Jaime is the kind one.
When they were children—he and Cersei not yet old enough to do much of anything important, Tyrion learning in leaps and bounds—it occurred to him that he didn't have a special name.
(Mama had always called him moonlight, but that was before she left so they could have Tyrion.)
Cersei was the ambitious princess, entrusted with the Ring of Solaris, inheritor of a string of titles long enough to make his head spin. And Tyrion was their clever little prince, the boy with stars in his eyes and silver on his tongue, getting into trouble and teaching himself to read when his minders weren't watching.
But Jaime was only ever the golden lad with a sword in his hand.
(Moonlight isn't golden, he thought petulantly for years and years, every time he heard the name. No more soft whispers in the night, good night, moonlight, or warm laughter in the midday sun, I love you, moonlight.)
And when he brought it up one day to the others, his voice speculative like it didn't hurt and his face smooth as still waters, they exchanged a look that spoke volumes.
"Oh, that's easy," Cersei had finally replied, a strong breeze against the water, and Tyrion had said, "You're the only one in this family with a speck of kindness," like it was obvious.
So, Cersei is the ambitious one, always clawing for more and more, to reach higher and higher; Tyrion is the clever one, devouring books and asking questions and learning, learning, learning; and Jaime is the kind one, who can look at a person and see all the ugliness in their souls and love them for it anyway.
It's something of a comfort, especially when they point out, years later, that kind doesn't always mean nice. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is the thing that hurts them the most.
.
(I have to go now, moonlight. I'm so sorry. Please, moonlight, please take care of your brother and sister. I love you, moonlight…)
.
Father receives an offer for Jaime to squire for the King of the Crownlands when he's fifteen. Even years after, Jaime is never certain whether it was the worst thing to ever happen to him, or the best, when Father accepts and send him to King's Landing on Domino.
.
(Cruelty can be a kindness, darling. I have to leave my family, and that's not fair, but I'm leaving it a little bit larger than it was. Do you understand, moonlight?)
.
He stands next to King Aerys Targaryen's shoulder for ten months out of the year and watches as the bright green in his eyes grows brighter and brighter, wilder and wilder.
He watches Queen Rhaella Velaryon cringe delicately away from her husband and frowns because he doesn't understand her fear but sees it all the same.
He notices how Prince Rhaegar always places himself between his father and his betrothed, the princess of Dorne, who Cersei coos over sometimes in her letters. It gets worse after they finally wed.
Everything gets worse.
.
The maesters whisper together, thinking he hears nothing.
"Magical shock, for certain," one of them says, something between awe and fear in his voice. "Never seen anything like it…"
"That's because no one has ever survived taking so much corrupted magic into their core," another replies, short and clipped, diagnosis and prognosis decided the moment they'd entered the room. "That the prince did so is troubling, to say the least."
"He saved so many people," a third whispers.
And the second replies, "He doomed so many people," and round and round they went, while Jaime lay there and wished he couldn't hear them at all, wished he'd stopped the king sooner, wished so many things.
.
He dreams of Prince Rhaegar shoving Twice-Princess Elia into his arms and shouting at him to get her to the portal. The Silver Prince rushes off to the throne room and Jaime stands there, frozen, until Elia makes a noise of fear and he does as he's bid. She makes it through the portal and he makes it to the throne room and there's no other choice, no other choice, he's the kind one and cruelty can be a kindness and sometimes the kindest thing you can do causes the most pain and—
.
(My darling moonlight.)
.
Twice-Princess Elia gives birth to triplets while he sleeps, and the day she brings them to visit is the day he awakens, the soft golden light of his magic healing itself dissipating in the face of three cooing angels.
A girl who should have been a crown princess, with her father's eyes and mother's hair giving her the look of a Dayne; a boy who will grow to be every inch the Salty Dornishman; and a second girl who is so much the spitting image of Queen Rhaella that it brings tears to Jaime's eyes. He would kill and die for these precious babes, for their precious mother, but decides then and there that he'll do something much more difficult.
He decides to live.
.
(Moonlight, moonlight, moonlight…)
.
Jaime's childhood practice of becoming smooth as still waters, and his squire lessons of projecting himself someplace else, anywhere but here, serve him well at Red Fountain. With princes and lordlings abound, frothing at the mouth to prove themselves, it becomes a necessity.
It's proven to not be all bad, though, at Alfea's annual welcome ball.
