"Cold blows the wind to my true love,
And gently drops the rain,
I never had but one sweetheart,
And in greenwood she lies slain."
~Helium Vola, The Unquiet Grave
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What if the stars...?
a song of knights and maidens
by A.M. Palmer
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-I-
"Who wants to die defending a Lannister?"
~Brienne of Tarth to Catelyn Stark
Her absence hangs in the air, heavier than a thousand shared lives unlived.
It is harder to lose someone who was never yours to begin with, he reckons. 'Tis the questions left unanswered, or mayhaps the heft of love that remained unrequited. Mayhaps this is why it burns so strong.
He hears the songs everywhere, these days. Would she have approved of them? Glory had never been her purpose, and during her lifetime, men exactly like the ones currently singing her praises had treated her like an abomination, neither man nor woman, a walking, talking joke. The ugliest maiden in the realm, they called her, and yet she'd fought- and died- for them. Now every street, every market, every tavern harbours pairs of lips ready to exalt her valiance.
How very dare they, he thinks. The very people who had mocked her in life. And now they tell their sons stories about how she embodied every ideal of knighthood. Most of these idiots would sooner die than see their daughters wield a sword, and yet- and yet!- they carry themselves with a newfound poise, these proud people of Tarth. Tarth, as in the birth-place of one of the most beloved heroes to have fallen during the Battle for the Dawn.
As if they knew her. As if any of those dimwits had ever looked at her twice.
Most songs include him, as well, because of course they do. Not that he fears being recognised, so many years later, with his unkempt beard and silver hair, the golden hand a distant memory, long ago replaced by a wooden one. It is a torment regardless- retellings upon retellings of everything he wishes he could forget. The very idea of his plight, his lost hopes and dreams and all the things that keep him awake at night up to this day, being thought of and used as entertainment, makes him sick. If he were their lord, he'd banish them, someplace far enough, so that their words could no longer reach human ears.
He could have been their lord. Or so he believes.
At least the name is no longer Kingslayer. These days they refer to him as Ser Goldenhand the Brave, and there is also the other name, the one the common folk love so much, the one he hates with passion. Fuck that name. Fuck the people who utter it as though it were his crowning achievement, a sacred thing. He knows precisely what he would renounce it in exchange for. A ridiculous thought, because, even if the Seven somehow decided to undo the past few decades and bring her back, she would scold him like a mother a son of five-and-ten.
This is not about what you want, she'd say. It's about doing what's honourable. Given a million second chances, she'd throw herself between him and a million more wights, die a million more deaths, look at him with eerie, undead eyes a million times more. The honourable thing! How could he explain to her that she'd been his honour, that once she was gone, there was nothing left?
Maybe it is the years passing by. Maybe with old age he has obtained a flair for the dramatic, a sentimentality unbecoming of the ruthless Lannister he once was. Sometimes he tries to understand whether his memory has idealized both her and their shared history. He recalls wanting her at Harrenhall, feeling perturbed by this unexpected desire for an ugly warrior woman. But the Brienne of his mind palace is all but a true beauty. How could he have ever seen her in any other light?
Oftentimes, right after the crack of dawn, he forgets where he is, momentarily believing himself to be young again, his sister's lover, the Man Without Honour. It is in these instances that Jaime ends up missing Brienne the most, because he fails to remember she's dead. He takes long, deep breaths, cherishing every inhale and exhale, knowing that somewhere, out there, she is breathing the same air, under the same sky, very much alive, tall and defiant like a cypress. And her limbs are long and deadly, her callused fingers tightly clenched around Oathkeeper's hilt- the sword he once carried. And she is roaming the realm, stubborn yet free, dancing her warrior's dance around awe-struck swordsmen, serving who she chooses, protecting the weak, being one of a kind.
