14 months later
Jaime mounted his horse and wrapped his cloak around him. He'd stopped only long enough to warn Daven to settle his affairs and leave the Keep, and to borrow some of the steward's clothes. It would have been too risky to return to the tower. Cersei was mad. She had been for some time, but he'd allowed himself to be blind to it, lately more than ever.
After reports of the Battle of the Bastards had arrived at the capital, he'd convinced himself that Brienne was dead. There'd been so much carnage, they'd heard. Thousands, all dead. The thought of those eyes being closed forever rocked him. Every time he managed to sleep, he'd pictured some other awful way for her to die, always somehow his fault. He'd sunk into a depression that only wine seemed to cure - something Bronn was always happy to encourage so long as it kept Jaime safe from his thoughts. And that's how he'd wound up back in Cersei's bed. With Tyrion still in the wind, and Tommen and everyone else he cared for dead, Cersei was all he'd really had left at the time, or so he kept telling himself.
When he'd joined the procession to the dragonpit four days before, he thought he'd known what to expect - according to Tyrion, dragons and dead men. If it was all as terrifying has had been impressed on him, Cersei might be convinced to make a truce. But you had to have trust to have a truce, and Cersei did not easily trust anyone. But if she agreed, they would be going to war almost immediately.
As they walked the road to the meeting with the Dragon Queen, Jaime had relished in the idea of having a chance to throw himself into something again. He'd been lost in his reverie when Bronn appeared in the path and Jaime had stopped in his tracks, all air leaving his body, barely able to steady himself as his feet refused to move. Bronn had been tasked with meeting the party from Dragonstone and escorting them to the site - his reappearance on the road was no surprise - it was the familiar squire at his side that had caused Jaime to nearly collapse as he stared wide-eyed at the living, breathing ghost of Podrick Payne.
Pod nodded in greeting as Jaime darted his eyes from one to the other, searching for the answer to a question he couldn't quite formulate. Bronn grinned, and for the first time in a very long time, hope had crept into Jaime's heart. "If ya'think this one's a looker, just wait 'til ya see th' other skeletons they've dug up." Jaime had grasped Pod's shoulder in gratitude and then rushed to catch up to the front of the procession. If she was alive, and if she was here, he had to get between her and Cersei.
Halfway to the front of the line, his senses had caught up with him. He'd been ready to run off and defend a woman who had defeated the Hound and survived the Battle of the Bastards - she didn't need his protection, Cersei did. Maybe not from Brienne, but from everything else about to come at them. He had his duty to do by his sister, whatever she was. He'd found himself just behind Ser Gregor as they rounded the corner to the entrance. And there she was, wrapped in furs like a northwoman. As the parade approached the center of the ring, he met her eyes for the first time in over a year, and nearly tripped. He passed close to her, daring to look at her for only a moment more - long enough to assess that she was whole, alive, and breathing. He sat down, his entire body awash in both relief and worry, torn between the two women. He could feel them both watching him even as he tried to remain impassive - Brienne studying him from a distance, and Cersei seeing this and glaring at him from two feet away. He'd met Cersei's eyes in attempted nonchalance only long enough to see rage boiling there when the dragons had arrived.
The meeting had not gone well. The Dragon Queen and her pets were as expected. The wight was terrifying - also as expected. And Jon Snow was even more a fool than Jaime himself. The King in the North, it seemed, hadn't figured out yet how to put duty aside in certain circumstances and live to fight another day. Cersei had been irate and ended all talk of the truce there, departing without ceremony. As he walked down the steps he felt Brienne watching him, but he couldn't look at her. The next time he saw her might be in the field, and he knew himself just well enough to know that meeting her eye now would betray his fears. He'd already come up against Daenerys in battle, and there was no match for her dragons. Cersei's declaration had sealed their fates. Even if he somehow managed to survive a dragon attack for the second time, Brienne was apparently immortal and would live to end his miserable life.
