Chapter1: Ever Just Out of Grasp
The one where Jaime hasn't had a decent fight in some time and his bones itch to shed blood. On his voyage west, his flag ship's captain informs him of a stow away found.
One is All,
and by it All,
and for it All,
and if it does not contain All,
then All is Nothing.
Jamie I
A fortnight into the journey, they inform him of the stow away. Jamie stands at the far end of the quarterdeck, leaning against the railing, and watches the sea ripple blue and white behind his naval flagship, a great man-of-war, as he waits for the captain to bring the deviant forth.
The crewmen, his soldiers, man the deck around him, doing tasks that sailors ofttimes do. There are shouts to mind this and that, to swab things down, to hoist this sail this way and that sail that way. It's all rather mundane to watch, and after the first three nights, Jaime began to question his decision to voyage. His eager spirit at the prospect of warring once again began to fade into a stale dreadfulness. And there were still months left for the sea.
More fool I for rash decisions made after words from a raven. At the least, there may be some degree of sport in terrorizing the poor wretch they bring me.
He chuckles to himself as a seagull perches upon the railing beside him and turns when he hears the voice of the vessel's captain. Burrin is a burly, yet stout man, middle in age, with thick hair on his arms that has seemed to flee his head and bulging, bug-like eyes. The baritone of his voice booms loudly as he climbs the steps to the quarterdeck.
And in moments, he sees her. They emerge on the deck and the seagull next to him flies off. Burrin is speaking to her in harsh, snarling tones and her face has masked into a proper scowl. She regards all and sundry with contempt as two men at arms trail behind them, carrying halberds, much as they'd have been while standing sentry.
His fingers grip the railing behind him, smooth under his calloused palm, and he stares in awe as they approach. The sun is high, this forenoon of spring, and a crisp breeze moves its fingers across the ship's path. She's wearing blue, a lovely color on her, though he would much rather her be in red or gold, and the wind causes the flimsy material of her tunic to slick taut against her frame. His breath becomes unsteady. His mouth is dry.
Burrin stands before him at attention and the group stops. He's saying something, the man seems never in lack of words, but Jaime doesn't hear him. He doesn't hear the crew. He doesn't hear the waves. His entire world has shrunk to the maid before him; to her eyes, so blue, it hardly seems possible.
"...and that's 'ow we caught 'er, m'lord."
"What?" He asks it brusquely and looks down at the man in confusion. Burrin stares up expectantly, waiting for Jaime to make some comment or another in agreement to the long winded rambling he all but ignored. The girl looks at him, same as the two men at arms. That's when the captain, red faced now, proceeds to tell him of the capture of the maid.
The tale amuses him. She took out two of his men and broke the first mate's collarbone. She managed to punch the captain in the nose before they subdued her. That explains his state of righteous anger. Jaime takes his words in and even nods at the appropriate times. He regards the maid again. Her cheeks, unmarked, burn red with indignation. Her lusterless hair, always lusterless, hangs flat against her ever broad shoulders. She meets his gaze and scowls further as his smile brightens.
"Stow away, huh?" He says, and not unkindly, though she regards him with malice.
"Aye, m'lord." Burrin confirms. "Galley boy found 'er blow deck, in the supply room."
Jaime walks before her, stopping where chests nearly touch, and looks up slightly. She's always the same height; taller than him but only so. He tries to make his eyes hard, tries to be intimidating, but he cannot seem to stifle his glee. She's here, he thinks. She's back. And so, he is slightly giddy as he stares into her eyes, such marvelous eyes that he wants never to close again.
"What's your name?" Will she be Brienne this time?
His question is met with the glare he's seen on countless occasions. Burrin bristles at this. He makes to strike her elbow, when Jaime stops him. He is quick now and he hardly remembers a life of right handed dances of steel. Jaime fixes him with a look, hard and menacing.
"None of that." A degree of fear flickers through the captain's bulbous stare.
Burrin sighs nervously. He turns again to the girl. "You will answer 'is lordship, girl."
