Their marks mean nothing to her. The twin bands of blue – sapphire – fire around his wrists are always hot at their close proximity and the sensations spike whenever they touch, their souls alight with a need to be bound. Ignore it, Brienne says, it means nothing. It tears him apart to think of it, of not bonding, but the reality that he has actually met his soulmate means more.

Jaime Lannister never thought he would have this, no matter that like everyone else on their sixteenth birthday if it hasn't already formed, his soulmark appeared in a blaze of blue glory.

"After years with my sister saying she was my other half, it is certainly a relief to find you, wench," Jaime says in the silence, starting this conversation up once more, just to see where it could go – but oh, he does find himself loving how she reacts to his teasing, otherwise. "Cersei is unusually fixated on soulmarks," he even says, shocking himself at the candid mention of his sister.

Brienne of Tarth ignores him and his shock. She cooks a rabbit on a spit and looks only at the crisping skin, instead of giving any sign she's listening – but Jaime knows she is. They're the only two people for at least a league and besides, they're bare feet apart. She couldn't stop hearing him if she tried.

"When did yours appear?" he asks her, trying to gauge her age. "You're younger than me, I can see that without asking. Oh, let me guess – twenty-five? Twenty-nine?" Her eyes flicker in his direction and he shakes his head with a smirk. "No, that's not it. I'm close though, aren't I?"

"…I've had my soulmark since I was a toddler," Brienne eventually says, causing him to blink in confusion.

"Pardon? A toddler? How old are you?"

Jaime can't guess solely on appearance now – not when she's said that. Truly, Brienne is a brute, with wide shoulders and a square, freckly face. Not even long hair could soften that ugly mug. Jaime finds he doesn't care though, not after seeing her fight those Stark men over him and those hanged girls – it raised his blood in a truly awfully magnificent way.

But, toddler? Really? Jaime tries to count in his head, frowning. She's perhaps twelve years younger than me, then, fourteen at the most and I'm thirty-three. So- so eighteen?

"Eighteen?" he guesses out loud, finding it hard to believe.

"…nineteen," Brienne grunts.

"Nineteen," Jaime repeats thoughtfully, before shifting on his rock for a chair. She's ginormous for a nineteen year-old, but I suppose it explains her naivety. She's sworn herself to as many sides as I had, at her age. "Any chance I could get a chance to bathe in the river, wench? There's no shame in seeing your soulmate naked – though I suppose I'd be the first you'd ever seen like that."

Brienne flinches.

"Ooh, got that right, I think," Jaime puts his hands to his face, cupping his dirty bearded cheeks. "Maybe I should be the one scared for my virtue! I'm the pretty one out of the two of us, after all. Are you going to try seducing me, Lady Brienne?"

"Enough," she finally snaps, glaring at him. "Quiet yourself, Kingslayer. We may be soulmates, but I will not let that get in the way of my oath. Lady Catelyn will have her daughters back in exchange for you."

Jaime lowers his hands, scoffing. "It won't work. Father might want me back, but he'd never trade two hostages for a son who's bound to the Kingsguard like I am. I'm never to be his heir, no matter how much he wishes."

"You were Arthur Dayne's squire," Brienne says, then. "He still had a son, the whole country knows that and he was Kingsguard like you. You're no cheap hostage. Sansa and Arya shall be returned to their mother."

"Right," Jaime mutters, not happy to be reminded of his only needed skill, there. Father knows I can do it, too, he thinks miserably of Cersei's children. Jonric Dayne – I can't believe Fat Robert legitimised his dead Lyanna's bastard.

The problem there is that Jaime's met the poor kid, a poor, good kid – just like his father in temperament, enough that Jaime quickly became uncomfortable with the boy's nervous questioning – but who would rather join the Nights Watch than ride for Starfall. Ned Stark truly was a fool, raising that boy to think the North fairer than the South – and letting him take Dawn to the Wall, too! Edric Dayne at least should have gotten the sword alongside Arthur's body.

Now, that sword shall probably be lost to the cold winds of Wildling Land, along with young Jon bones.

"Is it true you met him? Jon Dayne?" Brienne questions him, after a moment. "Is he really the Sword of Morning?"

"We met," Jaime grits his teeth. "It's true, he could swing it as well as a boy of fourteen could, but I'd never call him the Sword of Morning. That's a title he doesn't deserve, not yet, probably not ever. He's never been South and he's never learnt to be anything other than a Stark, despite his name. Dawn should never have been his."

"It was his father's sword."

"Doesn't mean he should have been the Sword of Morning," Jaime snaps. "Enough. Why are you so interested, anyway?"

Brienne frowns deeply, making her face even more unpleasant to look at. You can see every thought as it runs across her face, Jaime thinks, half-angry and half-fascinated by the visual honesty, used to a lifetime of courtiers – of ladies and lords playing the Game of Thrones, who would rather cut out their tongues than show their true faces.

