In-Between a Beautiful Disaster
written by Celtic Pixie
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"Confession is not betrayal. What you say or do doesn't matter; only feelings matter. If they could make me stop loving you-that would be the real betrayal." -George Orwell, 1984
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The Godswood are groves within castle walls, usually a small wooded area, a place of worship and meditation by those who carry on the traditions of the First Men. At the center is a heart tree, usually a Weirdwood tree. Every castle in the north has a Weirdwood heart tree. South of the Neck, most of these trees were cut down or burnt several years ago; the Isle of Faces possesses a significant number, and many southern castles still have these Weirwood trees; the Red Keep is a rather recent castle and thus has no Weirwood tree; instead, the heart tree is a great oak covered in smokeberry wines that overlooks the Blackwater Rush.
The Weirdwood heart-tree at Winterfell, bark as white as bone, with a dark red leaves and a long, melancholy face carved in the bark lay in a dark, primal place of the three-acre forest. The surrounding wooded area considered of sentinels, oaks, and ironwoods, but also ash, chestnuts, elms, hawthorn, and soldier pines. Casterly Rock contained the Stone Garden with a twisted Weirdwood at its hearth; Jaime hardly visited—he wasn't what he'd consider to be the religious sort, choosing to rather practice his swordplay instead; however, his mother Joanna would take him quite often, and he found an odd sort of comfort there the evening she was taken from them. Perhaps he should have visited more often.
The Weirwood tree did nothing to shield him from the bitter chill that evening; the heavy furs he brought with him tempered off the harsh winter enough, at least, and the flagon of wine borrowed from the kitchens would provide the liquid courage he needed. Jaime reasoned with himself that the acrimonious beverage would provide him enough time to come into his own thoughts; either Brienne had received his note, or she hadn't, and he could be waiting here for naught. Perhaps he was too forward in his approach. Maybe, he should have stayed inside, joined her table during meal, and retired for the evening. Maybe, he should have stolen his brother free of the Dragon Queen's gaze, for just a moment, so the brothers could spend a few moments together; those were so rare and far between; fleeting times here and there, once as Jaime was freeing his brother before execution, once more in the crypts beneath the Red Keep. Cersei knew of their meeting, and she charged Jaime with conspiracy; he'd probably be rioting in the castle jails by now if he hadn't fled the capital when he did.
Jaime realized he'd been staring at the Weirwood tree for far too long, but there was something so mysterious and ancient about it. Such a sight could be comforting for anyone seeking atonement for their sins, and he sure did have many to confess. Perhaps he should start. He feared, though, that his list was quite long, and he would never stop begging the gods for the forgiveness of his previous immoralities; there was far too many, and not nearly enough time with whatever life he had left in him. That could end at any moment, and he knew he had Brienne of Tarth to thank for keeping him alive, for one more night, at least.
She presumed the last time she would ever see Ser Jaime would be when they acknowledged another as she was fleeing in a rower at Riverrun, as they waved their farewells; but Brienne's been wrong before—they would indeed be seeing each other again, though not as she might have wanted. It wasn't her desire to ride for King's Landing. And for what, anyway—a gathering with Cersei Lannister? That's what was in the letter brought by raven said. But the letter called for Sansa to attend, not Brienne. The Lady of Tarth made that clear; "They invited you. They want you there", she argued. But to counter, the Lady of Winterfell claimed she would not step foot in King's Landing, not while Cersei Lannister was still wearing the crown. She'd stayed in the north where she belonged; there was much work to still be done.
Brienne was obstinate; one of her many faults, so she's been told- "It's not safe," she persisted. The message was unclear to which the Lady of Tarth was referring to; not safe for Sansa to travel to King's Landing or not safe for her to remain here in Winterfell without the protection of her sworn sword? Brienne didn't exactly trust either option; Cersei Lannister detested Sansa or then there was Littlefinger—gods, even the name put a bad taste in Brienne's mouth.
