September-Early November, 304 AC
Jaime floated, drowning in a sea of countless stars.
They glimmered in the darkness, set amongst clouds of stardust veined with wisps of purple. Little stars peeped from behind the clouds of stardust, shy as maids, while the seven wanderers blazed boldly, scattered across the sky. Like old friends he glimpsed the faint Swan and the bright Crone's Lantern, the Ghost hovering over the Galley, the Moonmaid dancing between the Sword of Morning and the King's Crown. The Ice Dragon was brightest of all, the blue star in his rider's eye pointing north, as if showing the path he soon must walk.
At present he stood, motionless save for the rolling of the ship below. The crow's nest was atop the largest mast, so lookouts might keep watch for other ships, like the fleet that followed them. On ironborn longships, a crow's nest was a mere barrel, with scarce room enough for a single man. But the Feathered Kiss was a swan ship, her crow's nest a round platform encircled by a railing tall as a man's waist.
A crow's nest for a crow, he thought bitterly. This Targaryen king would have him trade his white cloak for a black, and the day of his doom drew nearer with each puff of lusty wind that made the ship's sails grow big-bellied.
Jaime Lannister looked down, down at the waves swelling beneath the ship. When he looked to the west, the sea seemed to stretch on forever, endless leagues of nothing save green-black waters capped with pale foam. An illusion only; they were still within the Dragon's Bay, and would soon near the isle of New Ghis.
The ship rolled and lurched, and his stomach did the same. With a grunt he swallowed back bile, and turned, clambering over the railing and onto the rope ladder. As always, he descended slowly. The fingers of his iron hand were curved, able to catch onto the ropes, but not to grip them as true fingers would. Around him floated the voices of the sailors, speaking in the smooth cadence of the Summer Tongue. Jaime let the words wash over him as he landed on the deck with a quiet thud, the sailors ignoring him as they went about their work.
When he reached the men's quarters below deck, Jaime wondered whether he should have remained in the crow's nest a while longer, his stomach bedamned. At least in the crow's nest he was alone, his skin kissed by salt breezes, his hair tousled by the wind. Below decks the air was stale, the hammocks slung side by side with barely room to walk between them.
Jaime's hammock was in the furthest, darkest corner he could find, but that meant he must pass every other hammock to reach it. He walked by a sailor who snored like a warhorn, past another who grunted and itched in his sleep, past a third whose hammock swayed. For a moment he thought a woman must have slipped from their quarters in the bow, until he realized it was two men who pressed their naked bodies together, the wet sound of their kissing rising over the creaking of the ship.
When Jaime climbed into his own hammock, he pulled it tight around him. Much though he hated them, at least the eunuch and the cheesemonger had provided him with a cabin when they sent him like a lamb to slaughter. And in Meereen, when Aerys' daughter took him prisoner, he had chambers that suited his rank, richly furnished, with a terrace shaded by trees.
Once he had thought those chambers small, and paced like a caged lion as the walls shrank in upon him, endless hours with only his thoughts for company. For months he had suffered, until at last the queen granted him leave to visit the open training hall, whose bricks rang with the sound of steel. Of course, even there he was alone. Ser Barristan Selmy would not allow his squires to spar with the vile Kingslayer, as if dishonor were a pox they might catch.
And so Jaime smiled, and laughed, and trained until his muscles ached. When his guards bade him return to his cage, he did. Then he trained until his limbs shook, until the world spun and he collapsed upon the terrace. Sometimes he dreamt Cersei came, and bathed his brow with cool water; sometimes he dreamt Tyrion came, and splashed him with a flagon of wine red as blood. Either way, he always awoke with a dry mouth. His guards were not nursemaids; they left his meals on a table beside the door, and otherwise left him be.
Bad as that was, the ship was so much worse. From dawn to dusk, Jaime had not a moment's reprieve. Below decks was dark and cramped, a miserable warren that made him think of the hidden passage through which he'd crawled the night he thrust a golden sword through Lord Tywin's empty heart. Above decks was little better; the sailors were everywhere, and passengers were expected to keep out of their way.
During the day the crow's nest was occupied by a lookout, the forecastle by Rhaegar's son and his puny retinue. That left the middle deck, bustling and busy, and the sterncastle, where the captain or first mate had charge of the tiller. To his bemusement, the captain was a woman. Chatana Qhoru had skin dark as pitch, her thick black hair bound up in twists and knots. The burly first mate Xhothar was her son, her nephew captained the ship's archers, and both leapt to her command as if she were a queen, not a middle-aged woman in salt-stained wool.
Jaime turned and twisted in his stinking hammock, as if that would do anything to help him sleep. How could he? He was adrift without a rudder. For four years he sweated and strained to regain his old skill, praying to the Warrior each evening, until at last he was as good with his left as he once was with his right, his swordwork honed sharp as valyrian steel.
Yet to what avail? Though they had left Meereen, Jaime was still a prisoner, unable to seek vengeance upon those who'd wronged him. Varys must still be giggling to himself in the Red Keep; in Pentos Illyrio Mopatis had doubtless forgotten about him already, busy gorging on delicacies and fucking bedslaves. How sweet it would be, to press the tip of his blade to their throats, to see the rich red blood come trickling out while they begged for mercy, to see it gush like a fountain when he denied their pleas.
Once he'd thought of slaying Daenerys. It was a year after he began his imprisonment, four moons after the Dornish arrived to declare her husband false. How he laughed, that day in the throne room, not knowing the hell about to descend upon him. Before their arrival, the boy he thought was Aegon had sparred with him often, his visits interrupting the tedium of his confinement. After, the boy young Griff visited not at all, nor was Jaime allowed to leave his chambers.
And so, in a fit of madness, he begged a visit from Queen Daenerys. He was allowed no blade in her presence, but he still had one good hand with which to strangle her. But when she arrived, he thought better of his folly. He was a knight, not a common brigand, to slay by the hand rather than by the sword. Besides, she looked too much like Rhaella. Daenerys had the same wistful violet eyes, the same delicate frame, the same look of proud unease in his presence. And so instead of strangling her, Jaime asked her leave to use the training hall.
Tyrion would have persuaded Daenerys to give him far more than a brief respite from his cage. His little brother was the one with the golden tongue, the one who spoke with honeyed words. Tyrion would have put her off guard, winning her with sage advice and clever japes. Soon enough the girl would have freed him and made him a part of her councils. When Ser Olyvar Sand arrived, Tyrion would have cast doubt upon his claims, not blurted out the truth like a witless knave.
