Warnings: Hmmm...sexy times. Nothing too graphic but a smidgen more than fade-to-black. Canon-compliant coarse language. Past Jaime/Cersei.
Twenty-Five
The Wall's control room returns and Brienne scowls at the computer screens before she levels her scowl on Jaime.
"I am never trusting you again," she growls.
Jaime groans and slowly lowers his head to the desk in front of him.
*/*/*/*/*
"Things were going so well, too," Jaime says mournfully.
Brienne sighs, equally mournful. "They were."
Jaime slides a glance at her from the corners of his eyes. "You know," he says, "I just realized..."
She turns and looks at him, and he loses his train of thought for a moment as he admires the beauty of her eyes.
"You just realized what?" she prompts.
He blinks then smirks. "Every Brienne I've seen—and I've seen almost all of them—has that lion-shaped cluster of freckles on their right hip."
"Oh, for—" She rolls her eyes and pulls off her skull cap. "I'm going for a walk."
"Oh, come on, Junior!" Jaime calls as she stomps to the door. "I'm a scientist! I'm asking for research purposes!"
She spins round and points a warning finger at him. "Keep talking like that and we'll go straight home to King's Landing tomorrow!"
"And disappoint Pod?"
That gives her pause. "Pod?"
"I sent the hotel staff a text. They're busy ramping up his excitement level as we speak."
Brienne presses her lips together, trying to stop the smile that's tugging at the corners of her mouth. "It's almost two in the morning," she says drily. "Pod is happily chasing rabbits—"
"—who would be twice his size," Jaime mutters.
"Happily chasing rabbits, not getting ramped up for something he—oh for the gods' sake, he's a ratty little mutt, not a child!"
"He's not ratty!" Jaime says, and then they're both laughing so hard tears are spilling down their cheeks.
"We need more sleep," Brienne says when they finally stop and catch their breath.
"We certainly do," he says, grinning.
She shakes her head and turns to the door. "I'll be back in a few," she says, and Jaime hears her chuckle again as the door closes behind her.
*/*/*/*/*
The generators are ready by the time she returns. She pulls on her skull cap and settles in the chair beside him.
They exchange nods and then Brienne hits enter.
*/*/*/*/*
That night, Brienne locks her doors.
She hears Jaime rattle the latch and she waits, expecting him to shout and pound his fist against the door, to demand entry, demand she do her duty.
But he does none of that, and Brienne doesn't know if she's relieved or disappointed.
She sits by her table, a small goblet of wine in front of her, and struggles to control her rage and grief and fear.
Cersei.
Pregnant.
With the pregnancy occurring so quickly after her wedding, Brienne has no doubt the babe's true father will never be known.
If King Eddard were to suspect...
Her blood runs cold.
The Starks began a civil war that lasted for over ten years because King Rhaegar took Lyanna Stark, King Eddard's sister, for his mistress—or mayhaps his bride. Not that it matters now, so many years later. The Lannisters put aside their differences with the Starks to rise up in joint rebellion against the last Targaryen King, while the Stormlands fought with the Throne. Even so, the last Targaryen had been quickly defeated, and the conflicts quickly devolved into an endless, bloody fight to determine who should sit the Southron Throne.
Gold buys loyalty and sellswords, and Tywin Lannister took the Throne because he could hold it, and he did, despite her own best efforts as well as many other Houses. But now, all these long and violent years later, all the realm really wants now is simply wants peace.
If King Eddard Stark were to discover that the babe his royal wife is carrying could possibly be her brother's child and not her husband's...
Brienne feels faint at the thought.
The possibility of re-sparking a war is what concerns her as a Lord Commander, as a Princess, as a future Queen.
As a woman...
She closes her eyes, hands clenching as jealous rage sweeps through her, and tells herself she's being foolish.
Jaime went to Cersei on their—Jaime and Brienne's—wedding night. She knows he loves Cersei. Knows he will always love her. But they had been fucking for years, Brienne thinks, her heart bitter, and if Cersei truly became pregnant so quickly after Cersei's own wedding night...is it possible she deliberately did all she could to ensure any babe she bore would be Jaime's?
