Jaime was making a supreme effort to open his eyes. Why did his eyelids weigh so much?
Something was wrong with him. He felt incredibly heavy, as if a ton of stones was hindering his movements. He realized that even trying to raise his hand was difficult.
What was happening? Was he sick? Had he caught an ailment that had weakened his body? He had no other explanation for his current condition. Yesterday he'd felt perfectly well all day, he'd trained as usual, helped with the rebuilding of the castle and at night, he'd made passionate love to his wench, like every night and every early morning since they had fallen in bed together. His cock stirred at the thought of her sensual body, the feel of her skin and flesh against his, her smell, her taste, her sounds, her dirty words falling from her avid lips. They'd spent countless hours between the furs and blankets losing themselves in each other, satisfying a hunger Jaime had never known before. The novelty of claiming Brienne openly as his lover and not having to sneak into her rooms to steal furtive quick trysts, like he'd always been forced to do with Cersei, made all the difference, and Jaime felt like a new man, as if his wench had cleansed the darkest, dirtiest parts of him. He and Brienne were virtually dwelling together in Winterfell, sharing the same room and the same bed, and everyone knew. That washed Jaime with a feeling of belonging, of home, he hadn't ever experienced. That feeling had nothing to do with his surroundings, with the cold bloody North he went on disliking as much as always. His sense of belonging had a lot to do with the amazing woman who had accepted him into her life, heart, soul and body without restrictions, without barriers between them. He'd realized that was something he'd craved since he was a little kid. Cersei had been the person closest to him then and he'd devoted himself to her with the fierceness of his passionate heart, refusing to see the signs that alerted him to the wrongness of their warped, unhealthy relationship. His twin sister had brought up the worst in him since their childhood, whereas Brienne had taught him that there was still light in him, that perhaps he could find some form of redemption in her arms, in her goodness, in her love. She'd turned him into a better man, a man he wished to continue to be. And now that he'd left Cersei behind for good and had started a new life with Brienne, he might devote his time to try to keep being that man, the man his true love deserved, the man he'd always wanted to become deep inside.
But again, today something felt wrong. His body was alight with desire for her, so why could he barely move? Why did he feel as weak as a newborn?
He made another attempt at opening his eyes, and that time he succeeded. At first, his vision was blurred, unfocused, and he couldn't distinguish his surroundings. Even so, he could sense once more that something wasn't right. His sight cleared a bit more along with his confused brain and then he realized the reason for his disorentation.
That wasn't the room he'd been sharing with Brienne for the past weeks. Even the smell, the light, the air, were different. Where was he? And where was Brienne? He slowly reached for her, with his heavy arm struggling greatly to slide over the fabrics covering the mattress, and by the time he'd succeeded in stretching his limb as much as it could go, with the effort making him sweat, the emptiness of the space next to him hit him with the odd realization that Brienne wasn't there. It confirmed his suspicions that something was wrong with him. If it wasn't night and he was lying in an unfamiliarbed in an unrecognized room, feeling the weight of the world in his bones, that meant that whatever had happened, it had been enough to keep him bedridden, but he completely ignored why or for how long.
He then searched for his voice. His throat felt like straw and at first no sound came, just a low groan, but he persisted. "Brienne," he croaked, and his voice didn't sound like his own to his ears.
Suddenly there was movement beside him. Someone entered his field of vision. Relief washed over him at the certainty that it was his wench. He had the strange sensation that he'd been missing her for an eternity, and his eyes bathed in her soothing image, in her beloved, strained face.
"Jaime!," she blurted out louder than she'd probably intended, but in that moment she didn't seem to realize that she'd practically cried out his name. "You're awake! Oh, thank the gods." The next second, she was weeping desperately, with a torrent of tears spilling from her eyes, caressing his cheeks with her rough palms as if she couldn't believe that he was there, alive, breathing and speaking.
"Wench," he uttered, and he was satisfied to confirm that his voice was clearer and firmer. "What's happened? Why am I here? Why can I barely move? Am I sick?" He was drinking in her features, in the brilliant blue of her wet irises, which he now knew had filled his dreams for very long hours, giving him comfort.
But then, her expression became guarded and he couldn't read her features. "Don't you know?," she asked cautiously, and that puzzled him even more.
"Don't I know what, Brienne?," he asked in return, his sense of alarm ringing bells in the pit of his queasy stomach.
She stared blankly at him for so long that he believed she wouldn't answer. "You can't remember?"
