#did you know that brienne was a ONE YEAR OLD and jaime was ONE HUNDRED when they met. crazy

[francy-sketches]

girl dont add years to her that's rude

[kyloren]

i was never really into the jonsa ship, but that post of yours has got me really interested... do you have any fave fics of them??

welp, we’re going old-school, lads. prepare for some of my favourite fandom throwbacks well, I failed at that, I put some of the newer things on the list, too

CANON-VERSE:

Now You See Me: Kissed by fire, Ygritte thought to herself, just like me. 

Goodbye Means Going Away (And Going Away Means Forgetting): Memory is unreliable. No one understands this better than Rickon Stark.

Take My Crown Away (Don’t Smile So Sweetly, My Love): A world where everything is easier. Except for those who love, and love too much.

Build a Ladder to the Stars: Jon abandons the Night’s Watch to join Robb’s cause. After rescuing Sansa from King’s Landing, he and Sansa find themselves in a relationship they never saw coming.

A Winter’s Tale: The War of Three Dragons comes to the Vale, bringing Jon Snow and Sansa Stark together once more.

The Winter of Our Discontent: In the end it is Jon and his men of the Night’s Watch who come to take her back to Winterfell.

tell me true (who are you): Ned Stark brought a dark-haired, grey-eyed bastard babe home and called him son. Years later, Jon Targaryen does the same.

Lift Me Like an Olive Branch and Be My Homeward Dove: She never dreams of Jon Snow but in the end he is the one that comes for her under a Targaryen banner, the might of Winterfell and the North behind him with their father’s sword on his back.

The Whispering Ghosts (Left You Out In The Cold): Winter came and brought Jon home. [this is the first Jonsa fic I ever read, boy, did it fuck me up]

A Bronze Crown: In the end there are no knights. In the end Sansa must rescue herself. Based on the prompt: he doesn’t ride to her rescue; she comes north with her granduncle and the armies of the Vale to wage war on the Boltons, save his life and teach his assassins and the Boltons a sharp lesson.

how ruthless are the gentle*: “Yes, I do.” The easiest lie he’s ever told, by far. It came so naturally, he hardly thought of it as false. “She’s easy to love.”

Tell the Ones That Need to Know (We Are Headed North)*: After years of confinement in the Red Keep with Ned prisoner in the black cells, the Dragon Queen comes. With the knowledge that Jon Snow is actually a Targaryen, she agrees to let the Starks return to Winterfell only if Jon marries one of the Stark daughters. Sansa volunteers so they can all go home. Soon she figures out being married to Jon isn’t bad, but it is complicated.

Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things*: We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark. 

Dragons of Red, Dragons of White*: An AU where the Battle of the Trident took place, but just between Rhaegar Targaryen and Robert Baratheon. Their duel and its outcome have ramifications that none could foresee. In the world built afterwards, dragons once again rule and roam Westeros, among them the son of a northern beauty and the king. Prince Jon and his kin, Stark and Targaryen alike, face new challenges from both without and within. Whatever the future holds, the Seven Kingdoms will learn that, whether in a coat of red or a coat of white, a dragon still has claws.

A Knight’s Watch: Jon Snow is forbidden to take the black by his father. Instead he sent to squire for a famous knight, beginning a long arduous journey that causes him to cross paths with characters he never would have. Along the way he learns truths long hidden and discovers love in the most unlikely of places.

The Conquest*: Three hundred years after Aegon the Conqueror built a new empire on the ashes of the Valyrian Freehold the known world is a place of war. The Targaryen Empire is pressed by enemies, the Seven Kingdoms war amongst themselves and forces contrive to pull them all apart.

Live Without Shame: When Catelyn’s treatment of Winterfell’s Bastard unexpectedly softens, Sansa reconsiders her relationship with Jon. But despite the revelations that ensue, Jon must and will always remain Winterfell’s Bastard and suffer its consequences.

The Tempered Kingdoms*:  After years of wars, death, destruction, politics, and White Walkers, a tentative calm has returned to Westeros partially due to the rulership of King Jon and Queen Daenerys. But politics rues its head again as Stannis Baratheon demands his right to rule, while the former Queen Cersei languishes in a cell, plotting her revenge against all who live above her. Sansa Stark is forced to return to King’s Landing after being found by the rumored lovers Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth.

winterbloom: “You’ve traveled a long way for a rumor.” Sansa lives at the Wall under the protection of her brother Jon Snow, but when Sandor Clegane comes looking for her, she and Jon begin to realize that she is not as safe as they once hoped.

As History Changes: Jon agrees to accompany Stannis south to the Vale and he meets a person he did not expect to meet.

hold onto your heart (you’ll keep it safe): When Sansa turns eleven her wrist burns. She excitedly unwraps the cloth guarding her skin, waiting eagerly for the name to finish forming. The dark letters stop after only three and when Sansa leans in closer she realises that she knows that name and she knows that handwriting already.

carve your heart into mine: Sansa spent many evenings sewing her wedding dress by the fire, dreaming of her husband. The gown spilled out of her hands like a silver river, burning brighter from the light of the flames. She had embroidered it with a noble husband in mind, but she wed her lowborn love in the godswood, with snowflakes falling on her veil. 

ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE:

Into the Darkness of the Grave: The tragic death of Eddard Stark’s cousin Lyanna brings her estranged son back to Winterfell House, the family’s old plantation home, for her funeral.

The Other Shoe: If anyone had told Sansa Stark that she would be married to Jon Snow, expecting a child with him at the age of nineteen she would have laughed at them. Not because Jon was a bad person, for he had slowly come out of his shell in the past seven years; not because she was young, her parents were married right out of Hogwarts; simply because Sansa Stark seemed to be the anthesis of a happy ending.

several sunlit days: Everyone knows you don’t date Robb Stark’s sisters unless you want to spend your days avoiding hexes and angry bludgers shot at your head. Too bad Jon’s traitorous feelings could care less.

the unexpected champion: Jon must swim to The Black Lake and retrieve something *cough* Sansa *cough* stolen from him. This task makes him realize who he should invite to the Yule Ball.

Where Did You Sleep Last Night: Sansa needs a new guitarist, Jon needs a new band, and the two of them definitely don’t need each other.

and labor till the work is done: Stark Industries is a family legacy she was hoping to avoid: Robb is a project manager, grooming to eventually be a partner, Arya is a summer intern with Bran sure to follow next year and Rickon in another three, and even Jon Snow, who is technically not family but who has been around for as long as Sansa can remember, works as an estimator. But Sansa is not who she was at sixteen or eighteen or even twenty and she’s still in the process of learning what’s truly important, like who she is, who she wants to be, and what kind of people she wants in her life.

One Of The Few Things: Jaime and Sansa spend a lot of time pining over Brienne and Jon together. Sometimes, they actually even do their jobs.

flower shaped heart*: Alayne Stone has lived her whole life in her hidden tower, forbidden by Mother to leave. But she yearns for an adventure like the ones in the songs, so when a man named Jon Snow crashes into her tower and into her life, she seizes the chance. They travel to King’s Landing where the floating lanterns shine each year on her nameday. The new world is exciting and frightening, but Jon Snow is there to guide her every step. He is not nearly as terrible as Mother said men are, though the rest of the world might be. Danger, betrayals, and lies form the steps of their journey as Alayne uncovers terrible secrets.

Crawl up to my Room: Jon left her side after a few moments of silence and she watched him leave with a quiet thought playing in her mind. He was her stepbrother for only a few hours, and she already found herself utterly fascinated and irritated with Jon Stark. 

in the summer, as the lilacs bloom: “You did tech in high school,” Sansa points out. (Yeah, I did tech because you were playing the lead and I was in love with you.) Jon doesn’t tell her that, though. Of course not. Instead he agrees to spend his summer stage managing this passion project of hers, and some trace of his seventeen-year-old self has dried out his throat at the thought of three months’ constant contact with Sansa.

Down from the Mountain: Sansa flies home from college after her older brother Robb, one of the country’s hottest young pitchers, is hurt in a car accident. Robb’s best friend Jon is there to help the Stark family in any way he can.

Little Bed in the Big Woods: “I stared at him for a solid five minutes because he looked like what I imagine god would look like if god was a lumberjack.”

A Game of Stars*: When the Mad Emperor hears that the Starks are Force-sensitive, he discovers the hidden rebel base on Hoth. He sends Jon there with one order: Burn them all. But bring the Stark children to Coruscant. It’s time for the two most powerful Force bloodlines in the galaxy to merge.

I’ll Pack My Goods for the Arkansas Woods*: When Sansa’s brother goes missing, it falls to her to defend the house and the woods against the greed of the Boltons and Freys. All of this would be much easier if she could fight fire with fire, and there’s a saying in the valley: that all the Starks are a little wild, and all the Targaryens are a little mad. Her cousin Jon just happens to be both.

In the Face of Death: On a long list of things Jon never expected, Sansa came top.

United States of Irreversible Oblivion: With the government losing its fight at the northern border, Sansa’s only hope is that one of its soldiers, Office Jon Snow, will return for her and save her from the horrors of a collapsing society.

remember me love when i’m reborn: ‘Longest Night’ has biggest night in hollywood history. “Joffrey wanted someone to make him famous, and as soon as Sansa wrote a movie for him that did just that, he left her in the dirt.”

Hear the Wolf*: The Starks are in Hogwarts. Sansa has to learn to stand up to her ex-boyfriend and Jon has to learn to face his past. They’re determined to do it alone. Will they ever admit they’re stronger together?

Somewhere in the Winter Woods*: Lost on her way to her grandmother’s cabin in the winter woods after running away from home, beautiful young Sansa thinks she’s run into trouble when she crosses a white wolf in the forest. Instead of harming her, the animal guides her to his master, a handsome warrior named Jon who lives in solitude and clothes himself in black.

* marks the ongoing stories. 

[dreadwulf]

Love is a Burning Thing

(part 1) (part 2)

He is riding away from her. Farther and farther away.

Jaime is riding at the head of his battalion across the Crownlands. Glory trots along quite amiably, at pace with hundreds of other horses around him. Without his needing to move a muscle, at every moment Brienne is farther away. He can feel the distance stretching between them like she is still holding onto him somehow and pulling with all her might, ever since she had left him this morning.

It hurts. Like a steadily increasing stomachache, only it’s some other organ down there in his gut. If there is a structure in the body that secretes devotion like eyes spill tears, it is surely there, somewhere in his belly, and it is contracting violently, whispering at him to turn around and go back. But his gut is perpetually wrong, and cannot be trusted. This is exactly what he wants, to be getting away from Brienne as fast as he can. If it hurts, well, Jaime is quite accustomed to being hurt by the things he wants.

They ride for King’s Landing, and the ache simmers inside him like a low fire. But there is enough else to occupy his mind, and surely it will fade into the background, unimportant, beside the urgency of a Targaryen invasion.

His squire is watching him worriedly from his palfrey nearby, and Jaime straightens under the young man’s scrutiny. Smiles back at him until his squire grins cautiously back, and spurs his horse to ride over to the flanks. There, that’s more like it. Lord Lannister is no lovesick boy pining after some maiden. He made a foolish mistake, but fortunately it has cost him little. A few days away from his post, some chagrin before his men, and this wretched ache in his gut. That is nothing he can’t recover from.

His squire is riding, he notes, much more smoothly than he did when last they rode the Kingsroad, leaving the capital. He has grown tremendously in these months. Just as he had told Brienne, he will have to knight him sometime soon, Peck. Else some other knight will do it, and deny him the honor. He has been a good squire, and Jaime will regret losing him. 

Does he hope for it? Jaime wonders. At his age I thirsted for battle, and if there are truly Targaryens on the march there will be some promise of glory. If he knights him today, Peck will have to fight for his King. He will probably have to fight either way, but as a squire he will keep to the periphery, and a knight will be expected to charge on horseback, into the thick of the fighting. But Peck has not shown any remarkable talent at swordplay, not as Jaime had when Ser Arthur Dayne had knighted him. Not that, not yet. Let him squire a little bit longer.

His eyes drift to the wagon where the sons of the Riverlands are riding, where until this morning Podrick Peck had sat chattering and playing at dice with the other boys. What will he do with the hostages when they ride to battle? They could squire for his men. But if he loses any of them in battle, he will lose the cooperation of their parents as well.

I think Peck was sorry to see young Podrick go, Jaime thinks. His squire had taken the smaller boy under his wing, and the younger Payne had looked up to him with the kind of hero worship reserved by young boys for older, not-quite-grown boys. Peck enjoyed that attention, clearly. Podrick had a starry-eyed eagerness that his squire would be just outgrowing. An innocence. 

Jaime had spoken with the child as well, the night they had caught him sneaking into the camp. A scared and reticent boy to begin with, with a fearful glaze and a pronounced stammer that made one wonder if he had lost his wits. But with only a little encouragement, he had turned into a fair chatterbox. He had been startled to learn that the boy had squired for his brother Tyrion during the battle of the Blackwater; it had been he that saved his life, though not his nose. Timid he may be, but the young squire does not lack for bravery. It seems he had left King’s Landing looking for Tyrion, and followed the Maid of Tarth in hopes that her quest would lead him there. His brother had been good to him, Podrick said. 

As not many people have been, I’ll wager. Cast-off of a cast-off of House Payne, small for his age, and guileless as a newborn. 

Jaime had offered the boy a berth in his army. He could squire for Jaime’s cousin Addam Marbrand, or at least apprentice to someone in his camp, earn his keep. He would not be a hostage like the Riverlands’ noble sons, but he could still run about and play with them, as he seems to enjoy doing. I suspect the boy has not done much of that either, he notes.

Pod refused his offer, however. He said, with some hesitation, that he hopes Lord Tyrion is well, and thanks Ser Jamie for the kind offer, but he would rather stay with Lady Brienne, wherever she will be. He has a fair cavalcade of praise for the lady, which Jaime endures without comment. All in all, he seems a good lad. Loyal. From what little he saw, they are quite tightly bonded, the boy and his lady knight.

He ought to feel better knowing that. If he was to be sacrificed for another, at least the other was a good-hearted and clearly beloved child. It could have been Lem Lemoncloak. 

It does not make him feel any better.

He had gritted his teeth to look upon the boy, to be honest. Can one be jealous of a child? But Podrick very obviously had his lady’s love, and Jaime does not.

He has only just learned how much the wench meant to him, and how comparatively little he had meant to her in return. For her, at a moment’s notice, he had thrown over his family, his house, his responsibilities, to follow her into the Riverlands on the flimsiest of excuses, all because he thought she needed his help. It had been startlingly easy to do it, and as he walked away from his life he had felt lighter and merrier with every step.

What a fool he had been. As it turns out, she would not do the same for him - no, he was no more than a hostage himself, intended to free the companions she valued more. This boy, and that Hunt fellow, a hedge knight of some sort, who awaited them at the Dread Lady’s Gallows. Brienne had risked a great deal to come and find him, but the risk had not been for his sake. 

But no matter. She is gone now and he will not see her again. He will return to his life and go about forgetting her. That should make these feelings stop. It will have to end sometime, the crawling betrayal, the creeping shame, the sharp sting of rejection, and that time will come much sooner without the constant reminder of her presence. With time he will stop thinking of her, and it will be like he had never met that stubborn, ugly beast of a woman.

This is not making him feel any better either. Cheer up, he tells himself, tomorrow you may die. 

The Targaryen pretender has already taken Storm’s End in a rout. This “Aegon” has a band of supporters and a hired troop of mercenaries, the Golden Company, and at last word was riding out to face Mace Tyrell and the Crown forces. Of course it isn’t Aegon Targaryen - Jaime knows all too well the babe was slaughtered, skull crushed against the wall by his father’s creature The Mountain - but he looks the part, with the Targaryen hair and eyes. Perhaps he is some unknown cousin, some lost branch of the Targaryen family tree using Aegon’s name. Should Westeros be nostalgic for the relative peace of Targaryen rule, they might find the young man very persuasive.

He turns the details over and again in his mind. The Golden Company, a fearful force, and Targaryen banners stirring the populace to rebellion. They could be marching into a battle they cannot hope to win. Impossible to tell from the increasingly vehement missives he has received from the Queen Regent. She commands him to victory, but does she truly expect it? As has been amply demonstrated to him recently, he cannot expect even his closest allies to place much value on his safety. After all, what does anyone care if the Kingslayer should die?

My sweet sister would summon me regardless. She has shown that often enough. As coin she would spend me on a hopeless trial by combat merely to flaunt her purse. No doubt my beheading at the gates of King’s Landing would be just as gloriously pointless. 

Though Cersei, it seems, wants him only to return to her side directly, to serve as her personal bodyguard. She is grown obsessed with some prophecy that the children will all be murdered and her choked to death at Tyrion’s hands. Hearing that Tyrion himself is approaching the city has sent her into a kind of frenzy. Her last letter was nearly incomprehensible, raving. 

Yes, that had been the last bit of news the Spider had passed along, with the rest of his whispers: his own brother Tyrion rides with Aegon, and advises the Targaryen pretender how best to defeat their House in battle. That was the lowest blow, and it had knocked his usual confidence right out of him. Jaime does not fear battle, but he dreads this confrontation.

If one side wins, his sister and son are dethroned and probably executed. If the other side wins, he will have to kill his brother. Jaime loses either way.

He should not worry about defeat. The Crown forces are superior, the Lannister army vast and well-provisioned, and King’s Landing is by design a difficult city to take. But his brother is fearsomely clever, and he was Hand. He defended King’s Landing against Stannis Baratheon, and a man who knows how to hold the city will know how to take it. If he does, he will have his revenge for a lifetime of slights. He knows Tyrion holds it against him still, the lie he had told him about Tysha. After all the years they had been beloved brothers, after Jaime had set him free and saved his life, his little brother saw fit not only to murder their father but to conspire with their enemies to contest Cersei directly for the throne. He does not expect Tyrion will pull any punches now for old time’s sake. Not when they will face each other across a battlefield.

If there is anyone left who has not yet stuck a knife in my heart, they are running out of time to do it. 

He mulls over such thoughts feverishly as the dimming winter sun lowers in the sky. For a time he considers pressing the Lannister troops onward into the night to reach King’s Landing. It will be only a few hours march from here, and their summons have been increasingly urgent. Still, he would rather rest his men so that they can arrive fresh to the fighting and not exhausted from the road, and he commands them to set camp.

“Milord,” a lieutenant interrupts him tentatively as he unhorses, “we have Thoros of Myr bound in your tent as you requested, awaiting interrogation.”

Jaime smiles thinly. They have captured Beric Dondarrion’s Red Priest, who had somehow turned Catelyn Stark into the apparition who had lead the Brotherhood without Banners to capture him. Somehow during the conflagration with the Brotherhood he had run away and vanished into the trees. But Jaime’s scouts found him in the night, Thoros, stoking a meagre fire near Maidenpool. There was no time to deal with him in the morning, so they bundled him up and brought him along on the march - though they gave him no horse, and forced him to walk along tied to one of the wagons, thinking it would make him more cooperative. 

The Lord Commander’s tent is first to rise, and resplendent before ever he sets eyes on it, not that he notices. He leaves Peck to unsaddle his horse and enters it in full uniform. He will get through this interrogation before undressing and taking his supper.

He sits in the armchair they have carried across the Riverlands for him, and accepts a glass of sherry. The muddy priest is bound on the floor before his desk, and at his command his bonds are loosened, and he is allowed to sit in a wooden chair before his desk. Jaime observes all of this as he finishes the first glass of sherry, and requests another.

Once a huge man, both tall and fat, Thoros of Myr is now considerably diminished. His red robes are cavernous around him, his skin hanging loosely off his skeleton in great folds. Formerly a fierce swordsman, the fire that he once brandished by burning swords has seemingly gone out. The old Thoros could wear this one like a cloak. 

Even before Jaime can begin to question him, the Red Priest is firing questions back. First among them, “What have you done with the girl?”

“Which girl?” he stalls, disconcerted. 

“The maiden with your blade.” He may be physically smaller but his eyes are bright and sharp, and he holds Jaime’s gaze without flinching. The priest explains patiently, “the tall young woman with the king’s seal, she who brought you to the Brotherhood. I saw you strike her down. Where is she now?”

Jaime ignores this questioning; it is none of the man’s concern. Instead he asks him of his escape from the ambush that night, which quiets him a bit. He could have fought them, could have produced a flaming sword and defended his Lady Stoneheart, but instead he had fled. Thoros does not seem to be interested in explaining why, averting his eyes and answering  him shortly with “yes” and “no”.

He questions the Red Priest about Catelyn Stark, about Berric Dondarrion, about remaining members of the brotherhood and the commonfolk who supported them. Still Thoros turns the conversation back and back again to Brienne.

“But what of the Maid of Tarth? I saw her nowhere in your formation, amongst prisoners or soldiers.” He pokes and prods, Thoros, and his brow furrows with concern. “It has not gone unnoticed that she is gone. Some here have it that you have done away with her.”

His patience at an end, Jaime snaps back, “And what if I have?”

Thoros puts on a perplexed expression, blinking at him curiously. “That cannot be. Surely even you are not so cruel as that.”

“Surely I am, ask anyone in the Seven Kingdoms.” Thoroughly tired of judgement, he decides to go along with the Red Priest’s poor opinion of him, if it will loosen his tongue. “The wench lured me to my barely-averted death. I am well within my rights to punish traitors such as she.”

