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4. Night 8
It was the second game of sitrang that they were playing that afternoon and Jaime didn't feel his skill or appreciation for the game were growing. Tyrion, effortlessly, seemed to guess each of his moves three or four times before he even had the chance to actually do them, and always put him on a situation impossible to revert since the beginning of the game.
Both of them had reached a kind of tacit agreement and whenever one of them felt tempted to touch one of theirs taboo subjects, the other lead the conversation toward safer paths.
A serving boy —Anya had not returned since their first meeting— arrived with another bottle of wine and immediately assisted Tyrion. Jaime had just given a couple of sips to his glass.
The table in which they were playing was large, with comfortable and tasteful armchairs. His new chamber was spacious, well lighted and had a large fireplace that kept him so warm as if he were at home. Even the bed was so soft that he could bounce on it if he let himself fell with force.
The chain on his ankle had also disappeared, but he still had a couple of guards standing by his door because, after all, he was still the Kingslayer: a man with no honor.
It seemed illogical, but the change of bed had disturbed him. The previous was uncomfortable, right, but small and he had slept well in it. This one was too big. So large, that the empty half beside him didn't allow him to sleep. He stretched his hand and his fingers didn't find others to link with. There was no other body to stop him when he rolled on. Who could sleep that way?
On the deepest of the night, in that limbo created exactly between vigil and unconsciousness of sleep, Jaime could feel Brienne at his side. He could swear that the mattress curved by her weight; could feel her breath on his face and their knees colliding. He could even listen to those soft purrs that the wench exhaled while she stretched her ridiculously long body and attempted to wake up.
After losing the hand, Jaime had experienced the sensation of still having it. He felt his fingers; he was sure that he could move them and even could feel the nails in the palm when he clenched the inexistent fist. "Phantom limb" Qyburn had called the sensation. He assured to him the effect was frequent in all types of amputations and would disappear after some moons. And indeed, it did.
When Jaime felt so alive the presence of his wife on the other side of the bed, he recalled that feeling. She had also been amputated of his life and instead only remained a ghost that he couldn't touch. Each morning, when he woke up, he ran to the window and wondered if she would also have a ghost to share her bed with. But now his window didn't face the sea and without that connection he felt her more far away than ever.
A couple of days ago a guard had come to remove his ankle chain. With more consideration that anybody had shown to him, the man asked that he follow him.
Jaime couldn't help to feel certain nervousness thinking that he finally would go to face the Queen, but his hopes —if it could be called that— were soon frustrated. He was been taken to what should have been a guest's room. Later he received some very good quality changes of clothes. That was a decent treatment for one of the lesser Lannister, definitely much more than what a common prisoner deserved.
He began to understand the true influence of Tyrion at the Court. He didn't dare to hold out any hope regarding his life, but perhaps...
"I suppose should that I should thank you for the improvements of the last days." He said, referring to the new room and also to Anya's company, even when he had not enjoyed it as his brother originally planned.
"No. You shouldn't." Tyrion replied bluntly, made his move with tedium before giving another sip to his drink.
He spent a long time tasting the wine before continuing with the conversation.
"A few days ago, I received a letter from Myrcella." He told him with indifference, but looking at him from the corner of the eye, evaluating his reaction.
Jaime had tried to be closer to his daughter and that failure still was painful to him. He had written to her several letters that she did not answer. In the last one, before heading to the North, he suggested the idea of going to visit her to Dorne and she politely thanked for his concern but asked him to keep his distance. She didn't address to him as his father nor even as his uncle. Her cold 'ser Jaime' made it clear she didn't desire any kind of relationship with him.
Tommen and Cersei had died during the taking of King's Landing, so the only family left to him was the one that he had with Brienne. And still he wasn't sure about Tyrion.
"Is she happy?" From his own experience he knew that was the key question to get to know how a person really was feeling. He didn't mind if she had power or wealth, Jaime only wanted to know if she loved and was loved, if she felt safe.
"Judging by the way she writes, I would say yes, but..."
Jaime stopped pretending he was planning his next move and that the life of Myrcella wasn't among his priorities. Until Tyrion replied he found himself absurdly looking for a way to help her if it was necessary, but considering his situation the idea was so absurd that he had to laugh at his own stupidity. So typical of the Kingslayer, evade the responsibility of being close to his children when he had the chance, and wanted to do it when it was out of his reach.
