Updated 4/7/2019: Edited for a smoother read.

TRIGGER WARNING: Thoughts about the rape

Chapter 12

Jaime III

The denizens of Winterfell fell away from him like he was a bearer of plague and they looked at him as if he was riddled with it. They still think I fucked my sister. Aemon will set that right, Jaime thought as he hurried to his room. He stopped one girl in the hallway and requested a tub of water be brought up to him. She had squeaked like a mouse and hurried away as soon as he let her go.

He barged into his room and was relieved to see it was as he had left it. They hadn't had time to, in all likelihood, burn his things. He wouldn't have minded if they had burned the sheets at least. His stomach rebelled as he looked at the bed, still unmade, with the sheets haphazardly splaying across the floor from where he had been raped and so rudely pulled from the sheets after that bitch lied about the paternity of her children. He dove for the chamber pot and vomited the very meager meal he had been left that morning.

Naught but a few minutes ago he had been in despair that the gods kept him alive only long enough to ensure he fathered no children on Cersei before casting him aside. He had tried to keep hope. He had prayed and pleaded with the gods as Cersei cried out unceasingly to him all day and all night long, her teal sounds cascading and bouncing off the walls: Jaime, you are my other half! We were meant to be! Why are you ignoring me? Let us spend our last few moments together, of one mind and one soul. Please, Jaime!

He had ignored her. He had wanted nothing more than to bash his own skull in to keep her voice from ringing in his ears, but mostly he wanted to bash her skull. It was the guards who had finally given in and went into gag her. Jaime's relief had been palpable and he sighed, only for his own guard to smack his sword sharply against the bars that caused an ugly black ripple to emanate, eliciting a sharp pain in Jaime's head.

As soon as they brought him into the light, his fate seemed all but sealed. He looked at the entirety of Winterfell's people gathered around the block and noted the guards on the wall ready to train their arrows on them in case of an escape attempt. However, as soon as he locked eyes with Jon, he felt a surge of adrenaline and, dare he say it, hope. His friend hadn't look resigned and so he shouldn't either. He fought with his captors every step of the way to the block and thought for one mournful moment, Why couldn't they at least behead Cersei first? It would be the greatest act that Robert would ever have to his name.

In the end it had been an almost bloodless coup, save for Ser Illyn Payne whom no one would truly mourn anyway. He remembered a rather visceral sympathy pain shooting through him upon seeing Jon lop his hand off and for a moment his own right hand had been non-functioning, but he picked up Ser Illyn's dropped sword and instantly fell just behind Aemon, to guard his left side, his sword pointed at Ser Barristan. Even despite his sleepless night and aching head, he was primed to spring and defeat the old knight should he go for Aemon's jugular. Thankfully, a reminder of Rhaegar was enough to cause Ser Barristan doubt.

In a matter of minutes, all of the immediate threats had been contained. He felt a small amount of disappointment at not being allowed to kill Cersei. Just the thought of her left a sour taste in his mouth and his vision went red.

A knock on the door jarred his thoughts and he went to open it. The servants hauled in a tub.

"When you're done with this, I demand to be placed in another room."

"B-but Ser...you can't...I mean…" Her voice was a staccato of shaky yellow. He had noticed the most servants seemed to speak in pale yellow tones and Jaime wondered for a moment if that color was linked to submission.

"If you must ask King Aemon permission then do it! I'm sure he'll acquiesce," Jaime snapped. The girl squeaked again and hurried off. Another pair of servants began hauling in hot water for the tub and when it was filled to his satisfaction, he booted them out too.

Sinking down into the bath caused his mind to cast back to the first bath he had shared with Brienne. He had been in agony over his hand, barely lucid, but this time it wasn't his stump that was causing him pain, but his very insides. Just as before, he did his best to not focus on the pain and turned his attention to other things. He decided to peel the wrapping that the maester had put around his head wound. It was supposed to be changed everyday, but no one cared to change the wrappings on a doomed man; the fabric had molded into the wound, so that it felt like he was ripping off a piece of his own skin.

It took work, but he finally peeled it away and dumped the wrappings to the floor where his clothes lay. He looked at the greasy, black-stained wrapping and grimaced. He tenderly felt around the area and winced at the tender spots and every single stitch he ran over. The torn flesh had gone all the way from his nose to just above his left ear in more than one scrape. His once pretty and untouchable face now forever marred.

And again, he thought back to Brienne. The bear she fought had left claw marks on her shoulder that never faded. Of all the scars she had borne, that had been his favorite. Even at impossible odds, with no weapon and no armor, she had stood tall and fought as was befit a knight. His heart throbbed dully as he thought of her homely face, smiling her crooked smile, and her sapphire blue eyes shined at him. The last near twenty years without her had been painful. It was all Jaime could do to keep going. Even now when she was alive, she felt so unattainable. She would think him the same Kingslayer as everyone did.

