We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Til human voices wake us, and we drown. - T.S. Eliot, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

Harrenhal's bathhouse was a low ceilinged room so thick with steam that, for a moment, Jaime didn't notice Bryn of Tarth already sitting in one of the large tubs. Constructed in the style of the Free Cities, the baths were large enough to hold six or seven people, and Bryn looked even smaller huddled in the corner of one, scrubbing his skin fiercely. Now that he was free of the voluminous robe, he was all angles that stuck out oddly as he reached to clean the back of his neck.

"You'll take your skin off if you scrub any harder." Jaime said, and he started.

"What are you doing here?" Bryn demanded.

"Oddly enough I was hoping for a bath." Jaime replied, "Lord Bolton has invited me to dinner; though I've not been at court for quite some time, I do recall that it is considered bad manners to attend a meal wearing half a forest and little else."

He made no reply, only hunched over so he seemed even smaller in the great tub.

"Get out," Jaime snapped at her guard; "I don't need any more men gaping at me, deformity or no."

She waited for the door to slam closed before she began to unlace the tatters of her gown. When the rags were pooled at her feet she climbed into the tub with Bryn. The water burned her skin and made her head swim, but it was cleansing, burning the mud and blood and the shame from her body.

"There are other tubs." Bryn protested, drawing his knees to his chest like some blushing maid.

"I rather got the impression that you weren't interested, and I'm hardly in a position to be taking advantage of you." Her body ached and she longed to sink down into the welcoming heat, but her chest was still bound and the linen had to be kept dry. Instead, she sat up straight and cupped the water in her hands to scrub at the dirt on her upper body. "If I faint, pull me out; I don't intend to be the first Lannister to die in a bathtub."

"Then don't faint."

"Oh yes wonderful advice, thank you. Better to rely on myself if I want to remain alive; perhaps I ought to tell the Stark girls that once we arrive in King's Landing, I doubt their mother would appreciate you letting them become as broken as I am."

He jerked to his feet as if she'd struck him, sending a wash of hot water across the tub. Not a eunuch, then. He was even thinner than she'd imagined; she could see every one of his ribs under his flushed skin, and his stomach curved inwards. Absurdly, Jaime shivered, a familiar heat pooling between her legs. Now I know I have been too long away from Caesare. She averted her eyes, troubled by her body's response, and more than a little ashamed of herself.

"That was cruel," she mumbled, "I am maimed and bitter. Forgive me, maester; I owe you my life… and what little virtue I may claim still to have. You have protected me as well as any knight."

He wrapped a towel around his midriff, "Don't mock me."

"I'm trying to apologise; must you insist on being dense? I'm tired of fighting. What do you say to a truce?"

"Truces are built on trust. Would you have me-"

"Trust the Kingslayer? The whore who murdered poor sad Aerys Targaryen, only to seduce his successor? Why is it that no-one blames Robert for that? For any of it; he was a hero when he smashed in Rhaegar's ribcage on the Trident, and I was a traitor for stabbing a madman. I ended the war that he began, and gave him the heirs he couldn't get on the woman he started it for, but I am the one without honour."

Bryn frowned, rivulets of water running into a pool at his feet, "You gave him your brother's bastards. King Robert acted out of love."

Jaime laughed. "And what a love it was; as soon as dear Robert realised that his pretty bride would rather have died with her pretty Targaryen prince, his love turned sour rather fast. I don't regret killing Aerys, but I do regret making Robert Baratheon king. My brother's children were more than he deserved."

"Whether he deserved it or not makes it no less monstrous," he insisted.

"I think you and I have a rather different idea of what makes a monster. Tell me, maester eunuch, have you ever heard a woman being raped?" Why am I justifying myself to this child? "Have you ever stood behind a wooden door, listening to muffled screaming; knowing what you would see when you opened it because you'd seen it so many times before? When Aerys rejected me for Rhaegar's bride, he made me one of Queen Rhaella's ladies: I was his servant just like my Father, and he would not let us forget that. I was a good little servant, too; I washed the blood from Rhaella's skin without a word escaping my lips, I stayed with her all night listening to her whimper and cry, curled in on herself like a dirty child. Her scratches and bruises would barely have healed before he came again. It was an easy choice, in the end. The easiest choice I ever made.

"I wasn't supposed to be in the Throne Room that night, but I couldn't just sit in the Maidenvault, not knowing if my brother and father were dead or alive. The whole Keep was silent, and no-one noticed me slipping in. Aerys was pacing in front of the throne, his pyromancer Rossart and his last Kingsguard watching him, and he saw me crouching in the darkness at the edge of the hall. Darry, the Kingsguard, he dragged me forward and threw me at Aerys's feet; the Mad King told me that my father's army was sacking the city… I thought I was dead, then. I thought he'd set me on fire and watch me burn, but even then I didn't know how far his mind was gone to madness; he said my father would burn, and all his soldiers, and all the people living in the city, even the Red Keep. I thought he was just raving but then I remembered; there had been men, his pyromancers, in the Sept once, carrying great jars. I remembered his last Hand, the one before Rossart, screaming as Aerys cooked him, screaming about wildfire in the Red Keep. Burn them all Aerys kept saying, let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat; I couldn't take that chance. Even if he couldn't have done it, even if there was no wildfire at all, didn't he deserve it?

"Darry still hand hold of me, but barely, and it was so easy to slip his dagger from its scabbard and stick it through the gap in his armour. He was the first man I ever killed but I barely remember it. Rossart was next; he looked so shocked, like I was the Other himself manifest before him. He barely even fought. Nor did Aerys, really, he just laughed; I don't think he realised he was dying until I twisted the knife inside him. Then he clutched at me, like some child reaching for his mother. He was dead soon enough, and I was left standing before the empty throne with his corpse at my feet."

Dripping sounded loud in the silence, and Jaime heaved a great breath, wincing as her wound throbbed. Bryn did nothing, simply stared at her until she could bear it no longer,

"Has my tale turned you speechless? Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar. Something."

"If this is true, how is it that no-one knows?"

"Do you really think that noble Eddard Stark found me sitting on the Throne with blood dripping from my hands and asked me why?" Jaime laughed; she was shivering in the cooling bathwater but her head was swimming. "I was a girl and not a soldier; I had no right. He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes one me. What right did he have to play the Father? What right?"

Water cascaded from her body as Jaime stood; the blood rushed from her head as her aching legs tried and failed to climb out of the tub. The bathhouse was spinning, but Bryn caught her before she could fall. His arms were thin and cold, but they held her upright with apparent ease. He's gentle, she thought, gentler than Caesare.

"Guards!" she heard him shout, "The Kingslayer!"

Jaime, she thought, my name's Jaime.

A/N - This might be one of my favourite chapters, so I'd love to hear what you thought :)