The threat sounds rather pathetic. Jaime looks at her again, glancing at her eyes, and it is only now that he sees her, truly sees her. She is young this time; younger than she was at first, younger than she was the last. Her eyes are bright and wide with innocence. Her skin wears a sad lack of freckles and her teeth aren't as prominent as they should be. Her hair is the same shade of hay, it always is, and her eyes are as blue as he remembers.
"Girl!" Burrin begins. "I said-"
"That will be enough, captain." Jaime says as the girl shuffles uncomfortably from his gaze. "Go trouble yourself with some other matter. Perhaps checking the masts or seeing to the upkeep of our cannons."
"M'lord, I-," the man starts but huffs and acquiesces, "yes, M'lord. I shall see to the crew and the conditions of the vessel."
"As you will, captain." He hears the men turn and leave them.
The girl shifts her attention to the wood of the deck at their feet. He's so close to her, he can smell the sheen of sweat nervousness leaves upon her skin.
"Why are you on my ship, girl?"
She doesn't give an answer. She's so silent, he wonders if she is breathing at all.
"Insubordination is not an affront I am accustomed, my lady." Her eyes meet his and she narrows her brow for just a moment. "Now, I pray you, speak only truth, least I will have no choice but send you to the brig."
Her gaze becomes hard again. Ah, she's stubborn. Jaime feels his old heart sing with that glare.
He sighs and shakes his head. "As you wish, my lady. I shall escort you personally to our gaoler. He is an old man, and silent. The two of you shall have plenty to converse upon."
He ushers her along with his palm at the small of her back. It elicits a gasp, an intimate touch, and she walks with stiff muscles all the way to the great gilded hatches and the deck below.
Aereno, the gaoler, stands at attention when they approach. What's left of his hair are thin white wisps upon a nearly bald head and he is more skeletal than Jaime remembers. Natheless, Jaime nods at the old man and receives a toothless smile as well as a, "M'lord."
"The lady," he removes his only hand from her back and gestures to her with it, "is to be kept under watch until I decide what shall be done with her."
A nod and an, "Aye m'lord."
Jaime sighs, a smile creeping across his lips. "I will have words with her in private."
Another nod of white wisps and the old man leaves. He turns to the girl as she stares at the wooden cell doors with trepidation. Curious that she startles this easily. I don't remember Brienne being as such.
He clears his throat. "Now girl, I shall ask only but once more. Why are you on my ship?"
"I-," her voice is high, it wavers. She's frightened. "I wished to seek passage aboard to the new continent my-m'lord."
M'lord?
His hand rests behind his back now and he stands tall. "And your lord father was against such action, I presume."
She looks at him with widened eyes. "My father is no lord, m'lord."
Jaime frowns. "What's your name girl?"
"My name is Brienne, m'lord."
She was a Brienne, though far more skittish than most.
"Brienne." It is a breath, and slips unbidden from his lips.
She seems not to notice his folly, and continues speaking at his expectant look. "I wished to perhaps join your army. Yours is the only kingdom which allows women to enlist." A hardness comes into her eyes. "I am capable, m'lord. I can prove myself."
Jaime smirks. "I don't doubt it. All the same, you do not strike me as a Westerlander. Why fight for a rival kingdom?"
She holds her head high and her mouth grows mulish. "One army is as good as the other, m'lord."
"An idealistic and rather puerile thought." She glares at him and it causes him to grin wide and true. "Where are you from, girl?"
"I, I'd rather not." She looks to the floor and twiddles her fingers.
"Come now. You say you wish to fight for my cause, yet I know nothing of you. You can be a spy, or an assassin, or sent to deliver some other dreadful fate. How can I trust you to fight beside me and my men, if we don't know who you are?"
The question hangs in the silence until, finally, she speaks. "I am from an island near Shipbreaker Bay. It is rather small and I'm sure your lordship will be unfamiliar with any of its geographies."
He smirks knowingly. "Try me."
"It's called Tarth, though most foreigners know it as the Sapphire Isle."
Jaime nods. "I may have heard of its existence in passing. Shipbreaker Bay, why that's in the Stormlands is it not, your liege lords are the Baratheons, with your size and strength, I'm sure the young king would make an exception for you."
