What We May Be

We know what we are, but know not what we may be, William Shakespeare

Chapter One:

Jaime:

It was a light wetness that Jaime Lannister felt at his cheek at first, a silky, feathery drop, melting so as the moment it touched his skin. Bewildered, he lifted his head, toward the slowly breaking sky under the pale yet heavy mist, trying to remember the last time he had seen snow. They were returning from Estermont, a tourney hosted for the new King's name day. They had taken their leave whilst snow banks were slowly turning to dirtied mud along the Kingsroad, and when they returned to King's Landing it was summer again. Joffrey was a toddler, still clutching her mother's hems, Tommen wasn't even born yet. Over a decade gone, but now it seemed to him ages had passed. He watched as another drop landed on him and he raised his golden hand to catch another. The snowflake glinted on the gold, shining brightly like a crystal. It reminded him of the mines back at home, sparkling golden glints beneath Casterly Rock's cavernous depths.

Winter has come. The news of the white ravens from Citadel had reached to the encampment in Pennytree but watching as snowflakes fall was another matter. It'd been so long, and they were so unprepared. He cast another look around, the war-torn lands stretching ahead of him. The sight irked him thoroughly whilst the wilderness of Riverlands fell under that eerie mist, cold fingers of fogs crawling through tall slender trees, wild scrubs pushed out of the earth dew with moist. He pulled his cloak tighter around him against the chill, edges trimmed red with fox fur.

The snow fastened, hurling in the wind. Beside him he heard a faint gasp, small as a hitch of breath but enough to take him out of his reverie. Shifting aside, he darted a glance at his companion. As bewildered as though he was with the sight, the Maid of Tarth was in stupor, those big blue eyes of hers widened in awe. After her childhood, this must be the wench's first winter, Jamie reflected.Oft-times he forgot how young and ignorant Brienne was of the world and its dangers she lived in.

And some fool you are following her right in the heart of those dangers, as blind as a bat, he thought the moment after. She had made her appearance in his camp yesternight, demanding that he came with her, alone, looking at him with those eyes and before he knew he was back in the wildness again, riding through the night at a hard gallop, on a bloody rescue he had never ever truly hoped to be a success, but he had given his word.

"Your first time?" Jaime asked, a sly half smile playing over his lips, his tone laden with hidden innuendo.

She did not take the notice of it, of course, she had never. "The last winter in Tarth was mild," she said rising her hand to catch a snowflake like he had done, "I remember it faintly. I used to beg my lord father to let me to play with other children, but I was never allowed."

He gave out another smile, small but this time sincere. "I used to throw balls at Cersei and Tyrion at the inner bailey." His voice was warm with old childhood memories then he remembered… she's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know. Come to think of it, perhaps he just wanted to be away from Cersei.

His face closed off, cold as winter. Sensing the change of his mood, Brienne turned her attention from the white miracle and spurred her horse closer to Honor. Jaime looked at her, in waiting. She did not speak. "We did not come all way to here to marvel at the sight, Brienne," he rasped out a snap, "Where are they?"

She stirred ahorse, gestured with a small shake of her head. Below them, one of the thousands of the vales of the Riverlands lay ahead in leisure, a thin river lazily waning its serpentine way through the base. "They camped near the river for the night," Brienne explained, pointing at the river below the hillside where they were standing atop, reluctance in her voice as clear as the winter mist around them.

From the slope, Jaime turned his eyes at her, and squinted. That qualm was foreign to him. She had never been a hot-headed person like him, never reckless but that was different. She had come to him, demanding his help, but when he had given her what she had asked and they left the camp unannounced like thieves in the night, she started behaving like she wanted to be anywhere but here in the world. If it were anyone but Brienne, he could have said he was walking into a trap but he knew the wench. He knew her sense of honor and duty, he knew her oaths. But she wasn't apparently the same stubborn big wench he had sent away on a foolish honorable quest. The notion soured his mood further. Everyone had a breaking point. He of all people would know that better than anyone. He had oft wondered about her after her departure, wondered what kind of fouls might have befallen her, wondered if he had made a mistake sending her on her own, wondered if she had been defiled, beaten, broken… His eyes caught the fiery gash across half of her cheek, red and swollen. How did you get that, wench?