"My sister-in-law," she eventually says, "she likes hearing about the world. She's not left Tarth since she came. She's always been fascinated by the Rebellion, too careless…" Brienne falls silent, something Jaime plans to remedy.

"Sister-in-law? You have siblings?" Jaime queries, before prodding, "At least your father doesn't have to rely on you to produce an heir, if you have a brother."

"…true," Brienne grunts. "My brother already has three children by her. Duncan, Rhianne and Aemon."

Jaime's eyebrows rise. "Aemon? Aemon of Tarth – now, that must have pissed off Robert when he heard." The strange thing is, though, Jaime can't remember Robert raging at a child being named for the dead Targaryen's. Tarth belongs to the Stormlands, too, Jaime frowns. He definitely would have heard, if it happened.

Brienne shifts uncomfortably. "Nyssa is from Dorne and- and Dorne's memory is long." She says the words like she's said them before, reaching forwards to take the rabbit from the spit.

Dorne's memory is long. Elia. Rhaenys and Aegon. Jaime's stomach twists and turns, remembering Rhaenys' smile – so like her mothers – and baby Aegon who could barely do more than lift his head as he wriggled on the floor, stomach to carpet. He was learning how to crawl. The image of them both lying there in front of the Iron Throne, bloodied and unrecognisable, is enough to make him want to throw up, marring his sweet memories of them.

They eat in silence and Jaime can't help but be drawn into his old memories – the traumatic memories when he couldn't go into that safe place in his mind, when Aerys ordered him to murder some poor innocent and insulted him in the same breath; when he stood outside Queen Rhaella's door, trying and failing to ignore her screams; when he saw those three mutilated bodies on the stone floor of the throne room.

My princesses, my prince. Jaime is numb inside, his tears long shed. Robert had asked him to confirm the bodies to be those of the Royal Family and Jaime hadn't spared them more than a glance before throwing up, shaking and sobbing. No-one had come to his aid – no-one dared help the Kingslayer in front of Robert Baratheon, who called the unrecognisable bodies of Aegon and Rhaenys dragonspawn with vitriol and hatred.

He shifts where he sits, the blue fire around his wrists that rises up nearly to his elbow clear and visible, even under the dirt – the nature of soulmarks. They can't be hidden for long, unless they're Grey. Cersei used to say they were shackles, but Jaime likens them to armguards in his mind. Rhaenys had her marks, he remembers, recalling the ocean waves that spiralled across her collarbones, the largest mark he'd ever seen.

Rhaenys thought we were soulmates, Jaime thinks with a chuckle, attracting Brienne's attention as he peers at their shared marks. Same shade of blue, after all.

"What's so funny?"

"Ever wanted children, milady?" Jaime asks in return, winking at her. "They can be precocious little buggers, you know. I was recalling some fond memories. This little girl I once knew – she thought we were soulmates, didn't know any better. Adorable."

"Who was she?" Brienne asks, as if that isn't the hardest question in the universe to answer.

"…just a girl from Casterly Rock," he lies, shrugging. "One of the servant girls' daughters. She was nobody."

Nobody. Rhaenys was not 'nobody'.

Jaime can't keep his mouth shut, though. He goes on, talking about Casterly Rock and all his family members – his Aunt Genna, his uncles Kevan, Tygott and Gerion, his cousins like Lancel and Joy – complaining about old things of the past. Brienne doesn't listen attentively – Jaime thinks she actually falls asleep on him at one point, something Jaime could have predicted with how far they've travelled and how much time she spent guarding him through the night.

He keeps talking though. He can't stop it. He's bursting to speak, to have an actual conversation with anyone that isn't you're going to die, Kingslayer or did you really fuck your sister, sister-fucker? Jaime was in a cell for a year, gods preserve him and his sanity – is it so much to ask to have someone to speak to?

The next day, Jaime starts up a new-old line of conversation: fucking. He tells her how much he wants to find the nearest warm body and fuck them into the new year and how he doesn't even care if that body is Brienne – that he'd like to see what her cunt's like, if she'd get wet for him and let him lick her till she screamed.

It's the only conversation that actually gets a reaction out of her. She gets angry, annoyed and extremely embarrassed – her face flushes and it stays that way for ages, all blotchy and pink. Jaime gets terribly amused by it, though he does notice that she is quiet or at least only stuttering, rather than shouting at him to shut up if he mentions some form of sex act she's obviously never heard of.

"Come on," he walks by her side, nudging her arm as he smirk at her, "you can't say you haven't been tempted. It'd be a good plot, too, excellent blackmail. My father would give you anything you asked for, gold, a castle and yes, the two Stark girls. Probably an army to take North permanently, too."