“Brienne of Tarth never betrayed you for a moment.” The Red Priest is disturbed, shaking his head sadly. “That poor, brave girl. She defended you to a crowd baying for your blood, said that you were a changed man, that you were not responsible for your reported crimes. We called her your whore. But you never touched her, did you? Wouldn’t trouble yourself with someone so pure of heart, when you have your sister the Queen in your bed.”

Ah, so Thoros still has a sense of humor after all. Jaime snorts. “So pure of heart she would lead me to my death, while calling me friend. How is that not a betrayal?”

“She was forced to it. Our dread lady commanded her to kill you and she refused. The entire Brotherhood demanded it and she refused. We offered her a choice, the sword or the noose.”

“And she choose the sword to save her own skin.” Jaime swallows from the glass. “I understand it, of course. It is a hard lesson for one such as her. No one is pure.”

“No!” Thoros smacks the palm of his hand against the commander’s table, and Jaime cannot help flinching. “She chose the noose. Brienne said she would not betray you and they put a rope around her neck and hung her, hung her choking and kicking from a tree. She would have died there without relenting but for Podrick Payne, the boy.”

No. No, it isn’t true, he tells himself. But it tracks with what the boy had told him. She did it for me, my lord, you have to understand… He had assumed the choice had been a simple one. Podrick or Kingslayer. But had there been another choice as well? Hadn’t he seen the angry red marks around her neck, or decided not to see?

“They hung him from the tree next to her, and when she saw him dying, she called for a sword. Not before. Not for herself. She would have died for you.”

“Lies.” Jaime has gone very still. Only the muscles of his hand flex, where he holds tightly onto the drinking glass. “The Brotherhood’s Red Priest. Why should I believe anything you say?”

The priest raises his hands, palms beckoning to the air. “What reason have I to lie about this? What benefit to me? I care no more for factions or grudges. I have seen war render this land a hell beyond anything my lord R’hllor or any the Seven could dream up. So far as I care whoever is left standing at its end is welcome to its rotten fruit. All that matters is that in the ruins of honor and justice I met a maid who embodied both, and now she is dead. That, my lord, is a calamity, and I would have you know just how great of one.”

He hardens his heart. “In this world you are either faithless or dead. She is both, and soon enough we will be too. It’s no calamity.”

“You utter fool.” The Red Priest has the nerve to look sorry for him. “Let me tell you: when we found that girl she was dying of fever, battered and broken by brigands, and all she would do is talk about Jaime Lannister. She said your name in her sleep. She said she had to find your honor. She pleaded for you to come for her when she was next to dead. Not her companions, or her kin. Only you. No sword could have been more loyal to you, and no woman more true to anyone.  

Jaime’s guts are churning now, his heart clenching painfully enough to turn him inside-out. What a stupid organ, the heart. If he could, he would carve it out himself. 

It makes him snap back at Thoros tightly, “Gold will buy loyalty as reliably, and a woman too.”

“Not like her, not to you. You are only too cynical or too stupid to see it. That girl loved you. She loved you.”

The glass in Jaime’s left hand abruptly shatters.

Thoros jerks back, more at the noise of it than anything else, and stares down wide-eyed at the Lord Commander’s desk. His hand had squeezed and squeezed the glass until it finally popped, in a small explosion of shards and blood. Now his hand opens and stretches, and the Lord Commander examines it curiously. A few jagged bits of glass stick out of his palm and fingers. It hardly hurts at all, but it produces an impressive amount of blood.

Lannister guards burst into the tent at the sound of breaking glass, and the sight of blood makes them draw their swords. Jaime waves them back. “My golden hand holds drinking glasses not so well as I’d hoped. Stay at your post.”

“My lord…” Thoros, distinctly alarmed at his lack of reaction, darts his eyes between the bleeding hand and Jaime’s impassive face. “Your hand…”

“It’s nothing.” For a second he moves to pluck the glass bits out of his hand, but his other hand is made of gold. Not much good for that. He can only poke at the bloody shards with a strange fascination. His guards watch warily, not leaving but keeping their distance. 

“You know I am a healer. Allow me.” 

He shouldn’t allow it, and his guards are visibly appalled, but Jaime makes no move to stop him when Thoros kneels at his side. He moves aside the golden hand, taking his flesh hand and extracting shards of glass with careful attention.

“I can’t imagine why,” the priest murmurs, “but Brienne thought very highly of you. I owe her some kindness, for what we did to her. If she is gone, you will have to do.”

Then it comes again; the pain. Worse than ever. Jaime bows his face to the floor at the weight of it.

“I let her go,” he manages to say, hoarsely. “I gave her the sword and I let her go. Her and the boy.”

“Truly?” Thoros looks up at him dumbfounded, uncertain whether this could be another of his jests.

But of course he let her go. What else could he do? He couldn’t keep her prisoner forever.

He sees it now, too late. Brienne in the cell, wasting away. The tears she had shed when he denied her Oathkeeper. How she had hesitated so inexplicably when he allowed her to leave. The way she had looked on him, as though she would accept any punishment he would give her. He had thought it was her simple goodness that made her contrite. But it could have been more. It could be true; somehow, she had loved him. 

When he could not bring himself to harm her, he thought it his own weakness that stayed his hand. Perhaps they share the same weakness.

He jumps up from his chair with that thought, snatching his one working hand back from the damned Red Priest and sweeping out of his commander’s tent. He strides rapidly to the stables and grabs the bridle of the first horse he sees. Honor, not yet unsaddled from their ride. 

Jaime rides hard against the twilight, back down the trail they’d come. Back to the place where he’d left her. It was a day’s ride back as an encampment, but a single man riding as fast as his horse is able made the distance in a few hours.

She won’t be there. She could have gone in any direction with a day’s advance. But if she stopped there. If she stayed to rest, and to think out her next move. If she waited there. If she waited for me. 

He urges Honor to run faster at the thought.

The Riverlands rush by headlong and the pounding hooves drive every thought from his head until he is pure instinct, animal-simple: find her.

The clearing is empty when he arrives, and quiet. 

Jaime slings down from his horse looking around him wildly. It’s dark. There’s no sign of anything. No fire, no trail, no sign she had been there at all except that he knows this is where he had left her. He knows that in his bones. He will never be able to forget this place. 

He walks aimlessly in one direction and then another. Which way would she have gone? East is Maidenpool, closest of anything, where she might find Tully allies. Riverrun in the other direction, a farther walk but where she might potentially find a ship, go back to Tarth. Or would she have headed singlemindedly North, towards the Vale, without even stopping to supply herself?

He takes not much time to decide. He thinks Maidenpool, then North. Climbing back onto Honor he rides East, alert for any campfires or single riders,scouring the forest hour after hour, and shouting out her name until his voice is nearly gone. 

He reaches Maidenpool with the dawn and sees no sign of her there. 

In a haze of desperation he accosts passers-by, one after another. Have you seen a maid pass this way, with a sword and a young boy? Riding a chestnut horse?

They all say no. They step back from him like he has gone mad; but of course it sounds a bit mad, doesn’t it? A lady knight with a Valyrian steel sword, as big as The Hound, with her own squire. While he’s at it, he should ask after Galladon of Morne, and mermaids, and the Crone with her lantern. But perhaps it is the stench of a cursed man they respond to, a man who has held riches and lost them. Such ill fortune is catching. They give him a wide berth, they murmur, they leave him standing in the street lost and alone. Perhaps they do not know a Kingslayer when they see one, but anyone can spot a man laid low by love.

Have you seen a woman, an absurdly large woman? With the bluest eyes you’re ever seen? A woman with a sword - a broadsword, two-handed? Looks like she knows how to swing it? Have you seen her? Big and strong as an ox but pure as a maiden? Straw-blonde, a hand taller than me, shoulders as broad as a barn. Has no one seen her? A knight? A true knight? The truest knight that ever walked this land? Tell me where she’s gone. Please, tell me if you’ve seen her. I saw her and I sent her away. She loved me, and I let her go.

******************************************************

The sun is marking mid-morning by the time he returns, and there are dark clouds looming in the distance, swirling up from the horizon.

He has hardly left the saddle before he is accosted by a barrage of debriefs and dreadful news. 

King’s Landing is burning. Aegon’s forces arrived faster than anyone predicted, are thoroughly breaking Mace Tyrell’s formation, and their secondary forces sneaking up the bay have set Flea Bottom afire. The Goldcloaks have surrendered already, and the Red Keep will soon be under siege. Even if they ride full-tilt for the capital it will be a rescue mission now, not a defense.

“Ready us to ride directly to battle in an hour,” he instructs his captains. “Leave the camp set here, and I set my cousin Addam in command. Peck, you and your lady Pia will stay behind with the hostages and the provisions. If we face defeat see that they are returned to their homes - quickly as you can, the Kingsroad will be dragon territory before long.”

His squire’s face turns quite red and he looks ready to argue with him, and Jaime quickly turns his back to him. He hears the lad sputtering behind him as he throws the tent flap aside and goes into his Commander’s Tent. 

Jaime sits alone in his tent for that hour and he burns. He feels the flames of wildfire in King’s Landing, hears the screeching laughter of Aerys Targaryen getting his fiery baptism at last. His most sacred oath is to guard his King, and his King is in mortal danger and he is not there. He left Tommen unprotected. Left his sister, his son, his duty. His doom awaits him there, is waiting for him still. He must go.

All around him his men are making ready for battle. He knows, with a dreadful foresight, that it is not a battle they can win. It will be glorious, and at the end of it he will be dead and he will never see Brienne again.

Brienne. Brienne. His heart blazes in his chest. 

He should have kept her with him. He should have let her tell her tale. His stupid pride would not allow it and now she is gone.

Where is she now? Sheltering in some rain-soaked forest? Hiding in some Tully supporter’s house in Pennytree? Could she have seen him foolishly asking after her, and held her tongue?

He has been cruel to her. He has let her suffer. He denied her Oathkeeper. He had been badly wounded, his pride wounded, his poor sore heart wounded, and he had wanted to hurt her too. When he saw her tears some sleeping part of him wanted to take it back.  He felt monstrous for doing it, and told himself it was because he was a monster. He had stood there and watched her with her shoulders hunched and fists balled at her sides, tears running down her face. What might she have done if he had tried to soothe her tears? He could have been kinder.

Now she will remember him as bitter and petty and hateful when he is gone, and there will be no one left in the world who thinks on him fondly. 

But at least she will not see this battle; at least he gave her Oathkeeper to keep herself safe. She will have to think on him when she wields the sword, and perhaps she will remember whatever it was that had made her care for him. Perhaps she will know, when she holds the blade, that he had loved her too.

Mother, let her know it for certain. Give her my love.

When the hour is up, he leaves his tent, mounts Glory, and rides to battle. 

[iheartbookbran]

in what world has Jaime done as many shitty things as Cersei... he's totally done shitty things, but Cersei is really out here having people tortured, abusing her children, killing babies, raping her teenage cousin, the list goes on? by all means let's hold Jaime to account but this saying he's done 'as many shitty things as Cersei' is honestly like comparing Theon to Euron

Hi anon! I think you’re referring to this post I reblogged about Cersei, in which I said in the tags that Tyrion and Jaime are objectively as shitty.

Ok listen, full on disclaimer here, but I’m not the biggest Jaime fan out there, and I’m by no means an expert on his character, so (in general) take everything I say about him with a grain of salt, but, while Jaime may not have as much blood in his hands as Cersei, I’ll concede you that point, he’s also not a king regent, like Cersei, with huge amounts of liberty—at least at first— to commit war crimes to his hear’s content. He really hasn’t had that much agency in general across the books, with him being a prisoner of war and then being dragged around the Riverlands by Brienne or being taken hostage... again. What readers trend to forget about Jaime is that when does have the agency, as of the start of aGoT, he’s more than a willing participant in Cersei’s schemes.

Yeah sure, he feels bad about it, and he justifies it by saying that he does it because he loves Cersei and wants to protect her, but to that I have to say...

Also I’m gonna disagree in one of the things you listed Cersei has done and Jaime hasn’t.

That is “killing babies” because Jaime doesn’t really show any qualms about harming children? Bran being the biggest example, of course. The only reason he isn’t dead is because he’s got big plot armor. Still, I feel this often gets ignored when discussing Jaime’s character because Bran didn’t die while ignoring the physical and emotional damage he’s suffering as a result, including deep depression. And just because an attempted murder failed doesn’t negate the fact that Jaime still pushed a 7 year old child out of a window with the clear intention of killing him.

He’s also not opposed to maiming children. He was more than willing to cut off Arya’s hand after the Trident incident:

"Do you see that window, ser?" Jaime used a sword to point. "That was Raymun Darry's bedchamber. Where King Robert slept, on our return from Winterfell. Ned Stark's daughter had run off after her wolf savaged Joff, you'll recall. My sister wanted the girl to lose a hand. (...) The king was passed out snoring on the Myrish carpet. I asked my sister if she wanted me to carry him to bed. She told me I should carry her to bed, and shrugged out of her robe. I took her on Raymun Darry's bed after stepping over Robert. (...) "As I was fucking her, Cersei cried, 'I want.' I thought that she meant me, but it was the Stark girl that she wanted, maimed or dead." The things I do for love. "It was only by chance that Stark's own men found the girl before me. If I had come on her first . . ."—aFoC, Jaime IV.

And yeah, he again justifies it on his need to please Cersei, but that’s not good enough for me, not by a long shot.

Same as this....

Edmure raised his hands from the tub and watched the water run between his fingers. "And if I will not yield?"

Must you make me say the words? (...) "You've seen our numbers, Edmure. You've seen the ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. If I speak the command, my coz will bridge your moat and break your gate. Hundreds will die, most of them your own. Your former bannermen will make up the first wave of attackers, so you'll start your day by killing the fathers and brothers of men who died for you at the Twins. The second wave will be Freys, I have no lack of those. My westermen will follow when your archers are short of arrows and your knights so weary they can hardly lift their blades. When the castle falls, all those inside will be put to the sword. Your herds will be butchered, your godswood will be felled, your keeps and towers will burn. I'll pull your walls down, and divert the Tumblestone over the ruins. By the time I'm done no man will ever know that a castle once stood here." Jaime got to his feet. "Your wife may whelp before that. You'll want your child, I expect. I'll send him to you when he's born. With a trebuchet."

Silence followed his speech. Edmure sat in his bath. (...) With a trebuchet, Jaime thought. If his aunt had been there, would she still say Tyrion was Tywin's son?—aFoC, Jaime VI.

Charming lol. Don’t forget that he’s doing all this while he tells himself that he’s keeping the oath he made to Catelyn about not harming her kin, and the riverlords as an extension, and at the same time defending and giving legitimacy to a hideous unlawful act that Jaime himself, deep down, condones, and yet there he is, waging war against the Tullys. And threatening to trebuchet Edmure’s baby while he’s at it.

I think that my biggest problem with Jaime is exactly that, his willingness to be complicit in all of his family’s wrongdoings and even rationalize his involvement. Like you also mentioned Cersei raping her teenage cousin, and that 100% should not be ignored (though funnily enough, Jaime uses Cersei “infidelity” if you can call it that to slut-shame her lmao, but their relationship is messed up like that). Now Jaime is one of the only male characters that acknowledge marital rape is a thing, that’s good, but at the same time his hold on concent is... shaky at best imo.

With his relationship with Cersei there are some glaring examples:

“Stop it,” she said. “Stop it, stop it, oh please…” But her voice was low and weak, and she did not push him away.—aGoT, Bran II.

“No,” she said weakly when his lips moved down her neck. “Not here. The septons…”

“The Others can take the septons.” He kissed her again, kissed her silent, kissed her until she moaned.—aSoS, Jaime VII.

This is a problem with Cersei as well. Both twins have issues accepting that no means no. And even going beyond that, there’s the whole Tysha fiasco and Jaime’s involvement on it.

"She was no whore. I never bought her for you. That was a lie that Father commanded me to tell. Tysha was . . . she was what she seemed to be. A crofter's daughter, chance met on the road."

Tyrion could hear the faint sound of his own breath whistling hollowly through the scar of his nose. Jaime could not meet his eyes. Tysha. He tried to remember what she had looked like. A girl, she was only a girl, no older than Sansa. "My wife," he croaked. "She wed me."

"For your gold, Father said. She was lowborn, you were a Lannister of Casterly Rock. All she wanted was the gold, which made her no different from a whore, so . . . so it would not be a lie, not truly, and . . . he said that you required a sharp lesson. That you would learn from it, and thank me later . . ."—ASOS, Tyrion XI.

Yes, Jaime, and she was also a teenage girl, who was gang raped on your father’s command, in front of your 13 year old brother who later was forced to participate (and people forget Tyrion was a victim here too).

I mean Jaime is a victim of his father’s abuse the same way his siblings are, but he’s also a full grown adult, more than capable of recognizing right from wrong, yet he still chosen to side with his family and be complicit to their crimes. Sometimes you can be guilty of what you don’t do, not only of what you do.

Of course, it’s kinda unfair to make a complete judgment just yet because his story is not finished, so he might make a turn in that regard, but that really hasn’t happened as far as the books go? Other than him deciding not to go to Cersei because he feels betrayed that she slept with other men. Oh the irony of him turning on her the one time she legitimately needs him to protect her from an actual injustice instead of him inflicting terror on others per her wishes.

I think it’s interesting that GRRM even gives Jaime this opportunity to grow, while he never extends the same courtesy to Cersei. That Jaime spents so much time away from his family—and by extension of Cersei—is a huge factor in that, but I do wonder what would have happened if he didn’t have the fallout with Cersei, if he had been in that position of power to continue the affair with his sister, to what lengths he would have gone to keep her, and that’s why I, personally, believe that he can be, or rather is, as bad as Cersei.

[scoundrels-in-love]

hiraeth for the meme? JB?

Anon, you did what I thought was impossible, as in, made me write again. Thank you for picking one of my most beloved words of longing, ever.

Hiraeth: a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

Also on AO3. Just excuse to write emotional introspection & landscape porn.

---

Jaime hadn’t been shipwrecked and cast onto Tarth's shores, but he might as well have been, with the odd sense of wonder that fills him as he cranes his neck to peer at the cliff faces that give little way to a rocky beach, as if pebble by pebble Tarth has reclaimed land from sea's unending touch, with sheer determination, like its people create houses and turn them into homes upon the rock.

A castaway might feel fear and longing for their home once the marvel of feeling land beneath their feet wanes, but instead, Jaime feels as if he's been castaway his whole life and finally arrived at the gates of his home. The great, sharp gates that lead onto a steep and sometimes narrow path toward the clifftop that he has walked through a hundred times and still feels humbled and welcomed by.

He climbs slowly, because he has nowhere to be right now, other than this moment and this familiar journey upward. And yet, it is still opposite of the aimless days and months he has known before Tarth. Being here is being , in a way that aches as much as it soothes, from the early morning sun carving its way through the clouds as he works the land to golden, wind swirled evenings spent on docks or in Davos' inn or the longing that's on cusp of being fulfilled, but all the more aching for that, that fills him when he is here.

Finally, he reaches the top, hauls his gaze over the even page of clifftop, though its edges are greatly torn and moves toward one of the further ledges, leaning directly over the sea in a far reach. He would call it desperate, but what can a cliff be desperate for, when it holds its opposite in gentle grasp?

From up here, he sees the port and the town to the North with its beach line that he had followed to the base of these cliffs, deeper inland where the Evenfall Hall lays with the villages that have scattered around it, like crumbs of its marble walls sprouting seeds of homes. He knows the little paths connecting them, can spy his own house and plot of land that will bear his feeble farming attempts this year. It’s not the view he needs, right now.

He looks ahead, instead. To the vanishing line of the horizon where the gray of the sky and sea reach to mingle together, though the grey veil fails to imitate the shifting waves below, try as it might. And it does try , shedding streaks of grays from misty white to muted storm almost-black that take up the rest of the sky, gradually toward the meeting point.

The wind tears at his clothes, bites through the unbuttoned shirt collar like a jealous lover -- no, it does not deserve the comparison. And though the thought is fleeting, he already feels his sense of peace wobbling to the side, like a pile of pebbles built to make wishes with he's seen children build on the beaches.

It's odd, how being almost happy can ache. At least Jaime thinks he is almost that. Happiness is a ghost he has only heard of, sees its blurry outline when he recalls how laughter gilded faces of his mother and sister. It's a grief, maybe, that echoes hurt, for time taking the feeling of happiness with careless hand and even more so for all the laughter that died with his mother that could've spun toward the sky, the way he imagines he could've loved Casterly Rock then, the way he might've belonged.

Being here, makes him all the more aware of it, like a gap between something trembling and warm (he thinks about how a week ago, he had ended up helping Old Jenny when her cow had twins and the sticky, slightly bloody warmth that had imprinted into his hands) in him and the emptiness so large it almost feels like a thing has been drawn all the more sharply, marking the width newborn, wobbly thing must cross before it could even brush up against the void in him, risking being snuffed out. But maybe just that it exists before it dies, is enough.

He knows death like every other soldier does, but here on Tarth he's been learning of birth, too, (of calves and gardens, and dreams) and it scares him, some, with the inevitability it brings into the world. Jaime's never been good with constants - maybe because they've never been that, not to him. Not his mother, not even his twin's love and the sense of belonging she had weaved for him like a home of golden spider web (still clinging to his clothes in places he can't reach to brush them off), not honor or justice.

Only the search has remained.

Because it's never been wanderlust that chased him from city to port and across the sea and back again, though there had been a thrill in seeing new places and exploring every nook and cranny he could. Thrill and eventual disappointment, resignation even - no, not here either. Though he has hardly ever known what he's been searching for. Is, still. Because even now, here, where every step feels familiar and soothing like the sea's back and forth that he has always sought out since childhood, something is missing.