"You were about to become a grandfather," Tyrion paused to give a greater effect to his words and waited until Jaime looked at him in the eye before continuing. "Unfortunately she had some complications and suffered a miscarriage."
The news surprised him. Even knowing that Myrcella had been married for a long time he never imagined becoming a grandfather; he neither had imagined being a father, though. And being honest, in fact he had never been one.
Cersei had left him to get her pregnant three times. Three times she allowed another man to legitimate his children; Joffrey, Myrcela nor Tommen never had a real father. He didn't bother to participate in their education, neither Robert did.
It was hard for him to admit that each time Cersei didn't allow him to approach their children he felt relieved. Of course, he had no idea how take care of a child. His only close example, his own father, was not a role model to be follow. His high expectations for him made him feel frustrated, and the low expectations that Tywin had for Tyrion became his brother into a bitter man. And Cersei... she never represented more than a coin.
When he listened to Brienne and Sansa speak of their fathers, he imagined that Selwyn and Ned should be a good example to follow, because in their voices there was no hidden fear or angst, but respect, love and admiration.
Years ago, he had vowed, that if life granted him a new chance, he would put effort to imitate those men and be a father with all the rights and obligations that were implied.
Destiny, however, had always done its best to make fun of all Jaime's good intentions, twist them or turn them into a dead end.
"Is she ok now?" He asked staring at his stump, as he did whenever any of his past mistakes exploded in his face.
"A little sad, but she is very young. She will get over it sooner than you think." Said Tyrion with confidence.
Yes, Jaime knew that women get over to that. Eventually they would smile again, to make plans, they would move on.
At least they did in appearance.
He recalled his last days on the wall.
In a rare moment of good sense, when the menace that haunted all Westeros from the North threatened to not leave any realm to fight for, all decided to join forces to end the common enemy before to continue to annihilate each other. Dragons and armies achieved a victory, but nobody felt with the mood to celebrate. The loose of lives were too many and the nightmare was still too close to feel safe.
They all just had spent a few days licking wounds like injured animals would do, when someone informed them that part of the Targaryen army was heading for Castle Black. After taking King's Landing on their way towards North, Daenerys Targaryen was —in practice at least— the one who ruled over all Westeros. Jaime was not so naive to believe that what he had done on the Wall would be enough to obtain the pardon of the new Queen, who surely had spent all her life dreaming of having his head stuck on a pike or, considering their family's fondness for the fire, see him consumed up to the bones in the middle of a valyrian bonfire.
At that time the decision he had to make would have been easier if his crazy impulses didn't have Brienne tied to him. He knew, without the need to ask, that the honor and loyalty of the wench would be even stronger than the vows pronounced before a Septon and she would stubbornly insist on share his destiny, whatever this could be.
Even so, he begged her to return alone to Tarth. She refused. Crossed arms, wrinkled forehead and sour gesture, the wench reminded him that, as his wife, his duty was to stay by his side.
Then Jaime, as her husband, ordered her to come back home with her father, and Brienne laughed before turning away and began to prepare their mounts to depart towards Eastwatch without delay. Surprisingly he felt that he was falling in love with her once again.
They rode for nearly two days just resting a few hours and almost without eating. When they arrived at the port and luckily found a merchant ship that was about to leave for Lorath, they were already half frozen, exhausted, starving and willing to board any ship, even if its destination was one of the seven Hells.
The ship, although of a good size, seemed to have more years than the Wall itself, and by the way that was cracking when they boarded it, Jaime feared they would wrecked before dawn. The ship's captain was a thin and dark man who, like his ship, seemed about to break if the wind blew a bit more, but he assured them, with a confidence that verged on pedantry, that his ship would continue sailing until the narrow sea was dry.
Despite the captain's optimism, the disaster came, although not in the way of a shipwreck as Jaime had feared.
Hardly a few hours after they lost sight of the coast, Brienne insisted on resting in the tiny cabin they had assigned. If Jaime hadn't know that his wife was born and raised on an island and was as used to the sea as to breathe, he would have assumed that the constant swaying of the ship was playing a dirty trick on her. She was sweating, her skin white as snow. Just a few steps from the bed, Jaime had to hold her before she could fall. He hardly had time to lay her down when she began to bleed profusely. There was no maester on board and the presence of the captain's wife was not really required to confirm them that she had just suffered a miscarriage.