Then again, Tyrion would have never fallen for the eunuch's lies. A thousand times Jaime cursed himself for fleeing the Red Keep that night, when the battle fever was hot in his veins, when the guilt of slaying his father burned within him like wildfire. Tyrion would not have followed Varys to a ship and sailed off merrily to be imprisoned. He would have remained in King's Landing, and let some other fool take the blame.
Instead, Jaime spent four years rotting in a pyramid, waiting for a damn Targaryen to begin their conquest so he might sail home to Cersei. Whether it was Rhaegar's sister or Rhaegar's son he did not much care, so long as he joined their fleet. They must needs parley with the queen regent at some point, and he would be there, and he would slay the last Targaryen before fucking his sister beside the corpse.
Or so Jaime thought, when he was a different man. When the madness of imprisonment was on him, when his breaths came fast and shallow and his heart pounded in his ears. Before he had a partner in the training hall. Before he was freed to ride through the city. Before Brienne of Tarth.
He could still recall the way she blushed to see him, that day in the throne room. Jaime had cherished her look of embarrassment and confusion, until Olyvar punched him in the nose. Then all erupted into chaos, and he was forgotten by all. All save for Brienne, who stammered a greeting before the guards returned him to his cell, not to see her again for four moons.
When he began visiting the training hall, she avoided him at first. The Maid of Tarth was a maid in truth, shy despite her command of steel. Teasing Brienne provoked either stammering or sharp insults, but both were music to his ears, after so long in silence. Sweetest of all, she called him Jaime, not Kingslayer; for that alone he would have forgiven her anything.
Soon enough they were sparring together. Jaime's skill began to return more quickly once he had a partner, though only once or twice a week, and then only for a few hours. Else she was sparring with the Dornish squires, or riding through Meereen with the Dornish knights and ladies, or guarding Sansa Stark.
Weeks and months and years passed. Sometimes after a spar, they might talk a little while. He told her of Casterly Rock, of the famous knights he'd known, of the tourneys he'd seen and won. Brienne told him of Tarth, though little else. She knew he could not stand to hear her talk of the Dornishmen, or of the callow youth and half-mad girl who led them. It was pleasant, to have a friend, though she would never equal Ser Addam Marbrand, who he had known since boyhood.
A friend, he thought, until the business with Mazdhan's Maze. Her voice had rung like steel as she recited the vows of knighthood, as she shamed Ser Barristan for daring to say she should have stood aside rather than run to the screams of the innocent. Her broad homely face was flushed with passion, her blue eyes shining like a summer sky, her pale blonde hair tousled about her head like a halo, a spirit of chivalry who spoke with a maiden's voice but wore a warrior's shape.
What a fool he had been, not to see Brienne as she truly was. Though she would never be anointed, never kneel for the vigil or say the vows, she was a knight in truth. When Queen Daenerys granted her a boon, she might have asked for gold or jewels, but instead she asked that Jaime be allowed to ride through the city.
Fresh air and a fine horse were worth more than gold, as was seeing the markets of Meereen with Brienne by his side. Sometimes he almost forgot that they were not alone. In truth they were accompanied by a heavy guard, and by Ser Deziel Dalt. The Dornishman let them talk in peace, but always remained close by, as if worried the Kingslayer might steal a sword and thrust it into her belly.
More fool he. Jaime was fond of the wench, and Brienne almost worshipped him since the day he trounced Ser Barristan for speaking ill of her.
Alone amongst the world, she sees me for who I am.
Jaime had not expected that. After he slew Aerys, only Cersei truly knew him, and even she did not understand what happened that day. Nor did Tyrion, who loved him in ignorance. His little brother never knew the lies he told at their father's behest. He did not know the debt Jaime owed him; Tyrion had died with that debt unpaid. If only Jaime knew who slew him! He would strike the man down in an instant, and laugh as the blood splattered his face.
Tyrion he would never see again, but Cersei, oh Cersei... once he had longed for her every hour of the day, remembering their desperate lovemaking in the month before Tywin's death. She must have been so lost with their lord father gone, left to rely upon their Uncle Kevan. And now Kevan was gone too, and Cersei never had the patience to rule. Strong she might be, and fierce as a lioness, but how could she handle the whole realm by herself? She needed her twin, her lover, her all, and he had abandoned her, and now his heart was wavering too.
All through the night Jaime tossed and turned, restless. When he drifted off it was into a fitful sleep. He awoke groggy and confused, the sound of strange music liquid in his ears.
Royal ships rang bells to mark the time, and the ironborn blew horns. But the Summer Islanders favored the boom of a drum and the whistle of a wooden flute, carved from blue mahoe. Like birdsong it trilled as he dressed himself in the dark cabin, his one hand accustomed to the awkward task. Sailors murmured all around him in the Summer Tongue, the day crew rising to begin their work, the night crew falling into their hammocks.
Breakfast was the same as always, as foreign as it was filling. Bread, sausage, bacon, ale, none of them might be found. The Summer Islanders dined upon bowls of rice steeped in coconut milk, with little fried fish swimming in a spiced sauce, washed down with small cups of palm wine and carefully rationed water. Jaime picked at his food, the spice burning at his mouth, his tankard of water dry before he knew it.
It was mid morning when the coast of Ghaen appeared upon the horizon. The island lay to the north of the slaver city of New Ghis; with its port closed to them, they must replenish their water stores another way. When the lookout spied a river flowing into the sea, every ship in the fleet lowered rowboats, sending men ashore to fill their empty barrels with fresh water.
With the deck less crowded, Jaime had hoped to seek out Brienne for a spar. That hope was quashed when he saw the last rowboat leave the Feathered Kiss. Brienne of Tarth sat at the tiller; in the bow sat Sansa Stark, who kept her eyes fixed ahead of her, as if trying not to look at the sea. Beside her sat her dark-haired northern maid, and the maid's little son, a boy of four. Off to visit the Dornishmen on one of the other swan ships, no doubt.
Annoyed, Jaime fetched a wooden sword and began to practice alone. As he slashed and lunged, the blinding sun beat down, making his scalp sweat. He had had a sunburn ever since the ships set sail, his flesh tender and hot to the touch, his skin peeling. It was an indignity he must endure, at least until he began to tan. Jaime could hardly cover himself in veils like the Stark girl, and he was not about to wrap his head in a scarf like a Dornishman, even the one doing graceful sword drills at the other end of the deck.