He has vague knowledge from Cersei's many and varied stories that it's tradition for Cloud Tower students to sabotage the ball in some way, but Jaime doesn't quite cotton on to it happening until he literally trips over a group of faeries trying to. Well, he isn't quite sure what they're trying to do, huddled around the chest of gifts his schoolmates had brought. There's certainly a lot of magic in the little closet it's been stashed, but attuned as he is to faery magic, it strikes Jaime as more flash than substance.
Freshmen, then, most like.
Pixies, says a very snotty voice in the back of his head that sounds like Cerse.
They all gape at him for several seconds as he puts himself to rights, until the tallest girl he's ever seen straightens up and looks him square in the face. He has to look two inches up to meet her baby blues, framed by choppy, straw yellow hair.
"Ladies," he says with a small bow and a Lannister smile. "Is there a problem, or could you just not wait until the ceremony?"
"A group of witches cursed the Specialists' presents, sir!" one of the faeries yelps in a broad Riverlands accent, prompting sighs from the others.
By far the prettiest girl he'd seen since one of Cersei's age-mates, Ashara, shakes her head with a fond, "Walda…"
"Sorry, Miss Dayne," Walda replies, wide-eyed, "but we can't undo it ourselves, and you heard what the Lannister Princess said before they left!"
Blinking, it takes a moment for him to realize what the Riverlass means, then he can't help but chuckle. "Met my sister already, have you?" he says with a smirk. "I'd say I hope she didn't do anything too nasty to what's in that chest, but knowing her, she used the most stubborn hex she knows on the damn things."
The younger Dayne girl—Lyria, he thinks her name might be?—blinks big lilac eyes at him. "You're one of the Lannister princes?" she asks, seemingly guileless but for the sly look in her eyes.
"Jaime Lannister, Paladin of Moonlight, at your service, ladies. And yourselves?"
"I'm Walda, Faery of Silver," the cheerful Riverlass pipes up, when no one else speaks. "And this is my roommate, Allyria, Faery of Starfire. We're the ones who saw your sister curse the presents, so we ran and got our RA, Brienne." She indicates the big blonde, who has yet to un-narrow her eyes or make a single facial expression beyond threat detected. "She's Faery of Gemstones. Then there's Meera Reed, Faery of the Swamp"—a slight girl with green eyes and brown hair—"Shae Lorath, Faery of Sea Creatures"—the tall, willowy one who looks ready to cut him—"and Sand, of the domain of Knowledge."
"Just Sand?" Jaime repeats, curious.
Brienne finally speaks, in a soft Stormlands accent but a sharp voice, as if daring him to argue. "Sarella when she's a Faery, Alleras when he's a Fae, and yes, just Sand when they're Feyfolk."
The feyfolk in question looks incredibly amused at their companion's immediate willingness to throw down with him over the perceived slight. "My apologies, then," Jaime says with a grin and a much deeper bow, only half in jest. "Ladies and gentlethem."
Sand cackles a laugh that reminds him of Twice-Princess Elia, dispelling the remaining tension in the room. "Well then, Princess Brienne," he says, rubbing his hands together at the prospect of foiling his sweet sister's plans. "Let's see if I can't lend you all a hand."
"I'm not a princess," Brienne says with a frown, "my father's a duke, not a king," and Jaime blinks again because Stormlands and of Gemstones and duke all slot together in his mind.
"Not… the Duke of Tarth?" he slowly replies. "Not the Evenstar? Grandson of Ser Duncan the Tall?"
The future Duchess of Tarth frowns even harder and looks at Jaime as if she suspects he's mocking her. Very combative, the duchess is, and so very tall.
"Yes, Selwyn Tarth. My father."
Jaime really doesn't know what to do with that bland response, but sees Liege Sand and Lady Shae trade smirks and so soldiers on. "I stand corrected, Your Grace," he corrects himself, and is somewhat delighted to see the frown deepen. Oh, the fun they'll be having.
.
A few hours after the night has been saved and the ball ends, lying spread-eagle on his bed, Jaime reaches for his phone and taps out a message.
let me no if u need help wiht my sis agan ur grace
He rolls over and falls asleep without ever hearing the chime of a reply, but when he wakes in the morning, four delightful words are there to greet him.
I'm not a duchess.
.
Three weeks later, he asks Tyrion (who asks Cersei) for advice, and three days after that a silver stationary necklace with blue sapphires is delivered to Duchess Tarth's dorm room in a shower of golden sparks.
It arrives in his own dorm room the day after that with a stinging hex attached.
.
He gets her a sword after that, made of ensorcelled Valyrian steel, stamped with blazing suns and crescent moons. It remains exactly where it is, but another stinging hex is attached to the begrudging thank you note.
.
Jaime doesn't know why he doesn't tell Tyrion or Cersei about the Duchess of Tarth and their… contentious… relationship.