No, probably not but then, Sansa knew there was no reason for Brienne to be fearful of anything—not when she knew of someone present at this gathering, someone she knew was quite dear in heart and spirit to her sworn sword. "Well, Ser Jaime will be there," and when she turned, she almost smiled just then; there are certain things that didn't go unnoticed, like the way the corners of Brienne's lips twitched when Sansa brought up Jaime's name, or the flicker of light that danced in her sapphire blue eyes- "You always said he treated you honorably." And even after she said it, Sansa wished she could know of someone she spoke of as fondly as Brienne spoke of Ser Jaime.
She truly believed in her heart of hearts that Jaime was an honorable person, even if he hadn't believed it much himself. She could have chosen to disregard the written command, tossed the parchment into the fire and be done with it, but now she stood in the Godswood; when Brienne made the decision to trust the words, she did so with a belly full of doubt yet an odd sense of realism. The evening chilled her, and she wished she brought heavy furs with her to keep her warm; as blood poured through her veins, and heated beneath her skin, she believed this was warmth enough.
Jaime could hear the crutching of snow, and he turned to look with a smile; "It's good to see you here, Lady Brienne." Just the way her name rolled off his tongue was enough to shiver her spine and bring the temperature of his blood to a reasonable level. He closed some distance between them, shucking off the furs he brought and bringing her under the protection of them; Jaime made sure she was comfortable enough, tugging gently at them around her breasts. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"To be honest, I wasn't sure myself," she admitted, coolly, but her tone suggested she was apprehensive of something; though, what, even she didn't know. Schooling her features, her mouth in a tight, thin line, her eyes only grazing that which stood before her. Brienne nearly trembled; perhaps from the chill as the wind breezed through. "Why here? The Godswood?"
"Because—" He paused in his approach, thinking carefully on his words; he may have been clever enough before she came screaming into his life, but the Lady Brienne always had a certain way about her to render him mute at the most ill-fated times. "—well, you know the Godswood is a place of worship, a place of solitude, where the Lords and Ladies can pray to their gods…"
"Yes, I do; the Godswood on Tarth rests in a large alcove surrounding by oaks and red pine on all sides. I would go there, sometimes, not for prayer but for solitude. It was the only place I could feel safe."
Jaime continued, biting off his anxiety; "I never was the religious type. I can't even remember the last time I had seen the Weirwood heart-tree at Casterly Rock; my last memories of home weren't the greatest. Something so eerie and unsettling about it, yet strangely beautiful. I will take your there sometime."
Though she smiled at the idea, Brienne also knew reality, "That is assuming we make it through this." The dead were marching and would be upon them soon enough; she would enjoy visiting the Rock, but it might just be a fantastical vision of Jaime's. The white walkers could slaughter them all in drows and then neither of them would see his boyhood home.
"Yes, there is that," he admitted, and not seeing his home again under better terms might be a small tragedy to him; he was Lord of Casterly Rock now, stripped of his former title as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Tywin Lannister got what he wanted—an heir to his seat of power. "but I think we might live."
"How can you be so certain of that?"
Jaime flashed a smile of all smiles. "Because I have faith." Brienne doubted faith alone would pull them through the Long Night to come; her mind was always clouded with doubt, ever since she was a girl. "Not in any gods, but faith in myself. Having faith in myself saw me through very dark times in my life."
Brienne saw herself agreeing; she had demons, but very different than his own. "You are stronger than you give yourself credit for."