She blushes and it's blotchy and leaves him breathless. "I-ya, you flatter me, m'lord, but I have never met His Grace and I doubt he would listen to my wish."
"He'd be a fool to ignore you." Her blush darkens and when her blue eyes meet his, they are wide and full of wonder. It was too forward a remark at present. This Brienne does not know of him. This Brienne is innocent and idealistic and remains him painfully of the first. He could scare her away if he isn't careful.
"Tell me of your father. Who is he, if not the ruler of Tarth?"
Her eyebrows come together in confusion. "My father?" She asks. "I no naught of the man m'lord. My mother died on the birthing bed and I've been orphaned ever since."
She is an orphan? How was that so?
"I was unaware that orphans are trained with sword in the Stormlands."
"I apprenticed with a blacksmith m'lord. He taught me to make swords and use them." She looks to the ground again. She looks sad. "He was a good man."
His arms itch to embrace her, to wrap her scent around himself and never let it go. He crosses them about his chest instead. "How did you gain entrance upon my vessel? There were armored men guarding the entire fleet day and night. And more over, how did you stay hidden for over a fortnight?"
She smiles then. Her teeth are far from horsey and it leaves him ill at ease. "I told you I was capable, m'lord."
And so it begins, he thinks as he watches the mischief in this Brienne's eyes, the first day of far too few.
Jaime agrees to let her fight with his Lannister army and orders her a cabin readied. He shows her to her chambers and tells her that sword practice begins at dawn, before heading to his own apartments. He finds the sword there, sheathed and hooked upon a wall beside his armor. He takes it from its scabbard and flourishes it for a moment or two. It's a marvelous sword still; the blade ripples with the light from his large glass ports, and crimson waves against onyx before his eyes. As beautiful as it was the first time he saw it. A beautiful bribe, a beautiful mockery. But that was father. Why did I pick this up now, after all this time?
It is beautiful and the cool metal feels sensational in his grasp, but it isn't his sword. The weight is perfect but it is wrong. As he slices through the air, he knows he will never wield it, not truly. It is merely an antiquity when in his possession. It yearns for her. And so, he keeps it ready. It will dance as she plunges it through flesh and sing with the blood of their fallen foes.
Jaime smiles at the sword and sheaths it before returning it to its place upon the wall. Still beautiful and sharp and capable; even with these last four hundred and eighty-two years gone. He wonders how he's fared in comparison.
Jaime sees her practicing swords the next morn. This Brienne is sure-footed and swift. She leads the dance against Ser Wynne Eastwood: a well skilled, well respected knight, who is larger than herself and more than capable to defeat the best of men. His size is reminiscent of Sandor Clegane. Jaime watches the battle closely from his spot by the railing.
The man underestimates her, as men often do, and so, he is taken by sweet surprise as she parries a blow he was no doubt sure to win him victory. She pivots out of range slightly and slashes hard against his wrists. The man cries out, enraged.
Jaime glances at Ser Harrys, standing beside him, as he nods his head slowly. "Gods be good." His tone is incredulous. "The stow away is giving Eastwood more than he bargained. Who would have thought?"
Jaime smirks and crosses his arms about his chest. By now, a rather large group of the men have formed a circle around the match. Bets are placed and each clang of metal elicits a cheer from the crowd.
Ser Wynne tries to overpower her, but she holds her ground and pushes hard against him. Brienne kicks the side of his right shin in that moment of reprieve, trying to cause a sweep. The knight stumbles a bit, yet stays standing. The unbalanced move is a grievous mistake on his part, he should have retreated, and she has him on the run now. Thrusting, slicing, she moves with an unpredictability that leaves Jaime quite satisfied. She fights like a peasant. This Brienne is a scrapper.
She pivots to the right, catching her opponent off guard, and lounges a quick thrust against his chest, causing the man to fall backward, metal armor clanking loudly against the wood of the deck. Jaime hears hoots of laughter as well as murmurs of approval.