Brienne's head aches.
She sips her wine and thinks on what she can remember from the wedding feast for King Eddard and Cersei: Ned saying he felt ill, and then her own predicament, waking from a drugged stupor to find herself naked and spreadeagled, tied to her bed.
She takes another sip of wine.
Not Cersei's wedding night, most like, she thinks, her face grim, and the only reason the woman would make such a claim would be to hide the truth about who actually fathered the babe.
She closes her eyes.
She will never escape Cersei's shadow, she thinks, not even when the other woman is half a kingdom away.
*/*/*/*/*
Maester Luwin seeks Jaime out when supper ends, calling to him before Jaime can follow after Brienne, who is all but running from the Great Hall when Tywin finally releases them from his presence.
Luwin's smile seems sincere and innocent enough as he holds out a sealed note.
"From your sweet sister, Your Grace," he says, as if Jaime doesn't know who from Winterfell would be writing to him.
"Thank you, Maester," Jaime says, taking the note from the man's hand. "How fares my sweet sister? When is she to be delivered of the babe?"
"As I told Princess Brienne, the Queen has not allowed me to examine her at any great length, however, she assures me the babe was conceived on her wedding night." Luwin chuckles comfortably. "Women are often wrong about these matters, however. She will deliver in four months or mayhaps even five."
Jaime's smile is sharp and humorless. "'Tis not her first child," he says mildly enough, "she mayhaps knows better when the babe was conceived than a woman who has had no other children."
Luwin's face immediately fills with sympathy. "Ah, yes, the poor Crown Prince and Princess," he says. "Pity they died in infancy, Your Grace. How many years of civil war could have been avoided if only King Rhaegar had had a living heir?"
Even now, even after everything, and just like a trained dog, Jaime still grits his teeth against the jealousy that ripples though him at the fact Cersei gave birth to Rhaegar's children. Twins, both died shortly after Rhaegar stole Lyanna Stark from her family and her betrothed. The babes had not even been weaned yet and they died before Jaime had ever seen them.
Jaime shakes his jealous memories away and nods at Maester Luwin.
"True," he murmurs, and it is. Years of war and devastation could have been avoided if only one of the children had lived. "Thank you, Maester, for travelling so far to give us this news in person."
Luwin touches the chained collar round his neck. "The Queen in the North learned I have yearned to forge another silver link for my chain these last years. There has been much learned of medicine and healing during the war, but I have had no opportunity to learn the new ways while we were at war with the South. Queen Cersei, in her infinite kindness, persuaded the King to send me to the Citadel, and the only thanks she would accept was for me to detour to King's Landing to act as her agent in personally sharing their glad news." Luwin's smile turns self-deprecating as he chuckles. "'Tis somewhat self-serving, as well, I'll admit. I hope to spend time with Grand Maester Pycelle, and I have never seen King's Landing."
Jaime forces a chuckle in response. "Harmless enough ambitions, Maester." He bows. "I thank you for treating my sweet sister so kindly. Good night."
Jaime crushes the note in his hand after he finally makes his escape from the Great Hall.
*/*/*/*/*
Jaime tries the door to Brienne's bedchamber and is not surprised to find it locked against him.
He pours a goblet of wine and gulps it, and wishes it were something else—something that would burn and claw at his throat, something that would hurt.
He pours himself another goblet of wine and gulps it as well, then pours himself a third before he finally sits at his side table and picks up the sealed note. He heaves a deep sigh and opens it.
He skims the words written in Cersei's hasty yet still elegant hand. On the surface, the words are innocuous enough: light-hearted chatter any sister would send to her brother. Buried within the missive, however, is the true message he knows Cersei means for him to see:
By now you will have learned the news that I am with child. 'Tis surprising that it happened on the wedding night, but mayhaps fortunate as well, since my sweet husband became ill during our journey to Winterfell—so ill I had almost begun to despair for his life! The gods have been kind, however, and he has recently returned to my bed. I pray the gods will be as kind to your sweet wife and allow her to give you the heir you so deeply desire since my sincerest wish is for our children to be as siblings to each other.