Jaime only smirked, not really giving it much thought, but he continued; this was a place to confess sins after all was it not? "Ser Gerold Hightower came to my bed chambers one evening, woke me, told me to get myself dressed, and commanded me to come to the throne room. Half dead from exhaustion, I did as I was bid. There was King Aerys, as mad as I have ever seen him, and there was Lord Rickard Stark, suspended by rope, and his son Brandon with a Tyroshi noose around his neck-
-Rossart and another pyromancer lit a fire beneath the Lord, and Brandon watched as his father was roasted alive in his suit of armor. He tried to save his father but strangled himself instead. I coped by going away inside and advised others to do the same as way to deal with the realities of the King's appalling tasks. I was sick to my stomach, but the Lord Commander reminded me of my sworn vow to guard the king, not to judge him." Jaime adjudicated the way she was looking at him, much different to how she looked at him when he confessed his motives for slaying the Mad King. "Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the King's Hand, resigned his office after failing to convince the King against his plan to burn the entire city to the ground, rather than lose it to Robert Baratheon, and he was burned alive for his actions; I heard and saw it all.-
-The king, he, he got aroused by burning people, you see, and the night he burned alive his Hand, the King raped his Lady Queen. Ser Jonothor Darry and myself were made to stand outside her chambers, but I could hear her cries, and it pained me inside, but as much as I wanted to protect her, he told me 'but not from him' and so we continued standing there, and I schooled my features when I knew I could cry. Prince Rhaegar charged me with protecting his wife and two young ones. But—" Jaime trailed off; tears had collected in his eyes; some had even started spilling onto his face. "—but, on the same night I slew King Aerys, Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch scaled the walls of Maegor's Holdfast. Elia's daughter, Princess Rhaenys, was dragged from under her father's bed, kicking and screaming and crying out for her father. Amory stabbed her, over and over and over; a total of fifty times.-
-Ser Gregor smashed Prince Aegon's head against the wall, in front of his mother, then proceeded to rape her and kill her by crushing her skull in."
A fresh crop of tears spilled over the lids of his eyes, streaking down each side of his face. Jaime wasn't the person to start crying so easily; he 'went away inside' as he always had, keeping his emotions in check, but often struggling to do. He hadn't realized his tears had gotten away from him until Brienne was brushing them away from his face with the underside of her thumbs. He took up her hands, and his thumb grazed her knuckles from beginning to end.
Still, through the tears choking in his throat, Jaime half-chuckled; "Why did I just tell you that?" He wasn't in the habit of spilling his guts out to just anyone, he wasn't really in the habit of spilling his guts out at all.
"Because a little confession is good for the soul," she answered; clean, clear, honestly.
Yes, he supposed it was.
Jaime caught himself staring into her eyes; he always thought of how wonderful they looked, such amazing eyes. Calming down his tears, coming back to himself, he pushed his fingers through her blonde hair, each strand curling around each digit of his hand. "You would look astonishing with long hair, milady."
Before she could give him an answer, Brienne's mind was flashing back to a memory, or several, but one in particular that involved a dagger, a mirror, and endless amounts of tears. She did have long hair, once, and it was quite something. The way the sun's rays reflected off the silky yellow, the way in which her hair clung to her skin after a dip in the lake, the way she could braid it in various ways, and it would still compliment her regardless of what she wore that day; just because she preferred the martial life didn't negate the choice to wear a pretty dress now and then, but she didn't wear them anymore; far too many people had tormented her, name-called her, and pushed her around.
There was a pretty blue one she was fond of, a pastel shade that complimented her sapphire-blue eyes and creaming skin and highlighted the dozens of freckles on her face. Instead of tying her hair up in braids and curls, Brienne kept it long, past her shoulders, and some-what unruly. She rode out to the waterfalls on the back of her favorite mare, laughing in the wind as the breeze tickled her skin. The water that day had been cool, and she took such delight as it washed over her naked skin in waves. Afterwards, she laid there on the beach and allowed the sun to dry her.
A group of boys happened upon her, and they watched, and they giggled, until Brienne, naked as her name day, became acutely aware of the unwanted guests. She shielded her small breasts with one arm curled over the other, but the boys pointed and laughed. They chased off her horse and stole her clothing, forcing the young Lady to endure the uncomfortable gawking and laughter as she trekked back to the castle. Her father chastised her for being so lascivious with her nudity. They shared an evening meal together, where he, again, reminded her of acting like a proper lady for once, none of this tutting about with swords and shields on horseback.
She retired to her quarters shortly after, and sat there in silence, trying to ignore her father's harsh words or the snide jeering of the boys from the lake. They called particular attention to the way her long hair hide her undeveloped breasts, and how unkempt it was; they would be knots it in for weeks, they said. The more Brienne continued thinking about it, the angrier she got, and the harder it was to keep her tears at bay. Once she managed to staunch the worst of her tears, she pulled a dagger from beneath her pillow and hacked away at her locks of hair until it pooled around her bare feet and the only thing left was this mop on top her head. So, when someone suggests growing her hair out, she only offers them a curt smile, saying, I prefer to keep it short, arguing it's more manageable and doesn't distract her when she's fighting.