Brienne takes off her gray halfhelm, eyes smiling in victory. She meets his graze, only for an instant, and her flushed face flushes even more. She looks so young. The wild strains of her hair cling to her unblemished neck and unscarred cheeks in dark, sweaty tendrils. He much prefers it when she shears it down. He likes it more when she deigns herself and gives into some doomed cause. She wears her hair short then. Every time.
"There is no place for vanity in war, my lord."
Those words come from her lips each time he asks about the limp, dingy, strains that are pushed back from view and hidden in helms. Jaime wonders if this Brienne will cut her hair before he fails her, before his doomed cause comes to a head. He wonders what she may say when he asks her anew.
The ship's maester, a young man with hair as yellow as his own, comes to him with a missive. "From the capital, my lord." Jaime breaks the roaring crimson seal himself. It takes him a moment to grasp the meaning of its content. His sweet brother took far too much pleasure in using the codex he's crafted and uses it at every occasion, to Jaime's unyielding irritation. He sighs as Maester Wyrdell awaits his instruction.
As it were, Tyrion confirms his suspicions. The Oakhearts of Highgarden are behind the affront to their territories on the New Continent. He has prepared the kingdom for war, yet will withhold action until such time as Jaime sends his assessments of their lands and of the strength of the opposition to their colonies. The King of the Rock tells him to return as swift as circumstance will dictate and that they are officially at war.
The oak king is a fool. They ended house Tyrell all those years ago, just as they will surely end this Oakheart nonsense. Root and branch, his sister once said. When will the plants of The Reach learn not to provoke the lion?
He tightens the scroll as much as his single hand will allow before handing it to the maester. "Place this in the fire, Wyrdell."
"At once, my lord." He turns on his heels and leaves, robes shifting in the breeze.
Jaime turns his attention back to the practicing soldiers. His eyes scan the area for Brienne. She's deep in conversation with Ser Isley, a woman he knighted himself, and it is not long before Ser Robert comes to stand beside him. The man's short hair is more silver than brown at the roots and his robust mustache curls at the ends, much in accordance to the current fashion.
"All good news I'm sure." The contrast between the man's soft words and hard eyes invokes a pleasant degree of mirth from Jaime. He falls into an easy smile.
"Tell me Krynshaw, do you fancy felling trees?"
"Ser?" His slight bemusement only furthers Jaime's good humor. He laughs outright.
"We appear to be at war. The good king Oakheart has lost his senses. He's seemed to have forgotten the terms of our most recent treaty."
Ser Robert's stern eyes infect the remainder of his face. "Has His Grace given further instruction regarding our plans with landfall? Are we to continue the discussed path?"
Jaime regards his second in command thoughtfully. Robert Krynshaw is a man of two and fifty, tall with broad shoulders, a thick neck, and barrels for arms. Though his Stormlander mother named him for the King Robert Baratheon I of song, Jamie is grateful their similarities end at height and name. Krynshaw is a man of might but also of mind and Jaime knows immediately that he is aware of the contents of the missive.
"My brother has ordered we stay our course, Krynshaw. Upon our return, the Rock will advance on the Reach."
Ser Robert's expression bitters. "Oakheart has indeed lost his senses."
The sun moves high and Jaime retires to the council room of his apartments. Ser Robert accompanies him, along with Ser Lyonel Marbrand, Dennys Goldmount, Ser Stenford Crakehall, and Ser Nikholei Greenhill; other high lords of his command. They review tactician for every scenario anyone can think of and Jaime is only satisfied after each option is exhausted. They spend nearly a moon's turn in that room, over scrolls and figurines.
When next he emerges upon the deck, on day twenty-three with this Brienne, he does so to encourage his men (and few women) with their fight and sword practice, and is rewarded in seeing Brienne best three foes at once. She's gotten better since I've last saw her. She fights more like a knight, like herself. And before he knows what he's doing, he walks to where she stands, near the railing of the starboard bow speaking to Isely, and he stops too close to be proper. He nearly grabs her elbow; causing her to look at him half in shock, half with curious awe.
"M'lord." She says and looks down. Someone has taught her to regard him as her superior and it irritates him. He does grasp her elbow then and her lovely blue eyes meet his once more.
