thing exists for the dead.
The dead, he calls their unhappy cabal in his thoughts. His sister would agree, he knows. He was not there when it happened – though he and Brienne fought their way through scores of Unsullied and sellswords, they were too late and found only the new queen with the old gone. But people talk, even Unsullied, and they say the lion queen received her replacement seated in glory on the Iron Throne. He can picture her, all in red and gold, a golden crown studded with emeralds and rubies in her open mane. She sits there amidst the swords with her hands on the armrests and her back straight as a bowstring. From cool eyes she deigns to look down on the dragon queen, a mere girl, who must cower before the lioness – Brienne warns him that his food is getting cold, he does not mind.
He should have been there. He should have stood by her side in gold and white and defended her, or died with her. Again he pictures the throne, this time both of them sit inside it, his sister in his lap, both dead, their blood on his blade, their bodies locked in a solemn and final embrace. Blasphemous, a different man might call it, to thus profane the throne of the dragon kings. He has always been a blasphemer, and he regrets nothing until that last day of their lives.
When she summoned him days after, he appeared before her in his Kingsguard whites. Insolence always dripped more flowingly from his tongue than wisdom. "I may not be yours, but I am still a Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and as such sit on the Small Council of this realm. Allow me to counsel you: as long as my family exists, your crown will never sit easily. You must put my sister the Queen, myself, and our children to death without delay." The dragon girl's smile was fearsome to behold. Must I now?
And thus, by her cruelty, her tyranny, he lives from day to day. The children live, which is some consolation, but they mean little to him. Brienne lives, which is better. But they might as well be dead. Life, what does that word mean? He has never known it; he has a different word for the concept: life is Cersei.
He stares at Myrcella as they eat. The hideous scar on her face is hidden by a curtain of golden hair, and for a moment he holds her for his sister. Those cheekbones, that nose, and those beautiful big eyes – he wants to reach over the table and take her delicate hand, kiss her full lips and fuck her on the table until she screams his name in ecstasy.
His sister does not look in his direction, but she seems to feel his gaze, squirms and starts up a conversation with Tommen, and he remembers from her soft and gentle voice that she is Myrcella. But that name means nothing to him, and he still wants to do these things and more to her, pretend she is someone she is not. Brienne's presence is the only thing keeping him from taking her right here and now, and for all the dinners to come. He looks at plumb little Tommen instead and pretends to listen to his prattle for the rest of the meal while his arousal diminished. Not even Tommen is happy, the fallen knight realises as he watches, no matter how lively he seems. He misses his mother, he does not know what to think about his new father, in fact is closer to Brienne, who has a way with the children that reminds him of his brother. The girl (he forces himself to call her Myrcella) is no happier, she misses her Dornish prince, is scared by his stares.
When they repair to their bed that night, they fuck. They do that from time to time, usually when he feels he has some obligation to fulfil. He still pays his debts. This time, it's different, and he is properly impassioned. Sex with Brienne is like a battle, in that by the end he does not have enough energy to even lift his little finger. When they are finished and lie beside each other on the covers, neither speaks. His sister would have nestled to him and not let go until the morning. His sister would have kissed and caressed him, would have roused him again and again. It is different, and only the plain mechanics are the same. When he is with Brienne, he feels good, when he was with Cersei, he felt alive. He is fond of Brienne, very much so. But he loves her not, not as he loves Cersei.
As the fallen knight lies in the dark, thinks of his sister, and pleasures himself, he likes to imagine someone in a dungeon cell far far away is thinking of him.
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