Jaime is content, though, more than ever and he is thinking of what he hasn't in over a decade: stopping. Staying. The thought had shot through his mind before a few times across the world, like a bird speeding across the imprint of sun in the sky, but it had never circled back, never sat down and never made a friend of him. Now, it's grown as familiar as his own worn-in work boots.

He has things here that he couldn't even imagine before, like the sense of marvel at how much the great oak tree has grown (since the last time, since the last time that never was) when he wandered up to Evenfall hall for the first time or the cutting clarity of things he cannot find words for when he's up in the cliffs, and things he never thought he even wanted, like people who smile and greet him, a cat that mills evenings into nights, and even a house that's one something short of home. (Just one, when it's never been anything less than an eternal list of indefinable.)

It used to make him angry, the way he knows homesickness as well as his own heartbeat, without ever knowing what it’s like to be at home, at peace. What kind of wretched thing runs in his blood that doesn’t know rest? What kind of love or hate chases him onward without direction, only with a want that he shouldn’t know, if he doesn’t know what the shape of what he’s missing? But the fall storms and quiet months of winter on Tarth have subdued the anger, drawn outlines in the sand that are almost an answer.

The sun breaks through the clouds then, pouring like rain in rare, bright streams onto the sea and he inhales deeply, as if he could take the light in him to dispel the smothering at the edges of his emptiness. And that's when he hears steps behind him. He half turns to see who it is, expecting one of the children though they're told not to play up here, but instead he falls - no, is pierced by, no, falls - into eyes impossibly familiar, when he knows he's never seen a blue like this, not even in his dreams that often spin blue and gold and gray across his heart.

But he knows them still, somehow, and if colors had sounds then this would have the soft bell of the final piece falling in place, of first notes of welcome home hymn, of relief's sigh - oh. Oh , it's you. You're here. (I've been waiting for you.)

Jaime draws a shuddering breath, tries to ground himself in taking in the rest of the person that makes him want to run away and toward them all at once.

It's a woman, taller than him he gauges even with the distance between them, and broader, too, with features arranged just shy of wrong, but not shy enough for most to not call her ugly, he guesses. (But he can't, because factuality doesn't stand a chance against the gale so high up.)

There's scowl on her face, maybe from the sun or the wind though he feels it's not, and wind has untangled pale strands from her braid to whip into her face and tug along in its rush. Freckles dot her face and for a moment, he believes he could find well-loved patterns in those and the rest, hidden by her dark blue coat and the slightly wrinkled shirt seen beneath the blue and gold brocade vest.

Jaime swallows and looks into her eyes again, trying to remember what is the image of the puzzle that feels complete now, but it's been locked away already. He finds that he doesn't care, he's just happy, because not seeing it doesn't change the truth of it. Just yesterday, he had planted apple trees in his garden and the promise of the pale pink blooms against bowed branches that always seem to remember the weight of all the fruit they will ever bear, alone had been enough to make his step light all the way to this moment.

So he smiles at her.

"Lady Brienne Tarth, I presume."

[ddagent]

jb time travel au

This is an updated version of an old idea, and prompt #98 of Cubs and Gemstones. I hope you enjoy!

The last thing Jaime remembered was collapsing against his mattress; the weight of another day washing over him. His wrist was healing, the pain was lessening, but what he’d lost still overwhelmed him. And there was still more to lose. His place within the Kingsguard was in question; his love had not yet come to him since his return. Not even the prospect of a good night’s sleep, without binds or chains, could cheer him. 

He slept soundly, however, and woke to sunlight pouring through his window in the White Sword Tower. Something nudged his hip. Gods, he had forgotten what a bed felt like. The feathers in this mattress felt softer, more…supportive of his back. Another nudge. Jaime turned over and opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh daylight. His gaze settled, surprisingly, on a child. Piercing blue eyes, an unruly mop of blonde hair; a single tooth buried in her bottom lip. She nudged his hip with her hand.

“Mama says you have to wake up now.”

“What?”

“Mama says you have to wake up.” Then the child turned her head towards the open doorway and shouted, “MAMA! DADDY FELL ASLEEP IN HIS OLD CLOTHES AGAIN!”

Then the child was crawling across the bed and padding towards the open doorway. Rubbing his face clear of sleep, Jaime pulled himself into a sitting position and assessed his surroundings. Clearly he had not fallen asleep in his bed after all; perhaps he had collapsed in some random hovel in Fleabottom in search of his brother. Yet, as he stared around at the chambers he found himself in, Jaime realised he had not seen any like this before. He could not describe it, not even to himself. 

“Jaime,” a familiar voice said, interrupting his thoughts. “You fell asleep in your re-enactment clothes again?” 

He turned towards the doorway the child had run through. Standing there was his former captor turned companion. “Lady Brienne.”

She snorted, shaking her head fondly at him. “I have to take Cat to school; we can’t play lords and ladies now.”

Lady Brienne approached the bed. She looked…different than the last time Jaime had clapped eyes upon her. Still the same height and breadth of body, but her hair was longer. Softer. She wore strange garments, too: a baggy collared tunic with buttons down to the hem; loose-fitting breeches and stockings with a pattern of broadswords stitched into the wool. Grinning, Lady Brienne crawled across his bed and bent her head, pressing her lips to his in a firm kiss. 

“The staff meeting was cancelled; perhaps we could play later, hmm?” She raised a single eyebrow; her lips pulled into a smirk. “Ser?”

Her hands, as gentle as they had been in the tub at Harrenhal, cradled his face as Lady Brienne stole another kiss from his lips. He should stop her; his heart and body had been claimed by another long before Lady Brienne had drawn her first breath. But her lips were so soft, and they tasted of mint from the gardens, and she hummed happily as, just for the briefest of moments, he kissed her back. A fleeting indulgence before he placed both hands atop Lady Brienne’s shoulders and pushed her away. 

“I am…flattered, my Lady,” he said, unsure of what else to say. Her appearance still confused him, as did her actions. To say nothing of his surroundings. But the singular truth he knew was that his heart belonged to another. “But I am spoken for, as well you know.”

Lady Brienne reeled back; a crease forming across her brow. “Jaime, this isn’t funny.”

“My Lady—”

“Jaime—”

“Since when did you stop calling me Ser Jaime?” he said, his confusion giving way to frustration; the unsettled feeling crawling across his bones sparking into anger. He forced himself from the mattress, tossing aside the thick blanket so as he could place his feet upon the…rug that covered the entire floor of the room. “It wasn’t so long ago that you called me Kingslayer. I fear the bearpit has made you too familiar, my Lady.” 

“The bearpit…” Lady Brienne trailed off. Her eyes narrowed, taking him in from the temple of his head to his bare toes. Her shoulders tensed; her blue eyes drawing in as if the tide. “Your hair’s longer. I didn’t notice it before, but it is longer. Blonder. There are marks on your face, too.” 

“From my year in captivity at the Stark camp, and our time with Locke and his men.” Jaime huffed. “Have you suffered a blow to the head, my Lady? Have you forgotten yourself, our time together on the road?”

Lady Brienne wrapped an arm around her stomach. “Ser Jaime, what year do you believe this is?”

He barked out a laugh. “If you are unsure of the date, my Lady, then your memory has suffered more than I suspected. It’s the year 301.”

“It’s 907 AC,” piped a small voice from the doorframe. Jaime turned and saw the small child from earlier. “We have to write the date in school. It’s 907 AC.”

Jaime laughed again, but it sounded weak to his own ears. “You’re mistaken, child. It’s 301; King Joffrey Baratheon is on the throne, and I am his Lord Commander.”

The child faltered, then, and turned to Lady Brienne on the bed. “Mama?”

“Catelyn, I need you to go next door, okay? Tell Walda I need for her to take you to school.”

“Is Daddy okay?”

“He’s fine; he’s just tired and I think he’s running a fever. You remember the last time he was sick; he babbled all sorts of nonsense.” Lady Brienne removed herself from the bed, crossed the room to the doorway, and pressed a kiss atop the young girl’s head. “We love you very much, but you need to go to school. Okay?”

“Okay. Bye Mama. Bye Daddy; feel better.” 

As soon as the girl disappeared, Jaime rounded on Lady Brienne. “I am not that girl’s father.”

“Oh, I know you’re not. Because my husband would never talk to our daughter like that.” Husband? Daughter? “You’re Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin. Knighted at sixteen, elevated to the Kingsguard. Killed Aerys Targaryen, swore an oath to Lady Stark, and died in the Battle of the Long Night in the arms of the woman you love.” Something must have crossed his face because Lady Brienne then laughed. It was harsh. Bitter. “Oh, not the one you’re thinking of. See, I know all of this because my husband is the foremost expert on you. Because you’re dead, and have been for six hundred years.”

“My Lady—”

“I am not a Lady. Tarth hasn’t been a functioning nobility for three hundred years. My name is Brienne Tarth, I am a curator at the Targaryen Museum of Ancient History, and my husband Jaime is your descendant. Which begs the question, where the fuck is my husband?” 

[yenslilac]

Daenerys Targaryen and Ophelia: An Essay

I wrote this a while back, just after Season 8 ended. After a few edits, I decided to share it with you! Disclaimer: I wrote this fueled with rage at 11 at night for two weeks straight. Don’t judge. 

Part 1: The Heroine Goes Absolutely Bats**t Crazy

Ophelia. Known throughout time as That Crazy Chick Who Drowned Herself. What a legacy. And Daenerys: She Who Toasted A City Like Marshmallows And Then Was Offed By Her Nephew/Lover. The sad thing is, these are my heroes. What a life. But the ‘Insane Heroine’ trope is prevalent in many forms of media – Dark Phoenix is another example. At first glance, Daenerys and Ophelia have very little in common; Daenerys is a powerful and assertive leader, and Ophelia is a background love interest. The one thing that unites them – they go crazy because of rejected love. While their descent into madness is slightly different; Ophelia is pitiful, Daenerys aggressive, both end up dying indirectly or directly as a result of their lover. Lovely. Let’s talk first about Ophelia – She is rebuffed Hamlet, the original pathetic sad boy, and at the death of her father, goes insane. After several performances of her insanity, she makes her way to a river where she falls (or throws?) herself into the water and drowns. This is witnessed by Gertrude, who then goes on to tell her brother Laertes of her death. It’s a pretty monologue, describing the flowers and plants growing along the riverbank, and how pretty and peaceful she looked as she sank under water and DIED. Remember this. Then my girl Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men etc. etc. Oh boy. Ohhhhhh boy. What can I say except **************** ***** ** **********. Thank you for your time. But she like Ophelia, was scorned by her Boyfriend Who Felt It Was Just A Little Weird That She Was His Aunt. But like, your paternal grandparents and the rest of your great-whatever grandparents were siblings, and your maternal grandparents were cousins so… But I digress. Wait no, this is what it’s all about. I’m back! I un-digress! So, she goes ‘insane’ cause she can’t get laid (don’t we all?) and roasts a whole lot of people and becomes… Hitler for some reason… So, Boyfriend Who Felt It Was Just A Little Weird That She Was His Aunt And Really Wishes He Can Just Catch A Break For Once Is It Really Too Much Too Ask is egged on by Murder Sister™ and Smarty Pants McGee to kill her. Just like my friends! He makes out with her and stabs her (best of both worlds!) and she dies. Very prettily. Remember this. You know. YOU KNOW I’m going to rant about this.

Part 2: Heroic Man Kills The Crazy Lady Like The Feral Dog She Is (But Feels Sad About It) 

Trope as old as time… why is this still fine… surely there’s a better plot deviiiiiice. “Duty is the death of love…” Shut up. Shut up. No, it isn’t. There is a thing called multitasking. You should try it. But let’s recap. Woman goes crazy because of lover/hero of the story rebuffing her because he’s got issues of his own that he doesn’t care to share with her, and close friend/family member is killed. This is when the paths of the Hero diverge. Hamlet does not actually kill Ophelia himself, but his careless actions towards her eventually drive her to suicide. Jon, on the other hand, does kill Daenerys, (no, I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed) by a knife to the heart while snogging her. (I’d like to take the opportunity to say that this was ridiculous and yes, I will die mad about it.) What else is similar? Hamlet holds Ophelia’s (or in some adaptations tries to) dead body in his arms as she is about to be buried and Jon holds Daenerys as she dies. They cry and wish it didn’t have to be this way, but really guys, this is Your Fault.

The problem with this trope in particular (and I’m talking about a lot of other examples here, like Dark Phoenix and Wolverine) is that it renders the killer sympathetic. They didn’t want to do this, but it was for the good of humanity, it was a mercy, blah blah blah. Really? Did someone make you kill her? No, a sense of moral justice does not count. Hamlet abuses and humiliates Ophelia then claims he loved her so much that ‘forty thousand brothers could not…” Creepy. I have to say, creepy. And Jon Snow. “Was it right? It doesn’t feel right…” I’m glad you came to that conclusion. I really am. But I knew this from the moment you stuffed that butter knife into her spleen, so honestly you don’t have any business feeling sorry for yourself. If there’s one lesson that Game of Thrones and Shakespeare has taught me, it is:

(not an artist, don’t judge)

Part 3: Someone Died And The Director Said, “Cool But Like… Make It Fashion.”

Do you remember what I told you to remember? Did you? Cause I’m about to RANT.

Throughout time (like 500 years) men have been painting Ophelia’s drowning – the probable suicide of a tormented young woman – and made sure she looked hot while doing it. True, the description of her death is pretty and all, but depictions of her floating just below the surface, a dramatic and lovely pose and flowers strewn around her glamorise her death – something many other people have taken note on – and give her death something of a peaceful, serene departing note, rather than the death of a woman so deranged she did not appear to understand the gravity of her situation as she sank under water. Daenerys suffers a similar case of SDPS (Sexy Dead Person Syndrome). Let’s go through it step by step, shall we? While in an embrace with someone she loves and trusts, she is stabbed in the heart area (I guess?), and she dies. The End. My respect for white men flew off with Drogon. But I haven’t complained properly yet! Compared to other characters, like Myrcella, Joffrey and Catelyn Stark to name a few, her death was very clean. In these other examples, blood runs down their faces or spurts out of their neck in suitably graphic fashion but Daenerys’ case, two thin lines of blood trickle from her nose and mouth. Pretty, pretty. We get a brief shot of a pool of blood on the snow as Drogon picks her up, but blink and you’ll miss it. She looks shocked and confused as she dies, yet the next shot of her face shows her eyes are closed and an almost peaceful expression on her face. Not only this but we don’t actually get any proper Last Words, when she knows she is about to die. She makes no sound at all. She dies prettily and quietly. We also don’t see the knife at all until she is dead, removing any very graphic nature from the scene. A lot of the camera shots are of Jon’s face. This scene is not about Daenerys Targaryen’s death; This is about Jon Snow’s inner turmoil as he selflessly sacrifices the woman he loves to save the rest of the world. Hold up one second I gotta……

I mean, come on. Daenerys is barely mentioned after her death. She, a woman who freed hundreds, no, thousands of slaves and worked hard to reach her goals (albeit a little dragonfire-y) yet she dies without a whisper and is forgotten almost immediately. She becomes less of a central character and more of a catalyst for other men’s rise to power (see Bran the Broken). Wait, what about Sansa, you cry? Well, at this point, she was so out of character I’m striking her from the narrative. Bye bitch 😊 The same goes for most of the other women in the last season. They become plot devices with a little agency and that’s about it. Missandei? Unnecessarily killed to create the “Mad Queen”. Cersei? A compelling villain reduced to a ‘crying girl who wants to be comforted’. Arya? Kills the Night King and then, I dunno. Sansa? Suspicious of Daenerys because of reasons, betrays her brother/cousin because she doesn’t want Daenerys on the throne, then just ‘forgets’ about this whole thing to become Queen in the North. Brienne? Honourable knight left sobbing after her one (k)night stand left her. Another thing that many of these women have in common (the ones who survived to the final episode anyway) is that none of them have romantic endgames despite this being set up. Arya and Gendry have been close friends in Season 2 and 3, then <3  and everyone (i.e. me) thought that you know, they get together and stuff, because that’s what the writers seemed to be setting up. But nope. Arya’s all like ‘I wanna kill the queen’ (which she never does) and throws all that out the window. (But Gendry was totally on that ship at the end). Brienne and Jaime seemed to finally stop eye fricking and then got straight to the actual fricking but nooooo. “I lOvE CeRseI! WE’re bOTh tERrIble PeOple!” And of course, the crowning glory:

And the woman who actually does come out on top is Sansa, a largely unemotional, suspicious woman whose brother is now the king and made her a queen because she’s his sister. Riiiight. That’s totally not nepotism or anything. 

The End: But Boy, Am I Just Beginning

To conclude, the ending of Daenerys Targaryen was largely misogynistic as it painted a brutal and dishonourable murder as an act of mercy and gave the killer (sorry man, I feel like I’m throwing you under the bus here, but it must be said) a sympathetic angle as a heartbroken martyr sacrificing for the greater good. I had high expectations, I really did, but you just took it anD THREW IT IN THE DIRT. Good god. But it’s fine, I have fanfiction anyway.

Thank you for reading this, if you stuck around this far!

[wackygoofball]

Moodboard: Jaime x Brienne - Time Travel AU

Most people find solace in fiction.

Up until very recently, Jaime Lannister didn’t consider himself to be one of those people. He always enjoyed sports over reading anyway. Yet, ever since his right hand had to be amputated following a horrific accident, Jaime found himself somewhat unable to follow his athletic interests the way he used to.

And so, he now finds himself roaming through the dusty hallways in Westeros’ biggest and most formidable library, the Citadel, hoping to find the only remaining copy of a book he used to read as a child, the only book he ever read with enthusiasm, in fact.

Of course it’s a book about the legendary knights of the former days. Galladon of Morne, Ser Duncan the Tall, Arthur Dayne, Goldenhand the Just, you name them. As Jaime goes through the pages, he stops when he catches some scribbled lines on one of the pages.

“It’s yours. It will always be yours,” Jaime murmurs to himself, frowning. Strange that none of the pain-in-the-ass librarians seems to have caught that. Be it as it may, he continues to read and tries to ease into the easy childhood memories, the familiar stories of his youth that used to give him joy even when times were rough.

But suddenly, the familiar words are anything but familiar. After all, Jaime knows how the story should go. The knight should ride boldly into battle to free the fair maiden from the evil dragon. Instead, the knight is crying out for help.

Last time he checked, there was no new version of the tale. Confused, he flips to another random page, but this passage is changed, too. This time, a young woman from the story tells the knight that what he is searching for will not be found in the castle – when that is where the knight has to go. Jaime knows this. He read the story at least a good hundred times to his younger brother because it was one of those stories featuring not just a strong fighter but also a clever knight.

However, no matter to which page he turns, everything is changed, to the point that the plot of the stories is perfectly lost. Just as he is about to put the book back on the shelf, Jaime sees a figure standing in the hallway, almost translucent, bathed in the meager light in the old library. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d say that it is a knight, but the moment he moves, the figure is gone again.

Needing answers, Jaime “borrows” the book that doesn’t have a library loan option, really, as it is a reference work, being the only one of its kind. One of the advantages of being a rich boy – even if they demand high fees in turn, he can pay that out of his pocket at once. But for now, the only thing that matters is this most strange book.

The car ride back to the hotel doesn’t make things much better as he keeps seeing this figure appearing whenever he eyes the book or calls the stories to mind, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say the knight is scolding at him.

After more pages that keep changing and the figure appearing over and over again, Jaime has had enough and consults the next best eye specialist. Something must be wrong with his vision. To his shock, the doctor finds that he has perfect vision. So to the next doctor he goes. If it isn’t the eyes, it must be the brain. But this doctor finds nothing wrong with him either, though he does suggest to Jaime to maybe see a therapist.

And maybe the guy is not entirely wrong with that.

Not knowing what else to do, Jaime calls up Tyrion for help. The younger brother believes it to be a joke at first, then his brother losing it over his amputation at last, but realizing just how serious Jaime is about the matter, he comes to see him.

Jaime asks Tyrion to read the book and tell him whether those are the same words he used to read to him as a kid. To the younger brother, it is the same story, despite Jaime seeing entirely different plots unfolding. Jaime reveals that he sees this ghost-like figure whenever he reads aloud, which prompts Tyrion to suggest to do just that. If the ghost is real, he should see it, too, right? And if not, Jaime can at least be certain that it is something going on inside his head. Jaime starts to read aloud, and as expected, he starts to see the scolding knight again.

Tyrion is just about to tell him that he can’t see a thing, when suddenly, both hear a woman’s voice ring out, telling them to stop.

“This either means that we both have lost our golden shit, or we both have just stumbled into a ghost movie without asking.”

Tyrion starts to see the same figure, much more solid now, to the point that it almost seems like the knight is just like them, a lady knight in fact.

“You must stop reading this book at last.”

“Why? And why are you telling me only now?”

“That is already part of the problem. I can only speak to you because you already read so much of the book aloud.”

“What now?”

“You bound yourself to the book in most dangerous ways, that is why. You must rid yourself of the book before it is too late – and read no further than you already have,” she warns him. “Or else the book will swallow you, like it swallowed me.”

“So you are stuck in this book?”