"Well fought, my lady." He drops his hand, though his eyes flicker to Isley, and her face is an open book of shock. I shall be as familiar with her as I please. The eyes of the soldiers matters not. Jamie stares at Ser Aveline Isley for but an instant, daring her to comment, and just as quickly, the knight looks away. Brienne blushes and tries to suppress a non horse-like smile.
"You are very kind, m'lord."
Jaime smirks. "Hardly kind. Merely observant. Keep at it and we may win our battles."
He leaves her there with Isley and the seabirds. Four days later, she challenges him to a duel and though he is rather delighted, he must refuse. She calls him craven, before other men practicing, and so, he can't refuse.
"Alright," he smiles as he tells her. "If you're so keen to learn a lesson, my lady. I suppose it will do no harm. You will find there's no better teacher."
He forgoes armor, takes the blunted sword with only boiled leather and a shield attached to his stump. A group of onlookers has circled them, much as they do, and as he flourishes the blade, once, twice, he speaks. "Whenever you're ready."
He advances before he finishes his words and Brienne catches his swing at the last moment. He presses and presses and presses more. Their steel sings upon the deck like cries of a forge and when he backs her against a railing, she nearly trips and he almost has her.
"Surely you can do better than this," he grunts. His face is next to hers as she tries to break his hold and his words are hers alone. "I've seen you slight Wynne Eastwood myself. What good are those big, lumbering arms of yours for? If not for this dance?"
Enraged, she uses both arms and what appears to be much of her strength to push him back. His footing is balanced as he takes her blows. She pushes and pushes and pushes him still. Grunting like a sow with each thrust, with each swing, until she manages to strike his unprotected right shoulder. A sharp, jagged cry slips past his lips, though he remains afoot. The sound makes her lose focus, her confidence slips for an instant, she thinks better of harming the Lord Commander. Jaime makes to smush the thought immediately. He advances again. Moving his feet much like a burst, he swings high and lands a blow against her helm, denting it.
"Consider the debt paid."
Quickly, she tosses the helm to the floor and glares at him. "You misunderstand m'lord. I've taken no slight against your person. The only harm may have been to your pride."
His pride. Jaime chuckles and motions her toward him. "Come here, our dance is not done."
She comes with a force he can barely contain. She blocks and parries, twists and thrusts, with more speed and agility than the last six Briennes. Her arms hold his advance and when he slices an upper cut, she whirls away faster than he would think possible. She's a nimble wench.
Thrust, pivot, block, block, side swipe. She is more comfortable, more confident than most Briennes are, and she's little more than a child. She's very much so liken the first time. His chest tightens thinking of her...
Her advances are met with steadiness still, and though she has the speed and agility of youth; the desperation of her movements allow an opening to her right. He takes it with nary a thought, and the well placed lounge to her ribs causes her to howl in pain. She doubles over while he catches his breath.
Her gasps ring of times spent between her legs and his body stirs, much to his dismay. Jaime clears his throat and breathes deeply, handing his sword to a squire.
"We are finished for now, my lady. See to your errors and correct them. If you so wish to duel, I will not show such mercies a second time."
This Brienne glares at him from her place upon the ground. The look, her flashing eyes, his singing blood and pounding heart, makes him want to tear the boiled leathers and mail away, rip her tunics and wool from her flesh, and fuck her until she grunts and sighs, much like she just did.
He leaves her there, walks briskly to the armory and the awaiting squires before his cock has chance to stiffen further and he need explain his arousal. The walk to his apartments afterward is a dreadfully uncomfortable one and his mind, still racing with thoughts of her, flashes of her throughout time, leaves him much too hard. Jaime stumbles through a particularly clumsy left-handed release after baring his door.
As his breath slows, he finds himself thinking of the boredom he felt just before he heard wind of the stow away. I wanted some excitement. The girl, or more so the challenge in her eyes, held lovely promise. This one may give some degree of sport indeed. He smiles to himself as he cleans his seed from his palm.
A/N:
Thank you for reading. Please comment and tell me what worked/ didn't work. Your opinion means it all. More to come!