Well, it's been a long time, but here's another chapter. And with barely any time at all until this wonderful pair is lighting up our screen again.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or places, just the situations I like to make them dance around.
Training with Jaime lifted the gloom of Casterly Rock.
He was quick and cunning, less strong than she, but more skilled by far. Most days she could scarcely keep up, but each time he swept her sword aside, she came back more determined than ever.
She thought about it as she managed the kitchens; refought their last bout while speaking to the castellan; twisted her needle like a sword point when lumbering through her stitches. It carried her through the ladies' cruel smiles at tea, through gown fittings and the seamstress' dismay at the mannishness of her body.
Today I must bear this, she thought, but tonight is for Jaime.
Her defenses had gone to rust with naught but a quintain to try her, but it seemed to Brienne that these two months had taught her more than any of Ser Goodwin's lessons.
Many nights as they lay abed, Brienne considered the expanse of blankets between them and worried Jaime would grow restless with their evening exercise. She was skilled, she knew, but Jaime was untouchable. He had fought in tournaments from Sunspear to the Trident, vanquished foes in the cold, white North, and lead battles across the Seven Kingdoms without ever facing defeat.
But every evening he awaited her, practice sword in hand. Every sunset they moved together, bodies reacting as if twined at a single point. As though their blades were two sides of the same weapon, and one could not move without the other.
And he smiled at her. Not the arrogant, cynical smile she had come to know, nor the cruel grimace she had seen all her life, but a slight turn of his lips that grew wider each time she turned his blade aside. Pleasure and consternation mingled on his strong, handsome face, and Brienne felt almost content.
But there were still the days, the stares and servants and endless tasks required of Lady Lannister. Still the mornings she would slip to the outer battlements to stare at the sea, and the nights she would lie awake and know she had failed to tempt him in the ways that were necessary.
Would he touch me if I were pretty? she wondered, and hated herself for it.
The rumors were growing worse every day.
It was not only Brienne who drew lengthy stares now. Jaime's retainers watched him with pensive eyes; servants scuttled away, whispering, after he passed; even squires flicked round their gazes when he corrected them, confused half-knowledge in their faces.
It was not ten days into their marriage before Brienne realized even the stable boys were privy to her wifely failures. The washerwomen of the Rock were no newly flowered girls; they knew what clean bedclothes meant. And servants gossiped, more quickly and more cruelly than any highborn lady.
That he hesitated was understandable. Expected even. Brienne had long known that any husband of hers would perform his duties quickly and sparingly. Even the maester did little more than press his lips when her moon tea went untouched.
Jaime was strong and fierce and beautiful, Brienne broad, unsure, and more spotted than a toad. If he had not brought himself to touch her again after that first night, well, that gave no cause for censure.
Fighting in the rundown practice yard did. She and Jaime sparred loudly and zealously, and many a passing scrub boy had glimpsed that first, glorious fight in the bailey.
"Small wonder," Brienne heard a maid gossip, one eve when she slipped to her chamber for tunic and breeches. "She's more man'n half the lads've had their cock in me."
Brienne left without changing her gown, and spent a long twilight staring at the darkening sea. When she returned to their chambers half the night had gone, and Jaime was sleeping with his face hidden in shadow.
But the next night he was waiting in the yard, and they fought til grey predawn twinkled against the salt on the keep.
It was a routine Brienne cherished, and one that could not last.
Another fortnight came and went, and then a raven arrived from King's Landing with the command that Brienne was to join her lord husband at the New Keep.
"Jaehyra is turning nine," Jaime soothed when it became clear Brienne was too unnerved to properly duel.
He planted his blade's blunted end in the dust and rested his weight against it. Sweat rolled down his temple, but the linen of his tunic had not yet begun to stick.
"Cercei likes to turn out half the Crownlands for her nameday celebrations. It's a small wonder she'd want both of us in attendance."
Brienne felt as though she were twelve again, and the Hand's unlanded cousin had thrown a rose in her face.
Everyone will know, she could hear herself tell her father.
Everyone will know, she wanted to shout at her husband.
"She seems a sweet thing," Brienne hedged.
Jaime looked at her long and hard, but allowed her the evasion.
"Sweeter than she has any right to be," he ceded.
His jaw spoke of bitterness.
They did not fight that night, or any night thereafter. Her days were taken with planning for their journey, her nights with restless worry. And soon they were in King's Landing, with eyes everywhere and no room for misstep.
Jaime spent his days with his brother, with his father, even with his nephew Jon, though the two seemed irreparably dissimilar and did not often agree.
Brienne prayed in the Great Sept and allowed the holy women to show her the wonders of King's Landing. The city was filth and finery, but her guides carefully skirted the city's underbelly, even when Brienne wished to walk the Iron Gate and saw from Flea Bottom to Blackwater Bay.
She avoided the nobles in the castle as diligently as the septas pretended King's Landing ended within the Keep. Once she caught Jaime's father watching her as she walked the tourney grounds. She was so disconcerted by his appraising stare that she took herself to the Maidenvault, where she wandered for the rest of the day.