“I am the young woman in disguise, giving the just knight direction. I am the knight slaying the dragon. I am Ser Galladon. I am Ser Duncan the Tall. I am all of them and none of them. Every day, for the rest of time. For that is the nature of this most wicked curse. That is why you must stop reading. You must burn it, destroy it, so that no other soul can fall into the same trap I stumbled into.”

“But what becomes of you if we destroyed the book?”

“It does not matter. This is the only way I know to break the curse. I pray you, save yourself and everyone else who may pick up the book and read aloud, so to be consumed by those never ending stories of old.”

“And you know for a fact that destroying the book will break the curse?”

“I do not know. What I know is that you can’t read a book that no longer exists.”

“Then maybe that is not the safest option.”

“If you finish reading the book, it will devour you whole. That is what I know – and that is what I wish to prevent. No one should have to suffer the same destiny as I did.”

Tyrion suggests that they may want to do some more research on the matter before burning much of anything.

“As far as I am concerned, you can read all of it safe for the last page. So just don’t read that page and you should be fine. Sounds manageable to me.”

When the mystery knight introduces herself as Brienne of Tarth, the two brothers perk their ears. Both have interest in history since they were young and thus surely know of the legendary woman knight Brienne of Tarth who fought during the Long Night and disappeared some time after the war without a single trace.

Brienne is quite shocked to learn that the current year is 2300 AC. After all, the two look exactly the same as the Tyrion and Jaime she knew back in that old life she had before she was sucked into the book. Though then she reminds herself of the words the Crow gave her short before disappearing from Winterfell thousands of years ago.

History will repeat itself. We may have won the war against the dead in our time, but we did not defeat the great darkness engulfing the world in the future. I see the future – and it is still dark and full of terrors.

After some prodding from the brothers, Brienne reveals that it was her grief over the loss of the Jaime of her time that got her into the situation. He fell in battle, protecting her.

“I only ever held him as he died, just like Renly. That seemed to be part of my wicked fate all the same.”

After the battle was won, she was visited by the Red Witch who gave her a book, this book. Brienne wanted to believe that she meant to offer solace after the grief she brought her before, but once Brienne finished reading, she was sucked into the book.

“And that was the end of my story and the beginning of the never ending tale.”

While Tyrion dives into research in the hope of finding a solution to this most strange problem, Jaime spends his time trying to get to know both the woman whose story entwined itself with his but also with his namesake, whom Brienne must have loved a lot, as fondly as she speaks of him. Though of course, she wouldn’t admit to it.

As their journey continues, they start to write an entirely new story, one of love lost and found.

Though the ending of this story will only be revealed on the very last page.

And there is no way to know whether it’s a happy ending or a story meant to end in tragedy all over.

After all, history repeats itself, and so do stories.

[aviss]

7 (fake relationship) or 22 (two miserable people meeting at a wedding) for Jaime/Brienne?

Hi Anon, thanks so much for the prompt. It feels like I am all for combining tropes lately, so I meshed both prompts. 

The reception hall was lavishly decorated and filled with Westeros' rich and beautiful, the most expensive food and champagne flowing freely as a sign of the newlyweds status, the exclusive party had already been dubbed as the social event of the year. 

Brienne wanted to be anywhere but there, though she had not been able to avoid it.

"You have to go in my stead, my child," her father has said, looking regretful and pained, his leg still on a cast. "Robert is one of our oldest investors and I already confirmed my assistance."

She had known he was right, but that didn't mean she had to like it. So Brienne had flown to Storm's End for the wedding and made herself as presentable as possible, subjecting herself to the tender care of a stylist, something she very rarely did for herself. She was representing Evenstar enterprises, after all.

She had represented it from the darkest corner of the sept, though, pulling awkwardly at the hem of her very short dress while she teetered on the high heels the stylist had insisted on because "It makes your legs look endless," and trying not to touch her face and smudge her make-up. The sept was full of people, all starry-eyed as Robert Baratheon exchanged vows with Cersei Lannister, who was as beautiful as the statues of the Maiden adorning the sept.

There had been another person hiding in the shadows, Brienne was probably the only one who had seen him arrive and lean against the wall by the door, his handsome face twisted into a sneer, his eyes narrowed where they were set on the bride. It wasn't hard to recognize him, golden and richly dressed and as beautiful as Cersei. That had to be the infamous Jaime Lannister, the black sheep of the family who had, according to the rumours, refused to work for his father's company and had established his own security firm.

Brienne had sneaked some looks at him during the ceremony only to find his eyes on her, the sneer completely gone from his face, on more than one occasion. He had left before the bride and groom kissed, though she had stayed to congratulate the happy couple after the ceremony and present hers and her father's respects. 

Brienne wondered now whether he would be in the reception, not that it mattered, it wasn't as if Brienne was going to talk to him, even if he had been the only person who looked like he wanted to be there less than she did.

She pulled one more time at the dress and went to check which table she was going to be sitting in. With some luck, it will be the same as the Tyrells, whom she knew and liked though they didn't quite move in the same circles. She found her name and the table number and headed that way, snatching a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. 

Brienne froze when she reached the table, her entire body frozen in shock. Oh no. She looked frantically around, hoping to see a friendly face so she could move in their direction without looking like she was fleeing, the only one was Jaime Lannister who appeared to have seen her that moment. 

He wasn't the only one who had seen her. 

"Look at that, it's Brienne the Beauty!" a taunting voice said, almost shouted, from her table. "You clean up--No, not that nicely. Still have the same face."

She turned in time to see Ronnet Connington, the asshole who had made her life hell in university, and his cohorts laughing heartily. At her expense, like they used to do. She couldn't believe she had been so unlucky. 

"Ron," she said as coldly as she could though her face was burning and her stomach was churning. "I see you still have the same childish humour."

He grinned as if she was the funniest thing in the world, though his eyes were cold and full of derision. "Yep, and I have so many other jokes to tell." All at her expense, she knew. "This reception is going to be so much fun, if your face doesn't turn our appetites." They laughed again and Brienne gritted her teeth, her fists clenched. 

She couldn't do this, if she sat down in that table and had to spend one second more with those men, she was going to punch one of them, and then her father would be very upset with her.

"There's been a mistake with the seating arrangement, I was just coming to collect the card. I'm sitting over there," she gestured vaguely without even looking where, shocked at hos steady her voice sounded, panic giving her the ability to lie she usually lacked. "With my fiancee." She almost cringed at that knowing she had gone too far. 

Ron laughed hard at that. "Fiancee? Don't lie, Brienne. Who would be that blind?"

She was about to turn and run, forget good manners and what people could think of her, when an arm snaked around her waist and a body pressed against her side. She saw in Ron's expression the shock and disbelief just an instant before a man spoke next to her. 

"Are you by any chance insulting my fiancee?" The voice was deep and rough, a slight menace in it, and somehow Brienne knew who it belonged to even if it was the first time she heard it. "Or are you insulting me?"

Ron's face drained of all colour, Brienne turned and she had been right. Jaime Lannister was so close she could see the specks of gold in his green eyes and at this distance, he was even more devastatingly handsome. He turned his eyes on Brienne, dismissing Ron as if he wasn't important anymore and smirked at her. 

"Jaime," Brienne said, then fell silent, her mind devoid of any other words. 

If he was surprised she knew his name, he didn't show it. He was definitely a better actor than Brienne. The hand on her waist tightened minutely and his eyes sparkled with mischief. 

"Sweetling, ignore the card and just let's go, my brother is waiting for us." He placed a kiss on her cheek and gave her a little push away from the table. "Unless your friends here have something else to say?" It was a dare nobody took him up, and he took Brienne away from the shocked stares of her old bullies.

She expected him to let her go and move away as soon as they were out of sight, but he didn't, instead, he directed her to the bar and sat her at a stool, taking the one next to her and flagging the waiter to order some strong drinks for them.

"Thank you," she said, taking the glass he offered and drinking deeply. 

She was still shaken but now was able to feel that he had not removed his hand for her waist and he was sitting very close and staring at her. "Connington is an asshole, I've had the misfortune of knowing him for some time. He needed putting in his place," he smiled then, wide and mischievous. "I was looking for you. You didn't look like you wanted to be here during the ceremony any more than I did, what you say we get away from this place and have our own party, sweetling?"

She barked a startled laugh. "Are you trying to pick me up? You don't even know my name."

"Of course I do, Brienne," he said, his voice low and intimate raising goosebumps. "We're engaged."

Brienne considered it for half a second, she really didn't want to be there, much less now after that scene. She had already congratulated Robert and Cersei at the sept, there were hundreds of people and nobody was going to miss her, and this man, this handsome and kind man who had just saved her wanted to spend time with her. 

There was only one response she could give to that.

She downed her drink and stood up. "Lead the way."

...

[observedchaos]

Fic: Favors the Brave (1/1) [Jaime x Brienne, Tyrion]

Posting so that I don’t chicken out of cleaning it up and posting to AO3 later

“WHAT DID YOU DO???”

Tyrion lifted his head muzzily from his desk to see Fury incarnate hovering over him. 

Like every true sinner, a part of Tyrion had known that there would be a day of reckoning. What was a thrill without the threat of danger?

Though he had rather imagined his headsman resembling his father, not this...gargoyle having a bad hair day? Tyrion squinted with heroic effort but the haze of a proper hangover won. 

"TYRION, WAKE UP, DAMN IT!"

Hmm, the sound of the Fury seemed familiar. Was it an ex? Gods, he hoped he wasn't so cliche. That would be humiliating. Wasn't his type more backstabber than frontstabber? 

Who else, who else? He had always thought there was something off about Varys…

No, wait it was Brienne Tarth.

Tyrion patted her muscled arm in relief. Brienne was mighty but merciful. She would rescue him from the consequences of his ale-soaked misdeeds. 

Whatever they may be. 

Tyrion found he couldn't remember much at the moment. Only the most unshakeable pieces of identity remained: his name, the view straight up Father's flared nostrils when Tyrion delivered a perfect bon mot, and every curve of the '77 Playwench centerfold.

"WHAT DID YOU DO, TYRION?"

The question sank in that time. Sank in like an arrow right into his aching head. Words. He must find words to fend off Brienne's vicious volley. 

Words, his old friends. He had dedicated his life to sowing adjectives, japes and invectives across the land. Rude of them not to bear fruit in his time of need. 

Finally, a lone weed wound its way to the surface. 

"Offended the gods," he croaked.

There. Those were words that resembled a sentence. Take that, foul Fury! Of course, his tongue was so dry it may have sounded more like "often the goths." In vino, visigoths, Tyrion chuckled to himself.

"There’s no time for this! What did you say to that woman??” 

Brienne was implacable. It had been amusing when Jaime was the one to tease her into anger. Like watching a gladiator poke at a saintly lion. To think, his brother *liked* her this way.  Jaime was a braver idiot than Tyrion had given him credit for.

"Woman?"

"The one time I need you to talk!" Brienne groaned in despair.  She might have clutched her tragic hair. Tyrion was too busy trying not to puke to be sure. Brienne regrouped and fetched him a glass of water. Bliss.

"Tyrion, focus. Last night. You went inside that tent and when you came out you said that you 'fixed it.' What did you fix? What did you do to Jaime???"

"Jaime? Tent?"

"That stupid red tent at the carnival you MADE me go to last night! THINK, TYRION!!!"

How had he never noticed that her voice was more forceful than a battering ram? Merciful Mother.

"Not so loud, woman, please."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Does your head hurt? BECAUSE I WILL TAKE IT OFF YOUR NECK IF YOU DON'T TELL ME WHAT YOU DID!"

Shock that she was capable of sarcasm jolted his brain into gear. A very rusty third gear.

“Brienne, if you are going to be dramatic, then I will have to be sensible and no one wants that.”

Brienne hauled him forward by his shirt with such force that Tyrion felt his wing tipped shoes take flight. Their disparate sizes meant her hand nearly spread collar to cock. Fear shook him sober. 

"Yes, ok. I am trying to remember. I swear it." Tyrion scrambled for purchase and details that would jog his memory. "We went to a carnival? Why in the world would you and I go to a carnival?"

"You were moping! You said we had to go where we belong!" Brienne's fist clenched. Unfortunately, so did his windpipe.

Less unfortunately, gurgling her name fueled enough guilt to loosen her grip. 

Tyrion had never been so glad to have his feet on the ground. Rolling his shoulders in relief, he felt his freshly oxygenated mind rev with curiosity. He *did* like a puzzle.

A carnival. That might explain the calliope music merrying around his head.

"Walk me through last night, Brienne. From the beginning. If I have the big picture, maybe I can remember the details." 

She took a deep breath. Brienne slipped into the cadence of an officer delivering a shift report, something she and Jaime had surely done hundreds of times when they served together in Essos. Calm was Brienne’s specialty. Jaime often called her a robot, with mirth in his eyes. Outside of her hearing, Jaime had told him that her stoicism was the only reason he still had two fingers on his right hand. Tyrion didn’t have words for the look in Jaime’s eyes, then. 

"You and I left work at the same time. Jaime was picking you up because you were sad after… Chai?"

"Shae." Tyrion's throat was dry again.

"After she dumped you. Jaime insisted that I come have a drink with you. We went to a bar you hated." 

Tyrion rubbed his head. "Were there...there were hubcaps on the wall. And they dyed the ale green."

"Yes! You told Jaime it was like playing a symphony with a kazoo.” Brienne smiled fondly. “He laughed so hard he…" 

Tyrion took a swig of water as his interrogator trailed off. She had a bad habit of sharing details that made her affections too apparent. It was hard to watch. 

"We had an appetizer but then Jaime got a call." She blinked too quickly as she stumbled on. Another tell. 

"From Cersei. She called and he came running." An all too familiar pit formed in Tyrion’s stomach.

Sympathy briefly returned to Brienne’s face. "You were upset. You ordered shots and...people were looking. Then you dragged me to the carnival. Mostly I tried to keep you from falling on your face as you told me that Jaime would always choose Cersei.” 

Truth was bitter. Tyrion had run out of wine to sweeten his tongue.

“He will, you know,” he snapped. “I’ve watched him do it a dozen times. You dragged him out of the pits of hell in Essos and not even you can save him from her. She ruined him the day she met him. She’s the main attraction and we’re the sideshow!”

Brienne flinched. Her left hand smoothed the skin of her right thumb in an absent gesture of anxiety. Tyrion cleared his throat in apology.

“He feels responsible for her somehow,” he said gently. “She trusted him when he needed someone to need him. We were never good enough for our father but he was exactly what Cersei wanted. Because he did everything she wanted. Terrible deeds did not feel terrible if he did them for her. Then he saw what she was but he couldn’t take back what he had done. Jaime thinks he doesn’t deserve...anything better.”

Seeing his sorrow reflected on her face was unbearable. Deflection, then.

“And how else did I charm you last night, my lady?”

“You cursed fate for making you beautiful but unloved. Then you literally flung yourself onto several women and screamed ‘once more unto the breach!’"

"Ah, yes. Well, I suppose I do get a bit theatrical when I’m drunk."

Brienne glared at him. "You disappeared when I was helping one of your poor victims up. I found you an hour later coming out of that red tent with the burning heart. "

A burning heart. Tyrion’s pulse quickened. “Jaime. I wanted to help Jaime.” 

I tell desires, not fortunes. An impossible memory. A woman’s eyes flashing red. Smoke stinging his eyes. A voice from the embers....We all must choose.

“Please, Tyrion. You said you ‘fixed it.’ I thought you were just drunk but then this morning…”

Tyrion clutched Brienne for balance. He spoke without hearing the words. “I wished for Jaime to have a second chance.” 

A clang from the outer office jarred him from his stupor. He toppled over as Brienne rushed to the blinds. The slats crumpled like paper in her hand as she peered through the window of his office door. 

“He’s here.” She looked scared. Tyrion had never seen Brienne look scared before.

His assistant’s voice drifted in. “M-m-m-Mr. Lannister?”

The door opened. It was reckoning day, after all. 

From the floor, Tyrion saw the face of the man he had looked up to his whole life. A face that he hadn’t seen in over 20 years. 

Blond hair untouched by grey. Trouble-free eyes. 10 fingers. 

Jaime was 16 again and his heart burned bright gold.

[ajoblotofjunk]

DVD commentary for the July chapter of HFOG! or just the motorcycle ride if that’s too much lol

All of July is too much for me mentally right now so I’ll do the motorcycle ride. :D This got (unsurprisingly!!) long, so lemme put a Keep Reading cut in real quick.

A week later, on the off Sunday between Winterfell and Lannisport, Jaime was spending his birthday alone at the office.

I’ll do this whole section, since it being on his birthday was the trigger I used to get Jaime to ask her to go on the bike. This scene was one of like three I had in my head from pretty much the beginning. I find motorcycles extremely sexy (I’m an easy target okay) and I loved the idea of forcing these two knuckleheads into that much physical contact in what should theoretically be a platonic experience; I just had to figure out how to get them there since Brienne just spent the last part of June pushing Jaime back a step. Hard to say no to a lonely man on his birthday though.

going clubbing until they were both passed out or dead by the end of it. Bronn was home with Lollys, probably having enough sex to stock them up until August, and Jaime wasn’t really close enough with the rest of the crew to consider spending time with them outside of work.

I think this was the month where I decided Bronn was going to be genuinely happy with Lollys. I know I mentioned her early on but I toyed around in my head for awhile with the idea that he was still kind of loose and maybe even unfaithful to her, and I decided I didn’t want to go that way. I wanted to like Bronn in this fic. He’s kind of my Sarcastic Wise Elder character for these two and I really grew to love the idea that he is just as much an inner softie in his heart as Jaime is, that that sharp outer shell/gooey center combo was something that connected them. I think it really helped in the October chapter that Bronn was likable, because then that scene in the hospital between him and Jaime had a much bigger emotional hit.

The only other person he wanted to see was Brienne and though she’d sent him a ‘happy birthday!’ text that morning unprompted, he hadn’t responded for

I laugh to myself thinking about Brienne hovering over that text message all “should I send a gif? is the text going to be enough? what about emojis? Is it weird if I text him at all? He didn’t tell me it was his birthday but I definitely know it’s his birthday because I have memorized a lot of unimportant facts about a man I am Definitely Not Into.”

lunch, smoked what he swore was the only cigarette he would have as a thirty-six year old, and then aimlessly watched TV for a few hours before driving his motorcycle into the office.

Jaime uses smoking to fill the hole of the things he wants but believes he’ll never have. At the start of the fic that’s respect and winning races. As he slowly gets those things, he smokes whenever he’s thinking about Brienne, even though he does not realize it consciously. Once he gets all three, he stops smoking for good.

There had been a scattered handful of engineers there that afternoon, working away in preparation for the different requirements of Lannisport next week, but

Honestly, sometimes remembering there were hundreds of people working on this team in particular was exhausting. 😂 I always had this constant voice in the back of my head of Lannister Corp scenes of “where are all these other workers and what are they doing?” It works here because I needed the ride to happen at night, but this is just giving me flashbacks to “oh right this team is actually 500-1000 people, not just these 12.”

He raised his glass of water to his empty office. “Happy birthday to me,” he muttered, taking a sip. It wasn’t even flavored water, which felt like such a maudlin statement on his life that he couldn’t finish it.

The “it wasn’t even flavored water” line still makes me laugh to this day. It’s one of my favorite moments in the entire story. It’s so DRAMATIC. Like, my god man, get a hold of yourself. Anyway, I love drama queen Jaime.

He probably should have texted Taena or Melara, but he didn’t want to spend time with them. He didn’t want to listen to his sister’s barely concealed insults

I had a whole bit…I think it was in August? Might have been earlier, I can’t recall now, anyway, two or three paragraphs talking about how Jaime met Melara and Taena and why they all worked out this arrangement and Brynn (rightly) made the point that it didn’t actually add anything to the story I was telling. I managed to cover what really mattered about it in two sentences instead. The moral of this is that this story could have been even longer but Brynn is the best so you should thank her.

find out what she did on her off days, what kind of birthday cake she liked, if

Chocolate with chocolate and fruit filling and chocolate frosting, FYI.

Brienne’s worried frown deepened. “Have you done anything for your birthday today?”

“I had a cigarette.”

She shook her head, looking disappointed. “Anything that doesn���t shorten your life by doing it?”

I also really like this line. I’m a fan of Worried Mom Friend Brienne, too.

“I drank some water,” he grumbled.

Unflavored! Like an ANIMAL. 😂

“Have you even eaten?”

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.”

She blinked, startled, and then a sheepish grin swarmed over her face. “I guess some things don’t change. At least you didn’t insult me this time.”

“Progress,” he said, smiling, watching her features go soft and open in a way he’d probably dream about that night. Distance, his brain reminded him.

I didn’t plan for this quiet callback to the sandwich conversation from January, but I really was pleased to see it happen. It makes sense; Brienne wants the people she cares about to take care of themselves and where back in January I think she felt she was being more his Mom, here they’re both aware she’s being his friend and that’s part of why it’s a softer moment.

“Then come riding with me. Have you been on a motorcycle before?”

“No. My dad was firmly against it after Galladon died.”

At this point in the fic I was pretty sure Brienne was going to drive although I hadn’t worked out all the details of how I was going to get there yet, but when I wrote this I definitely shored up the “Selwyn is very overprotective” support I’d only just started to build back with the phone call in January. I also knew when I wrote this that Jaime was going to bring the motorcycle to Tarth and her dad was going to be all about it, even though I wasn’t sure how that was going to happen. 

“Well,” he said, standing slowly, “your dad’s not here now, is he?”

