"I never thought you would find her. I just assumed Sansa was dead"
"Why would you assume that?"
Two blinks of her eyes let him know that she's not pleased with his detached welcome and his unpolite words. But he doesn't care. He doesn't care, he doesn't care.
"In my experience, girls like her don't live very long"
"I don't think you know many girls like her"
She doesn't miss a beat, but she does look at him rather questioningly.
"Well, I'm proud of you"
She stares back at him with dull eyes, then lowers them, quietly (but openly) suggesting that he should try harder for her to believe him. And she blinks, again: embarassment? Uneasiness? Oh, he doesn't care.
"I am", he insists, and paces around the table, "You fulfilled your oath to Catelyn Stark against all odds. Of course my sister wants Sansa dead. The girl is still a suspect in Joffrey's murder, so there is that... complication"
He's come to stand in front of her almost at the same distance as before, so he doesn't exactly know why he had to move all around the table to do so. He could have just stood still. If only he could stay still. He pauses for a moment to really take her in, because he can't believe she's there, alive, in his tent. If he weren't too occupied with being pissed at her for showing up like that and fucking up his mind, he could even allow himself the luxury to be happy to see her.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"I've come for the Blackfish"
And not for you, you prick, he's sure she would gladly add, but she doesn't.
"You're welcome to have him"
"Lady Sansa desires to take her ancestral seat back from the Boltons and assume her rightful position as Lady of Winterfell"
As she's speaking, he feels his chin tilt in the old defying way, the way he had with people before, back when his right hand wasn't made of gold, surfacing again. By this time he can bet she's wondering who the man that's standing in front of her is. The Kingslayer or Jaime? A man without honor or an oathkeeper? What will she decide he is? He really, really shouldn't care. But, as it is, he does and can't help it.
"With what army does she plan to take Winterfell?"
She regards him warily, but doesn't hesitate.
"The Tully army"
"They're a bit occupied at the moment. I was sent here to reclaim Riverrun, currently defended by the Tully rebels, so you can see the conundrum"
She frowns and blinks in frustration. Complication, conundrum. He knows: she doesn't see any complication, she doesn't see any conundrum.
"The Tullys are rebels because they're fighting for their home?"
He's sure she asks that, because "Have you really gone back to being the bastard you were?" might sound a little too harsh. Besides, they are actually talking about business, aren't they?
"Riverrun was granted to the Freys by royal decree"
"As a reward for betraying Robb Stark and slaughtering his family!"
"Exactly!"
Silence resounds in the tent and makes him feel as if he'd been shouting, even though he's sure he wasn't. Her lips press together just a little, he doesn't know if she is suppressing a retort or is just feeling sorry for him. Her pale eyes speak for her as always, and as always he can read her easily: a little disappointment here, some sadness there. And the question, the question he's avoided for months, just to find it now in her eyes and be forced to face it: why. Why? Why is he doing what he's doing? Family? Cersei? And Bronn's words suddenly jump around his mind: She want the same thing?
"We shouldn't argue about politics..."
He should be telling her that he wanted to follow her; that he feared she were dead and is glad that she's not, and that she's found Sansa and honored his vow. If she could just stop reminding him for a moment, with her simple presence, of his multiple failures ever since the day he was born and especially since the day she left King's Landing. If she could just for a moment stop looking at him with that kind of knowing look full of fucking affection...
"You're a knight, Ser Jaime. I know there is honor in you, I've seen it myself – "
"I'm a Lannister. Don't ask me to betray my own house"
He almost pleads, his voice coarse, words rushed out of his mouth. He's a Lannister, and that's what everything is about. He hates his claws, but still... What is a lion without them? But another word about honor and he will drop on his knees, begging her for forgiveness for everything he has and has not done.
"I do no such thing. Take Riverrun without bloodshed. Ride south again with your mission complete and your army intact"
She displays a confidence he didn't think her capable of and that makes the grip in his chest let go a little.
"What do you propose?"
"Allow me to enter Riverrun under a flag of truce. Let me try to persuade the Blackfish to give up the castle"
"Why would he abandon his ancestral home?"
"Because you'll allow him to lead the Tully forces safely North"
Her plan is so crazy, it might even work, and the Gods know that he's had enough of blood and death. If he can spare himself and his army the pain in the ass of keeping Riverrun under siege, he will. But still...