He slumped in the tub and kneaded his forehead. One step at a time, he cautioned himself. It would be sometime before he was likely to ever meet Brienne and, apart from the kingslaying, this world had taken a rather dramatic turn in just a matter of days. They had gotten the jump on the entire kingdom. Even his own father wouldn't know the change in regime.

His eyes snapped open at the thought of his father. Father will be marshalling the entire Westerlands to march on King's Landing at this very moment. Robert hadn't exactly left his father much time to respond and he was going to rampage across the countryside if he got word of his golden heir's death. He had to write a letter to his father before anything irreparable happened.

Jaime had been sitting in the tub, soaking the heat into his bones as he thought, but the water was starting to cool off and he decided to get down to washing. He scrubbed his skin until it became red and raw from the attention. It wasn't until he cleaned his hair that he started to feel human again.

He climbed out of the tub and found a fresh clean outfit and breathed a sigh of relief. He picked up his old shirt with the oatmeal stain and tossed it and the trousers into the fire. He had no intention of wearing anything he had been dressed in after his...rape.

He still had trouble wrapping his head around that word: rape. Being raped was for women! He had never heard of a man being raped and yet...there was no other way to describe it. Cersei had forced herself on him and deliberately prevented him from retaliating. He had been helpless to his body's urges and wanted to vomit again as he relived that moment, his skin crawling, the rope burning his wrists as he tugged on them -

Thump thump!

Jaime jumped at the knock of the door jarred his thoughts. He once more pushed the memory out of his mind and opened the door to find Tyrion staring earnestly up at him.

"It's good to see you looking well, brother. May I enter? I have brought an offering per King Aemon's orders. He seems...very concerned about you." Tyrion's voice emanated from him in a warm red, the color of wine.

Jaime sighed. "I am not in the mood for your prying right now, Tyrion. And let's not eat here. Let's go to your room instead."

"Very well," Tyrion said and stepped back. He was only a few doors down and soon they were seated at a small table by the fire. Jaime began wolfing down the food. His brother was looking at him with a pensive expression and said, "I understand you don't want any prying, but…"

"No," Jaime snapped at him. He closed his eyes at the sight of his blood red voice. It made him nauseous. "I want to be in a better state of mind for this conversation, which I've no doubt you'll pester me for until you get an answer."

"You have to admit, it's odd. You met this boy a month ago and he stepped forward, declaring himself king, putting himself and the Starks in immense danger to save your neck. Only fools are that loyal. And neither you nor he are fools."

"You have an expansive imagination. Feel free to speculate."

Tyrion frowned tersely at him, but then nodded and said, "Fine. Then tell me...what was it about this boy that changed you? You've been like a ghost all these years. If I didn't know better, I'd say you've been waiting to die, but now suddenly you have energy after meeting this boy."

"I understood his potential," Jaime replied simply.

Tyrion glared at him. "Your vague answers are hardly satisfying."

"I told you I had no desire to talk about this," Jaime replied, tearing apart a chicken breast with his knife.

"Alright, so then...what happened to make you hate Cersei so? I mean, apart from...what just happened. You used to be so close, I thought - "

"Don't say it!" Tyrion clamped his mouth shut under Jaime's burning glare. "I said no probing questions! Did you think I was joking?"

"What does Cersei have to do with King Aemon?" Jaime refused to answer, but Tyrion seemed to read something in his eyes. "What did she do to make you hate her so?" Again, Tyrion was met with silence. "Brother, you know my thoughts on her. I have always hated her, but for so much of our childhood, you seemed to turn a blind eye to her treatment of me, then suddenly when she gets married, you hate her. Is it because she married?"

"No! I am done here. Thank you for the meal, brother," Jaime said. He had just reached the door when Tyrion called out to him.

"Just a moment, brother. I wanted to let you know that King Aemon set the record straight. He declared that you confessed to committing incest with our dear sister under duress and that you in fact did not commit a crime. However, Cersei perpetrated a crime on you. He didn't go into more detail than that."

"He doesn't need to. Everyone knows," Jaime muttered and left. Even despite the anger his brother had stirred up in him, he felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He knew better than most that despite the king's orders, he would probably forever hear rumors of incest floating around, but to dispute the king would invoke suspicions of treason. As soon as he sends Cersei somewhere else, that will be the last of my headaches. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost ran into Maester Luwin.

"Ah, Ser Jaime, I was wondering if you would allow me to check your wound?" The maester's voice spun toward him in a light blue that suggested the calm, summer skies and it did soothe his nerves.

"Of course, maester, lead the way," Jaime said, waving a hand.

The maester led him down a flight of stairs to the ground floor and down a short hallway. He opened his office with a key and motioned for Jaime to take a seat on a freshly made bed. The maester began with a general check-up, peering into his eyes, mouth, ears, and checking his heart. He nodded and hummed, making notes on a scroll and declared him healthy. Then he peered more closely at the stitches and gingerly touched at the wound. Jaime only felt the barest pinpricks of pain.