Lord Edric Dayne's scarf was the pale purple of his house, arranged in the same style once favored by his uncle Ser Arthur Dayne. But Arthur had been a man grown, tall and broad, the knight to Jaime's squire, then his superior in the Kingsguard. Edric was a youth of seventeen, his height average, his build lean. He had won his knighthood after the incident in Mazdhan's Maze; when Queen Daenerys offered him a boon for his valor, he asked for only for a kiss and a lock of silver hair.
I might have done the same, Jaime thought, watching the youth practice the Guard of the Lady. His form was good; his sword moved with the force of his whole body, not just his arm. He was shorter than Jaime, and less experienced, not nearly so satisfying an opponent as Brienne, but he would serve.
Courteous as always, the youth agreed to a spar. For a while they danced around the sterncastle, their wooden swords clacking as they followed the steps of the most common drills. The Wild Boar's Tusk, the Defense of the Widow, the Flaming Sword, all flowed together, their rhythm smooth as silk.
Edric was no Sword of Morning, but he was quick of hand and light of foot; as they sparred his dark blue eyes seemed almost purple, his hair dark instead of light. A smile came to Jaime's lips unbidden, the sword alive in his hand as he picked up speed, switching to a free spar without warning. The boy kept pace for a few minutes, his brow furrowed in concentration as he slashed and parried, just barely keeping Jaime at bay. Then Jaime began to drive at him in earnest, his blows falling like rain, until at last he sent the boy's sword spinning from his hand.
"Well done, ser," he told the youth, raising his sword in a knight's salute. There was no dishonor in losing to the best. Once that had been Ser Arthur Dayne, who trounced Jaime in a hundred bouts before he grew strong enough to give the Sword of Morning a worthy fight.
Rhaegar's son did not give me a worthy fight, Jaime thought as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He could hears oars splashing as the rowboats returned; he had best get below deck before it was overrun with sailors. He descended the ladder still thinking of Rhaegar's son, of the disrespect he showed to the knight's art.
It should have been a decent bout. Aegon was twenty-two, with broad shoulders and a solid build. He stood six feet four inches, two less than Brienne of Tarth, but two more than Jaime. His reflexes were those of a cat; Jaime had seen them when he watched the boy fight the Mountain. True, Aegon favored the spear, but the sword was the knight's weapon, all men knew, just as all men knew Jaime Lannister was the greatest sword in the Seven Kingdoms.
Jaime had expected the boy to attack, desperate to look a king before his puny court. The youth had certainly acted arrogant enough when he summoned Jaime. He sat his chair like a throne, his spear Ember clasped in his hand, the valyrian steel shining.
But during their bout, Aegon had not tried at all, not until the last, when he fought in earnest. He still lost, of course, but defeat seemed to trouble him little. Jaime could still remember the arrogance in the boy's purple eyes when he declared their bout finished, and apologized to his lady wife for not giving her Jaime's head.
At present, Jaime's head was drenched in sweat, salt sticking to every inch of his skin as he stripped naked. There was no copper tub, no glorious bath, only a dark corner in the men's quarters and rag soaked in salt water. It provided some measure of relief, but not near enough. The soap smelled wrong, and would not lather; when he finished scrubbing his head, he could feel strands of golden hair sticking to the bar of rough soap.
Visions of soft blonde hair filled his thoughts as he took himself in hand. He pictured bright eyes, lips swollen with passion as they gasped into his ear. He remembered teats tipped with pink nipples, pale thighs and the bush of curls between them, and imagined the sweetness of thrusting himself inside a warm wet cunt.
That was enough to make Jaime spend his seed, the moment of pleasure crashing over him like waves of flame. The rag chafed him as he cleaned himself up, the salt water itching at his skin. It was no better when he pulled on his clothes; all the laundry was done in salt water, which made the wool stiff and scratchy.
A Lannister should be garbed in silks and velvets, but a tailor had not taken his measure until after they board the ships, and was only now making suitable raiment for when they reached the Seven Kingdoms. The Kingslayer must look the part, after all, if they were to parade him around like some exotic curiosity. A lion on a leash, not a knight, not even a man.
Jaime felt more like a man the next day. With all their barrels now full, he was permitted a single freshwater bath, and he scrubbed the salt from his skin with vast relief. For dinner that night there was fresh meat, the sailors having caught turtles whilst ashore. Aegon and his bride did not touch the turtle meat, but Jaime ate his with relish, though he wished it was swan, or suckling pig, or the king's cut off a roast, the beef rare and bloody.
Whilst he ate, he watched the king who presumed to hold his leash. Aegon was polite, if quiet, his brow furrowed as he watched his lady wife pick at her food. They sat together, yet apart, careful not to touch. When Sansa rose to depart, murmuring something about a headache, he watched her go, but did not follow at her heels like the ginger cat she kept. That surprised Jaime little and less; the two slept apart, her in the captain's cabin, he in the first mate's cramped berth.
That baffled him to no avail. Sansa Stark had only grown more beautiful as she blossomed into womanhood, with her waves of thick auburn hair, her eyes blue as the sea, her figure lush and ripe. What sort of man could be wed to such a wife, and not consummate the marriage within the hour? Jaime could not make heads or tails of such pointless restraint. Gods knew he took Cersei as often as he could have her; was the lad a septon or a eunuch?
Brienne seemed to think the lad a king. After Jaime agreed to his terms, the maid was all confusion, those astonishing blue eyes as wide as the summer sky. Not with anger, or with dismay, but with a look he could have sworn was pride, as if he were a knight from the tales she loved so well.
Could I be that knight? Jaime wondered. It would be sweet, to prove them all wrong, to show them he was more than the Kingslayer. Brienne's faith in him was to be cherished; it was as pure as her innocence, and as fragile. For her sake he could do anything.
From Ghaen the fleet turned south, then southwest, toward the isle of Naath. Their passage was slowed by the need to keep in formation, the captains constantly adjusting course and signaling from ship to ship. Most days he spent on deck, training by himself or sparring with Brienne or Edric. His sunburn finally yielded to a tan; the stink of salt air faded as he grew used to it.
It was near the end of ninth moon when the ships sailed into Naath, passing through a tiny fleet of warships. They belonged to the Mother of Dragons; each boasted a few red priests who could throw fire to deter passing slavers. Why Daenerys should care about Naath, he did not know, nor care. All he knew was that a port meant fresh food, and freshwater baths, and a view other than the sea.
