this is a disclaimer.
AN: scenes from a happyending!AU.
jaime.
It's a ridiculous effort to stay awake, but there is a weight on his chest and a strong light in his eyes... sunlight, he thinks.
Screams and cries and clash of steel. His left hand gropes for his sword-hilt as he forces his eyes open.
The Stark boy kneels over him, bearded and broken-nosed, a boy no longer. "Here," he says, oddly gentle, and puts Widow's Wail's hilt in his hand.
Jaime manages to shake his head, to push it back at him. "Take it," he wheezes. "Yours. Ice. Yours all along. Put a wolfshead pommel on it."
He pauses there to cough up his lungs and nearly choke on his own blood and rails, silently, at his useless left hand that's got him into this mess. Will Cersei know it when he dies?
Yes, for a certainty.
"That's what we've become," he says. "Thieves and oathbreakers. You and I know a thing or two about broken promises, don't we, Stark?"
The Young Wolf grips his hand with a grip far firmer than Jaime would have given him credit for, so long ago in the courtyard of Winterfell when Robert was shouting for lanterns and crypts and Cersei looked cold and tired enough to start demanding people's heads.
"Yes," he says gently. "Yes, Lannister, we do."
Jaime coughs at him when he wants to laugh and chokes when he tries to curse and wishes he could feel his fucking legs and meets a pair of eyes the same shade of blue as those of a seven-year-old boy he once tossed off a tower.
The things I do for love.
"Forgive me," he whispers, and the darkness rushes up to embrace him.