Fun fact: this story idea first appeared to me in relation to Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m On Fire” and there’s a lyric in there - ‘hey little girl is your daddy home, did he go and leave you all alone’ - that this quietly references. And actually I wanted the whole motorcycle ride to have the exact same feeling when you’re reading it as I feel listening to that song! It’s a direct path from there to here emotionally.

(In some other universe instead of this I wrote a fic where Jaime keeps bringing his car in to Selwyn’s Garage just so he can see Brienne, grease smudged on her face, and he asks her to deliver it to his home and she does and, well. It doesn’t go like the video. *g*)

(That video and song were very formative influences on young me though I was not aware of it at the time. If you haven’t heard the song or seen the video, here you go: https://youtu.be/lrpXArn3hII)

Jaime arched an eyebrow. “My bike is plenty big.”

Brienne snorted but the red in her cheeks spread out to her crooked her nose and down the freckled length of her long neck. “Sounds like you’re compensating, Lannister.”

I could show you he thought but he bit it back, as well as the image of pushing her against the door of his office and- No. Bad. he told both his errant thoughts and his twitching cock like they were misbehaving dogs. 

Jaime has been horny for her since April (January though he would refuse to acknowledge it if you told him that at this point), give him a break.

He came around the desk and held out his hand and she stared down at it like it was a snake she was trying to decide was poisonous or not.

Brienne gingerly wrapped her long fingers around his

I wanted Brienne to actively participate in the decision to do this, to show through her actions (not just Jaime’s perceptions of her) that she wants this, too. I had to ramp things up for both of them in this chapter because I knew what was coming in August and I wanted them to be ready for that. I couldn’t have gone from where they were in June to the kiss in August, I had to force them together in a way they hadn’t intended so that when they come together intentionally it feels like a natural progressions, and that meant both of them had to be wanting it.

What are you doing? his brain demanded as he led Brienne through the empty corridors out to the front parking lot.

 Enjoying my birthday for once.

I like this because it’s both Jaime making excuses for why he’s doing something really foolish if he’s supposed to be keeping his distance but ALSO true and a sad reflection on his life (and what Brienne brings to it even now).

His bike was parked in Tywin’s CEO spot, where he always parked as a small, childish fuck you to his father. Brienne gasped as they walked up, pulling her hand away to brush the gleaming chrome.

“You have an Iron Throne!”

I know. I KNOW. But I love calling it that. I cast around for motorcycle names for awhile and when I hit on this I could not resist. Iron Thrones in this fic world are basically those giant Harleys that would easily seat two people.

weight of her against his palms. Brienne’s eyes narrowed and he worried for a second she’d heard his thoughts. “It’s not safe to ride without a helmet though, and I don’t have one. Do you have an extra?”

Jaime hadn’t brought his today, either. “We could wear driving helmets.”

As I recall it, Brynn came up with the idea of the helmet scene or at least definitely helped me work out how it was going to go when I got stuck on it. She made the point it should be a cute moment between them and it was right because it made the whole ride seem fun instead of just weighty and tense. The fact they actually have FUN together is really important to me because I think it’s really important to successful relationships in general. If you’re going to be with this person for the rest of you life, I hope like hell you enjoy spending time with them.

When she saw the helmet he had she laughed, the sound bursting up into the sky like a flock of startled birds.

I’m not usually happy with how I describe things - I never feel like it’s as interesting or descriptive or powerful as I want - but I do like this line a lot.

“It’s a helmet,” he said, holding it out to her. The helmet was a bright neon green and covered with frogs forming the words MOAT CAILIN with their bodies. “I got it from one of our sponsors a few years ago and kept it thinking someday I’d wear it just to piss off my father.”

What does Moat Cailin do? I genuinely have no idea. 😂

Brienne took the helmet and held it out away from her like it was a very stinky baby. “You’re sure no one is going to see us?”

“Now who’s vain?”

This made me laugh. I love when Brienne gets to be light-hearted.

“Isn’t there some biker lingo you should use instead?”

“Hop on my hog, sexy mama?”

Goofy Jaime: also a personal favorite. This is kind of an early insight into how he’s going to be in later months when he’s truly, unburdenedly (I made that word up) happy.

Brienne laughed even harder that time and shook her head. “You are so annoying,” she said fondly, climbing on behind him.

The “you’re annoying”/”you’re stubborn” back and forth is something I have been trying to consistently but not overwhelmingly carry through this fic from very early on.

“Since you’ve never ridden before, the primary rule is that you have to lean into the curves with me. If you’re balanced differently than I am it might bring the whole bike down.

Having ridden a motorcycle: this is actually true. It was the first thing the person I was riding with told me.

Her arms fully encircled his waist, her body pressed so firmly against his back he imagined he could feel the weight of her small breasts through his own shirt. He had no jacket but he didn’t need one; even if it hadn’t been for the drowsy summer heat, Brienne’s warmth against him stoked enough fire he could have burned all night.

You shouldn’t ride a motorcyle without proper gear, kids, but Jaime doesn’t give a fuck and for the purpose of this kind of intimate contact, neither do I for this story. 😁

It was almost like sex, the way they moved together around the curves, the blood thrumming in his veins, her occasional breathless gasp. He had to shift a little on his seat to make room for his awkward erection, but he pressed the bike faster, the curves tighter, until she was welded against him and the wind whipped her joyful laughter from her mouth, leaving it like tracers behind them in the dark. 

This is the image in my head when I thought of them on the motorcycle ride. Everything before and after this paragraph is just set up and pay off for this one part.

Centuries ago there had been a keep at the top of Aegon’s High Hill, but all that was left now were old stones weathered by time and the salt air off of Blackwater Bay.

Thank goodness for the internet, and people who post very detailed maps of King’s Landing and Westeros so I can figure out some of this stuff. I have spent a surprising amount of time for this fic looking at maps.

“Why were you at work today?” he asked, staring at her.

Brienne pulled off her hoodie to reveal a tank top underneath, her muscular shoulders bunching as she did so in a way that made his mouth go dry.

There’s a gif that was being posted in the Oathkeepers discord around the time I was writing this that I had in mind explicitly for this moment. 😄

Her skin seemed to absorb the light, making it white and smooth as milkglass, her freckles mirroring the infinite stars. “Truthfully,” she said, “I wanted to spend some time alone with the car.” Even in the moonlight the reddening of her pale cheeks was clear.

Survey says: Mostly true. She also was thinking of him, since it was his birthday. She genuinely did NOT expect him to be there, though.

Jaime walked to the edge of the flat gravel and stared across the Rush to roughly where he thought Tarth would be way down south in the Stormlands. It had been years since he’d been and he didn’t remember it well, but he wished he could so he could picture Brienne there.

Again, I knew he was going to be in Tarth the very next chapter, so I wanted to lay the groundwork for it to seem natural he would be. Bringing it up here was a perfect opportunity for that.

They put their helmets back on, and Brienne her hoodie, and she climbed on behind him again, her arms automatically curling around his waist this time instead of the distant grip of the start. He started the engine and leaned forward a little, and she leaned her head against his shoulder as they took the drive down more slowly.

This easy warmth was important, too. Again, the sexual tension is critical to get them to their breaking point because they’re sure as hell not going to talk about how much they care about each other first (or even for a long while after they start having sex, as we discover), but I wanted there to be something deeper to their bond, too, a connection that I could build on in the second half of the story where you believe they’ll be happy together as an established couple. That they’re comfortable together.

The trip down the hill was as solemn as the stars above and when he parked again in front of the Lannister Corp Racing offices Brienne took her helmet off and stared quietly at him when he remained seated, his visor pushed up.

I think subconsciously this is when Brienne really falls in love with him, because it’s just Jaime being Jaime, and sharing something important to him with her and that kind of openness is the key to her heart.

Sadness gleamed like the stars in her big twilight eyes. Brienne put a hand on his shoulder and his whole body went rigid under her touch. Her fingers crept to the nape of his neck under his helmet, softly brushed through the short hair there before she dragged them away again as her pale skin reddened. 

Brienne was more reserved here in the initial draft of this and Brynn thought there should be more and she was - as usual - absolutely right. So the touch was added to fully seal the momentous connection that happened here.

“You can get home okay?” he asked.

“I’ll take the bus, there’s a stop just by the sports bar.”

Brienne the Bus Rider strikes again. Hee.

He couldn’t even quit smoking; how was he ever going to quit wanting Brienne?

These two things are connected here for a reason! As noted above. Hee.

Wow this was fun for me, thank you for asking! 😊

[DVD Commentary Meme - Asks are open]

[shipping-receiving]

Fictober 2019 Day 28: “Enough! I heard enough.”

Rating: T | Word Count: 1477 Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones Relationship: Jaime Lannister / Brienne of Tarth Tags: Alternate Universe – High School

(read on AO3)

//////

Brienne doesn’t think it’s very difficult to understand the concept of keeping your voice down in a library. It’s really just the considerate thing to do. People need some peace and quiet to read and write and study. She’s understood this concept since she was four years old. She’s sixteen now, and she expects the other students at this high school to understand this concept too.

And yet she is standing in an aisle, barely able to remember the title of the book she was looking for, because of a very distracting conversation happening in the next aisle over. They’re trying to whisper, but it’s the pointless kind of whispering that’s so harsh they’d probably be better off just talking at a normal volume.

“How many girls have asked you already?”

Of course it’s a conversation about prom. Prom is this Saturday. Everyone is talking about prom.

“Nine. Or possibly twelve? Some of them were so nervous about it I couldn’t tell if they were actually asking me.”

Oh. It’s Jaime Lannister. Jaime is the most popular boy in school. Jaime might also, somehow, be her friend. Her. Brienne Tarth. She still has no clue how that even happened. He started off insulting her appearance, which was all old news to her even at fourteen-going-on-fifteen. By the second week of it she’d gotten this feeling he was almost performing those insults for his friends or something. It sounds like he’s talking to Addam, though—Addam’s cool.

“Twelve. You know how lucky you are, Jaime?”

Brienne is still trying to focus on looking for her book, trying not to listen in on Jaime’s conversation, which is really quite difficult when her mind was already on Jaime anyway. She finds that she thinks about Jaime a lot of the time. They had a couple classes together last year—she skipped a year, he had to redo those subjects—and suddenly she found herself helping him with schoolwork. And then they became friends, she thinks? But the real reason she’s been thinking about him a lot of the time is that recently he’s been saying weird things like, “You know, Tarth, you’re very good at sports.” Or, “You have really nice handwriting.” Okay? She knows this? She doesn’t need Jaime Lannister to tell her things she already knows. Especially not if he still insists on calling her by her last name.

“I don’t feel very lucky, Addam.”

Hells. Of course he doesn’t. Twelve girls have asked him to prom and he isn’t pleased? Maybe he isn’t satisfied. Maybe he’ll only be satisfied with thirty.

Brienne is very happy to notice that she’s found the book she’s looking for, at the exact same point in time that she’s desperately wanting to be very far away from this conversation. Unfortunately, in order to get very far away and borrow this book in the process, she also has to walk by that very same aisle where Jaime and Addam are pointlessly whispering about prom. She strides past the aisle in one step—thank the Gods for her the length of her legs—but she hears Jaime say, “Was that Tarth?”

She walks even faster.

Once she’s made her escape, she heads straight for her regular spot, a forgotten table and bench at some secluded but surprisingly well-lit corner of the school. It’s her next best option after the library for some quiet reading time, with no one to bother her.

Except she forgot that she used to bring Jaime here back when she was helping him with his assignments.

He’s walking over to her right now.

When he arrives at her side, he greets her with: “Tarth.”

She returns his greeting with: “Jaime.”

He sits himself down beside her, back leaning against the table. “Did I see you in the library earlier?

“No,” she lies.

“Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure I saw a very tall girl with hair the exact colour of yours walk by.” He tilts his head to look at the cover of her book. “Also, you’re reading a library book.”

She slams it shut and shoves it in her bag. “Okay. I might have been in the library.”

“Why didn’t you say hi then?”

“Do I have to say hi every single time I see you?” she replies, a little too harshly.

“That’s social convention, yes.”

“Well, I’ve never been conventional, have I?”

“I suppose you haven’t. But you were just in the next aisle, weren’t you? And we hadn’t seen each other all day today.” He nudges her lightly as he says this, and Brienne instinctively brings her arms closer into herself.

“You were busy,” she replies, firmly. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

“It was just Addam.”

“You were busy with Addam, then.”

“It wasn’t that important.”

“Really? I thought you’d care a bit more about prom.”

Oh hells.

“Ha!” He turns sharply towards her. “So you were eavesdropping.”

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Brienne hisses. “I was looking for a book in the aisle next to yours and you weren’t keeping your voices down, like you’re supposed to do in a library.”

“So, how much did you hear?”

“I just said I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

“How much did you hear, Tarth?” Why is he leaning in so close?

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Jaime is very close. “Are you absolutely sure about that, Brienne?”

Why is he even more annoying when he calls me by my first name?

“Enough!” Brienne shoots back, and grabs her bag so she can sandwich it between them. “I heard enough.”

“And what exactly is ‘enough’?” Jaime drawls.

“You’re—you’re in very high demand for prom,” she replies. She’s determined not to engage beyond that point.

He’s taking her bag now and putting it behind him where she can’t reach it. “That’s it?”

“That isn’t enough? Personally, I think it is. I don’t find it all that interesting.”

Brienne winces inwardly at the tone of her voice. She has never been very good at affecting nonchalance.

“I think you missed the most interesting part of the conversation,” Jaime says.

“Oh really? So you do know who you’re taking to prom then?” Why is she asking him this? She doesn’t want to know this. And yet— “Pray tell, I’m so very interested.”

“I know who I’d like to take to prom.” Jaime props one of his elbows on the table, rests his head on it and looks at her. “But I haven’t asked her yet.”

Brienne swings her legs over the bench and stands up. “Gods, haven’t enough of them put their name in the running?”

Jaime stands up too, tries to block her from getting her bag. “I’ve said no to all of them.”

“Oh gods, please tell me you’re not bringing your sister.” She really wouldn’t put it past the Lannister twins to do something like that, if Cersei gets that idea in her head.

“I’m not—hells, Brienne. Will you stop for a second?”

His hand is on her arm. Why is his hand on her arm? “Why does this whole conversation even concern me?”

“Because I’m trying to ask you, you idiot.”

Is this a joke? Brienne shrugs her arm out of his hand. “You’re the idiot.” She’s really more eloquent than this, usually. “And no you’re not.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I am,” Jaime insists.

“You can’t be.”

“‘Will you go to prom with me, Brienne?’ There, I just did.” He folds his arms and smirks at her. This is a joke.

“If this is a joke, Jaime, I’m punching you in the face right now.”

Jaime’s smirk turns into alarm. “It’s not a joke, and I’d like to not go to prom with a bruise on my face, thank you. I’d like to go with you.”

Brienne stops, takes a breath, closes her eyes. Very slowly, she says: “You’re absolutely, one-hundred-percent, swear-on-the-Lannister-family-name serious?”

“Yes. Brienne.” Again with the first name. “I’m serious.”

“Okay then.” She opens her eyes, looks straight into his. “Fine.” If this is a joke, she can still punch him in the face later, and then some.

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

“Great. I’ll be at your house at 6.”

“Fine.”

“Wear blue. I’ll wear blue.”

“Fine.” She’d have clocked him on the head for daring to dictate their colour scheme, if he hadn’t already told her before that blue goes well with her eyes. One of the weird things he’s been saying recently. Or maybe not so weird, in light of even more recent events.

“Okay then.” Jaime rubs the back of his head, shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Gotta go to class.”

“Fine.” She brushes past him to get her bag.

“See you later, Brienne.”

Brienne.

Before she knows it, Jaime’s gone. She looks down the hallway, sees him just turn the corner.

Fine. So she’s going to prom with Jaime Lannister.

Fine. This is fine.

Everything is going to be fine.

[dreadwulf]

In semi-quarantine, and I wrote a bit more of That Modern AU I’m Not Writing. Actually I have a lot of this, but not consecutively and really for my own amusement, but this bit is presentable and maybe someone else who is stuck in their house would like to be angsty with me.

Long passage of Drunk!Jaime behind the cut, if you are interested in such a thing.

Jaime takes his time going home after the restaurant. 

He’s ducked in out of the rain at two bars now. In the second bar he gets the best glass of cognac they can manage to find. While they rattle around on the shelves looking for the bottle the rain slows to a fine shimmer in the air and his fists finally uncurl a little. Anger drowns easily. He gets his glass and tosses a hundred dollar bill casually on the bar. As he nurses the golden liquid his body becomes heavier and heavier and the past and future both grow thin and hazy and eventually vanish. There is only now, a now with rounded edges and thick textures. It feels good.

Jaime stands at a corner of the bar and looks only at his glass and ignores everything else. There are only two kinds of bar, really. The hole in the wall and the kitch. You only need to look around long enough to know which one you’re in, a few seconds at most. Then you know and there’s no reason to look again. This bar is the second kind, with a vaguely sporting theme. There’s people in it, the same people who are always in this kind of bar, and they don’t matter.

Jaime knows that drunks are slow-witted and clumsy. He does not fool himself about that, reminds himself of it whenever he’s in a state. But truth be told, his mind feels clearer and sharper while he’s drinking. There is so much nonsense  he concerns himself with the rest of the time and all of that has been neatly tidied away. Put into boxes with careful labels and firm fastenings. He is probably a little slower from the outside, but from the inside it seems more like everything else is slower. More his speed. He lets the world slow down around him and get quieter and further away, and then he’s able to straighten up and plaster on something more like a smile as he signals the bartender for the rest of the bottle.

It didn’t take much this time. It’s been a long while since he had anything to drink, and it took only the second drink to put him into the golden state of mellow relaxation that it might have taken an entire bottle to get to before. He is out of practice. He’s become a lightweight. 

Though, given how it started this time, he did have that second drink pretty quickly, and all the ones after that to make extra sure. There was a lot of upset to clear away to get to the calm. 

His phone has stopped vibrating in his pocket, so maybe it’s safe to go home now. He tucks the bottle under his coat and slips outside.

The slick streets shine with the effervescent colorings of traffic lights and Don’t Walk signals, and he lets the glow lead him home. He could call an Uber easily, but he left his car at the restaurant because he wants to walk. He has the rest of the cognac to keep him company and make sure he doesn’t sober up too quickly on the walk. He is not ready to be sober yet. Not for a good long while.

Cognac is not one of his favorites, but it keeps him warm enough. He sips at it only twice, ducking into doorways along the way. That’s not a good look, drinking from a bottle outside. No more of that. He makes sure not to stumble on the sidewalk, stands up straight. Walks not too fast and not too slow. Eyes the infrequent traffic on the quiet street. This would be a very bad time for a police car to drive by. Evening Mr. Lannister. Long night? Want a ride home? On second thought, maybe we’ll bring you back to our place to sleep it off. They’d love that, the cops, not to mention the tabloids. They’ve never been able to get him for Drunk and Disorderly. Definitely drunk, and seldom disorderly, but never on the same occasion. He’d better be careful.

How much would his father gloat if he got himself arrested now? After storming out of dinner so dramatically, his father would probably say something about making his bed and lying in it. He would probably let him sit in lockup and Tyrion would have to bail him out once he scraped the money together. Well, he won’t give either of them the satisfaction. He is going to walk all the way home and he is going to lock himself in his apartment and finish drinking and then go back to work tomorrow and keep running his damn company and doing a damned good job of it, and without following any of dear old Dad’s “advice”. 

Then his building is rising up out of the concrete in front of him and nobody is standing outside waiting for him, thank god. The doorman lets him in and does not comment that he is soaked to the skin and weaving, and that’s why he gets the big tips. Jaime rides up the elevator to the penthouse and lets himself in without too much fumbling around with keys. Inside he goes straight for the 100 year whiskey, his favorite, pours a glass before he’s even got his coat off and lifts it straight to his lips like a man dying of thirst.

He gave a glass of this whiskey to Brienne that time. She liked it, he could tell. She took it a swallow at a time, savoring it, and that felt good to watch. He had a feeling she could appreciate a good 100 year whisky, and he had been right.

Gods. You have fucked this all the way up this time. Now it’s going to be a whole year --

No. Shut up. No.

He throws back his head and drains the rest of the glass, and things get quieter again.  

He drapes his sopping wet coat over a high chair and pours another glass, takes it and the cognac with him into the TV room. Formerly the drinking room. It has the best chairs. A nice soft recliner that he can sleep in sitting up, in case things get out of hand, and a big tv bolted to the wall to shine espn at him all night. It’s the only room in this place, aside from the bedroom, that he really spends any time in. 

He leaves the glass and the bottle there and turns back for more supplies. It’s good to be prepared. On the kitchen counter he stacks all of the items that he can remember from his old Good Time Drinking kit:

-water (hydration is key)

-red bull

-scotch

-leftover takeout

-mixers

-extra glass in case he breaks one

-2 bottles of the good vodka

All of that he piles into the soup pot and carries into the TV room and settles into his chair and finishes off the cognac one glass at a time. Then he eats the takeout, drinks a whole bottle of water, and then moves on to the scotch.

Six months. A whole six months out the window, you complete idiot. 

The scotch is not one of his favorites either, but it’s strong and it shuts up that voice in his head. He watches the Knicks lose again. After that there’s a hockey game on. After that they play a soccer match from south america and he doesn’t know either team and he mostly zones out for awhile and enjoys feeling nothing about anything. 