Jaime was soon drunk on beauty. The shores of Naath were lush with forests of palm trees and other trees he could not name, decked with flowers and with bright green leaves bigger than his hand. Vast flutters of butterflies hovered about the trees and over the docks, their iridescent wings shining in every hue of the rainbow.
Of course, Jaime could only look from a distance. Jaime was not permitted to go ashore like the common sailors, nor would Aegon risk him leaping over the side to swim to freedom. As soon as Naath came within sight, they fixed iron manacles about his ankles, joined by a length of heavy chain. The metal chafed at his skin and rubbed him raw, even moreso after Brienne tried to speak on his behalf, swearing he would behave if she served as his guard. And I would have, he thought as he stood upon the sterncastle. To misbehave would bring shame upon the Maid of Tarth.
And so he watched, aloof, as almost everyone else left the ship. The docks swarmed with sailors and with dusky-skinned Naathi, who wore cowrie shells about their necks and at the ends of their many braids. Even from the deck, he could smell the food stalls, fragrant vegetable stews simmering in enormous pots, golden flatbreads sizzling as they cooked on hot firestones. For five days they lingered there, the king hiring more ships to add to his fleet, their holds packed full of wine, silk, pickled fish, dried vegetables, and dried fruit.
The Naathi loved their fruit. Every stall on the docks seemed to boast a display of bright fruit, some hanging in bunches, some arranged in bowls. When Brienne returned, she brought him half a dozen to try, though he could not taste them until after she had taken care of her mistress. Sansa Stark was made for cold winds and deep snow, not sweltering heat and air so damp it stifled the lungs; she was almost fainting when her sworn sword helped her up the gangway.
"Gods, it's too hot," he heard the girl pant to Brienne as they went below. "If the Cinnamon Wind was here in the middle of eighth moon, they should be in Sunspear—"
The taste of sweet fruit did wonders for his mood, but it was not to last. After the respite of Naath, returning to the open sea felt like crawling back into a cage. With their prows turned west, the sun chased them each day. From the crow's nest he could watch the dragon Viserion take her daily flights, with Aegon riding on her back; he could watch the sea, sunlight shining through the waves as they writhed and squirmed like maidens seeking their first peak.
Jaime could not bear returning below decks except to sleep. He could not breathe down there, trapped, surrounded by sailors who did not care if he lived or died, so long as he kept out of their way. At first he was glad they did not stare at him, but being ignored was somehow worse. The gazes of the king and his queen might be cold, their purple and blue depths filled with scorn, but at least they saw a knight.
With everyone else, the king and queen were all warmth. Each night at dusk, the sailors would crowd the deck, the night watch to break their fast, the day watch to dine before bed. After the meal, there would be music, dancing, singing, whatever kept the boredom at bay. Aegon and Sansa were always there, clapping and smiling and watching whatever entertainment the Summer Islanders saw fit to provide.
To his astonishment, sometimes it was the highborn who entertained the sailors. The Stark girl sang, played the harp, even told stories, as if she were a wet nurse, while a sailor translated for those who only spoke the Summer Tongue. Aegon demonstrated his skill with a spear, performing drills with the valyrian steel blade Ember, or having his dog Holdfast do tricks; Edric demonstrated a Dornish sword dance; even Brienne once recited poetry, though she stammered at the start.
Jaime was not a mummer, to play for a rabble of common sailors. Instead he prayed to the Warrior as he did each evening, then watched the stars from atop the crow's nest, trying to shut out the noise of flutes and drums and laughter as the sailors danced. When he could bear it no longer, he fled below decks, past empty hammocks to his pitiful corner. For once he fell asleep quickly, the swaying of waves lulling him to sleep.
He dreamt he was a boy again. Jaime sat at his mother's feet, looking up at her with his curls tumbling in his face. His mother's belly swelled beneath her gown, her crimson skirts swept out around her like a wave of blood.
"Sweet Jaime," she said, brushing the hair away from his eyes and cupping his brow in her hand. "Must you tease your sister so?"
"She's pretty when she's angry," he told his mother, in a boy's high voice.
His mother frowned. "Jaime, you are a a page now. Soon you will be a squire, then a knight. You must protect the innocent, as your lord father does, and only chastise those who defy you."
"Cersei defied me," he told his mother. "I wanted her to come riding, but she wanted to stay inside and draw." He made a face. "I made her show me. She said it was a dragon, with King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne on his back. I said it looked more like a blobby smudge with two sticks on it."
His mother's grip on his curls tightened, yanking just enough to make tears well in his eyes before she let go.
"That was not courteous," his mother said. "A brother must defend his sister, not make her weep. When the new babe comes—"
The dream twisted, his mother vanishing as if she never was. In her place stood Tyrion, a boy of thirteen, his mismatched eyes wide with terror as the redcloaks pulled him from the little cottage, Tysha weeping as they dragged her from the dwarf's side. Jaime could only watch, frozen. The world turned dark and spun; he saw Tyrion in gilded armor, an axe in his hand, riding onto a bridge of burning ships. Battle roared, and shouts turned to screams, his brother crying out for Jaime, for their mother, for help that never came. Jaime thrashed and cursed, but his bonds held him tight—
When Jaime woke he was twisted in his hammock, ensnared by the folds. Salt stung at the corners of his eyes as he fought to control his breaths, to slow the ragged panting that echoed in his ears. Was this what Tyrion had died for? So Tommen might keep his crown a few short years, then follow Jaime to the Wall? Myrcella would shine in a motherhouse, might even be First Mother someday, but Cersei never would. You could not cage a lioness; she would try to escape until they killed her.
Yet what could he do? Tyrion would know, he would have some clever plan to save their skins. Gods, he missed him, his sly japes, his knowing smirks, the way he sought to lift Jaime's black moods. Such devotion was all a brother could ask, and Jaime had repaid him with false coin.
The gods seemed to sense his foul humor. When the drum and flute sounded the changing of the watch, Jaime dragged himself upon deck to find the clouds thick and dark as smoke. The sailors were all in a clamor as they swarmed over the deck to prepare for the storm; there were no passengers on deck, save him. With his jaw clenched tight, he returned to his hammock, curling his knees into his chest as the wind howled and the waves roared.