"You pulled the wrap off?"

"Yes."

"It looks like you tore out a couple of the stitches when you did that, but the wound has scabbed. Even so, I would like to keep the stitches in for another few days."

"Good. If that's all-" Jaime was ready to spring for the door, but the maester halted him.

"Not so fast, Ser Jaime. You were unconscious for five days. Perhaps you don't realize, but it's one thing to be unconscious from any particular injury, but you had a head injury. You suffered a seizure shortly after becoming conscious and enduring a situation of...considerably high stress. Have you noticed anything peculiar about your motor functions?"

"No, maester. Nothing is out of the ordinary," Jaime replied, the red hue of his voice wavered ever so slightly with the lie. He raised his hands up, clenched and unclenched his fists. "I am fine."

"I'll be the judge of that," the maester replied brusquely. Over the next few minutes, the maester had him do exercises with his fingers and toes, and he had to follow the maester's fingers with his eyes. The maester muttered and nodded to himself before writing a few notes. "Remarkable. Very well, you may go, but I must insist that you take another week to recover. Once I remove your stitches, I will consider you fit enough to return to your duties."

Jaime nodded and had just reached for the door when a knock sounded on it. He opened it to the new King Aemon.

"Your Grace," Jaime said flatly. His temper flared upon seeing Aemon and he wasn't quite sure why, but he tamped it down hurriedly.

"Good. You're both here. May I be allowed in, maester?"

"Oh, of course, Your Grace," the maester said, sounding unnaturally quiet. No doubt he was still reeling from the rather sudden shift of the quiet bastard being elevated to kingship.

Aemon was giving him a look that seemed to pierce right through him. The new king certainly hadn't forgotten the new tricks he'd developed when he got a head injury in the other time. "Is he well, maester?"

"I'm standing right here," Jaime grumbled, but both Aemon and Luwin ignored him.

"He is healing well from his head injury. I suggested he take another week to recover before he returns to his normal duties."

"What of these...seizures? Do you think he'll have more?" Aemon asked, pinning Jaime with a thoughtful look.

"It's difficult to say. Seizures, as far as we can tell, are triggered by certain stressors. He could go several months without suffering another. Or they could happen more frequently. It really depends."

"Can these seizures be predicted or controlled?"

Jaime scowled at him. At this point, both Jaime and he were humoring the old man with a conversation. Jaime knew perfectly well his 'fits' couldn't be controlled except by trying to stay away from the battlefield, which a team of draft horses couldn't drag him away from.

"I'm afraid not, Your Grace. We must be patient."

"Must you talk around me like I'm a child?"

"By all means, Ser Jaime, feel free to contribute to the conversation. You seemed in a hurry."

"I don't want to overstay my welcome in the maester's study," Jaime replied with an edge to his voice.

"I wouldn't be here if I thought I could get the truth out of you."

"I'm fine."

Aemon merely shook his head and said, "Thank you, Maester Luwin. I like to stay informed on the welfare of my subjects, especially ones that I took drastic measures to rescue."

Jaime huffed and strode out the door.

"You're in a hurry to go nowhere," Aemon said, catching up to him.

"How would you know?"

"Because I had your room changed. I didn't think you'd want to go back to that. Your room is in the guest wing, three doors down, left of the stairs," Aemon said, giving him a significant look. "I expect you at dinner tonight. I have some announcements to make."

Jaime sighed and tried to release his frustration out all at the same time. When he felt calm again and not like a bird trying to find its way out of a cage, he said, "I don't think I ever properly thanked you for saving my life, but you took an unnecessary risk."

"Probably, but I wasn't about to do this alone. We are a team. I know I could expect the same of you."

"Hasn't anyone ever told to never trust a Lannister?"

"Everyone in this household. And yet, here we are."

"Here we are," Jaime whispered. "Thank you."

"Of course. I must take my leave. Get some rest, Ser Jaime. Our work starts in the morning."

Jaime gave him a quizzical look, but Aemon paid it no heed and walked off, hurrying past servants who couldn't keep themselves from bowing and scraping as soon as they caught sight of him. Jaime strode up to his new room and just as he was touching the doorknob, he stopped. He had been here before. In his other life. This was the room he had shared with Brienne when he'd shown up on Winterfell's doorstep, almost as frozen as a cut of meat in the meat locker.

He cautiously opened the door, walked in, and hastily closed it. The furniture was all in the same place, though the decorations were slightly different with a buffalo rug, a stag's head on the wall, and the bedclothes were a different color. If he hadn't known better, he would think Brienne was ready to step through that door to end her day's shift guarding Lady Sansa.

When he laid on the bed, he expected to smell the familiar scent of leather, smoke, and lavender that was Brienne. His heart panged at her absence, but it was comfortable and familiar to sink into these old memories. Before he knew it, he was asleep, and dreaming of Brienne.