He probably sleeps a little. He’s starting to sober up and there’s light coming in the window that hurts his eyes and he gets out of his chair just long enough to close the blinds and go for a piss and then he opens up the good vodka and loads up Goodfellas on streaming for the 200th time. Clearly the best Scorsese by a mile. You could argue Taxi Driver but really mostly for De Niro’s performance, or Casino for pure spectacle but there are bits where it gets flabby around the edges and Goodfellas is flawless. There is not a single wrong second in Goodfellas. Impeccably structured from beginning to end. He makes it to the incredible tracking shot in the Copa and gets lost in thought about whether The Departed is a better film than The Irishman and if any of them are really a patch on Goodfellas or just revisions of the same thing, flourishes to show the old man’s still got it, and then the movie’s over and the bottle of vodka is empty and his head is starting to ring like a bell. 

Or maybe that’s his phone ringing. But he’s not sure where he left that and really doesn’t feel like looking for it, so he closes his eyes for a while instead. 

Later after he’s used the pot and run out of bottles of water he lurches in the direction of the kitchen. It’s a stupidly long way. He had to get the biggest apartment in Manhattan. Couldn’t have gotten one with a shorter hallway. Short-sighted of him. Now he has to keep the palm of his hand planted firmly against the wall and follow the wall to the kitchen and be satisfied that at least he isn’t falling over. He didn’t used to stumble around like this but he’s out of practice and fuck, he is going to pay for this in a few hours. When he goes to work he’s going to be sick as a dog. He’ll have to ask Pia to move his in-person meetings or switch them to conference calls.

In the kitchen he drops the pot un-looked-at into the sink and takes another one, and starts filling it with bottles of water and half-empty boxes of cereal. His coat is ringing from the high chair where he left it earlier. He fumbles around with it until he can figure out which pocket is making the noise and pull his vibrating phone out of it and squint at the screen. 16 messages. Well, that’s a problem for later. He puts the phone in the pocket of his pants and walks carefully back down the hall to his chair. 

The next morning is going to be painful. It’s like the sword of - the sword of whatdoyoucallit that hangs over someone’s head and will cut their head off but they don’t know exactly when so they just look up at it nervously waiting for it to fall. It’s definitely going to fall, but he can put it off a little longer. 

It takes longer to finish the vodka. He keeps falling asleep between sips. 

His phone plays a few notes of Queen (ooh, you’re making me live now honey) and he has to shift around in his seat to pull it out of his pocket. 

“Brienne?” he says into the phone, quietly because talking makes his head vibrate too much.  

“Hey - I thought we were on for tonight.”

The online game. They’re going to hunt down some legendary bounties in RDR2. But not today. Jaime rubs his right eye with his useless right hand. “No, that’s Thursday.”

“Uh, today is Thursday, Lannister.”

Jaime sits up sharply. “It is?”

That can’t be right. It’s Wednesday. Dinner with his father and Cersei and Tyrion was Wednesday. Wasn’t it?

“Well, now you’ve got me confused. No, it’s Thursday, just check your phone.”

He does. His phone says it’s Thursday too. Oh fuck. There was a morning in there somewhere, wasn’t there? The windows were sunny for awhile there. If it’s Thursday now then… fuck.

“What time’s it?” He just saw it on his phone but he didn’t quite believe it. A slow panic is building. He has fucked this up even worse than he thought. 

“The usual time. 9’o’clock.” Brienne is starting to sound concerned. “Are you all right?”

He missed work. He had… there were meetings. There were things to do. Oh god. He has to call Pia. He fucked up.

“Yes. Sorry, I gotta go. I can’t. Tomorrow?” Jaime hesitates. He has looked forward to it all week. He always does. Will he have to wait a whole other week to get a session with her? “Let’s do tomorrow. Please?”

“Sure,” she says. “Are you sure you’re all right? Are you drinking?”

“No. I have to go. Bye.”

He stabs his phone clumsily with his left index finger and misses the End button a few times. Locates Pia in his contacts list. Then he thinks on it, and stumbles towards the kitchen again.

He keeps most useful things in the kitchen. There’s a pen in the Miscellany drawer where most of that stuff ends up. He takes a scrap of paper and writes effortfully in big block letters:

SICK FEVER

MONDAY

REPORT WITH PECK

He stares hard at these words while he finds Pia’s name in his contacts again. 

“Pia?”

“Boss, oh my god. Where are you? I’ve been trying to call ---”

Jamie tries to make his voice steady and clear. It takes a lot of concentration. “Pia, I’ve been sick in bed all day. Slept right through everything. I have some kind of fever.”

She sounds strange. Skeptical or worried? Both? “Are you okay boss? You sound terrible.”

“I just need to sleep. Probably tomorrow too. Can you move everything to Monday?”

“Already done. I know the drill.”

Fuck. He winces. Pia used to cover for him a lot on mornings when he was especially hungover, and he told her that wouldn’t be happening anymore. 

PIA RAISE he adds to the scrap of paper. 

“Thank you, Pia. Did Bolton come looking for the annual report? I left it with Peck for touch-ups.”

“He did. We put him off to tomorrow. I think it still needs some --”

“Tell Peck to finish. He can do it. I showed him how.” He rubs his right eye again. The icepick headache is starting up there. Impending doom. “Give it to Bolton tomorrow. Better done wrong than late in this case.”

“Okay boss.” Pia hesitates, starts a few different sentences in succession. Then she settles on: “Take it easy, okay?”

“Thank you Pia,” he says, and hangs up the phone. 

He pours another glass of his favorite whiskey, leaning heavily against the counter. You fucking idiot. You fucking -- why? Why didn’t you notice it was morning? Did you just not want to notice? Do you want to wreck your life again?

Shut up, he tells himself again, and drinks down the glass. 

Then he walks straight over to his most uncomfortable couch, the one he never uses in the spotless living room he never uses, and falls face-down on it. 

His doorbell rings.

Some time’s gone by again. Jaime sits up slowly. Rubs the heel of his hand into his right eye. A few steps towards sober, but only a few. So not too long. Who is ringing his bell? He gets himself standing. Not many people come to his door. If it’s one of his siblings, he’s not home.

It’s on the third step towards the door that he realizes it will be Brienne. He doesn’t know how he knows it but he knows it absolutely, as if he can see her through the door. But how is she here? He never gave her his address. It couldn’t be her. 

But it is her. He looks through the peephole in his door and he can see her. Tarth. Absurdly tall, with that strange hunched-over stance of hers. A coat wrapped closely around her, her sandy hair mussed up from the hat she’s taken off already. She looks nervous and worried. She frowns, takes out her phone and glares at it. Her shoulders are up around her ears like they had been at the barcade all those months ago, when they had been friendly for the first time. 

Gods. What is she doing here? He brought her back here once, that’s how she knows how to get here. She remembered the building. He should have thought of that. He shouldn’t have answered the phone. He must have sounded drunk. She thinks he needs rescuing. Fuck.

She reaches over and knocks. He can feel it against his hands, her knuckles rapping against the door. It’s strange, hearing the sound and feeling it in his hands. Then she looks at her phone again and pushes some buttons. 

His phone vibrates where he left it on the floor, over by the couch. At least he turned the ringer off. 

She holds the phone at her ear and frowns some more. His phone vibrates two, three, four times. Then she takes it down and ends the call.

Brienne paces in front of his door a little. She walks away from his sight and he thinks that’s it, she’s gone and then she reappears. Looks at the door some more and then walks away in the other generation, comes back. Knocks on the door again. Who let her in the building? One of the doormen? One of his neighbors? No tip for security this year. She looks up and down the hall and then folds her arms in front of her and leans her back against the wall opposite. 

Maybe she thinks she caught him at the bar. When she called earlier. She’s waiting for him to come home. What time is it now? It was 9 before, but that was awhile ago. His head hurts, and his nerves are starting to spark and hum. He’s getting too sober. He wants to go back to his liquor cabinet and find that Jamaican Rum that his aunt sent him from her second honeymoon. But he wants to look at her too. Looking at Brienne feels like his favorite 100-year whiskey. Warming, soothing. Like everything will be all right.

He doesn’t want her to see him drunk. She saw that just once, and that was not good. He hated that. He didn’t even know her then but something about being around her made him want to be… not like this. 

Maybe he can call her from his phone, tell her he’s at his brother’s place. She’ll go home.

Brienne checks her phone again and sighs. She slides down along the wall so that she’s sitting on the floor, her long legs folded in front of her, and she leans her head back and closes her eyes.

Jaime keeps his hands on the door, still feeling the vibration of her knocks quivering against his fingertips, and closes his eyes too. She’s so close. He wants to… he wants a lot more than he can ask of her. He shouldn’t have answered his phone. He wasn’t thinking.

How long is she going to sit there? 

He lets a few more minutes go by in utter quiet, resting his forehead against the door. Then he unlocks the door and yanks it open.

“You might as well come in,” he says.

She looks up with a mildly betrayed expression, though she could not know how long he watched her through the peephole. He’s ready to tell her some lie about why it took so long for him to answer the door, but Brienne doesn’t ask. She just unfolds herself, all six and a half feet of her, and breezes past him. 

Brienne takes a long and appraising look at his apartment while he locks the door behind her, taking in the disarray in the kitchen, his coat fallen on the floor. One of his kitchen chairs is on its side. How it had gotten there is a mystery he is not interested in investigating. He must have gotten up for a while and knocked it over and not remembered it. Hopefully he hasn’t broken anything important.

“You weren’t in your office,” she says mildly. Not accusatory, just explaining. “And you weren’t answering your phone.”

Jaime rakes a hand through his hair quickly, tucking it behind his ears. He’s still wearing a dress shirt and trousers from dinner with the family, but they’re looking decidedly rumpled now. He’s a mess. He should jump in the shower and change.

“I was asleep.” 

He can usually hold a conversation when he’s drinking with no one the wiser, but he’s also half-awake and hungover right now. He trips over the “S”s lazily, knowing there’s no point in pretending by now.

Brienne settles herself a good six feet away from him, and takes another step back when he takes one towards her. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” He shrugs. “I slipped up. It’s not a big deal.”

She’s standing so far away from him it’s almost funny. He ought to call her on his cell phone to underline the point. Maybe they would actually be able to talk then.

It’s strange. For all they have spoken to each other, they have rarely spent time together in person. Since that time they met, which hardly counts, and when they reconnected at his birthday, he’s only been face to face with her one other time. That was here at this apartment, and it had been strange then too. She had slept on his couch in the front room, and he had lain awake on his bed all night long.

She had been nervous then too, but not this nervous. Brienne’s always awkward, she has the presence of someone who’s been alone much too often and it’s made them strange. Now she’s worried on top of it, which is worse. 

Brienne slips her long coat off her shoulders and drapes it over one arm, and looks grateful for something to do with herself. When she looks down at him again her brow furrows painfully. “You look awful.”

“Thanks,” he says shortly, and takes the coat out of her hands. He hangs it up in the hall closet and when he turns back to her she has her arms folded in front of her.

Over the phone they have been relaxed with each other, but now it seems they’re back to square one. 

And now he feels awkward too. “Do you want something? I have a little bit left of that whisky you liked.”

Her eyes narrow just a little. “No. Have you been drinking since Wednesday?”

Jaime shrugs. “I guess. Not the whole time. I slept some.” Wednesday. She said Wednesday, and not yesterday, and that means today is… he glances at the oven clock. 10:13am. He should probably open the blinds now so that time doesn’t get away from him again. It’s Friday morning. And he just offered her a whiskey. Smooth. 

It’s Friday morning and Peck is fixing his report right now, and Brienne should be writing her next piece from that bric-a-brac nest she calls an office.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” he asks her suddenly.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” she says again, like that explains anything.

“You came out of your cave for that? I should never pick up the phone again.” He’s got his own arms crossed in defense against her now. “As you can see, I’m completely fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Her arms crossed in front of her like a scolding teacher. Next she’ll send him to the principal’s office.

Abruptly he decides to busy himself, first with setting his chair upright and pushing it under the counter. He puts some empty takeout containers in the trash. Puts some empty glasses in the sink. 

Brienne just watches all of this silently, lets her words hang in the air between them like an accusation. You’re not fine. 

“Did you come here to stare at me?” he snaps. “Or do you want something?”

Her eyebrows wrinkle in a way that he usually finds kind of cute. “I want to know what’s happened.”

He opens the refrigerator and withdraws a water bottle that is not actually filled with water. Sometime yesterday/last night/this morning he’d put it there, and now he congratulates himself on his prescience. 

“Come on,” he says.

He takes her back to the TV room and sits in his chair and she sits on the one comfortable couch he owns, looking around the room. “This looks more like you,” she says. “This room.”

“Because it’s a mess?”

“It looks like someone actually lives here. The other rooms look like a catalogue.”

She’s sitting like a comma on his couch, some stiff and simple sort of punctuation mark that doesn’t take up much space. Her hands in her lap and her shoulders up by her ears. Brienne never looks especially comfortable but this is tense even for her. She’s worried. What does she think he’s going to do?

He feels he should explain. He’s giving her the wrong impression. He isn’t normally like this.

“This isn’t bad,” he tries to reassure her. “I mean, it’s bad, but it’s not that bad. You should see my brother and sister, they put me to shame. Tyrion’s half my size and he can put this away in a single night. And Cersei can drink a truly legendary amount of Tequila. This is an average night in the Lannister household, believe me.”

Her eyebrows raise. She is not finding this reassuring.

“College parties, that’s where the real drinking was. The blackouts and passing out on the floor and that kind of thing. Kid stuff. And when I first joined the business, there were some heavy nights. Mostly coke, but drinking too. It’s pretty normal, at this level. VPs, CFOs, we all party pretty hard. When you’re in charge, you do things to unwind. But I don’t do that anymore. I haven’t done coke in years. I never really liked it, it made me too paranoid.”

The most reasonable part of his brain, the one he has been trying to shut up, is absolutely screaming at him now to stop fucking talking. Don’t tell her these things! Shut up! 

He keeps babbling anyway. “So it’s just this now, and I don’t really do it much anymore. For a while I was doing it all the time -- at night, anyway, after work -- but I didn’t let it get out of hand. I do my job and I pay my bills and was never a big deal. I decided to cut back and it didn’t really work so I cut it out all together for awhile. I got a sponsor and that whole thing, so it’s really under control.”

“A sponsor? You went to AA?” She looks startled. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Yeah, well. It’s just as cliche as you’d think. Church basement, meetings, bad coffee, all that.”  

“Did it help?”

Yes and no. There was something weirdly soothing about it. Like a movie he’s seen a bunch of times before, except now he’s in it. Now he’s the one sitting in a semicircle saying “My name is Jaime and I’m an alcoholic.” A person knows pretty much what’s expected of them there, what your lines are. It fills time. But it doesn’t really stop the pain, or smooth out all of the minutes of the day scraping by like sandpaper against your jagged nerves. The only thing that really helps that is booze, and that’s the one thing you’re not supposed to do.

“Jaime?” Brienne is staring at him and her eyebrows are knitted together again with that furrow in the middle. He has to say something back now. He says the first thing to come into his head.

“You don’t have to worry, ok? When I sober up I’ll be fine. Getting started usually isn’t a problem. If I need to not do it I can just not have any. I don’t get myself into trouble, fights, falling over in public, nothing like that. It’s not like… my grandfather, he was a real drunk. He’d pass out in some alley somewhere. Police used to haul him into the station, let him sleep it off in the drunk tank.  My father would tell me stories… but I do this at home, and I don’t get arrested and I don’t bother anyone and no one sees. I go back to my job and everything’s fine.”

“If it’s not a problem,” she says slowly, “why did you need to quit? You told me you were quitting.”

“Well. It is a little problem,” he admits. “It’s… stopping is hard. When I’m drinking it feels good, and sobering up feels real bad.”

He can feel it sneaking up on him right now, actually, and it fills him with dread. The sword of Damocles. When he’s not drunk anymore he’ll feel shitty all the time. He’ll have to go back to being Jaime Lannister, and that feels pretty terrible.  

“I didn’t mean to start again. It was an accident. I was at dinner with my father and Cersei and Tyrion. And we started arguing and I just… as a reflex, you know. There was a glass in front of me and I drank it. I wasn’t thinking. By the time I realized it was too late.”

He takes a swig from the bottle, several quick swallows.

“So the first drink was an accident. The others weren’t.”

“Well, by then I’m already off the wagon. I might as well enjoy it.”

“Why did you have a glass in front of you, anyway? Haven’t you told them yet? Jaime, I’ve been telling you --”

“I did tell them. I did.” He shrugs again. “I think Father’s exact words were, ‘Nonsense’ and ‘Don’t be so dramatic.’ And Cersei just laughed and ordered drinks for all of us, me included.”

She looks furious. “Your family is horrible.”

He leans his head back heavily. “I did tell them all to fuck off, this time. After I realized. I was pretty angry. I was doing really well there for awhile, really I was. I had six months last Sunday.”

That awful moment of realization. That was what did it more than anything, that moment holding the glass and looking down and realizing what he had done. He had taken a drink and ruined everything and it was already too late to stop. He could not take it back. He had tried so hard and it was all for nothing. You don’t get to call it A Year of Sobriety Except for That One Time. If you drink again you have to start the clock over. He’d have to tell Arthur he slipped up and talk about it in a stupid fucking meeting and do the ridiculous steps again and it’s all so stupid and useless to go to the trouble when all of that miserable time and effort could be wiped out in ten seconds.

And Cersei, and Father, and even Tyrion… they thought it was funny, they laughed about how gobsmacked he looked, and that had made it worse. Because it had meant something to him, and maybe that was stupid of him but shouldn’t they care? Shouldn’t that matter? But it doesn’t.

“I know…” Brienne sounds properly sorrowful now, more like he would have wanted his own fucking family to feel. “You were doing really great.”

“He was calling me a fuck-up. A stupid, useless fuck-up. Just like his father was, my grandfather. And of course I went and proved him right. Right on the spot. Just because I wouldn’t -- he doesn’t like me calling my own shots, on the job. I’m supposed to just do what he tells me. But I actually had a better idea this time. We wouldn’t have to lay off half my department with the cost savings if we did it my way. And I knew he wouldn’t listen so I just did it. That made him pretty mad.”

He drinks a little more from the water bottle, several long swallows. He has to hold it with both hands. His left hand is a little shaky.

“You were arguing about work?” Brienne asks. She sounds a little farther away.

“Well, it started about work. But then he gets mad and brings out all this old stuff. He brings up the Stark kid. He’s still paying that family off you know. Did I tell you that?”

Her expression darkens immediately. “A little.”

“The kid that I hit with my car. Couple years ago. Cersei was there, and we were drinking, and she was distracting me. Doing things. And she said we had to drive away. Because we’d get caught. She was… it would have been obvious. So I drove off. But their mom saw the car and Father has been paying them off ever since. When he gets mad he brings it up like he’s going to… I don’t know. He wouldn’t actually let it go public, it would embarrass the family. But he might stop paying them. That kid’s still in a wheelchair. They need that money.”

His hand’s still shaking. This is… that’s a new one. It won’t stop.

“That was an accident too. But it was still my fault. Like this is my fault. A whole lot of things are my fault.”

Jaime sets the water bottle on the floor next to the chair and glares at his left hand. This hand needs to behave itself. The right one is down to three fingers and now the good one won’t stop shaking. But he can’t worry about it now, Brienne will see. He shoves it under the armrest where he won’t have to look at it. 

He’s so tired suddenly. Every part of his body is so heavy. He would really like to just curl up and be unconscious for a while. Be nowhere. He could easily just turn over and go to sleep, but he is intensely aware that Brienne is here and she is watching and Brienne notices things, unlike most of the people he knows who never seem to notice a damned thing.  

Right at that moment, she stands up decisively. “I’ll get you some more water. Do you need anything else? Maybe you could pick out a movie for us to watch. But no horror films, you are not springing something like Hereditary on me again. I didn’t sleep for days.”

She’s bending over and taking his water bottle and he’s tempted to snatch it back, but it was over half-empty anyway. He’s not sure he could follow a movie right now. Maybe there’s a game they could watch. He can’t remember if Brienne likes any sports. She thinks e-sports are stupid, when you aren’t playing them there’s no point in watching, but does that apply to espn? He’s filing through his memories to see if she’s ever mentioned basketball. A woman as tall as her almost certainly played some basketball. But does she watch it on tv?

Brienne sputters suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts, and he glances over to see her recoiling from the plastic bottle in her hand with a sour look on her face. “This isn’t water.”

Oh. Right. She would have assumed that. A reasonable person would have switched to water by now. But reasonable people would not have been drunk for… 2 days now.

“You’re still drinking?” she says incredulously. “After all this?”

He grabs at the bottle with what he hopes is a graceful maneuver. “There’s real water in the fridge. This one’s mine.”

She holds fast to the bottle, her expression suddenly hardening. “No. You have to stop.”

Brienne spins on her heel and strides out of the room purposefully.

He jumps up and follows her down the hall. Slams his shoulder into the doorframe making the turn and somehow manages to knock his head against the wall. Brienne takes no pity on him for that. She doesn’t even look back, beats him into the kitchen by a mile, carrying that bottle. When he makes it there she’s letting the last bit of vodka empty out of the bottle into the sink.

Okay, fine. He won’t be bothered by it. Jaime has plenty more where that came from, and if it makes her feel better, that’s worth its weight in Carbonadi.

But Brienne isn’t done quite yet. She walks over to the liquor cabinet and takes up a bottle in each hand, heading back to the sink. In a few quick motions she’s untwisted the tops of both bottles and is pouring those out too, overturning them completely over the drain with an expression of grim determination. 