Drowning is no fit end for a knight, he thought as the ship rolled, her timbers creaking and groaning as if they might burst asunder. He could just imagine the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard adding that to his scant page in the White Book. Slew his lord father, Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, by driving a golden sword through his heart. Fled across the narrow sea, and was taken prisoner by Daenerys Targaryen. Became as great a swordsman with his left as he ever was with his right, and then drowned in the Summer Sea at the age of thirty-eight.
Then Jaime remembered he was the lord commander, and laughed until his ribs were sore. His page must have been ended years ago. The world surely thought him dead, unless Varys saw fit to tease Cersei with rumors of his captivity. He wondered who had finished his page; Ser Addam Marbrand, most like. He was the best of the Kingsguard when Jaime left, and a loyal westerman besides.
Had Ser Addam given him the honor he was due? Had he written all the deeds that Barristan had left out? No, he could not have; he did not know most of them. Addam did not know that Jaime had saved an entire city from the flames, that he had saved Elia of Dorne where Ser Arthur Dayne had failed, that he had saved Cersei from the silent sisters when their father turned against her in his wroth. So many lives he'd saved, and nary a word of thanks.
Except from Brienne. Twice he'd saved her, first from the bear, then from a vengeful Loras Tyrell. For both she'd thanked him, her innocent eyes confused but grateful. As the storm raged, Jaime thought of the Maid of Tarth, of how smoothly she wielded a sword, of how modestly she blushed at his japes, of the brief moments they passed alone together when she joined him in the crow's nest.
When the storm at last ebbed, it was to the crow's nest he returned. The fleet was battered, a few ships taken in tow, a few sailors washed overboard, but nothing of note. Days passed as the sailors made what repairs they could, whilst the ships archer's practiced with their goldenheart bows. He hated archers, every last cowardly one of them, but he had to admit they had their uses. When they drew near the Basilisk Isles a ragged group of ships had thought to give them trouble, but fled after a few volleys where almost every shot slew a pirate.
But the archers were far less interesting than Brienne. He watched her spar with Edric and Aegon on the sterncastle, watched her sit and talk of an afternoon with Sansa on the forecastle. The Stark girl always had something ladylike to occupy her time, whether embroidery or playing music or sketching rough drawings of the sights they had seen in Naath.
Sweet Brienne was not so inclined. Her thick fingers were made for swords, not for needle, harp, or quill. The Warrior himself would have envied her muscles, the Maiden her shy smiles as she watched her mistress at her work. She never smiled like that for Jaime, though he did his best to amuse her at mealtimes.
Everyone ate together on deck, save for when the king and queen hosted dinners in the captain's cabin. Those nights were the most bitter. As soon as Jaime saw a rowboat coming from another swan ship, he knew he would be deprived of Brienne's company. He was never invited to join them, even though he would have been the perfect guest, friendly, witty, charming. On those nights he took his portion of food and ate it in the crow's nest, having grown used to the way it lurched above the ship.
Tonight was not one of those nights. Brienne was his alone as he regaled her with stories of the Kingswood Brotherhood, the meal seeming to end almost as soon as it began. For once he might have stayed upon deck, if only to remain close to her. Then he saw Edric bringing the queen her harp, and made for the ladder to the crow's nest.
"Tonight," he heard the girl say in a clear strong voice, a sailor translating her words into the Summer Tongue. "I will play for you one of our most famous songs, of Florian the Fool, and Jonquil the Fair."
Jaime kept climbing, resisting the urge to scoff. There were at least a dozen songs about Florian and Jonquil, and all of them differed. Six Maids in a Pool was the stuff of brothels, a bawdy tune where more time was spent on the maids bathing than on Florian and Jonquil. Each of the sisters were described at length; there was a whole verse for each pair of shapely teats.
Seven Maids in a Pool was more piously inclined. The maids bathed while still in their kirtles, and at the end Florian only won Jonquil's heart by converting from the old gods to the Faith of the Seven. The version Jaime favored spent most of its verses on Florian and his deeds, the tourneys he'd won and the duels he'd fought, all whilst in a suit of iron motley to put his foes off their guard.
In some songs Jonquil was the youngest sister, in others the eldest; the number of sisters varied too. In some she loved Florian at first sight; in others she spurned him until after he proved his love. In all versions the lovers wed, and some ended there, with the triumph of true love. Others told of their laters years, their many children, their eventual deaths from old age, when they died still clasped in each other's arms.
When the harp began to play, Jaime bit back a groan. The Fool and the Lady Fair was the most popular of them all, and the dullest, a courtly romance with no grand battles, no lusty maids, just a fool and a fair maid who loved him. To his annoyance, he knew the tune by heart, and hummed along as the girl began to sing.
It was a sunlit day in spring
when blossoms bloomed and birds did sing
and by the waters of a pool
there met a maiden and a fool
The pool was sweet and crystal clear
a place of laughter and of cheer
and on that day, three sisters fair
were bathing in its waters bare
When in the distance far away
they heard a donkey start to bray
and soon he came into their sight
and on his back a motley knight
The younger sisters looked in scorn
for he was homely, plain and worn
the eldest, Jonquil, cried "well met"
and in that instant, fate was set
Florian saw her standing there
Her only gown her waves of hair
And in that moment, he did fall
and knew that he would give her all
"Fair lady, I would have your hand
For though I wandered o'er the land
I never thought that I would meet
A maid with eyes so bright and sweet"
Though he might have an honest mien,
Jonquil was wise as any queen
a perfect lady, modest, chaste,
and wary of words spoke in haste
"A lady's hand is not a jest
if you would win me, go on quest
to prove your faith and love are true
we have three challenges for you"
That was all Jaime could abide. While the sisters laid out their three tests for Florian, Jaime clambered down the ladder. The first sister bade him prove his strength and skill by besting a robber knight, the second sister bade him prove his wits by besting a cruel witch, and Jonquil herself bade him prove his love by plucking a fruit from the top of a weirwood tree.
Nonsense, all of it, thought Jaime as he descended below decks, the darkness pressing in upon him like a tomb. Bringing a girl a piece of fruit was no way to prove one's love. Florian didn't even climb the tree or chop it down. No, he just asked the weirwood to gift him a fruit for his lady love, at which point the fruit fell into his hands, along with a shower of blossoms which he wove into a crown for Jonquil. Of course, weirwoods did not bear fruit or flowers except in tales, so perhaps the absurdity was the point.