"Perhaps we ought to wait until the dawn quickens," she then announced, and his suspicions grew louder and louder in his mind.

"You want to wait?" he asked, giving her a look, "I thought you would just want to gallop below the hilltop. The ladies in distress won't get rescued by themselves."

Much like the old times, she ignored his mocking, pulling reins closer to her chest, her cloak hiding half of her face. "The sun almost broke. We rode hard through all night and it's the Hound that we will face with." She hesitated a second before she finished, quickly stealing a look down the hillside, "We need to rest and gather our strength back." Because you're just a woman and I'm just a cripple.

Perhaps she had just learned how to be prudent. It was surely a lesson he needed to learn too, long past.

"My lady of Tarth, I wouldn't dream of you becoming so full of tact," he jested, even though he reined in to still Honor.

She watched him serenely as he climbed down from his saddle then she dismounted as well. "People change," she said with a small voice as she walked past him, reins in her hand, her mount following her.

For that, Jaime had nothing to say.

The snowfall had quickened a bit heavier, wind starting cracking at his face. She had chosen the wrong day to play the hero, he reflected as they walked slowly through the tricky path. If he had known the snow would have fallen so sudden he would have never—well, he figured he would still have, when it came to the bloody oaths, he was surely as stupid as the wench. Some day, like his lord father used to say, that was going to be his downfall. The thought brought a sudden snicker out of him. If only Father would see me now…

Brienne gave him a curious look with a faint scowl, enormous blue eyes searching to see what could have brought such a mirth out of him in these dark times. He gave her back a sly grin, wheeling Honor closer, "I just thought of my lord father seeing me like this—chasing after the Stark girl in the heart of the winter," he explained.

Then the stupid wench stopped, turning to look at him directly in the eyes, her blue gaze under her cloak was as sincere as he always knew. "I have heard the news of your lord father, Ser Jaime," she said to him. His face closed off, "My condolences."

"Why, don't tell me you've grown onto love Lannisters," he snapped, anger edging his voice into a deep rasp, for what he was not certain. Before Brienne had come and dragged him away, he had been just the son that the mighty Tywin Lannister had always hoped for. With a trebuchet. Yes, Tywin Lannister would have been proud.

Brienne was looking at him with that look again, long and hard, but without a word she turned aside and tied her horse to the nearest tree. "I meant no offense, Ser," she then softly said, almost meekly, as if she was tired, as if she did not really want to hurt him. "I know how dearly you love your family."

"Family always comes first, he used to say," Jaime remarked as he tied Honor too, and straightened up. "My brother killed him, and I set him free." The confession must have pushed itself out of him on its own record, because it was not his intention to speak aloud, but after the words were uttered out, he also found himself not caring. Perhaps just not with her. She'd already heard too much anyway.

The snow had ceased, the mist was slowly unveiling, the hour of the nightingale nearing. "You were not at fault," the Maid of Tarth asserted, tiredness again so palpable in her tones, her voice as faint as a whisper.

"I never said I was," he countered placidly. He hadn't pulled that crossbow, he knew that, yet ofttimes it made no difference. You poor stupid blind crippled fool. And such a fool he had been, for so long.

He sat down beneath the tree, old roots and cold wet heavy soil biting his skin even through all the layers of clothing. A few hours, scarce minutes before he was off again to do something stupid. How very fitting. Brienne settled herself next to him in silence.

He threw another side glance at her as she heaved out a soft breath. What she had left unsaid grew heavier in his mind, so he pressed further. "Gods be damned, Brienne," he hissed at her, "What happened to you?" She gave him a withering look, swung at him, forever in defiance. He shook his head. "Do not tell me it's nothing," he warned, "I see it is."

"It's just a bite," she insisted again, her hand rising to over her check. That was what she had told him when he had asked her what had happened to her face. It's just a bite, nothing of importance, ser.

"Enough to make you shiver in pale, wench," he shot back, mostly to arouse her. It had been a while since the last time he had called her wench at her face.

"I'm only a bit tired," she insisted stubbornly, "It will pass in a minute. It-it festered a fortnight past, illness had fallen over me—I became feverish."

"And then you decided to rush to rescue as soon as you stood on your feet," he snapped, feeling anger heating his blood. How you could be this stupid, wench, sometimes I wonder. Though that was the wench she knew. He shook his head again. "Dead people cannot save anyone, Brienne," he remarked, the fire in him quenching.

