Chapter Text
Gerald Pedalth sails for the Tierling Isles on a cloudy day. The weather isn't good, and Brienne is nervous, biting her lips in a way that makes them swell pouty and kissable.
Jaime can't tell her this, of course, has been stuck to the shadows, watching his warrior become a bride and mother, become more beautiful by the day, suckling her babe and sleeping in long days with her husband, and every day of it makes something dark rise in his chest.
The afternoons, however, are his, and he reads to her as she convalesces, reads her poetry and stories of knights and bravery, of all the houses and their triumphs, and sometimes she gets so excited she claps her hands in a childish glee, and it's all he can do not to grasp her hands and kiss her, kiss her until she begs him to stop.
Jaime couldn't tell you the moment that he realized he was in love with her. It hadn't been as early as saving her from the bear pit, or as late as her bedding ceremony, but somewhere in between, somewhere when he'd been having his fever dreams of seeing her in the bath, somewhere when he'd been praying for her safety to gods he'd never believed in. It had been in the small, still moments they'd been apart, that he'd allowed himself to love her.
He'd realized it too late, of course, and now he was doomed to watch her live her life with another, a life he could have given her. A babe that could have been his, for all his golden curls and Brienne's blue eyes. A babe named Jaime.
It was almost more than he could bear, but every time he thought of leaving, he saw Brienne's eyes when she'd asked him to stay.
She's out of the bed, today, standing at the gates in a simple, peach colored dress that brings out the porcelain white of her skin and waving goodbye to her husband, and Jaime stands beside her, a few steps behind, in case she tires.
She stumbles a bit coming back into the gates, and Jaime is at her side in an instant, his arm slipping aroud her waist to steady her.
"Oh, Jaime, don't fuss over me. It's these stupid shoes. Ladies wear the stupidest shoes," she complained, but she did not push him away, but leaned against him, allowing him to guide her inside.
Her skin felt hot under his hand, and Jaime wondered if she was fevered again or if it were his own heat transfering to her, the electricity he felt at the touch of her waist against his arm.
Hours later, a storm is certainly and steadily brewing, the rain beating heavily against the window panes, and the baby is asleep in the nursery, sleeping through it all, agreeable fat little fellow, like his father.
Brienne worries her lip against her teeth, and Jaime has another urge to kiss her. He looks away before he acts, and she motions him toward the bed. "Will you sit with me?" She asks, quietly.
"My lady?"
"Oh, don't my lady me. It's me. Brienne. The ugliest girl in Westeros? Sit on the bed with me, Jaime. I don't like the storm."
"You're hardly the ugliest girl in Westeros, Brienne. Maybe in Tarth-" he grinned at her, and she swatted at him as he sat down a bit awkwardly beside her. His knee touched hers, and her warmth spread through him. He placed his good hand palm down on the bed, and as he did, his tunic slipped down on one shoulder.
Brienne took in a sharp breath. "Jaime! What happened to your -"
In an instant, she's taking of his tunic, pulling it over his head and he has no say in the matter. She has always been stronger than him, after all, and for a moment Jaime has only the simple pleasure of her undressing him. Then, "OUCH!"
She pokes a finger into the huge bruise traveling from the base of his throat to the bottom of his ribcage. "What happened to you? Were you fighting?"
"You could say that," Jaime muttered, and grabbed for his tunic.
She held it above his head, almost playfully, and his face came startlingly close to hers as he reached for it.
"You don't want to play this game with me, Brienne," he said, huskily, and Brienne's blue eyes widened a bit.
"Playing games with a half naked Kingslayer? I think I just might." She smiles and holds the tunic higher, and without a thought, without a word, Jaime leans in and kisses her.
Her mouth is soft, yielding against his. She lets go a held breath, a contented sigh, and melts into him. His arms come around her and he's lying her down on the bed before he comes to his senses.
"I'm sorry," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.
"Me too," she says, almost mournfully.
He doesn't know what to make of his words, so he sits there, quietly, watching her.
"What happened to cause your bruise?"
"You did, Princess of Tarth," Jaime said, and grabbed his tunic from her. He threw it over his head and strode out of the room.