Once in his hammock, he found himself still thinking of another maid he once saw bathing. The walls of Harrenhal rose about him, the steam of the bathhouse parting to reveal Brienne of Tarth. The steam softened her face, but there was no hiding her body, the thigh pale thighs as muscled as his own, but with a woman's curves at the hip, the broad shoulders and the muscled chest, capped with small firm teats no other man had ever seen.
The Maid of Tarth was a maid in truth, and her now four-and-twenty. A shame, a tragic shame. Brienne deserved to feel desired, to know what it was to be a woman, not a warrior, even if she would never wed nor bear children.
Thoughts of the flesh were hard to avoid, with the fleet drawing closer to the Summer Isles. It might be winter in Westeros, the days growing shorter and darker now that it was tenth moon, but things were different in the far south. If anything, the weather only grew hotter.
Most of the men amongst the sailors took to going about their work shirtless; the women went about with bare shoulders and bare bellies, with only narrow bands of cloth to cover their brown breasts. Were it not utterly immodest, he suspected the Stark girl would be tempted to do the same. The northern girl wilted beneath the blazing sun, so much so that her husband took to giving her some of his water ration, which was dear after so long at sea.
It was the middle of tenth moon when they docked in Tall Trees Town, whose houses were shaded by immense trees over three hundred feet tall, their trunks carved with the history of the Summer Isles. The forests were as lush as those on Naath, but more varied. The Summer Isles boasted the fine timber in the world, bloodwood and ebony, mahogany and purpleheart, tigerwood and pink ivory. Instead of butterflies there were flocks of colorful birds, some vaguely familiar, as though cousins to those in the Seven Kingdoms, others utterly bizarre, like the hornbills which swooped over the docks.
This time when Brienne returned from shore, she brought him a feast instead of fruit. In Westeros dried spices were precious and costly; here even commoners could flavor every meal with fresh spices. He dined upon grilled fish and tender prawns, upon green vegetables that looked like little trees sauced with garlic and ginger, all served upon beds of fried rice.
The locals were as vibrant as their food. Men and women alike, their skin a thousand shades of brown and black, all wore cotton, the cloth covered in bright patterns. It was easy to tell their rank by their garb. The poor had only simple patterns dots and lines, the merchants the same, though more elaborate, whilst the mighty had thick, complex patterns of flowers and birds so lifelike they might have flown.
Buoyed by his full belly and by the loveliness of the town, Jaime could almost forget the manacles chafing at his ankles, though they clinked when he made to climb the ladder to the crow's nest. To his surprise, Brienne followed, though there was barely room for both of them atop the platform.
"What is it?" She asked. Brienne sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them as if they were children sharing secrets.
"A question for you, my lady." Jaime rearranged himself, his elbow bumping into hers. "You once told me Renly was the king who should have been; I daresay only Loras supported his cause more fervently than you."
That got him a frown; he ignored it.
"After that you swore first to Catelyn Stark, then to her daughter. Reason would dictate that you should pledge fealty to the King in the North, yet here you are, with Aegon the Sixth of His Name, and somehow I cannot imagine you turning on him for the sake of Robb Stark."
"I wouldn't," Brienne said, defensive. "I pledged my faith, and mean to keep it. Tarth will rise for House Targaryen."
"I don't doubt that you would keep your vows," Jaime said, giving her his brightest smile. "But I would ask— what is it that you see in Aegon?"
Brienne stared at him as if he had suddenly grown back his missing hand.
"I- I-" she stammered. "When Renly was slain..."
"Out with it, wench," he teased, knowing it would provoke her. She reddened, but she also found her tongue.
"When Renly died, I was distraught. Lady Catelyn consoled me, and said that a good king cared for his people, and that her son was a good king. She was an honorable lady, strong, in her way. I believed her; I still believe her. Queen Sansa is just as kind, though..."
Brienne hesitated.
"You do not know Her Grace, not truly. She is like silk, both soft and strong, and Olyvar- King Aegon is the same. He works so hard, thinking of how best to serve the realm, how to win lords to his cause, how to help the smallfolk endure the winter. He is all a true knight should be; if you told him why you slew Aerys he would understand, he would see you as I do."
Jaime stiffened. "You did not tell him?"
Brienne blinked at him. Her blue eyes were even lovelier in the sun, framed by long eyelashes that brushed against her cheek soft as kisses.
"No, ser. That was not my tale to tell."
"Thank you, my lady," he said. "Let us keep it that way."
The boy had taken enough from him already; he did not owe him more. He was no supplicant, to go begging forgiveness from an arrogant pup who had already judged Jaime and found him wanting. The lion did not kneel, not to the dragon or to the wolf.
"His Grace is merciful," Brienne said, barreling on. "You have seen that for yourself. How many men would suffer to let all his enemies live in peace? The Faith and the Wall are honorable stations, a chance to make amends. Is that not worth your respect, if not your love?"
"You plead your case eloquently, my lady," he said, taking in her rosy cheeks, the rise and fall of her chest, the bright shine of her eyes. "Perhaps I should try to see him as you do."
When they left Tall Trees Town a week later, it was with yet more ships joining their fleet. At this rate, by the time they departed Pentos, they might have the thousand ships Nymeria once brought to Westeros. Of course, these ships were not packed full of Rhoynar. Instead their holds were packed full of hardwoods, gems, feathers, salted dish, salted fowl, dried fruit, beeswax, and spices.
Besides ships, Tall Trees Town also provided them with word of Westeros and the Free Cities, fresher than that they had in Naath. King Tommen still reigned from the Iron Throne, but his rule was troubled. A mob of peasants had tried to break into the city, only to be defeated by the Lord Hand, Randyll Tarly.
There was little word of Cersei, other than that she yet lived, and had watched Mace Tyrell and a dozen other lords be slain before her eyes at a masked ball. Precisely who dared attack the Red Keep was less clear; there were tales of wolves, sellswords, and northmen, the last of which made Brienne turn red with indignation.
"Robb Stark would never do such a thing," she insisted.
Jaime could hardly disagree. Much as he disliked Lord Eddard, he was not the sort of man to raise a son that would resort to such low cunning. The boy could not get a single man into the Red Keep to rescue his sister; that he would somehow smuggle in a host strained belief. No, Robb Stark was made for open battle, like Jaime, he'd seen that in the Whispering Wood, much to his annoyance.