Jaime watches this every bit as disbelievingly as she had been to discover vodka instead of water in his plastic bottle. Wasting liquor is not something that would ever be done in the Lannister household. He would have been scolded for that as surely as another son would be shouted at for wrecking the car. That is, if one of his siblings didn’t lay themselves down under the bottle to catch every last drop before it could hit the drain. 

Not to mention how expensive that particular liquor is. “Do you have any idea how much that costs?” he says, still not quite believing what he’s seeing.

“Send me a bill.” Brienne wastes no time - as soon as the bottles are empty she lets them drop into the sink and is heading back over to the liquor cabinet all in a rush.

He stirs at last, gets between her and the sink. He has to put up his hands like a basketball player to hold her off. “Okay, okay, I get that you want me to sober up. But don’t ruin a thousand dollars worth of good booze just to make a point.”

“I’m not -- a thousand dollars?” She looks down at the crystal decanter in her left hand, startled. “What the hell is it made out of, gold?”

He grins at her. “That one’s from Zurich, bottled in 1958. I’ve been sipping from that for about 2 years, making it last.”

“Well not anymore. You have to get rid of all of this.” She gestures at the assortment of bottles still gathered together in the rosewood box. “You can’t keep this around anymore.”

“Okay.” He holds up his hands placatingly. “I’ll give it to my brother, he’ll take care of it.”

She regards him suspiciously. “Not good enough.” She tries to push past him, and he stops her.

“Cut it out, Brienne.”

“No. I should have done this when I was here the time before. I was going to insist that you get rid of the liquor and I didn’t do it. If I had you might not be in this state right now.”

“Not true. I wasn’t even home when this started, and I can always buy more. I can go buy more right now.” Her nostrils flare, and she’s clenching her jaw stubbornly, unconvinced. “Listen, I’m going to stop now, for real. But you can’t just dump out this stuff, okay? It’s valuable.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“You don’t have the money.”

“I will in a few paychecks.” 

Now he’s getting frustrated. “Look, it’s sweet that you wanted to check on me, but destroying my things is too far. I’m going to be angry with you about this, Brienne.”

Brienne looks at him levelly. “I can live with that.”

She could, of course. She doesn’t need him for anything. She can always just leave and never talk to him again. 

“I think you should go,” he says, even as internally he is screaming in protest at the thought.

For just a moment, she looks hurt. Her blue eyes go wide and shimmery. But then she clenches her jaw stubbornly. 

“I care about you, you asshole. I’m not leaving you here with all this. With these same bottles you’ve been haunting yourself with all this time. You can go and get more tomorrow if you really want to and If you hate me for it, then you hate me for it. But I’m getting rid of these.”

“No. You’re not,” he tells her firmly.

She turns her head to one side and another, looking for options, as though she might run to another room and upturn the bottles there. But that would mean abandoning the liquor cabinet, and he would surely rescue the rest of his stash while she did that.

Instead she hefts the heavy decanter in one hand and hurls it at the wall.

The bottle detonates in a spray of amber liquid and shards of glass, making a truly startling crash.

Jaime’s mouth falls open. 

Brienne pants as though she has just run a marathon, grabs the next bottle and hurls it like a shotput. It explodes against the wall in almost the same spot, loud as a gunshot and culminating in a shower of glass.

Somehow the shock of it has fixed him in place. He just stands there stock-still as she lifts another bottle and throws it overhand like a wild pitch, like he’s admiring her form. 

The third bottle, however, does not produce the same satisfying explosion. It bounces firmly off the wall with a resounding clunk, sails a few feet back, skids on the kitchen tile and slides into the island where it comes to a stop.

The two of them stare in silence, both frozen, at the errant, completely full and intact bottle. 

Jaime recovers first. He bends over and picks it up. It’s another vodka, a grey goose, in a stiff  plastic bottle that wouldn’t break no matter how hard you threw it. Garbage vodka, for when you’re too drunk to care about anything but staying drunk. 

He hands it back to Brienne. His hand shakes only a little.

“Just pour it out,” he tells her, without looking her in the face. “No need to smash it. The others too.”

He turns his back on it, unable to watch, and leaves the kitchen. He sinks down on the terrible couch, leans back his head, and closes his eyes. Some small part of him is hopeful that she won’t take him up on it, that she made her point and will let the rest of his liquor cabinet live. But she doesn’t. Very methodically, she pours out every one of the bottles letting each one glug glug glug the wonderful liquid away until it’s completely dry before starting the next one. 

It takes awhile.

He had his last swig from the bottle about ten minutes ago now. He can already feel himself starting to sober up again. He won’t have anything to soften that blow. Thirty minutes from now he’ll have a crushing headache, and the vomiting will start up after that. 

And he’ll start feeling things. Probably a lot of things about what’s happening right now - about Brienne in his kitchen pouring out all his alcohol, and all the things he told her, and Brienne seeing him dead drunk, and -- how is he going to get rid of her before he starts puking? She is showing no inclination to leave anytime soon. What is he going to do?

When the sound of expensive booze pouring down the drain dies down he hears Brienne sweeping up the broken glass with a broom. He didn’t even know he had a broom.

He can’t believe she did that. Threw a bottle at the wall. Two bottles! Now who’s dramatic?

He can’t believe he’s missing another day of work. He’s never missed two days in a row. Before yesterday he had never missed even one. Even when he was drinking every night, he reported to the office no matter what. He might have felt like hell but by god he had gotten there. Now he has had a weekend bender in the middle of the week and left his team scrambling to cover for him and he is going to feel like shit about that sometime very soon. 

A hand on his shoulder startles him, and he jerks up his head. Brienne is crouching down at his side. “Is there any more?”

He is quiet a long moment, then answers. 

“In the bedroom. Bedside table. Maybe the bathroom too. Don’t remember.”

“Okay.” She squeezes his shoulder and disappears.

Jaime closes his eyes again. Was that it? He doesn’t think there’s any more. He never really hid booze - only a real drunk would do that. Maybe he should have gotten rid of the flask in the bedside table. He never intended to use it. He just liked knowing it was there, for some reason. He left something in the medicine cabinet as a dark joke. It’s the only medicine that has ever done anything for him.

Goddamn, his head is heavy. 

Then she’s touching his shoulder again. “You said something about a sponsor? What’s his name? Is he in your phone?”

His head is too heavy to look. Does she have his phone? “His name’s Arthur. Something. D. Arthur something with a D.”

“Thanks.” She definitely has his phone. He can hear her dialing. She’s calling his sponsor? What is this, grade school? She’s tattling on him? He is going to be mad about that later, when he has the energy for it. 

“Hi. Um, you don’t know me but… my name’s Brienne, and I’m a friend of Jaime Lannister. I have his phone. Well, there’s a bit of a problem… Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Then Brienne is asking Arthur sensible questions about ambulances and alcohol poisoning. She could have asked him about that, but maybe she’s not too inclined to listen to him right now. She says “uh-huh” a lot, and then is quiet for awhile.

“His awful family. He went to dinner with them and he came back like this- yes, apparently they didn’t take him seriously, or didn’t care. They put a drink in front of him and pretty much dared him to take it.”

She’s quiet again for a long while.  

Then she’s putting the phone to his ear, and he can hear Arthur’s low and musical voice. “Hello Jaime. Gone on a bit of a bender, have we?”

Jaime doesn’t say anything. He is in no way ready for this conversation. He likes Arthur. He hates letting Arthur down.

Arthur goes on anyway. “Let me guess. You made a little unintentional mistake, and you decided you might as well make it a giant mistake while you’re at it. If you’re going to fall down the ladder you’re going to hit every rung on the way down.”

“Pretty much.” Jaime rubs his aching head.

“You should have called after the first one. That’s what a sponsor’s for.”

Yes, that’s what they tell you to do. But he didn’t want to tell Arthur he fucked it all up. He had just gotten to six months and Arthur had actually praised him for it, and Jaime had felt pretty good about that, and he didn’t want to tell Arthur about it at all. 

“I fucked up,” he admits.

Arthur goes on. “Everybody slips up. It happens. One swallow doesn’t have to mean you’re off the wagon, Jaime. You could have stopped it there.”

“Really?” Could have kept his six month chip though? Maybe that shouldn’t matter to him, but he does so like his prizes.

“Look, don’t beat yourself up about it. You were doing really well until you saw your family. It may be that you can’t see them right now. We’re going to talk about that when you’re 100%, all right?”

He swallows. At least Arthur doesn’t sound too mad. Disappointed, maybe. Or concerned. He isn’t so good at telling what concerned is supposed to sound like. 

“You’ve got somebody there with you? You never mentioned this Brienne.”

“Yeah. She’s…” He’s not sure how to explain Brienne. “She’s a friend.”

“She sounds like a good friend who is very worried about you. I’m glad she’s there. So sleep it off and call me when you wake up. And get yourself to a meeting." 

Ugh. He hates AA meetings. A club for losers full of other losers. He especially hates knowing how many more meetings he's going to have to sit through now. Arthur will probably want him to go to a daily meeting for at least a few weeks, then twice weekly after that, then…. when will it ever be finished? Does he really have to keep doing it forever? Sitting around in a room full of drunks talking about alcohol on a regular basis is really not something he wants to be doing for the rest of his life. 

"Okay Jaime? I know you hate them, but it was actually helping you. Maybe your friend could come with you."

"Absolutely not," he says quickly. It's bad enough that she's seeing him now. 

"Sooner or later, son, you're going to have to let somebody see you hurting. You can’t keep doing this wounded animal bullshit, or it will kill you one way or another.”

"She's seen it." He laughs bitterly. "I hate it, but she has."

"Well, she didn’t run screaming yet, right? So maybe It's not such an awful thing, kiddo."

"I'm 38 years old, Arthur."

"You're a kid to me. Get some sleep. And stop beating yourself up. Tomorrow I’ll tell you how many tries it took me to get sober."

Jaime hangs up the phone feeling actually marginally better. 

Brienne, meanwhile, is scanning her own phone, pacing in the kitchen. She looks up when he goes quiet, and then comes over.

“I’m looking up the symptoms of alcohol poisoning,” she tells him. Reading off her phone, she goes down the list. “Mental confusion, difficulty remaining conscious…”

“Not so different from normal, then,” Jaime cuts in. He’s read the list before. 

“Seizures, slow breathing, slow heart rate, low body temperature, blue skin, clammy skin…”

He finishes for her. “Dulled responses, reduced gag reflex. It’s why I sleep it off in a chair, so I won’t choke. I know how much is too much, Brienne. All Emergency would do is give me fluids and wait for me to sober up. I can do that here.”

She leans over and brushes the hair back from his face. “Not too clammy. I guess you’re not dying. Your head is bleeding though.” 

He feels at the spot next to his right eyebrow where she’s poking him with her finger. He’s cut himself somehow. Not too much blood, but fresh, bright red.

“Bandages?” she asks, before he can get up.

“Bathroom. Medicine cabinet.”

She’s back right away, with the little drugstore box kit that he keeps for this kind of situation, and the rubbing alcohol. Sitting on the couch next to him she starts dabbing at his head with a cotton ball. It stings.

Even sitting down she’s taller than him. He thought her height was mostly in her legs, but her torso is long and broad and he still has to tilt back his head to look into her face. It’s a strange sensation. 

Brienne doesn’t usually come so close to him, and certainly hasn’t touched him before. Not since his hand. Now she’s tending to him again, and again he notices how careful she is, how considerate. She has one hand steady under his chin while the other gently cleans out his ridiculous wound. Her hands are cool and soft and her voice is calm. 

“You’re pretty used to looking after yourself,” she says. “This kit’s been used.”

“Not so much. I’m not usually this clumsy.” He watches as she unpeels the medical tape a lot more gracefully than he would be able to now, with his claw hand. “I was an athlete for a long time, believe it or not. All through school, even after college. Before I went soft.”

Brienne doesn’t seem interested in that detail. She frowns in concentration as she applies a square of gauze to his forehead. “You said you looked after your sister and your brother after your mother died. So who looked after you?”

“Me I guess. That’s how we’re all so healthy and well-adjusted now.” He chuckles humorlessly. “Meanwhile you’re shockingly good at tending wounds for an only child.”

“Lots of time in hospitals,” she reminds him. Applies a second piece of tape and presses it down. “Do you feel like going back to the other room? We could still watch a movie.”

Jaime doesn’t feel like it, but he doesn’t feel like doing anything really, and the back room has his favorite chair. So he may as well. He pushes up to his feet and wobbles there, light-headed, until Brienne’s hand on his back steadies him. There is open concern on her face, standing over him.

He doesn’t like that. Being stood up like an invalid. If there’s one thing he is good at, it is drinking a hell of a lot of booze and keeping himself going anyway. He is an expert at it. So he can take being bandaged and letting her sort out his kitchen, but like hell will he get across his own damned apartment not under his own power. 

He takes off determinedly down the hall, not feeling along the walls for balance. He is not doing so well now at pretending not to be drunk, and he doesn’t walk so straight, but he makes it the whole long length without crashing again. Points to him. He pulls the first DVD he can properly read off the shelf and hands it to Brienne where she is trailing behind him, and is satisfied to see her brighten a little. 

“Oh good, I haven’t seen the third one yet!” She cracks open the box and starts poking at his entertainment system and he lets her sort it out while he settles down in the recliner. He wants to sit next to her on the couch but he has a feeling he is going to feel like fresh hell before the film is over and the chances of a cuddle under these circumstances are approximately zero.

He barely notices the credits. He’s seen this one before anyway. The first two were better. But it feels better with the lights out, and he won’t have to keep up conversation. He lets Brienne enjoy the movie. He sinks down lower and lower in the chair and as the minutes slip by he’s starting to be dizzy, and his throat is getting tighter and tighter with the knowledge of how badly he has fucked up.

Arthur made it sound not so bad. Like it isn’t a big deal. But it is for him. He hasn’t gone so long without a drink since he was, what, fourteen? He didn’t know he could go without. Six months sober. He was sleeping better, he had more energy, he started running again. And then this. Maybe he can’t cut it. One dinner with his father and he’s a disaster again.

Ugh. The flicking light of the screen makes everything look blurry and unreal. The room is starting to sway like a ship’s deck and he’s beginning to be seasick. 

Brienne seems pretty engrossed in the movie. If he keeps looking at her it helps the room not to be spinning. But it also kind of makes him want to cry. Embarassingly so. 

Six months. A few days ago he had half a year left until he hit the year mark. 

Arthur told him in no uncertain terms not to start a new relationship in your first year of sobriety. 

For six months he’s had phone calls and texts only, and just a couple face to face meetings, and it had been enough. He could live on that for a little while. But now he has to start it all over again and it’s going to be an entire year before he can ask Brienne to be his girlfriend. Six months of no drinking had been a Herculean task and now it has to be a whole year again. And if he slips up again, even longer than that. 

What if he can’t do this sobriety thing? Could he go back to managed-drinking, the way he had been before? He pulled that off for a long time. He could go back to that, maybe, but he couldn’t be with Brienne that way. He had wanted to be better for her. He has to keep trying. And so what if he doesn't wait a year? It's not a law, he doesn't have to wait. 

He just wants to do it right this time. If it would hurt his chances with her, make it more likely that he'll ruin everything, he will wait instead. It's bad enough all of the other baggage he has, that he should add "struggling to stay sober" on top of it. It's too much. He should get his head together first. 

A whole year.

She could meet someone else in a year. She could get that surgery she was talking about, go out and get a better job, make friends, start dating. She won’t want to stay in and play stupid games with him when she can have a real life. She's going to realize she can do a lot better than him. He’s going to lose her. 

“Excuse me,” he mumbles, and pushes out of his chair before his watery eyes become too visible. Rushes into the bathroom and sits on the toilet with his head in his hands. 

Brienne is knocking on the door. “Are you all right?”

No.

“Yes,” he calls out. Then he has to get off the toilet seat and yank it upwards so he can start vomiting.  

[orionlakehastodie]

You Taught Me The Courage Of Stars Before You Left

“Cersei died.”

“Yes I heard.”

“The Dragon Queen was killed”

“Yes I head.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“Yes. I’ve heard.”

There was a small smile on her lips, as she sat on her father’s seat. Her seat now, as Bran the Broken awarded her back her lands and her title. 

Ser Lady Brienne, of House Tarth, Lady of Evenfall Hall and Warden of the East.

It suited her, and so did the lose tunic she wore over her swollen belly. 

“Why didn’t you send for me?”

“Because you made a choice.”

“Did you know when I left?”

“No. I did not.”

There was amusement in her face, to see him here, after he had been thrown in the dungeons, almost killed in falling rubble trying to sail to Pentos to his own exile.

“Why didn’t you send for me after?”

“Because we don’t need you.”

She did not say it to hurt him. It was just fact. Her people loved her. Her island was beautiful. And she was respected in all the realm. No one would speak ill of her child, and the King would allow him to bear her name. 

The times were changing. His son will not be bastard. 

And she was right, she did not need him. 

“But I do. I need you.” The words tumble out of his lips and he wishes he could bring them back because there, underneath the cool facade of her face, was a ripple of emotion. 

“I begged you to stay. And you did not.”

“Yes. I supposed I didn’t.”

“You have stopped needing me since then.”

“No, I needed you more.”

How does he tell her? How does he tell her that he loved her so much, and he wished the situation was different that he met her at an earlier time in his life, before he made his bed with his sister and had no choice but to lie in it. How does he tell her that he wished he met her before he was a Kingslayer? That he would have loved her all this while if he just met her sooner?

How does he tell her he left because there was no choice for him? He did not deserve to live happily with Cersei dead and gone. 

He had a duty to her. 

And they were knights. And much as he loved her, his duty came first. 

“You know it. Our duties come first.”

“Yes, it does Jaime. And my duty is now to my child. I... cannot trust you.”

And he understands. He knows it well. 

But he was Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock, and he never was one to give up. 

“So let me try. To make you trust me, again.”

“No.”

“You have no choice.”

Her brows furrow and with his traditional smirk he shows him. 

I, Brandon Stark, King of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, hereby assign Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West to the small council, as Master of Wars. 

“Master of War? You’re Master of War.”

“Yes. Lord Commander. I am. And I believe we have work to do. Now, I would gladly sleep in your chamber but if you don’t want me there, I suggest you tell me where I should set up my self? Since you are indisposed, the King commanded me to come to you and plan out the city’s safety.”

She flushes, in anger, and stalks off to speak to her maester. 

He, it seems, has quite a long way to go. 

---

She has refused to speak with him unless it was about plans for the city’s guards, new outposts, and how to ensure the other six kingdoms under their realm was protected. And the North was also of great concern. An independent seat, under a unified crown, with a Stark at it’s helm was always a threat to the kingdom. 

“We both know the Trident is not a good fort for attacks coming from either the North or the South. People just... die here. And the toll the Twins charges for river passage does not make it any better. We have outlaws, and sneaks.”

“So we redirect the King’s parcels to Riverrun, a better managed fort, with his uncle on the helm.”

“Edmure?” He scoffs.

“I would not trust Edmure with - are you alright?”

He was out of his chair in an instant, kneeling in front of her chair as she cradled her swollen belly. 

Once confronted with the monstrosity that was her belly, he faltered, however. 

“I ah-”

Three children, and not one of them had been truly his. 

Understanding she picks up his hand. And lays it over the point where their child has been kicking her for the past few hours. 

The last few so harshly it was beginning to hurt. 

The minute Jaime’s hands touched hers, the babe gave a series of excited kicks and settled down. 

“Is that..”

He raised his eyes to her, all warmth, and adoration and love, one she never doubted, and she touches his cheek. 

“That is your child, and I think he wishes to say hi to you.”

He grabs her wrist, and tears ebb and flow from his eyes. 

“Hello. It’s me. I’m your father.”

And no anger, no doubt could have allowed her to rob him of this moment. 

---

“Are you sure-”

“Jaime I am perfectly capable of walking on my own!”

“But the septa said-”

“My septa is a hundred years old, the maester said it was fine.”

“Tarly’s maester.”

“Yes, and Sam is perfectly capable-”

“He takes many risks.”

“It is pregnancy, not a terminal disease!”

“Will you please just... sit down?”

She was nearing the end of her blasted pregnancy and she was as big as a fookin’ Greyjoy Kraken. 

She could not see her feet and she was tired, always. 

So she did not protest much when Jaime fussed over her and led her to sit. 

“There, now doesn’t that feel better?”

Her feet were swollen and sitting does feel better, but being trapped her with Jaime was not wise. 

“I should-”

“When I left, I carried a lock of your hair with me. You probably did not notice, and I felt so foolish doing it, cutting a bit of your hair like... Qyburn. But I kept it close to my heart. I still have it. A memento of you.”

“Jaime-”

“I left not because I did not love you.”

“I know that.”

She takes his hands, afraid of where this was going.

“You did what you had to. It doesn’t make it right.”

“I know. But you know what I realized? I never told you. Not in words. I’d like to think you knew, I’d like to think at least you knew but... I would like to tell you. I love you. Truly. I love you. You are the best part of me Brienne, and I love you.”

She loves him too. But there was more than just her now. And she’s not sure if she can risk their child. 

“I...”

“You don’t have to say it back.”

“I...”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Oh shut up. Jaime. It’s time.”

It takes him a second to understand what she was saying but the panic in her eyes, and the sudden pooling of wet where she was sitting made him realize. 

“Fuck me.”