This time she didn't respond, as she knew well enough that he was right. Dead could not save any one, dead was just dead. He casted a look up and wondered how long they could wait until they would charge. The sky was painted with Lannister colors, crimson-and-gold, faint sunlight creeping through the cracks of the clouds that gathered above. He idly wondered if it would snow again. This was just the passage between the seasons, a taste of what would come soon, and every maester told the same; after long summer, comes long winter. Aside him, with a small sigh, Brienne unfastened the leather straps of her breastplate and took it off.

And Jaime stared. She was in bad state, he had assessed it from her appearance at the first sight, but he had not realized the extent of it until the breastplate had come off. Her thinner, yet as homely as ever, face told him that she had lost some pounds, nasty festered wounds tended to do that, but what he found underneath of the steel was exceedingly worse. She must have lost at least one stone, perhaps even two, the leather jerkin once stretched fittingly over her hefty body now hung loosely as if belonging to someone else. It wasn't. He would know, because he had armored her himself from the best armorer in the city before he sent her away with Oathkeeper. He was wondering how she could even carry the heavy armor in that state when she said, "It was Biter." He looked at her, quite at lost then it dawned on him.

"Where?" he breathed out, "I have been looking for them." His voice took an edge, "They already left when I arrived at Harrenhal." The reports were confusing after then, once he had even read one that claiming Beric Dondarrion slayed them.

Nodding, Brienne agreed, and started retelling, "I found them at an inn at the crossroads—or they found me," she said, "I thought the inn might have news of Sansa." It must have been the inn that Sandor Clegane had killed his brother's men, so perhaps he also met with Stark girl there. Founded at the crossroads in the heart of the realm, it seemed quite possible. "It—the inn," Brienne continued, "it was full of orphans—" In her voice the same hesitance crept again, a sadness shadowing her usually cool tones, "Orphans, they were so many, Ser Jaime, so many. War has torn apart this land, leaving only weak and innocent behind."

Solemnly, he nodded. "Wars always do that," he said, his voice dark. He had always thought his place was at the battlefields, his sword in one hand, his shield in the other, glory for his name, honor for his family, just like in the songs, but in the songs no one talked of orphans, of people who had nothing left, neither did they talk of cripples who had left behind a piece of them.

Unbidden, guilt was there, filling him. He looked at her again, her battered figure, not as colossal and unmoving as it used to be. He was right in his suspicions; she had changed, he could clearly see it now. Much like him, she had changed, and he was the cause of it. He should have never sent her alone in this torn apart land on a foolish hope to keep a vow. The notion had amused him, the bitter irony that he was the one who kept Stark girl safe when no one expected it but he also had wanted to keep his word. Oathkeeper, he had named the sword, and it felt right.

Still, each of them made their own choices, war or peace, run or fight. The Maid of Tarth had chosen too, she had made her bed long past and Jaime knew she was prepared to lie in it, so long as she had a sword in her hand. All things considered, it was what he admired the most in the wench.

"What happened then?"

"We fought—" She paused, her hand rising to her cheek again, "I won."

He snickered, looking at her ruined cheek. The scar made little difference on that side, she was still as unappealing as before, her sunken deformed cheek only made the look worse. She was damaged, scarred, almost broken, but her eyes were the same. He looked at those big, magnificent blue eyes. They had not changed, not yet.

He sighed out, resting his head against the tree's trunk. The sun had fully broken now. Soon they would set on the road again, to keep their last vow. He stood up, and offered his hand to her. "Well, at least, you are not stupid to go on your own this time but had enough wits to ask my help. I would hate to see you dead, my lady."

Her hand in his, suddenly she stopped, as if he had stricken at her, cast off stone, looking bewildered, big eyes on him—almost wet. He frowned, his jaw setting, as her lips quaver, her eyes moistening.

No… A fat tear dropped over her scarred cheek. "I—I'm sorry," she pleaded, standing as the same time he uttered her name into a question.

"Brienne?" Don't tell me you did it.

"I—I cannot—this isn't right, it is not." She shook her head. "There is no honor in this."

Heaving out deeply, Jaime pulled his sword out of its scabbard. When there was any honor in anything?