The news of the Free Cities was less interesting. Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys were all at peace, though an uneasy one, their slaves shackled securely back in their chains. Now their gaze was fixed on Volantis, where war raged betwixt the freedmen and the slavers. Pentos remained aloof, and had even granted a few more rights to the lowest of their common people, lest they get notions of revolt. As for the Stepstones, they were still plagued by pirates, though rumor had it that they had begun fighting each other over the best plunder.
When they reached Lys in eleventh moon, the word from the Stepstones was even better. Pirates from the Basilisk Isles had driven away the rest of the pirates, who had bent their sails westward. Reavers out of the Iron Islands, most like, gone home to enjoy their new salt wives in their dreary halls.
Jaime should have been glad, to know their passage through the Stepstones would be easier. The faster they made it through the Stepstones, the sooner they would reach Pentos, then Dragonstone, then Cersei. Yet the sooner he saw Cersei, the sooner he must face his doom. There would be no more Brienne, no more Cersei, only a black cloak for him and for poor Tommen, who must accompany his father to the Wall.
The Lyseni slaves seemed as downcast as Jaime felt. Their blonde and silver heads were bowed; their blue and purple eyes looked to the ground, avoiding the notice of their betters. It was over a year since the uprising had been quelled; Jaime was glad he would not be here when the slaves inevitably rose up again.
The buxom Lyseni noblewoman who met them at the docks certainly seemed eager to leave, judging by how she embraced a startled Aegon whilst his wife looked on. Jaime would have thought the Lyseni a courtesan, if not for the quality and modesty of her gown. To his credit, the king did not give her the same lustful stares as the sailors, nor seek to draw her aside for a private word. Robert Baratheon would have been up the woman's skirts before she finished telling him her name; Aegon started asking her in High Valyrian about the best merchants for salted fish, seaweed, sugar, and salt. Yet more ships would soon follow them, he was sure.
"Jaime?" Brienne called. He looked down; she was halfway up the ladder to the crow's nest. "Come down, ser," she called. "I have good news."
Good news indeed. In his benevolence, His Grace Aegon the Sixth deigned to allow the Kingslayer leave to briefly go ashore. Not that Brienne said it like that, of course, but the gesture still grated on him. Jaime should not require anyone's leave to do what he wanted.
His resentment faded the instant he walked down the gangway from the Feathered Kiss. Brienne walked at his side; on the docks a few knights of the Golden Company from one of the other ships joined them to serve as his guards. Such was the price of losing his manacles, and one he was willing to pay. He savored the wooden thud of the docks beneath his feet, the feel of cobblestones against his boots when they reached the street.
It soon opened onto a beautiful plaza whose edges were shaded by palm trees. In the center of the square stood a graceful fountain, carved of white marble faded by time. Oddly, there was a long line of slaves beside the fountain, their shoulders shrunken as they stood, waiting. When the slave presently at the fountain departed, tears upon his cheeks, the line shuffled forward.
"What are they doing?" Brienne asked, confused.
For a moment Jaime stared, bewildered. Fragrant perfumes assailed his senses, the scent of flowers and fruit that hung over the entire city. Then the breeze stirred, and he caught the foul scent of acid and rotting flesh, and remembered the old widow in Volantis.
"Not that way," he said, seizing Brienne by the arm. He cast his eyes about; there, a side street, well tended, with prosperous looking men strolling down it without a care. She barely protested as he tugged at her arm, though she turned over her shoulder to look at the fountain once more before he dragged her away.
The side street proved to be full of inns, the better sort frequented by ships's captains and merchants. Mouthwatering smells wafted from their kitchens; pretty girls in slave collars stood outside each inn, boasting of what made it better than the others. Jaime chose the one which had a pleasure garden; there was nothing like a walk among the flowers to cheer a troubled maid.
Brienne did not seem to agree. Her shoulders stiffened and hunched as he led her behind the inn, leaving the knights of the Golden Company in the common room. Once they were alone save for the blossoms, she dropped his arm as if it burned her, her freckled face flushed Lannister crimson.
Oh, Jaime thought, watching her struggle to meet his eyes, instead staring at the closest tree, at the lemons dangling from its branches. What a fool he was, not to realize sooner what she felt for him.
"Brienne," he said softly. When she turned; he clasped her by the hand, lacing his fingers with hers, their calluses pressing against each other. "I think I know why you have been so kind to me."
"Ser?"
"You deserve to be appreciated, Brienne," he said, keeping his voice low. "The world has been cruel to both of us, and soon we will face the bitterness of winter. Why must we face it alone? Life is too short to die a maid—"
She tried to pull away; he tightened his grip, and softened his voice.
"I would not shame you," he said. "I know how to be quiet, how to be discrete, how to find moon tea for after. I cannot stand the thought of you never knowing a lover's touch; let me give you the wedding night that every maid dreams of, before I must take the black and never look upon your sweet eyes again. Though a black cloak would suit you well; we could fight the Others side by side, and die in the most glorious battle ever fought."
"Let go of me," she said, trying to pull away again. His cock stirred, his body eager for more. "You forget yourself, ser, you do not know what you are saying. The perfumes of the city must have addled your wits."
"Addled my wits?" Even with her hand in his, Brienne seemed far away, shrinking in upon herself like a kicked dog. How could he make her understand?
"Harrenhal," he said desperately. "I told you that I dreamt of you, but I never told you what I dreamt."
Again Jaime saw the caverns beneath Casterly Rock, the waters rising toward his knees, the world turning dark as Cersei turned to go, taking her torch with her.
"I dreamt we were alone, in the darkness. I dreamt we were beset by foes, with no light in the world but that of our swords. My sword went out, yet yours burned on, and you raised it to defend me. We are meant to fight together, to honor the Warrior with our skill, to be heroes. You cannot be content to return to the backwater from whence you came, to be forgotten as the years go by. Let them sing of Goldenhand and the Maid of Tarth, who shone so brightly before their light went out."
Her brow furrowed. She bit her lip, those swollen lips no man had ever kissed. Jaime might have let go of her then, might have laughed, might have begged her pardon. Instead, he wrenched her close, and kissed her.
A thousand times he had given Cersei the same kiss, and a thousand times she melted against him. Her mouth yielded to his hunger; her feeble blows turned to caresses. The blow Brienne of Tarth dealt him was anything but feeble; he felt his nose shatter, and tasted blood.
"I said let go of me," she cried, dismayed, tears welling in her eyes.
Jaime spat out a mouthful of blood. "I beg your pardon, my lady," he said thickly, his head still ringing from the blow.
