Two years had gone by since Jaime had left the Princess of Tarth, previously the maiden of Tarth, Brienne his warrior, behind to her running to fat but sweet husband Gerald.
He hadn't said goodbye, but left the following day at sunrise, before she'd risen from her honeymoon bed, likely shared with a grateful Gerald, Gerald who got to hold her through the night, a fact that Jaime didn't like to think about, but somehow was forced to the long trip home to Kingslanding.
He thought of little else on the journey back except for Brienne, of her warrior blue eyes and her curves in that white bodice, those warrior eyes and curves that belonged now to another man, the warrior inside her no longer his.
Jaime had lost something on this journey, something he hadn't even known he had - and in the two years that he'd been back, he hadn't so much as touched a hair on Cersei's head. It wouldn't compare to the silken curls, braided with blue flowers, that he'd seen in Tarth.
He wouldn't want to compare. Cersei would come up wanting, and that was a fact that might shake him to his core.
Now, two years past, in his good hand, he held a letter with the seal of Tarth, and he wasn't very surprised to note that his hand was trembling.
Cersei had the good breeding not to open it. He was grateful for that much.
I'm not much for writing letters. I barely learned to read before my parents died. My Brienne has bore me a son, and he's healthy and hearty, but Brienne withers before my eyes. She has a fever borne of the childbed, and she barely speaks. When she does, she speaks your name, Ser Jaime Lannister.
I beg you come to see her. I fear she has little time left.
Gerald Pedalth, of the Tiering Isles
Jaime didn't breath properly until he was board a ship to Tarth.