He'd tried to pass her without a glance, reminding her of his loyalties when she tried to speak. That's when she'd grabbed his arm. "Fuck loyalty," she'd said. Brienne of Tarth, loyal to a fault, had just shouted "fuck loyalty." He knew that she was not asking him to betray his family, but asking him to see something else as equally important, appealing to his better self - someone he barely knew anymore. He'd turned and seen that Cersei had stopped and was staring at them murderously - what was that look in her eye exactly? Anger? Jealousy? He'd seen it before, and he knew that if he didn't make a show of following Cersei now, Brienne wouldn't make it out of King's Landing alive. So he'd turned on his heel and left.
On their return to the Keep, he'd tried to talk to Cersei until she'd thrown him out. She'd seen right through him, despite his assurances that his first concern was her and the child - a child, he admitted to himself, that he doubted the reality of more and more with each passing day. Only after speaking to Tyrion of all people did she seem to come around. He should have known then that she was only doing it to manipulate them all, and to make Tyrion look like a fool.
She'd marched them all back to the pit and put on a show of telling him to call all of the Lannister bannermen to arms to fight the dead. He'd been foolish enough to believe that she'd changed her mind - so had Tyrion, and so had most of the party from Dragonstone. Only Brienne had seemed skeptical, her suspicion evident from a distance.
When the queen had departed the pit a second time he had held back, slowing his pace until Cersei was out of sight, and then turned back to Brienne who had followed his movements and had slowly been making her way down the steps toward him at the edge of the pit. He swallowed, "I wish you hadn't come here." She'd looked injured, and he'd quickly added "The capital isn't safe for anyone." Brienne had set her jaw and looked down at him, cold: "You seem to have managed." He'd looked up at her slyly, and then nodded in the direction of the tents, his teasing sparkle returning "I thought you said you killed the Hound." Brienne had turned pink at the neck and smiled slightly, "I thought I had." "Well you did a terrible job of it." He chuckled, and she seemed to relax a bit, but then that worried look she'd worn during Cersei's speech had come back.
He'd paused then, knowing he should return to the Keep, but not wanting to leave her side, and realizing that this was possibly the only goodbye they'd ever had with a promise of reunion. For the first time in many years it occurred to him that he was free to make his own choices - other people's expectations of him be damned. He would lead the army north, and he might die in the north but, if not, perhaps he could stay. He couldn't fight against his sister, whatever she was, but he didn't have to defend her either. Brienne was watching him, her hand resting on Oathkeeper. "I hope that the queen keeps her promise," she'd said cautiously. He'd nodded, "My army will depart in a few days' time. We've still got some troops in the Westerlands - they'll join us at the Trident, and I'll bring them all to Winterfell. You have my word." Brienne had taken a deep breath and nodded, neither willing to utter a goodbye this time.
Just hours ago, while he'd been reviewing the needs of the expedition and counting down the days until he would be free of the city's grasp, far from Cersei's control, commanding his armies and heading north to keep his promise, Cersei had finally revealed her treachery. His blood had run cold. When he tried to take control of the situation, she'd threatened to have him killed. But he knew her - even if she didn't want him to - he truly knew her now. She was a hateful, jealous woman and there was one thing that she apparently prized above all else now that she had suffocated the life out of her children - and it was him. He called her bluff and left, his heart pounding out of his chest as he sidled past Ser Gregor and ran down the tower steps.
As he approached the Kingsroad, he looked back at the capital. Daenerys could turn it all to ash for all he cared. He would not be there to see it. He looked up the road and felt the cold winds on his face, and bundled the cloak tighter. He knew that Jon and Daenerys would not take the news of Cersei's deceit lightly. And he knew what he risked, returning to Winterfell without the shield and security of his army. He'd killed Daenerys' father two decades ago. He'd been instrumental in the death of Jon's father not ten years ago. These were not wounds that healed easily and, without an army, he was only a man. What was one more living man against a hundred thousand dead men? But he knew where he belonged, and he had a promise to keep. He signaled the horse with his heels and rode north.
Oh no, I cannot get you
A/N: This story is really calling to me, so I guess it's not stopping - Book 1 is complete, but I'll be following up with Book 2 shortly! Stay tuned!
I do not own Game of Throne or these characters; some dialogue may be taken verbatim from HBO's Game of Thrones or George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire. Lyrics used are directly from Andrew Belle's "In My Veins" (C) 2010.