Angry as she was, the wench still found a healer to reset his nose before they returned to the ship. But neither water not wine could wash the taste of blood from his mouth, nor the searing pain that stung his face.
That night be barely slept, plagued by dreams where Brienne welcomed his embrace. He pulled soft sighs from her swollen lips, yanked off her clothes and touched her until she squirmed in helpless need, plunged himself within her hidden depths, and showed her what it was to lose oneself in the pleasures of the flesh.
In the morning Jaime woke, stiff and sore, his nose tender. The moment the queen was occupied on deck, he made for the captain's cabin. He found Brienne there as he had hoped, standing in the light that streamed through the windows. A harsh command served to make the northern maid scurry away, leaving them in peace.
When Jaime dropped to his knees, Brienne's eyes went wide. No doubt she would have fled, were he not blocking the door. That was fitting; a maid could not be alone with a man, lest her virtue be called into question, but this was not the time for such niceties.
"My apologies for giving offense," he began when he could finally bring himself to speak, almost choking on his guilt. "A maid's first kiss is not a thing to be stolen; I should not have made such improper advances."
"That wasn't—" Brienne blushed deep red; had she changed her mind? "Ser, please, I would have you leave the cabin."
"You must hear me," Jaime insisted. "I am sorry, my lady, it was a moment of madness, a wrong I wish to set right. How can I atone?"
"Lady Brienne asked you to leave, Kingslayer," a cold voice said behind him. "Or must I call Ser Edric to remove you?" He looked over his shoulder. Sansa Stark stood in the cramped passage, a fell look in her eyes. Damn the maid, she must have run to fetch her mistress so quickly.
"No need." Jaime gave her a blinding smile as he stood, anger thrumming in his veins. "I was just leaving."
"A moment, ser." The queen smiled back, beckoning to her maid. The girl scurried into the cabin, fetching a lap desk, paper, quills and ink. "You will have so many letters to write; it is meet that you should begin them now. A chair awaits you on the sterncastle; I suggest you go find it before my lord husband hears what happened yesterday and reconsiders the generous terms you agreed upon."
Jaime went, storming through the passage and up the ladder. The maid he left behind, unable to keep up due to the burden in her arms. The chair he found was as pitiful as he expected, no more than a slung leather camp chair, stained by salt and hot from the sun.
All through the afternoon he wrote until his hand cramped, copying the same letter over and over with the greetings addressed to different lords. The words seemed to blur and dance across the page, lurching like drinking sailors. Incest. Adultery. Treason. All the sins he did for love, for Cersei, for the twin who was his other half.
What madness had possessed him, to think a cow in chainmail was the equal of a queen in silks? Jaime had laid his heart at her feet, and she flung it in his face, as cold and scornful as if she were some beauty with men falling at her feet, not a wretched creature cursed with a maid's heart and a man's muscles. She never saw him, that was a lie he told himself after too long away from Cersei.
Well, the whole realm would see him soon enough, or at least they would see the truth so long concealed. No more skulking in the shadows; all men would know Cersei was his, that he had filled her with his seed, that his sons had sat the Iron Throne. And he would prove his love to Cersei, though he did not yet know how. It would take a grand gesture, a feat worthy of a song, and not The Fool and the Lady Fair.
Jaime smiled to himself, the quill scratching on the page. In a coat of silk or a coat of wool, a lion still had claws. And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours.
Well, uh... good lord. Let me know what you think in the comments :O
NOTES
1) My attempt to capture the breathtaking beauty of the sea was inspired by the incredible paintings of Ivan Aivazovsky.
Black Sea at Night, by Ivan Aivazovsky
Between the Waves by Ivan Aivazovsky
Yeah, I grew up and live inland, and these paintings make me want to hop in the car, drive to the nearest coast, and fling myself into the Atlantic. But what REALLY makes me go feral is imagining the night sky pre-modern era light pollution
2) GRRM tends to take extensive creative liberties with the ships in ASOIAF. Many of them are more similar to the ships from the Age of Sail in the 1700s-1800s, not those which would have been used in the medieval period. He mentions the cabin of one of Illyrio's ships taken by Sallador Saan having (stained glass!) windows; Braavosi, ironborn, and swan ships have crow's nests (not used until the 1800s), and so on.
3) Calculating travel times was a monstrous task. For the speed of a vast fleet, a friend (Erzherzog, bless him) estimated 55-80 miles per day. An individual swan ship would be able to sail much faster, 100-140 miles per day, hence the Cinnamon Wind and Nym being sent on ahead.
The distances between ports I calculated using the map of the Known World from Atlas of Ice and Fire, and a notecard on which I copied the scale and then held up to my screen.
If anyone else is interested in using my rough calculations as a reference, here you go.
4) In one chapter, I gave Naath cowrie shells, and referenced West Africa; in another chapter I gave them Ethiopian cuisine. These choices were based on Naathi being described as having "dusky" skin, and coming from an island vaguely adjacent to the Summer Isles, whose inhabitants are pretty explicitly coded as African, with "nut brown" or "coal-black" skin, a fondness for feathers which brings to mind traditional costumes used during Carnival in the Caribbean, and rum, which is from the West Indies and was not invented until the colonial era. However, the Summer Isles and Naath both have more in common ecologically and geographically with Indonesia than with the Caribbean.
Now, as it turns out, most cowrie shells come from Indonesia, so that detail was fine. The Ethiopian cuisine less so; injera (flat pancake/bread) is made from teff, a grain native to Ethiopia. Now, roti flatbreads are quite popular in Malaysia, so... uh... lets say the injera in Meereen is more of an immigrant dish, with traditional roti being popular back on Naath. Thankfully, the falafel can also stay, as chickpeas are grown in India and Myanmar, which is close enough to Indonesia for me to call it plausible. It's not a 1 to 1, after all :)
5) In canon, the Summer Isles have a wide variety of hardwoods, spices, and gems. I based the ecology of the Summer Isles off of Borneo, which has abundant forests and was one of the oldest known sources of diamonds, and off the Maluku Islands, which have nutmeg, mace, and cloves. The Talking Trees I based upon the tapang tree, as they are called in Sarawak, Malaysia. The patterned cotton fabrics are based on batik, a gorgeous technique used in Java.
6) I find it really fascinating how stories interact with each other? I only realized halfway through writing this chapter that I was accidentally commenting on some common fandom Braime tropes and why sticking a person on a pedestal and changing "for them" doesn't actually work.