He was starting to feel thoroughly worried. "Remember what?"
"Jaime, we... We aren't in Winterfell anymore," she supplied, and she was positively withdrawing herself from him now, and that distressed him more than anything.
"What do you mean, we aren't in Winterfell? Where else could we possibly be?"
She cleared her throat awkwardly. "The Red Keep. You truly don't remember? What is the last thing that comes to your memory?"
Her confusion only increased his own tenfold. "You and I, in our bed at Winterfell, making love... The previous morning, we'd been sparring with Pod and other Northmen, and then after lunch we helped the builders in the repairings of the walls... And no, Brienne, I don't remember anything else, if that's what you're wondering. What is it you aren't telling me?" He'd managed to lift his hand and was gripping her wrist, well, as much as he was able to grip in his weakened state.
Her familiar, trademark frown almost made him smile, despite the extreme precariousness of the current situation. "Jaime... You left Winterfell. You left me. You came back to King's Landing, to your sister. You made it very clear that she was your true love, your only love, and left me alone in that freezing courtyard, and you didn't even look back. You... You broke my heart. No one has ever hurt me so deeply, Jaime." Her eyes had hardened implacably, in a way he'd never seen before, not even when they were declared enemies at the beginning of their acquaintance. The coldness in her usually warm pupils scared him like nothing had ever done.
He tried to reach for her once more, but she quickly put distance between them, and she was now standing next to the bed, more far away from his reach than ever. "Brienne, whatever I did, I'm sure I really didn't mean it... There had to be a reason for my actions. I don't understand. I... I love you." He was staring directly into her eyes when he spilled his heart to her, and for a moment he was glad to see her pupils dilate and her awed, struck expression. But then, she put her walls up high again around her, and the light in her eyes went out. She shook her head in denial. "No. It's not me you love. Your befuddled mind is playing tricks on you. It's always been her." And with that, she turned on her heels and fled the room, leaving him cold and more alone than he'd felt in his whole life.
A few minutes later, a stranger with maester robes and chains entered the room, and Jaime started to barrage him with question even before the man had had time to introduce himself. "Maester, what's happening to me? Why can't I remember the reason I'm in King's Landing? How long have I remained like this?"
The stranger had pushed back the blankets and started to take Jaime's clothes off, presumably to examine him. "You've been unconscious for a month, Ser," he provided, to Jaime's shock. A month? How could that be? Now he understood why he felt so weak, at least. "Is it true you can't remember anything beyond your stay at Winterfell? Ser Brienne has already warned me about that." Then the man asked him some questions, seemingly to check his mental condition, examined his eyes and palpated different areas of his body, to Jaime's barely suppressed impatience.
"It's true, Maester. I have no clue. Would you care to elaborate?" He knew he shouldn't display his usual snark in front of a person who seemingly was only showing him kindness and trying to help him, but he couldn't help himself.
The man apparently knew how to deal with annoying people like him, as he just smiled indulgently. "I think Ser Brienne is best suited for answering your questions, Ser Jaime. And your brother."
At that, Jaime almost succeeded in sitting up, just by the sheer force of his relief. "Tyrion's here too? Is he all right? And if I'm at the Red Keep, where is Cersei?" Jaime was surprised that he hadn't realized earlier the strangeness of the fact that, if he was indeed at the Red Keep, and Brienne was untouched and well, and right now Jaime had been provided with the added news that Tyrion was fine too, then all that could only mean one thing.
Cersei wouldn't have let them alive and free. Where is she?
"She's dead, Ser," the maester informed, to Jaime's increasing shock. "But again, I think that's not my tale to tell. For now, suffice it to say, that lots of things have changed in the last weeks. You're safe, and Ser Brienne and Lord Tyrion are safe as well, along with the whole realm. The war has ended, and King Brandon sits on the throne. By the way, there's no iron throne anymore. And I'm Maester Kylan, in case you were going to ask."
Definitely, Jaime was starting to like the man, despite himself. But he hardly had time to dwell on his tastes regarding people he liked or disliked, because a specific bit of information had hit him like a warhammer. "King Brandon? What King Brandon?" Where's Daenerys?
"Bran the Broken, like people call him. He's Bran Stark, Ned Stark's only living son," the man clarified, and Jaime's feeling of wonder only shot up.
Maybe I'm really dead and this is what the seven hells had in store for my black soul. This is all a big joke, isn't it?
That was the only explanation he could come up with for all that madness surrounding him, definitely.