He crushes the paper in his hand and throws it on the fire.
*/*/*/*/*
Brienne successfully avoids Jaime the next morning, which in truth perfectly fits into his own plans for the day. He seeks out Maester Luwin after breakfast and asks if he has met Grand Maester Pycelle.
"No, Your Grace," Luwin replies with an obsequious smile, "but I understand he is a busy man since he is a trusted member of the King's Small Council."
"You are also a member of your King's Small Council," Jaime says with a charming smile. "I believe he is in his chambers at this time of day. Walk with me, and I shall introduce you."
"You are as kind as your sister," Luwin says as he falls in beside Jaime.
Truer words have never been spoken, Jaime thinks grimly, and says, "You praise me too highly, Maester, but I thank you for the sentiment."
They stroll towards the Rookery and Jaime idly says, "How was your journey from Winterfell? I understand there are still bandits haunting the Riverlands."
Luwin chuckles. "The Queen was kind enough to provide me with an escort."
Jaime raises an eyebrow. "Oh? I have not noticed any new horses in the stables."
"Ser Gregor and his men saw me safely to the gates of King's Landing, but they immediately continued on to Clegane's Keep—some small emergency he needs must attend to, I understand."
Jaime's blood turns ice cold. "Kind of him to escort you so far out of his way," he murmurs.
"Well, when a woman as beautiful as Queen Cersei requests it, Your Grace, there are not many men strong enough to refuse her."
That's my fear, Jaime thinks as he gives Luwin another charming smile and knocks on Grand Maester Pycelle's door.
*/*/*/*/*
Jaime barely sees Brienne for the next three days but Princess Arianne spoke true: no one is ever truly alone in King's Landing. He sets the few members of the Kingsguard he trusts to watch over Brienne from afar and thinks if Ser Gregor Clegane is lurking round King's Landing, there is no place such a monstrous man can hide: the Mountain that Rides would not only be noticed but remarked upon.
Still, he needs must be careful. He does not want to raise eyebrows by asking too many questions. Ser Gregor is House Lannister's bannerman, after all, and the very suggestion Ser Gregor could be in King's Landing without paying his respects to his Lord and his King would be all that is needed to start tongues wagging.
There must be no speculation or suspicion cast on who fathered Cersei's babe, and the rumors of Jaime's affair with Cersei are rampant throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Even Brienne remarked on it on their wedding night.
The last night he spent with Cersei.
He shakes his thoughts away. He needs must be careful not to start the tongues wagging. The gods only knew where the gossip might lead.
*/*/*/*/*
He needs must be careful, he thinks again that night as he tries the door to Brienne's bedchamber and finds it once more locked. Brienne needs must be careful, but he can't warn her if she refuses to speak to him.
*/*/*/*/*
The following morning, Jaime finally catches Brienne in the training yards before she and Sandor Clegane disappear into whatever hidden corner of the castle they've decided to use for their sparring sessions the last few days.
"Princess Brienne," Jaime calls as he steps out of the armory.
She startles, giving him a wide-eyed, almost guilty look and his eyes narrow. He glances at Sandor and thinks he'll cut the man to ribbons if he's laid a finger on Brienne. He returns his gaze to Brienne to find she's now giving him a defiant glare, her homely face haughtily proud, her chin lifted high.
"Prince Jaime," she says, so cold and distant Jaime wonders if he only dreamed their afternoon at the pond.
He turns to Sandor. "I shall spar with Her Grace today, Clegane. You may leave us."
Sandor glowers at him then glances at Brienne.
Brienne's own glower is angry enough that Jaime should have been dead on the spot, and he almost feels amused.
She nods at Sandor. "Thank you, Sandor. Tomorrow."
Sandor bows, shoots Jaime a deeply suspicious glare and leaves.
They ready themselves in silence then Jaime turns to face his erstwhile bride and hefts his sword, his lips curved in a mocking smile.