She dearly wished to visit Dragonpit, the cavernous structure that had been home to monsters and now housed the wonders of the Seven Kingdoms: legendary swords, glittering magic stones, the fragile skeletons of fantastic beasts.
But that was not a place for proper ladies, as here, of all places, Brienne must be.
"I will show you Maegor's Holdfast," Jaime promised, sensing her discontent. "My sister's blasted spies be damned."
But Lord Tywin seemed always to need him, or else he was treating with lords, and Brienne had no desire to keep him from his duties.
The morn of Jaehyra's nameday dawned all in fog, and Brienne slipped her coverlet before Jaime stirred. She found a tower that overlooked the water, and found herself wondering how the Narrow Sea could look so different from Evenfall Hall.
Festivities began at noon and lasted well into the evening.
Brienne wore a gown of purple velvet, gifted on her wedding day by some lord and lady likely in attendance tonight. The Queen's own dressmaker had cut it for her—a simple style that suited Brienne better than most—and offset it with a delicate brooch that was lost in the flat expanse of her bosom.
She entered on her lord husband's arm, and the hard planes of his muscles reminded Brienne how desperately she wished to be elsewhere, trying Jaime's strength against her own, with no eyes on her but his.
"Words are wind," Jaime said low in her ear.
The heat of his breath raised hair across her body, but Brienne muttered back, "Wind is wind. Words are weapons, sharper than the sword on your belt."
Words are wisdom, she thought, learned too late.
"Swords cut both ways," he reminded her.
He tucked his arm close, and she felt the comfortable press of Goldclaw's hilt where her fingers crooked in his elbow.
"And no one handles a blade better than you and I."
For a time, the bleakness receded.
Brienne could not bring herself to smile at those who approached them, though, and soon Lord Marbrand had pulled Jaime away. Brienne was left in a dim alcove near the minstrels, ducking into shadow whenever someone drew near.
The hall was golden and hazy, piled high with lavish food and lavish adornments. Black and red tapestries draped across every available surface, and the Targaryen arms, inlaid in every fifth tile, glistened in the light of a thousand candles.
Dornishmen wandered amongst the guests, Brienne was surprised to note; though none she saw bore the arms of House Martell.
House Martell held an uneven peace with the crown. Prince Doran regarded Rhaegar fondly, but it was no secret that Oberyn and his Sand Snakes thought Lord Twyin responsible for the death of Princess Elia and her daughter in the birthing bed.
He would know better than anyone, came the cruel suggestion, before Brienne had stopped listening.
A wisp of a girl in a cloth-of-silver gown swayed past, and it took Brienne several moments to recognize her niece. She was richer of hair than her father, her eyes caught between purple and green, but her features favored the Targaryen line.
The girl's eyes were closed as she attended the music, but when Brienne spoke she turned.
"Princess Jaehyra," Brienne greeted, "I am Brienne, your aunt of Lannister."
Jaehyra abandoned the minstrels, and stepped forward to observe her aunt fully.
"You are very tall," the princess said. "Taller than mine nuncle."
The girl was quiet, sweet. Lovely in a way that made Brienne ache.
"Only a little," she said, keeping her voice even.
A knuckle's length. It seemed a greater span here, with the eyes of the kingdom upon them.
"Songs tell stranger tales," Brienne told her, but neither girl nor woman believed it.
"Books, perhaps, but not songs," Jaehyra corrected. "Maids in songs are delicate and free."
Not me, Brienne thought.
She stopped herself from picking at the embroidery on her velvet gown.
"The minstrels always sing of lively maids," her niece finished softly, and Brienne heard longing.
And not you either.
"Not all," Brienne disagreed, wishing to keep the sadness from those beautiful, bruise colored eyes. "Some ladies in songs are brave, some are cunning, and all are fair to look upon."
Her pretty child's mouth twisted doubtfully.
"Do you know 'Let Me Drink Your Beauty?'"
The innocent query stung, but Brienne nodded.
"I know all the songs," Brienne told her, and somehow the shadows lifted.
"Will you sing for me?" Jaehyra asked eagerly, and her eyes shifted from lilac to the color of the sea.
I do not sing anymore, Brienne could not bring herself to say.
Her niece turned away and Brienne stiffened.
"Come, sweet," the Queen chastised, sidling up beside them with every spec of grace the gods had denied Brienne.
The queen was striking, garbed in a cloth-of-gold gown that reminded Brienne uncomfortably of her own wedding garment. The too-rich fabric had made Brienne look mottled, catching out her freckles and turning the skin beneath them sallow.
Cercei Lannister was a goddess in gold.
"You must not rot your mind with songs best left to fools and dim-witted children."
Cercei caressed her daughter's cheek, then fluffed out her silver skirts and arranged them artfully.
The girl's expression fell, though she hid it well.
Brienne pitied her.
You are slow and foolish, Septa Roella had often told her, and the words never failed to cut. Brienne imagined they ached no less for one with a pretty face.
"Your grandsire has not yet wished you well," Cercei reminded her, "and I must have words with your aunt."
Jaehyra curtsied prettily and left them.
Brienne felt ungainly, anxious.
"Your Highness-" she began—to say what she was not sure.