Another brisk chill arches her up and she trembles, jerking the furs tighter around her body. Neither of them cared much for this northern weather; both King's Landing and Tarth were southern regions, making naught either person used to the gales of wind and the snow and the unpleasant cold. Standing so close to Jaime had allowed for Brienne to absorb some of the warmth his body radiated, adding to what comfort the furs provided.
She added; "If we are quite done confessing our sins-" -a pause, and a smile.
Jaime cut her off; before she could continue her train of thought, he added, "Oh, but I am far from finished, Lady Brienne. I do, in fact, have one more confession to make, since we are in the confession mood."
"Seven Hells, Jaime Lannister!" she whined, "This cold is getting the best of me." She suspected it was more about the long, drawn out torture of her than a continuation of his sins.
She started moving off, but he seized her arm, towing her back to face him. "Damnit it, wench, hold on for a moment," he argued, and for a moment there was a spout of anger. He hadn't called that crude name in a fortnight; he can't actually recall the last time he used it.
Brienne protested, even snarled her upper lip, "Of all the—"
"This is difficult for me to say. I'm not in the habit of pouring my heart out to just anyone, I'm not really in the habit of pouring my heart out at all really—"
Jaime's thoughts took him back to Riverrun, as he stood so composed, when really he was trembling inside, and Lady Brienne attempted to return to him the sword he gifted her; It's yours, and then, it's always been yours, and he knew he wasn't just referring to the Valyrian steel sword with the golden lion encrusted on the hilt. His chest felt just a little tighter, realizing his heart's beat had accelerated. He followed her as she walked, until she turned to him again, with one last thing.
Yes, Lady Brienne, he said, putting emphasis on her regal title.
Should I fail to persuade the Blackfish to surrender, and if you attack the castle, honor compels me to fight for Sansa's kin.
Of course it does.
…to fight you.
He swallowed hard; imagining Brienne on the opposing side, Oathkeeper in hand, glaring him down before a battle cry, Let's hope it doesn't come to that…
Blue and green eyes stared at each other for far too long, and then she was gone again. Jaime's wandering gaze followed after her, but he remained where he stood; he should have continued after her, but he was stubborn, or there was some other force keeping him there. In truth, he shouldn't have let her get so far. He should have tugged her back, pushed her against the table, and kissed those lips.
"…I think I loved you that day." His admission felt like a weight being lifted from his chest. He hadn't gauged her reaction, not until he picked his eyes back up her front, realizing he'd cast them down to the snow at their feet as if revealing his heart's inner secret had brought her embarrassment; for that, he felt ashamed, and reasoned with the idea of letting her leave his side again without disclosing his feelings.
Brienne took his confession in strides; denial—she couldn't be hearing him correctly, maybe one of his teasing tricks; anger—if this was one of his tricks, she could hate him for it; bargaining—begging the Seven to return them to that day in Riverrun; depression—if the gods could show them enough kindness to return them to that exact moment Jaime claims to have loved her, Brienne would tell him the same, and they'd spend the rest of the afternoon kissing, and making love, and other declarations, but the gods didn't work like that; Acceptance—she came back into her own head, to the moment she was in at this very moment, replaying Jaime's words over and over in her head, finally allowing them to completely sink in.
The bottle was opened now; Jaime couldn't stop- "I may not be the fighter I once was—but I'd be honored to fight under your command, if you'll have me."
It wasn't Riverrun when Brienne realized her feelings for Ser Jaime; it was Harrenhal, when they shared a bath together, and he spilled a dark secret to her, revealing so much he'd been bottling up inside. She wanted to linger on in his tent that afternoon. Had she, maybe they would have admitting their feelings much earlier.
Brienne had stepped closer into him, until the warmth of his body enveloped her completely. Her hand lifted to feel his heartbeat, the way it danced like a swan's song beneath her palm; she stole a glance at the way her hand was resting, and she took a mental note of each time she felt another beat, one right after the other, and the way her own had mirrored it. Jaime smiled lovingly at her, curling a hand over hers, brushing against her thumb, stroking it gently.
Whether she was expecting it or not, he seized her mouth in a fiery kiss.