"Come now, Your Grace," he says. "You've been angry enough to lock your door against me these last three nights; here's your chance to batter me to my knees, if it will make you feel better."
Beneath her half-helm, Brienne's mouth sets into mulish lines then, with a growl, she attacks.
*/*/*/*/*
The bloody man is good, Brienne thinks some time later. Sweat stings her eyes as she's forced to retreat, parrying blow after lightning-quick blow. She knew of his skill, of course, even before they crossed swords on the battlefield. Everyone has heard tales of Prince Jaime Lannister's skill with a sword.
She blocks another blow and takes advantage of a slight opening to steal the offensive, and now he's the one dancing away from her sword, laughing as he does so.
The laughter angers her and she redoubles her efforts.
He leaps back, laughs again, and calls, "Are you simply going to beat my head in, Brienne? Or do you wish to hear my explanation?"
She grits her teeth. "There's nothing to explain," she growls and rushes him, tackling him and knocking them both into the dirt, swords skidding away from their hands.
"Not about the child," Jaime pants before he reaches up and yanks off her half-helm.
She yelps and rolls off him, scrabbling for her sword. Jaime's on his feet and waiting for her by the time she spins to face him and she sees he, too, has torn off his helm.
"You're mad," she snarls, and Jaime laughs again.
"Mayhaps—but I haven't seen your face for this long is almost four days, Brienne, and I could no longer stand that helm in the way."
She blinks and almost fails to block his next blow.
Then there's only the sounds of their swords clashing, the clank of their armour, their grunts with each blow, and their ragged breathing.
Beneath it all, beneath her hurt and rage, beneath the need to win, is a growing...she falters and Jaime almost disarms her before she catches herself. As they continue battering each other round the training yard, Brienne thinks of the afternoon at the pond, of the recent nights in her bed, and there's no denying that even weighed down with padded leather and armour and a shield, the man—curse him—is graceful and beautiful, despite—or mayhaps because of—a bruised cheek, his mouth gaping open as he gasps for air, his soaked with sweat, and she wants—
She wants to win...and she desperately wants to fuck him after she wins and she even more desperately wants to mark him somehow, to claim him as hers and know he will never be with another woman.
Stupid, she thinks, panting as they circle each other, glaring, and then his eyes widen and she knows he sees it, sees her lust, and his gaze darkens and burns, and almost without thought, they both drop their swords and shields and are in each other's arms.
*/*/*/*/*
A half-noticed door reveals a dusty storeroom, lit only by the sun streaming through a window high in the wall.
They hastily jam the door shut and then they're on each other, their clanging armour loud in the small room.
"Fuck," Jaime growls as he hastily pulls at his buckles and laces, "get out of those breeches, or I'll rip them off."
Brienne's already pulling at her own buckles and laces, and for the first time in her life, she curses the fact she's wearing breeches.
Then Jaime's pressed against her back—hot and hard and she aches—his hands slide between her legs, his questing fingers make her cry out, her knees almost buckle as she desperately pushes her breeches and smallclothes down to her ankles
"Gods," he growls in her ear then to her surprised confusion, he bends her over, forcing her to brace herself with her hands flat on the bench in front of them. His hands bruise her hips as he holds her steady and she cries out again as he drives into her, easing that ache.
He uses one hand to stroke between her thighs while the other holds her hip as he moves inside her. She cries out again, more loudly, as she eagerly meets his thrusts with her own. Tension builds within her as the world narrows to the feel of Jaime's mouth against her neck, his hot breath ghosting against her skin, his fingers on her hips or stroking between her legs, his cock moving inside her. She screams as her body suddenly clenches and her vision turns white with pleasure as Jaime growls out his own release against her shoulder.
Brienne is trembling, her legs weak as the last of her pleasure fades away, and both she and Jaime slowly, carefully, sink down on to the dusty floor.
*/*/*/*/*
They return to their apartment, dishevelled and dirty and bruised. They have some time before they needs must appear in the Throne Room, so Jaime calls for hot water and the largest tub the servants can find. Then he and Brienne strip down and, after some manoeuvring, they fit themselves into the bath, Brienne sitting in front of him, her back pressed against his chest.