She was not a tiny woman, certainly not with this babe, but he picked her up as if she weighed nothing and rushed through the cliffs all the while screaming his lungs out for someone to call the maester.

---

They were snickering at him but he did not care. 

That was his Brienne in there. 

That was the woman he loved. 

He wasn’t a first time father that was true, but he was never there for the birth of any of his children. 

Cersei thought it would raise too much suspicion and so he never saw them born. 

And birth was a bloody and horrible experience that he, a knight, a warrior who has seen more blood and gore and death, positively swooned when he saw a head emerge from where it should not be able too and swooned, leading to a large bump on his head and his banishment to outside the room until the lady has finished pushing.

And soon enough cries filled Evenfall Hall and he raced back to his lady’s chambers. the maester was waiting for him when he reached the door and he was welcomed in. Brienne lay in a sweaty heap, her pace a little pale but she held a squalling bundle in her arms. 

“Brienne.”

“Come meet your daughter.”

“Daughter.”

He rushed next to her and peeked at the angry, wrinkly, little old lady that was too angry at the world for interrupting her slumber. 

“Hello dear one. It is lovely to meet you at last.”

He stroked her little cheek and looked up to Brienne who was smiling at him fondly. 

“I love you, words cannot ever be enough.”

She says nothing but she settles against his chest, as they both watch their little baby sleep.

---

Except their own little baby never let them get any sleep at all. His chambers used to be on the other end of the the castle, but with little Iris wailing at all times of the night, he now sleeps in a cot right beside Brienne’s bed.

He was just getting lulled into sleep when Iris wailed again and an audible groan sounded from Brienne’s perch. 

“I have her. I have her. It’s time to change her wet-cloth.”

With a groan he rose and crouched over his daughter’s cot. At the sight of her father, her angry wails ceased and she kicked her little legs, signifying her great displeasure and pathetic little whimpers that had Jaime chuckling as he picked her up. 

“Angry at the world my love? It’s alright, Father’s here. I’ve got you.”

He finished changing her and rocked her back to sleep, her cheek nestled against his arm and he just stares at her. 

She has her mother’s eyes. His nose, and sometimes when she grimaced she looked exactly like Tyrion. Sometimes he sees Cersei in her face, his twin, it was inevitable, but mostly she’s Brienne’s. All love, and warmth and light. 

“Iris Lannister.”

“Excuse me?”

He turns to his lady who was watching him and Iris with a gleam in her eyes. 

“Her name. Iris Lannister.”

“I thought we settled on Tarth?”

She shrugs and looks at his tiny cot. 

“I bore my father’s name. And I am proud of it. But we are named after an island and the island shall live on even without me. And will be remembered after me. My father was proud to give me his name. I want you to have the same.”

Emotion choked him, all love for her, regret, wishes and hopes and his fears for his daughter... but he could not say it. 

Instead he sat next to her, and kissed her, their child in between them. 

“Will you let me sleep in your bed?”

“Yes.”

---

They were of course the source of all rumors once they returned to the capital, with a tiny infant who squalled at the walls of the White Tower. 

King Bran revoked the law that the King’s Guard cannot marry, as celibacy never inspired any loyalties anyway, and so they were a source of curiosity for all. 

They would spar in the mornings, before their daughter awoke, and would spend half the day cooped in small council meetings, before heading off to their duties. 

In the afternoons they take their daughter up a hill for a walk. 

Money was exchanged - a sign of a settling kingdom. When, they asked would the Lord Commander and the Master of Wars wed?

None more so than the Lord Hand, the Master of Coin, the Master of Ships and Ser Payne himself. 

“You’ve already lost didn’t yeh, Davos? What did I fookin’ tell you? She won’t cave so fast.”

Davos grumbled and handed Ser Bronn his coins. 

“Well... what if we ask...”

“Don’t even say it Podrick.”

“I’m just saying! The king would know.”

“Would I, Ser Podrick?”

They all rose at the approach of the King wheeled by one of his Privy guards.

“Your grace.”

They all rise and Bran gives them a steely eyed look. 

“It would be a dereliction on my duty to look at this one incident...”

They all turned to glare at Podrick who merely shuffled in his boots. 

“But I guess there is enough of the old Brandon Stark in me to tell you... Ser Bronn wins.”

Bronn hollers and turns to Tyrion and Podrick. 

“In a fortnite, I will have your money my lads. Your grace-”

In a move that would have cost him his head before, he swooped down and ruffled Bran’s head. 

“You are fookin’ amazing.”

And Bran smiles. Yes. Enough of Brandon left in him. 

---

They marry under an arbor of flowers in Winterfell, under the grace of it’s queen. It was where they were first united, it was there they fell in love. In many ways it was in the North that they began. 

It was where he proposed. 

It was nearing Iris’ first birthday and Queen Sansa has invited them all back to Winterfell to celebrate Jon’s return, to Castle Black. 

She placed them in her old bedroom and though they have shared quarters since Iris was born being in here was awkward for them. 

And so one night she snuck away, to where he last said his goodbye, when he road to King’s Landing, away from her. 

“I looked back. You did not see it. But I looked back.”

He stood in front of her breaking her reverie. 

“I could not bear to see you cry, and I almost turned back. I almost stayed. But I kept on.”

“Why?”

She asks him, for the first time since they met again. 

“Why couldn’t you stay with me?”

“I did. And that month we were together had been the happiest in my entire life. But it would have been wrong for me to stay, when the city burned. It would have been wrong for me to be happy when I put Cersei on that throne. I was much to blame as she was. Maybe even more so. You do not deserve a man like that.”

She promised herself she would never cry again. 

She promised herself she would never give herself to him again, not when Iris was here. Not when Iris was at risk. 

But she loved him. 

And when we love someone, we find new wells from which to give. 

Love takes naught but itself, and gives naught but of itself. 

And she loved him too much to keep doing this. 

“Will you stay with me this time?”

He smiles at her, and hands her a ring. 

“It’s new. It’s not marred with the dark history of my family. It’s new and ours. They’re the sapphires of your home because as my wife I will not take you away from Tarth, it is your home, and our children will know it, as they will know Casterly Rock. It is my home now too, because wherever you are, is home.”

She steps to him and frames his face in her hands. 

“Now tell me.”

“I love you. Brienne of Tarth, I have loved you, from the moment you kicked me to get into that tiny boat on the river. I have loved you since you buried those girls. I have loved you, from the moment I knew you, truly knew you, and I have never stopped.” 

She kisses him first this time around, the same fire and hunger that she kissed him with in their month in Winterfell before he left. 

“And I love you. And you are my home too.”

“Does this mean you’ll marry me?”

Her lips against his was all the yes he needed. 

[vicleesi]

About GoT Episode 4:

First of all, I’m completely exhausted from turning a blind eye to the multiple flaws in the D & D scripts (and it was they who wrote this episode). The strength of Game of Thrones came right from the details thanks to the incredible world that George R. R. Martin created and D & D destroyed. So no, I will not spare you them.

- The beginning was good. I just do not understand why Jon made his speech without looking at the survivors of Winterfell.

- The party dinner was generally good. In these last seasons, Game of Thrones has managed to maintain a good quality in the interaction between characthers. Episode 2 was basically all that and it was good for me. The problem is when GoT starts off for the story  - which is already lost.

- Daenerys’s loneliness was well portrayed. Too bad the series prematurely killed Selmy Barristan, did not it?

- First failure of attention to detail that detracts from the series’ worldbuilding: Gendry Rivers, what? Is he from the Riverlands, by any chance? Bastard born and raised in King’s Landing is named after Waters. His name was Gendry Waters (actually it was just Gendry, since Robert never recognized him as his bastard son). Why change that, D & D? To be different?

- I wish Gendry good luck trying to persuade the Storm lords to bend over to a bastard who does not understand a thing about ruling a castle. But of course the series will not talk about that. At least they did not give Storm’s to Brienne or to Davos (by the way, when the Davos family will show up?)

- Leaving a bit out of order, but taking advantage of feudal politics, what’s going on in Dorne?” D & D mentioned a new Prince of Dorne who swore loyalty to Daenerys. Hi? What? When? Who? WHY??? D & D had the brilliant idea of ​​making the Martells exterminate each other and still reap the rewards of their genius. Dorne remains the worst arc in the series and quite possibly one of the worst book-media visual adaptations ever.

- They also mentioned Riverrun again. What happened to the Riverlands after the Freys all died? Where is Edmure Tully? Who controls Riverrun?

- Writers creating a whole scene by saying that Brienne is a virgin. Not necessary.

- There was not a crippled nephew of Daeron Targaryen. D & D creating Targaryens whenever they want, although there is a well-defined story in the books. (FIRE AND BLOOD)

- There was finally a scene between Sandor and Sansa. It only took 4 episodes to happen. Once again they put Sansa as the product of her suffering, justifying the idiot choices D & D made for her character. Nothing new, otherwise it was a totally forgettable dialogue (I already forgot).

- The Bronn Paradox: If Bronn is not serving Daenerys while the war is rolling, who guarantees that he will receive his castle in the end? Especially considering he was utterly disillusioned with the promises of the Lannisters to the point of being ready to kill his two best friends? In fact, did D & D forget that Jaime himself had offered Highgarden to the Bronn last season?

- Again, as for Gendry, I wish Bronn good luck in trying to establish his feudal dominion over the proud lords of Highgarden who did not even tolerate the right Tyrells, and the Tyrells were an old family and had already been entrenched in there for centuries. Of course, D & D do not care.

- The Paradox of the Wildlings: Why were they known as wildlings? Because they tried to conquer the Wall from time to time and were always looting the North in search of resources and riches. Because their land was a shit, where nothing grew and it was always winter, basically. Now the they finally made it through the Wall and gain access to the best lands, even more with the support of the Winterfell and Starks. What do they do? That’s right: they go back to their shit place because D & D have that same shit on their heads.

- What else is north of Winterfell and south of the Wall are lands with no one, thanks to the King of the Night.“ But the wildlings choose to go back to Castle Black and, by all means, beyond the Wall. Seven Hells.

- I will not even comment on Jon’s scene sending Ghost away.” If it was for him to appear that way, it was better for the wolf to have been m.i.a as before.

- Sam Tarly is a Night’s Watch man. Men of Night’s Watch should not have children. When will anyone say that? Did not Jon even mention it? What happened to Night’s Watch? Why is Sam still dressed in black? If he’s out, why did not he become Lord Tarly?

- The arc of Night’s Watch is going to be without conclusion anyway? Are they gone?

- The army of the living has lost only half its men? It was not what it looked like in episode 3. But okay, D & D create and describe armies whenever they think it’s valid - just like Night’s Watch, apparently.

- As they are doing this season, D & D cut important dialogue scenes because they do not know what to write. In the first episode they cut off Daenerys before she finished threatening Sansa. In the second episode they cut their scene together before Dany could answer the question “What about the North?”. At the end of it cut the scene Jon x Dany in the crypts. Now they cut the scene of Sansa and Arya discovering that Jon is not their brother. Why, man? What is the reason? I’m shocked that D & D did not cut Jon’s reaction to finding out that he’s a bastard of Rhaegar and Lyanna (yes, he’s a bastard, D & D, no matter how many fanfics they write).

- Arya in the first moment: we are a family! Arya in 2nd moment: left King’s Landing, goodbye Winterfell, until never again! and yes she left for good, she said she ain’t coming back!

That was the good part of the episode. Let’s go to the bad part!!

- So you want to tell me that Euron can hit three harpoons in a dragon in mid-flight?“

- So you want to tell me that Daenerys from the sky was unable to see the Greyjoy fleet hidden behind an islet?”

- So you want to tell me that Daenerys never considered the possibility that it was a bad idea to sail to Dragonstone as they knew Euron controlled the seas there?“

- So you want to tell me that Rhaegal was not killed by the zombie dragon brother in the apocalyptic Battle of the long night fighting for the fate of the men’s kingdom only to die in the next episode in a few seconds for Euron Greyjoy’s magical harpoons?

-So you want to tell me how easy it is to kill dragons like that?” It amazes me that Aegon conquered Westeros three hundred years ago.

- Daenerys should have flown directly to King’s Landing and fired at everything after the Rhaegal’s death. Fire and Blood!!

- Jaime returning to Cersei: hi? What the fuck? If it is to join her and not kill her right away, Jaime will be the greatest example of character assassination that D & D has committed since Stannis Baratheon.

- How did Team Dany know that Missandei had been captured? Euron made propaganda, sent in the email?

- Is Varys loyal to Jon Snow? REALLY? What does Varys know about Jon Snow? When did he meet Jon Snow? When did they share at least one scene together? They never talked. Varys never saw him rule. Where do the writers get these crazy ideas?

- Nonsense to be creating intrigue over the marriage between Jon and Daenerys. She will need to get married to have children and continue the dynasty. Who is she getting married to, Hot Pie?

- By the way, there have been marriages between uncles and nieces among the Starks. Brothers Jonnel and Edric Stark married their nieces Serena and Sansa Stark some 150 years ago to try to end a crisis of succession, since their father, Rickon, heir to Winterfell, had been killed in the conquest of Dorne. It would not surprise me if GRRM specifically placed these marriages in history just for this situation that was raised in the conversation between Tyrion and Varys. In fact, marriages between uncles and nieces were not exactly uncommon in our own history. In Brasil, Dom Pedro I was grandson of D. Maria I of Portugal, who was married to his uncle, D. Pedro III, precisely to avoid a dynastic crisis.

- Again the bullshit that Robert’s Rebellion was built on a lie. I imagine the Crazy King burning the Lord of Winterfell and his heir and begging for Ned and Robert’s head did not influence that at all.

- Dany is an emotional woman who’s going crazy. So we need a rational man to help her.

- Dany is an emotional woman who’s going crazy. So we need a rational man to help her!!

- Oh, excuse me if I repeated myself, but this nonsense does not go down. They disrespected Daenerys, disrespected her journey, disrespected even the “girl power” they tried to do last season (Dany, Olenna Tyrell, Cersei and the Martells). The mysoginism of these so-called D & D appearing once more to claim another innocent victim.

- Why did Cersei not kill Tyrion?

- Why did Cersei not kill Daenerys?

- Euron does not suspect anything after Tyrion reveals he knew Cersei was pregnant?“ Since Euron himelf knew only minutes ago?

- D & D really put an end to the apocalypse so we can have Cersei grinning in the last three episodes? Is this serious?

- Euron is Cersei’s puppy. Euron in the series is another completely character , they should have changed his name in the adaptation as they did with the Asha (Yara).

- No turning back with the Night King. D & D make us muggles.

- Finally: where’s the winter ??? It seems King’s Landing is in the tropics.

- Cancel this and the next two episodes. Let GoT finish in episode 3, at least so we would have something minimally satisfying. D & D continue to insult the viewer’s intelligence.

"At least the show’s songs never fails to please.”

*this analysis is not mine I translated from a brazilian friend

[ddagent]

ASSISTANT JAIME ASSISTANT JAIME ASSISTANT JAIME!!

Hey, how about a second prompt today?! I hope you enjoy, Anon, and a huge thank you to @resthefuture​ for making this incredible moodboard after I talked about assistant!Jaime during the flu. 

Brienne Tarth, the new head curator of the Aerys Targaryen Museum of Ancient History, was rather wishing she was back running the tiny Evenfall museum on Tarth. She had no need for an assistant back home; she could make her own appointments, handle her own paperwork. But King’s Landing’s biggest museum required more of her, and as such, Brienne had to delegate the little things. 

If only she could find an assistant she actually liked. 

The first, Jeyne, immediately began making comments about Brienne’s appearance and what she could do to improve, as if Brienne was hiring a stylist rather than an assistant. The second, Podrick, was a sweet lad who had just finished his degree. She was almost tempted to hire him until she saw his phone manner, and knew he wouldn’t be able to cope with the biting members of the board. The third, Petyr, was cocky, liked to talk in abstract concepts, and answered a call from a ‘bud’ during his interview. 

By the time Brienne had seen a further ten candidates, she had started looking for airfare home. 

As the evening drew in, and her last interviewee left, Brienne began packing up her things and wondering whether she could coach poor Podrick on his telephone skills. But just as she slipped her laptop into her satchel, a hand appeared and knocked on her door. “Excuse me, Professor Tarth?”

“Yes?”

A man appeared in her doorway, framed by the last dregs of daylight. Brienne would be forgiven for mistaking him for a statue of the Warrior come to life: he was tall, firm, with golden hair and wildfire green eyes. He was the most beautiful man Brienne had ever seen. She had no idea what he was doing in the office of a museum curator, however, but she considered looking upon him a reward from the Seven after a truly hellish day. 

He smiled at her, and Brienne’s stomach somersault. “Sorry to intrude like this, but I was hoping to have a moment of your time. I believe you’re interviewing for assistants?” 

“I–I am,” Brienne said, unsure where this was going. “I’m sorry, Mister—”

“—Lannister. Jaime Lannister.”

Brienne’s eyes widened. “Lannister as in—”

“—Lannister Holdings, yes.” He smiled sheepishly, as if ashamed by his family connections. “Professor Tarth, I was hoping I could interview for the position of your assistant.”

Brienne spluttered, not expecting those words to fall from his lips. She had grown up somewhat sheltered on Tarth, but the Lannister name travelled. They were pioneers of business; old money when coins were new. Lannisters were so rich they didn’t have to work, but if they did, they worked in the family business. They did not show up in a curator’s office and ask to be their assistant. 

“Mister Lannister—”

“—Jaime, please. Look, I know this is a little unorthodox, but could you at least look at my CV?”

Brienne nodded, unsure what else to do. Jaime handed her his CV, two pages neatly typed, and eagerly took one of the chairs in front of her desk. As she circled to sit back down, Brienne took stock of Jaime Lannister. Beautiful, certainly. His suit, with the crimson and gold tie, cost more than a month’s rent. But there were dark circles under his eyes. And while his left hand tapped out a rhythm on his knee, his right remained still upon her desk. Looking closer, Brienne realised it was a prosthetic. 

“Car accident,” he offered, pulling his right hand atop her lap. “But I can still drive, Professor; do errands, pick up coffee. It won’t be a problem.”

“I never said it would be.” She settled behind her desk. “Okay, let’s take a look at your CV. You graduated from Lannisport University with a degree in business. You’ve had...one job since graduation.” Brienne wrinkled her nose. “You weren’t vice-president at twenty-two, surely?”

Jaime shrugged. “Father doesn’t believe in working up the ranks. But I’m a hard worker, Professor Tarth; I led numerous deals and made Lannister Holdings a significant sum of money. Probably more than you’ll ever see in your lifetime.”

“I see.” She put Jaime Lannister’s CV to one side. “I’m afraid, Mister Lannister, you’re not what I’m after.” 

His face fell; his left-hand stilling atop his knee. “Oh.” 

“You’re clearly a very experienced businessman, but I don’t need one of those. I need an assistant. Someone who can organise my diary and appointments, handle phone calls, take dictation during meetings, produce background information.” Brienne sighed. “You’ve had assistants before, I’m sure, Mister Lannister. You know what I need.”

“I have, and I can do it. I can do it all!” Jaime rose to his feet. “Organise your diary? I’ve been keeping track of my brother’s excuses for years. I’m a charming man; I’ll have anyone who calls your office eating out of your hand. I’ve been taking notes in boring boardroom meetings for years; just enough that I know what’s going on. And I can conduct research on your behalf, Professor Tarth. I’ve had to do it for business deals; I can do it for museum exhibits, incoming pieces: anything you need.” He threw up his hands. “I’ll get your coffee, I’ll get your lunch; fuck, I’ll even pick up your dry cleaning. I want this job!”

Brienne stared, open-mouthed, across the table. Not one of her interviewees had been so passionate. Not one of her interviewees had been so desperate. “You must forgive me, Mister Lannister, but I can’t understand why a man like you would be interested in a job like this.”

“There are no men like me. Only me.”

She raised a single eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.”

“You didn’t ask a question.” Jaime retook his seat. “Professor Tarth, I know I’m not entirely qualified for this position. But I want this job. I need this job. I may not have all the experience, but I’ve got more historical knowledge than anyone you’ve interviewed today.”

Brienne resisted the urge to snort. She had seen candidates with multiple history degrees; one who had even forged a link at the Citadel. But if Jaime Lannister thought himself so astute, Brienne would be happy to continue their interview – and hopefully bring it to a swift end. “Who was the last King of Westeros?” 

“Tommen of House Lannister.” He grinned. “Bran the Unyielding doesn’t count; he’s just a legend. No one could live for one hundred and fifty years.”

“All right. We have a Valyrian steel sword currently on display. What happened to her sister sword?”

Jaime barked out a laugh. “You mean Widow’s Wail, forged from the Stark sword Ice, and lost after the Fall of King’s Landing? Well, it currently hangs in my living room. Nice inheritance from my grandfather.”

“It does not.”

He grinned, leaning across the desk. “Does too. Hire me, and maybe I’ll let you touch it.”

Brienne stared at Jaime across the desk; her body leaning forward to match his energy. “I’m still not convinced. Why did Goldenhand the Just murder King Aerys II?”

“Wildfire under the city; he killed the King to save the people of King’s Landing. A controversial opinion for some historians, but there’s enough evidence to prove the theory correct.”

She beamed. “You know your history.”

“I read your book. Goldenhand: Kingslayer or Oathbreaker. Hire me, Professor Tarth, you won’t regret it.”

With the glint of gold in his eyes and the charming smile of a siren from the straits of Tarth, Brienne believed she would come to regret it. And yet: “Can you start tomorrow?”