Maybe it's because she's the only friend he's ever made outside of the social circles they all share on Solaris. Maybe it's because she's the closest to a real friend he's ever had, full stop. Maybe it's because, if she meets Tyrion she'll realize how clever Jaime isn't; if she meets unrelenting Cersei, maybe she'll look at him and realize he's meek in comparison.
He wants his friend for his own, is that really so bad?
.
They don't see each other for months and months, exchanging only text messages and shared documents when the other needs help with schoolwork, and the occasional link to interesting or amusing videos online. When they finally come face to face at the end of the year, Jaime finds himself the opposite of tongue-tied, talking too much and too fast, like all the words he ever wanted to share with her but couldn't manage in writing were finally spilling out.
Brienne is stiff as she was the first time they met, just standing next to her roommates as they mingle with his, but she digests all his indecipherable ramblings with the same steadiness as a blacksmith shaping a sword. Then she nods and lets her own words roll around her mouth awhile before replying, but reply she does.
The messages continue through the summer, sometimes slow trickles and sometimes roaring floods. Every time it settles Jaime just a little bit more. Until one day he realizes that Twice-Princess Elia and her darling angels are not the only things pushing him out of bed in the morning, and haven't been for quite awhile.
He still doesn't tell Tyrion and Cersei about Brienne, but it doesn't matter because she never once indicates that she cares to meet them.
.
Brienne reaches her Enchantix midway through his sophomore year and when the almost-terse message chimes on his phone telling him, Jaime could just burst with pride.
A second chime, and he sees that Lady Walda has helpfully provided him with a picture from her first transformation: hair a halo of white-gold curls, held by a band of silver studded with pink gems that match her house's sigil and long gloves to match, the little blue minidress that had shown off her legs to great effect a silky-looking thing that flows down to her knees, boots now flimsy sandals covered in yet more jewels, and gold and silver wings now huge things as wide as she is tall.
It's all very overwhelming for a regular Tuesday afternoon and so all he can do is send a string of exclamation marks to the both of them and lie to his squad about what's got his eyes so misty.
She stays a few more weeks at Alfea for the official ceremony of recognition, which he is not permitted by the Battlemaster to attend, before heading back to Tarth as a fully-fledged Guardian Faery. His congratulations are so vehement as to be incomprehensible but he has faith that Brienne understands the sentiment behind the babble.
It becomes a much lonelier year without the Duchess to keep him apprised of the rivalrous goings-on between the faeries and witches, and without winged assistance to call upon when the rivalrous goings-on include Red Fountain as its target. He isn't a monster, though, and simply messages Walda—or, in a pinch, Sand—when one or a few Specialists get it into their heads to initiate some mischief of their own.
But it is an unbearably quiet rest of the year.
.
When Brienne turns out to be leading the group of pixies that Cersei's experiment-gone-wrong decides to target, Jaime forgets himself. Lannister pride and manners be damned, he throws himself into the opportunity and doesn't realize that he's shown his hand until Cersei's voice breaks over them like a splash of cold water.
He freezes, thinks smooth as still waters, anywhere but here, but Brienne hardly glances at Cersei before dismissing her. It's a revelation and suddenly he's back to himself, as he always is around the duchess.
They snipe back and forth for a bit during the walk, Jaime eager as a puppy and Brienne dignified as a cat, until they break through the treeline to see shining lake water and the headmistress of Alfea. Cersei smooths things over as best she can with the Dowager Queen, and Brienne raises her eyebrows at Jaime pointedly when transfer papers are mentioned.
His cheeks redden and he gives her a Lannister smile that's never once fooled the Duchess of Tarth. Brienne shakes her head with the tiniest smile but watches avidly as Cersei shows the pixies a few moves with Brightroar.
Jaime could feel jealous that their family's ancestral blade is no longer his to wield. He could feel something, anything, that this too is lost to him in favor of one of his shining siblings. Instead, he thinks it's appropriate that the blade he used on Domino pass to Cersei, who always was the more active of them.
Kindness has become so much harder over the years, so maybe faery magic is just the thing he needs to remind himself how it goes.
.
The night before he leaves Red Fountain for good, Brienne's chime sounds, informing Jaime that the Evenstar has agreed to let her attend it herself for a trial year. Cersei's ever-present, effervescent influence spreading that much farther.
Again, he could be jealous. Paladin of Gemstones has such a lovely ring to it, though.
gud lukc, gemstones!
Good luck, moonlight.
Notes: Whoo, gender-stereotyping is a hell of a drug, kids, so just say no!