He wraps his arms round her, presses a kiss against her shoulder, and says, "I know you're still angry with me."
Brienne's body tenses against him. "It happened before we struck our bargain," she mutters.
"Doesn't mean you're not angry."
"No."
He tightens his arms round her. "She's very far away," he murmurs.
"With your child," Brienne whispers.
He sighs and buries his face against her shoulder. "If it is indeed my child," he replies.
Brienne twists to glare over her shoulder at him then rolls her eyes. "Please," she says.
His arms tighten round her. "Cersei lies," he says. "I ask that you always remember that: Cersei lies."
*/*/*/*/*
They have no more time alone together until that night, when they return to their apartment. Once there, Brienne rather shyly takes Jaime's hand and leads him to her bedchamber.
He refuses to allow her to douse the lanterns and to her surprised happiness, she finds the same pleasure in her bed as she discovered in the storeroom.
Afterwards, Jaime pulls the blankets over them, curls round her and falls asleep.
*/*/*/*/*
Sometime in the night, Jaime wakes her with coaxing hands and mouth, and she shudders her release against him with a soft sigh and even softer kisses.
*/*/*/*/*
As they walk back to their apartment the next morning after Brienne's morning sparring session with Sandor, Jaime says, "Do you always wear your armour and sword when you leave the Red Keep?"
Brienne frowns. "Most of the time, yes," she says. "Why?"
Jaime hesitates. He hasn't been able to find any sign of Ser Gregor or his men. Mayhaps the man really did have to return to Clegane Keep to take care of family business. Mayhaps he read too much into Cersei's words.
Cersei lies, he reminds himself. She especially lies when she wants to control me.
"There have been some rumors of unrest brewing in the city," he says. "It would ease my mind if you would go about your day armed and alert."
Her bottomless blue eyes are puzzled as she blinks at him. "All right," she says and he knows he's confused her.
He can only nod. "Good," he mutters.
*/*/*/*/*
Over the week or so, there continues to be no sign of Ser Gregor Clegane and his men. As Maester Luwin departs for the Citadel a fortnight after his arrival in King's Landing, Jaime finally allows himself to relax.
He continues to encourage Brienne to wear her armour and sword until she finally reminds him with a puzzled scowl that she was a Lord Commander of an army and has faced far more dangerous foes than some disgruntled smallfolk.
He softens at that and lets it go.
*/*/*/*/*
Arianne Martell looks up and smiles as Brienne walks into the solar.
"Thank you for joining me, Brienne," Arianne says.
"Your note sounded very formal," Brienne says with a puzzled smile as she sits across from her friend.
"I'm afraid it is. I've received a message from my father. He's asked me to return to Dorne."
Brienne's heart sinks. "Oh."
Arianne reaches out and takes Brienne's hand. "You have been a true friend to me, Brienne. I pray the friendship we've forged will not fade once I am far away and absorbed with the needs of my own realm."
"No, no, of course not," Brienne hastily says and forces a smile.
"Good." Arianne leans back on her seat and grimaces. "My father has arranged a marriage for me. I needs must return and meet my proposed groom."
"And if he is not to your liking?"
Arianne shrugs. "I will not be the first Princess to marry for the good of the realm." She suddenly smiles. "If the gods are kind, I will be as lucky with my husband as you have been with yours."
Brienne blushes. "Prince Jaime is sweet to look upon, 'tis true," she murmurs.
Arianne bursts out laughing. "Well said, Brienne, but I don't believe it is his looks that have had you glowing these last weeks."
Brienne's blush deepens as she ducks her head in a vain attempt to hide her sudden smile.
Arianne laughs again, clapping her hand with glee. "I am pleased for you, Your Grace, and hope I will be as fortunate."
"It is still not a love match," Brienne says quickly.
"Happiness in the bedchamber does much to build a strong marriage, or so my father has told me." Arianne stops and sighs. "I will be leaving in three days, Brienne."