"Have you ever met the Blackfish?"
By the way she doesn't look at him and blinks, again, he knows that that is the point that bothers her.
"No"
"He's even more stubborn than you are"
She looks down and litterally swallows his words.
"Alright. Try to talk some sense into the old goat. He won't listen, but his men might. Not everybody wants to die for someone else's home"
"I need your word. If I persuade him to abandon the castle, you'll grant a safe passage north"
It's funny how she's the only person in Westeros that still requires a promise out of him. As if a Kingslayer's word held any value... But actually it does, and it does only because she thinks that it does.
"You have my word. You have until nightfall"
She nods, glances down, clenches her fists and resolutively starts pulling at the belt that keeps her sword to her side. Oathkeeper.
As he realises what she's doing, he unconsciously nods. Of course she wants him to take it back. Even though he knows already that he won't, still he doesn't stop her, because her gesture needs to be done and his refusing words need to be said. But as she hands it to him, a soft sigh is the only sound that makes it past his lips. He nods grimly, staring at the sword.
"You gave it to me for a purpose", she says, and her eyes quiver, but her voice doesn't, "I have achieved that purpose"
Except that he hasn't really given it to her for a purpose. He doesn't know exactly why he's given it to her, he only knows that he's not honorable enough to hold Ned Stark's sword in his own hands. Probably never will be. But she is.
"It's yours. It will always be yours"
And not only the sword, but this, this whole, simple exchange of glares and nothing more, that still feels more intimate than any hour spent in Cersei's bed. That is his and hers forever. He watches her expression change slightly as she seems to understand what he means, so slightly that, if he weren't paying attention, he would miss it. Ripples of emotion dance beneath her eyes. Then suddenly she's pacing towards the exit of his tent.
"One last thing, Sir Jaime"
"Yes, Lady Brienne"
She doesn't aknowledge the way he stresses the title, and maybe that's for the best.
"Should I fail to persuade the Blackfish... and if you attack the castle... Honor compels me to fight for Sansa's kin"
"Of course it does"
Is she asking for permission?
"To fight you"
The words sink into him slowly, until he feels a shower of cold flush down from his head to his toes. She doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want to either.
He swallows.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that".
He takes in the swell of feelings that rises on her partially illuminated face; takes in the everlasting frown that cuts her skin deep between her brows, her pale eyes that hold no secret, the softness that was hidden somewhere across her face and that now slowly bubbles up, as she regards him. He knows what it means, and if he were man enough he would do something about it.
Her lower lip quivers and, before he can even blink, she's out of his tent and storming away.
He should have known it by now: nothing ever goes right when he doesn't have bad intentions, but still... Together with the Blackfish, his attempt to honor his word to Brienne has died as well. And he didn't even have a say about it. Not to mention that now his number of failed attempts at saving people is up and counting: the Blackfish preferred dying fighting for his honor; his daughter got killed before he could even say Fuck. He did save a fair maiden from a bear, but who knows where she is now. Probably dead, side by side with the Blackfish. For now, he doesn't want to know.
The moon lightens the night in the most pleasant way. A soft breeze, though, warns him that winter is coming. He takes a step towards the parapet to admire the view... Well, to be honest, it's not that great of a view. He doesn't know how one would want to die for it: Brienne is the one who would know.
Yes, Brienne. Damn her and her good intentions, that make him feel capable of having such himself. Only to be let down, only to be let down.
The night is quiet, the leaves on the trees are dancing slowly in the breeze. On the river, a small boat is rowing away from the castle, following the current. How can this be a good time for sailing? Only two people seem to be on board...
Realisation hits him hard and troubles his breath a little. If they see them, they are dead. He turns to see if anybody is around, but they must be all very busy inside the castle, because nobody is there but him. And he's sure he has seen absolutely nothing.
He wishes so hard for her to turn around, that she does, in the end. He lowers his chin and raises a hand then, his metal hand that will hopefully catch most of the moon's light and her eye as well. He thinks he sees her hand raise in response. At least he hopes so.
And if she doesn't die, and for some strange fate he doesn't as well, maybe this is not their last goodbye.