Here is the second instalment of this series. I hope you'll like it. :)
I want to thank Aerest for not only being the best beta I could've hoped for, but for always being supportive, kind, understanding, and adorable. Also thank you for helping to make the sword fighting better.
Apologies to december: I had promised I would post the chapter yesterday, but - because of several circumstances - I didn't. I can only hope this little thing was worth the wait. :)
I apologise for any mistakes you might find, English is not my native language.
She had never seen him without his golden hand.
It had its uses, despite its appearance - he had shown her once, when he had insisted they spar together. She had unarmed him and was about to end the match with a final blow, but he had suddenly ducked away and blocked her sword with it, using his free left hand to bring his belt knife to her throat. After a first moment of surprise, her gaze had darted to his face only to realise he was looking at her with that smug grin of his and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes at him.
Even more surprising had been to hear him confess how unexpectedly satisfying it had felt to slap people with it, her hands gently holding the prosthetic to have a closer look. Whatever she thought she had caught in his green eyes the moment she had lifted her own to look at him, it was quickly gone.
Stories about the hand he ofttimes hid in a black glove had spread in some way - after his campaign in Riverrun, it was said. Some were told with reluctant respect, others with contempt. Some were true for the most part, others were pure fabrication - or so he had told her once, with an amused smile that didn't reach his eyes. She had looked at him for a long moment, uncertain. She opened her mouth, thinking of something to say, but no words came out.
When he thought no one was watching, she would catch him with his gaze fixed on the thing - a preoccupied expression on his face, his lips two thin lines pressed together. She had approached him once. His eyes had seemed to soften as she quietly sat down beside him. They looked at each other for a moment, then she attempted a smile. He did the same.
He would not use the hand during their sparring matches anymore. One day she had seen him flinch as he touched the skin below the glove. He knew she had noticed, yet he kept silent. Each of her enquiries was met with denial and a strained smile meant to reassure. It had only made her more resolute. She demanded the truth, holding his gaze in silence as his lips parted, chest heaving as air filled his lungs. Then his mouth closed and his jaw clenched. She left without waiting for an answer.
She was lying in bed when words from the past flooded her mind.
Kingslayer, craven, I was that hand, Jaime. My name is Jaime.
She abruptly stood up, heading out in brisk long strides, a stubborn determination guiding her as she entered his tent.