"I shall be sorry to see you go," Brienne says sadly, "but I will wish you happy and pray we shall meet again."
Arianne gracefully stands and holds out her hands to Brienne. When Brienne lumbers to her feet, Arianne rises on her toes and presses a kiss to first one then the other of Brienne's cheeks.
"We shall certainly meet again," Arianne says firmly. "The Martell marriage to a Targaryen did not end well, but mayhaps a Martell-Lannister alliance will fare much better."
Brienne blinks at that then slowly smiles. "Mayhaps," she says. "I also need heirs for Tarth."
Arianne's laugh is genuinely amused. "That would be even better," she says.
*/*/*/*/*
Arianne leaves three days later and Jaime watches her go with mixed emotions.
On the one hand, she's a Martell and therefore cannot be fully trusted. On the other, she seems to be a true friend to Brienne, kind to her even when he is not, and for that, he will always be grateful.
Brienne looks crestfallen as she stands beside him and he turns to her.
"You look sad, Your Grace," he says. "Would you like to spar?"
Brienne frowns at him, her magnificent eyes puzzled. "Sandor is on duty now," she says.
He raises an eyebrow. "I was suggesting with me." He leans closer. "That storeroom is still there, I believe."
She blushes a bright red even as her eyes darken.
Then she nods.
*/*/*/*/*
They only speak of Cersei when King Tywin mentions her name. Brienne sometimes feels guilty, carrying Jaime's secret as if it were her own.
Of course, in some ways, it is her own. He is her husband, he will someday be her King, and the realm has bled far more than enough already. Whether an accident or deliberate, the truth of the babe cannot be changed and if they all stay silent, chances are no one will ever know for certain.
Her own marriage grows easier each day. Jaime now more often than not spends the night in her bed, his body warm and comforting beside hers. It still startles her sometimes when she wakes in the night to find another person beside her.
She truly enjoys the beddings now and almost hopes she will not fall pregnant for a long time so Jaime will have to stay in her bed. Whenever she begins to think like she reminds herself of their bargain: two sons. Two sons and done, no matter how much pleasure she now finds in his arms. That was their bargain and she will not break her word.
And oh, she shall miss him when he leaves...which is reason enough to enjoy what time she will have with him all the more.
*/*/*/*/*
The next three weeks are busy but calm, and while Jaime is expecting another missive from his sweet sister at any moment—especially since he has not responded to her note—he pushes thoughts of Cersei and her babe to the back of his mind. She is in the North, and a Queen—or at least she's a Queen for as long as King Eddard lives. While Jaime knows she will never entirely give up her hold on him, he hopes that the babe and her duties and the distance between them will finally give her cause her to loosen her grip.
He hopes that when or if he ever see her again, he will only see his sister and not his lover.
*/*/*/*/*
In the three weeks since Princess Arianne's departure, Jaime finds himself observing Brienne ever more closely as she grows into her role as Princess and future Queen. She treats her ladies-in-waiting and, indeed, all the high-born at court, kindly, although he still worries she is too naive when it comes to playing the game of thrones. But she asks his father shrewd and difficult questions every day after they attend him in the Throne Room and hear the petitions of high-born and smallfolk alike. She asks Jaime even more difficult questions about the army and the state of the realm outside King's Landing.
Summer is almost over when Jaime finds himself with unexpected time on his hands. His father is out of the city, hunting stag with Lord Stokeworth, so Jaime seeks out Brienne and invites her to ride out to the army camps with him.
They're strolling towards the stables, comfortably discussing their growing concerns about the fates of former soldiers who are beginning to crowd into the streets of Flea Bottom, when they hear Jaime's name called.
They turn to see Grand Maester Pycelle, his round body jiggling as he runs to catch up to them.
He reaches them, puffing.
"A raven has arrived from Stokeworth, Your Grace," Maester Pycelle says, his chins trembling. "The King is dead." He clumsily kneels as he stares up at Jaime. "Long live the King."
*/*/*/*/*