And her hair falls in dirty straggles across her big forehead, crowning a face as pallid as the moon. How could anyone call this woman ugly? She's formidable this way, equal parts fragile and unrelenting, a creature not quite from this world. And, surrounded by lashes that seem, but are not precisely, white, capturing the sunlight like gemstones, her eyes-
The daydream always ends there. If there's something that grieves him more than the fact that she does not exist, this is it. The White Walkers- they ruined the remembrance of her lovely eyes. The very same eyes that had been his consolation many a time; when he committed crime after crime in order to protect his sister and their children; when he charged at a fully grown dragon, his own men falling to their deaths in the thousands all around him; when he abandoned one of the two women he loved so that he could join the alliance of the living against the dead; it was those eyes that had taught him how to persevere, to do the right thing, to be bold and brave, like her.
It was those eyes that he had sworn to protect by asking her to fight beside him. And he could no longer think of them, reminisce them, worship them, because, the last time they opened, they were the wrong shade of blue, the blue that looks but does not see, the blue that still haunts his nightmares.
This is usually the final thing he sees before he awakens, his own screams reverberating in his skull, as real as they were on the night they'd first burned his throat. Brienne, it is me, for he'd rather be hoping against hope than attack the body that was once hers. It's me, Jaime. Because, how could she no longer be there? How dare she sacrifice her life this way, when he'd sacrificed Cersei for a chance to save her, effectively depriving him of a reason to exist? Brienne, please. But she was someplace else, if anywhere, so he'd looked at the blurry figure lunging towards him and, releasing a breath he had no idea he'd been holding, Jaime had plunged Widow's Wail right through her heart.
The heart of a maiden.
The heart of a warrior.
This is why the North was never an option, and neither was the Wall. Queen Daenerys had let him live -because of the cursed name on everyone's lips, if anything- but, as the man to have slain her father, it was required of him to renounce his titles and leave the capital, leading many to assume he'd take the black. But Jaime could not stand the sight of snow, or the frozen wastelands in the north, or anything that had to do with the undead. There was no place he could confidently call home anymore.
A few moons back, Jaime thought a fisherman had recognised him. He was roaming the docks, staring absentmindedly at the pristine waters, when a gravelly voice called out behind him. He instantly felt his blood turn cold, but the man had only noticed the stump, gesturing towards the hook that replaced his own right hand. A remnant from better days, he'd told him, smiling to reveal an array of missing teeth. Jaime caught himself nodding in agreement.
Aye. Better days.
And then the man guessed, correctly: you are not a local, am I right? To which Jaime replied with a second nod. The fisherman must have found the conversation amusing, for he went on. And how in the seven hells did you end up in Tarth?
It only took a moment's thought. "My wife was from here."
A monstrous lie; in the end, they'd been nothing to one another, not even exactly friends. When Cersei was still alive, and before the Long Night, he'd kept sending her away, believing she didn't need him, whereas his sister very much did. And mayhaps he and Cersei deserved one another, too, thus Jaime could not afford to think longingly of a woman sworn to the Starks, a woman he would most certainly have to fight to the death, sooner or later.
When he'd arrived at the gates of Winterfell, a crippled man offering himself instead of the army Cersei had promised, things were different. For the first time, they didn't belong in opposing sides. Glances were longer, silences more meaningful. Lord Snow had chosen Brienne as a commander, and after years of being the subject of derision, she finally walked with a gait that could make hearts stop, confident, purposeful. She carried herself with dignity and strength, a sight to behold as she knocked doe-eyed recruits to the ground, one by one. The northerners seemed to respect her as much as they despised him, and who was he to taint that respect by seeking her friendship?
"This is your last chance", his brother had told him. They were standing behind the ramparts, observing, as she tirelessly trained both lads and girls outside. "The heiress of Tarth, who knew. Not me, despite my superior intellect. I reckon our father would have become the most devout man in the seven kingdoms, had he known."
Snow was falling quietly around them, landing on Brienne's shoulders and hair, making her shimmer in the weakening sunlight. To Jaime, she looked unreal.
"I only care for Lady Brienne as a friend."