Brienne simply nodded stoically and let the improvised midwife attended to her. Later, in complete silence, allowed Jaime to lay by her side. She buried her head on his chest and remained thus for hours, without crying, without saying a word, almost without moving, leaving him caress her hair, while the waves lulled them gently as their only palliative.
Jaime never knew if her subsequent paleness was only due to the loose of blood, to the sadness of the child they had lost, relief, or for the uncertainty for what waited for them on the other side of the sea.
On the other hand, he was never sure of what he had felt. Until then he had not been aware of Brienne's condition. He had no chance to feel hope or to worry and his memories about those days were filled with the anxiety caused to him by the idea that she could not recover or, eventually, that she began to accuse him for their lost child. Cowardly he never asked her how she felt about what had happened.
Jaime could live without children, without a hand, without his white cloak, without Casterly Rock, gold or properties, without family or friends; but without her, he did not have any reason left to go on, of that much he was sure.
At dawn, her first words as she watched sunset were: "We are safe now". Jaime knew better than that, they would never be safe again. But he also knew she needed to hold on to that naive hope and he, still holding her strongly in his arms, nodded.
They never talked again about what happened. Time passed and Brienne never got pregnant again and they assumed, without saying so in words, she had become barren after what happened on the ship. If one of them had wished for children they just gave up to that hope in silence and without any reproach. They had other things to be grateful for. She did not stop repeating they would be safe far away from Westeros, and innocently believed that until that first time they were forced to flee.
He was deeply grateful for his wife had recovered her health so quickly, even if he kept that thought for him. His wench was strong; she had proved to him on countless occasions, and he also felt grateful for that.
Many times, when he found her caressing one of the newborn foals, Jaime wondered if she was thinking of their unborn child. Did she mourn for the lost or tough that what had happened as a more compassionate fate? Because, after all, what kind of life might have that kid? Doomed to flee from one place to another without ever having a place that he or she could call home. However, Jaime frequently was dreaming of his children. With Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen, and also with that little one who did not have the chance to born.
Perhaps Brienne also dreamed of his child, with plump hands and a pair of sapphire blue eyes, with a laugh that got inside her head so deep that made impossible to wonder if the dream was a blessing or a curse. Sometimes Jaime wanted to talk to her about it, but then he thought that maybe if the wound was already closed, would be cruel to reopen it.
"You could write to her. She has asked me a couple of times for you..." Tyrion confessed, talking about Myrcella.
Jaime shook his head. He was convinced that the best he could do for his daughter was respect her will and keep her away from the bad reputation of the Kingslayer.
"I think she was very clear on wanting nothing to do with me. And she's right." He tried to sound disinterested.
"You should not give up so fast."
Jaime could not avoid a snort. Considering his head was almost touching the edge of the axe, it seemed to him that 'fast' was not the proper word to be used. However, Tyrion wasn't the first person to give him that advice. "Brienne told me the same thing when Myrcella refused to receive me in Dorne."
"You married a smart woman." The little man said, making his key move with a gesture of boredom.
"Well, she must have some fault. Otherwise, she would have never married to me." Jaime joked, watching distractedly the board and moving his piece without much analysis. "When this is over, make her know that I would have liked to be a better father to —her." He added after a while.
Tyrion nodded swallowing hard. "I'm sure, somehow, she already knows." Reassured him Tyrion.
Jaime smiled bitterly. He would have liked so much to be a better father for all his children.
With Joffrey, he never had the chance. He died being a stranger to him, a stranger that he came to despise, but that was something he could only confessed to himself and to Brienne.
With Tommen he had no time. When he first learned of his and Cersei's death he was weeks away. The official version was that a traitor had infiltrated in the fortress and poisoned both of them. Jaime was sure that the death came from the same hand of Cersei, who once knowing they were lost, chose to become her own executioner and offer an equal fate to her only living son. The little and plump Tommen, with his sweet eyes and his cats.
He could not blame Myrcella for holding a grudge to him, for trying to forget him along with all the humiliations suffered after becoming public her true origin.
It was true that in his youth Jaime had never dreamed of being a father. But, eventually, he had come to desire to be a man capable to warrant the well being of the children he had already fathered. Unfortunately, no matter how he played, life was determined to not let him win that game.
"You lose again." Said Tyrion after making his final play, with an almost prophetic tone.
Jaime smiled with sorrow.