Brienne glances at him, seemingly confused. "What? Blackmail? What does- what does using you for sex have anything to do with Lady Catelyn's daughters?"

"Are you that dumb, wench? A child," Jaime says. "You could keep me here in this damn forest until you were fat with child and Tywin Lannister would give you anything, if you gave him an heir to the Westerlands." Her face twists and to his interest, it's not all horror. "You're thinking about it," he goads, sidling up to her, bound hands pressing against her shoddy, mismatched armour. "We're soulmates. You wouldn't even have the threat of a five thousand dragon bounty on your head – Father wouldn't dare kill my bonded."

Her bright blue eyes – truly, the only pretty things she can claim – are wide and she steps back a little, obviously intimidated. Jaime smirks, knowing he's got to her. Oh and it just so happens that he's hard.

"Let me fuck you," he demands, the rising sense of victory in his chest becoming instantly crushed as Brienne, panicked, pushes him away from her.

"No!" she shouts, dropping the rope she'd been using to tug him along and rushing backwards through the forest. Jaime, flying back onto the ground, lays there stunned for a moment before sitting up, realising she'd actually let him go.

"…right," he says, surprised at himself. His cock still aches between his legs, except somehow, Jaime feels guilty. I actually scared her off with my advances. A frown forms on his face and absentmindedly, he rubs at his soulmark because in no way had he meant to actually scare her. Though I suppose she might get threatened a lot by men who feel emasculated by her, Jaime thinks, getting up onto his feet.

Brienne has all the supplies and all their weapons. Jaime won't last a week without her – especially in manacles. He might as well be asking to be taken prisoner again. They aren't even out of the Riverlands yet.

Looking in the direction she went, Jaime slowly picks up the rope, trudging in the direction she fled. He's gone about twenty yards when his marks start to pulse, burning. Brienne, he thinks, picking up speed. He runs, hearing the clang of swords in the distance, smelling smoke from a fire as he bursts into a small clearing in the ruins of some old watch-tower.

Brienne stands over four bodies, breathing heavily. There's a large gash on her forehead, but her attackers are down, one slowly catching alight from where they lay, arm in the firepit.

"Wench, what happened?" Jaime questions, demanding an answer. "I'm sorry if I got on your nerves – but you can't just run off whenever you get embarrassed."

Brienne looks at him incredulously. "Embarrassed? You- you asked to- to fuck me!" She says it like it's unbelievable, like he hasn't been imagining out loud what her cunt looks like for the past fortnight. "Why would you do that?"

Jaime presses his lips together, moving forwards to kick the dead man's arm out of the fireplace, stamping on the alight cloth of his shirt. It would do neither of them any good if that smoke trail in the sky got any bigger or darker.

"If I hadn't made it clear, wench," he starts, "I know you're ugly as sin. That doesn't mean you're unfuckable. I've seen you swing a sword and to be honest, it's one of the most marvellous things I've ever seen. Women in armour. Who'd have thought you'd be my type? Or maybe I'm just that desperate for a fuck, it's been a year after all." He jests at the end, but what he says is the truth – seeing her completely pulverise her attackers gets his blood up, despite the macabre nature of such an action.

Brienne turns away from him, moving the bodies. "We'll camp here tonight. There's a storm coming."

Jaime glances up at the grey sky. He sniffs, but it isn't the same as in Casterly Rock – the air doesn't smell like brine and the clouds aren't the same. He wouldn't know the signs for a storm in the Riverlands if it were an hour in front of him.

"I'll trust you," he says, before doing something useful and helping Brienne haul the bodies off, away from their stolen camp. The dead men don't look like soldiers or even bandits – probably just travellers that got very unlucky, trying on Brienne when she was in the process of fight or flight. Once the dead men are away, they check out the camp, adding some provisions to their own and resetting the two tents they'd set up, making one large one.

When they're getting their sleep-rolls set up, however, Jaime can't help but make a crack, "So, that's a no, then? No pity-fuck for the prisoner?"

"…no," Brienne mutters.

"How about bonding? You'd be able to keep a better eye on me," he tries to persuade, not even knowing why he's asking. Jaime supposes it's natural – everyone wants to bond with their soulmate. The face Brienne makes is uncomfortable, though and Jaime shrugs. "Fine. No pity-fuck and no bonding. Life's so fun with you, isn't it, wench?"

"Don't call me that."

"It's either that or milady, you take a pick, milady."

"Neither," she proclaims, before going to warm up some fresh pies the dead men had in their bags on the dying fire.

"Neither," Jaime mutters, becoming determined to fuck or bond with the wench, if not both. The journey to Kings Landing will take another two months if we pick up speed, longer if we don't. I have time. I can convince her.

Jaime will have Brienne, one way or the other.