The reply had prompted Tyrion to give him a knowing nudge. "Suit yourself, big brother. But keep in mind, she'll be on the front line in a few days, possibly on her way to an early grave. See if your pride is more important than this." He'd vaguely gestured at the open space separating them, him and her, ugly maiden, shit knight. Barely song material- and yet!
Tyrion had been wrong, of course. It was not pride, but cowardice. And people call him Ser Goldenhand the Brave- brave! Preposterous. He would have told her. He should have, and in spite of everything she still died believing no man could have ever loved her, defending a man she didn't know loved her. Jaime had conjured up an entire speech in his mind. About Harrenhall, about how he'd wanted to jump off the castle walls and swim after her boat at Riverrun. And if she would have him- alas, he never got to know!- he'd take her to the old heart tree outside, because this was the North after all.
Walking noiselessly towards her chambers, the night before the big battle, he could already feel the warmth of her hand pressed on his remaining one, the piece of cloth gently binding them together, their breaths, closer than ever, forming little clouds in the cold air as the words left their mouths, Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.
When the daydream was over, Jaime was already at her door, his left hand a tight fist, prepared to knock. Wanting, waiting. His skin brushed against the old wood, but he never got further than that. Instead, he noiselessly pressed his forehead against the wall, reveling in the knowledge of her current well-being, of the blood in her veins and the beating of her heart.
He turned on his heel and left.
Why is he doing this? With each passing day Jaime loses himself further into these memories. Mayhaps this is what old age means; the world getting smaller, and smaller yet, the past getting bigger. He is a relic now, a remnant from another time, as the fisherman had put it. And yet he spends his last few days on this earth tormenting himself with questions that cannot be answered. Would she have taken him as her husband? Had she ever thought of him that way? It is pointless to wonder, for she is not coming back, and unless there is another life beyond the grave, they shall never meet again.
A cruel, ugly thought keeps haunting him. Had Brienne survived the war, would he have stayed? Sometimes he fears he would have ran back to King's Landing, to protect his sister from Daenerys. Perhaps he had loved Brienne more in death, because, as opposed to his sister, Brienne had always been beyond his reach. His feelings for her never got to be tested, never grew old, never became mundane. Their lives never crossed paths long enough for his passion to be extinguished, for his curiosity to abate.
And what about the world? Had it been a better place, before the burden of this loss, without the echoes of his steel tearing through her flesh in his ears? Had the game tasted different, once? Did the sky use to be a different shade of blue? What if the stars shone brighter at night, or the wet earth smelled sweeter?
Jaime knows he ought to have died instead. At least he wouldn't have to listen to those horrible songs now. He wishes he was any good at music so that he could rewrite each and every one of them. Would people still find them amusing, then? If he could sing about the way her lifeless body fell to the ground, about the way the heads of the living craned his way, incredulous, and through the wetness in his eyes he saw the sudden flash of light, he felt the sudden heat, and he was instantly blind with rage, rage because right then he knew this would have happened anyway, would they still call him the Azor Ahai and mean it as praise...?
One of these days, Jaime promises himself, he is going to seek the old fisherman. And when he finds him, he might tell him how he got the stump. And about Brienne, as well, since life is getting shorter and someone ought to know before the truth dies with him. If not the whole story, then parts of it. Glimpses, like the glint of her sword against a background of raging dragonfire, or the fury etched in her face as Oathkeeper's blade sliced through hordes of wights.
And, for the love of the Seven! Someone has to educate those bards, for they know nawt. One of these days, he'll kick them in the nuts, one by one, but not before explaining that, in order to forge the Lightbringer -as legend has it- Ser Jaime Lannister had had to plunge his sword into the heart of his nissa-nissa, Lady Brienne of Tarth, the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms.
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Author's Note: I am so sorry. I am really sleepy and this kind of happened on its own. I could come up with no other way to cope with the unsettling stuff I noticed in the S8 trailer, and as per usual, I am writing while depressed. Part two will only get worse, so be warned. I am actually fun at parties, I swear. For real.