Cercei smiled, sharp and beautiful, and Brienne's words were lost.
"Lady Brienne," she said, sweet and catching as honey. "You have been remiss in your sisterly duties."
Brienne felt an uncomfortable jolt despite herself.
It is a trap.
She could see it plain as day in Cercei's stormy, evergreen eyes.
So like Jaime's.
But knowing did not mean evading, and Brienne did not know what to say.
"Not once have you joined my brother on his travels," the queen continued. "It grows dreadfully dull, lambkin, bearing all those talks of war and weapons."
I am not a child, Brienne nearly said. Nor a lamb for you to slaughter.
But Cercei's eyes were glittering in a way that Jaime's never did, and Brienne kept silent.
The queen's smile was practiced, cloying.
"I only wonder that my dear brother goes so long without a woman to warm his bed."
She knows, Brienne realized miserably.
Cercei leaned close and murmured, "Perhaps you might sing your niece, 'Her Little Flower.'"
Brienne felt hot all over, and no matter how she tried she could not stop the ribald lyrics from echoing through her mind.
The queen's expression was amused; she saw Brienne's chagrin and savored it.
"My brother," she finished lightly, "has the self-control of a septon."
Brienne's feet were rooted to the tiles.
A man would need the patience of a septon to endure such a wife, Ser Humphrey had told her father.
The gods themselves could not make a man blind enough to wed her, Evenstar's own septon had murmured, when Lord Renly had gone and her prospects seemed bleak and bitter.
Nor blind enough to bed me, she knew.
No steel could cut so deeply as words.
Cercei's eyes flicked up, and that was all the warning Brienne had. She did not have time to panic before Jaime's hand was sliding across her back, a touch more intimate than any they had shared in the privacy of their chambers.
"Brienne," he greeted, voice low and level, "Sister."
"Jaime," Cercei's voice was cool, her eyes still laughing.
Brienne managed a croaking, "My lord," that made her good-sister's eyes leap with glee.
"Pray excuse us."
With no further justification, Jaime turned Brienne and towed her from the crowds. His arm slipped from her waist once she gained momentum, but he did not pause until they were half the hall from the queen, and nearing the large outer doors.
"It grows stuffy in this monstrous hall," Jaime complained. "I've a mind to walk the yard."
She followed him, relieved when the muggy night air touched her face.
She did not know where to go, nor did he. They wandered, aimless, until the sweat dried on her gown and breathing felt normal. Then Jaime's feet gained a mind, and she followed as he disappeared into the night.
The Tower of the Hand looked black in the midnight gloom. Jaime circled its base, hunting, until he stopped beside a dying willow, stone choking it from the roots.
A pool with a low stone rim was dug beneath the willow; its water seemed to whisper in the night.
Jaime glanced up the looming expanse of wall and indicated a spot high up the stone.
"There," he muttered, and turned almost before she had a chance to see the shadow, a dim square blacker than the rest.
He slid down the stone and sat upon the hard ground.
Brienne nearly joined him, but at the last moment she remembered her pretty velvet gown and the eyes that were never far. She sat heavily on the edge of the pool, facing him.
"Seven hells, how I hated that tower," Jaime grumbled.
This is where he lived, she realized, when his father was Hand for Aerys.
"Lords and ladies coming and going, rats scuttling about the walls, endless bloody rows between the Hand and the King. And never enough tourneys to escape it all."
He sounded rueful. Bitter. His hair looked Targaryen white in the moonglow.
Jaime gestured again, and this time Brienne saw a tower, white with reflected light.
"I used to dream of joining the Kingsguard," he told her, as the moon danced shadows across White Sword Tower. "When Cercei-"
He broke off, a derisive laugh caught in his throat.
Tension snaked up Brienne's spine.
She did not know how to dispel the memories hanging heavy beneath the willow. No more than she could dispel her own unforgiving remembrances.
"You would have defended the king admirably."
Brienne truly believed that. Jaime was strong, gifted, and not so unfeeling as other men supposed.
A shadow crossed her husband's face, and she could not read its cause.
"The cloak would have spoiled me, or I it," he said, voice hard. "I was not made for bloodless things."
No, Brienne agreed. You were made for sunlight, for Lannister gold and crimson.
You were not made for loneliness as I was.
But she was not lonely now. Not truly.
A breeze rustled her skirts and swirled amongst the leaves. In the pool, shadows rippled across the deep reflection of the willow tree.
"I wish to return to the Rock," Brienne muttered to the few, resilient stalks of grass sprouting from the hard packed-dirt.
Jaime blinked, taken aback by her admission.
Indeed, Brienne did not know where the thought came from, or why she voiced it. Only that the watery leaves reminded her of the Sunset Sea, and it seemed a safer place than here.
Jaime's eyes were cautious, but when he spoke his voice was fervent.
"As do I," he agreed.
Standing, Jaime offered her a hand.
"We will take leave in the morning, and ten days hence we'll be home."
She took his hand, and the night was all the colder when he freed her.
She looked at the dark stone tower, the pitch colored recession high on its face.
Home, she thought sadly. I do not know where home is anymore.
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