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It has been a while since Tyrion has said anything and this is surely not a good sign. That he has been glancing at Jaime across the table at times, and at other times, shooting him curious looks over his wine, makes him wary.
“What?” Jaime asks at the end of their meal, when he can’t stand it any longer.
His brother merely shrugs. “Nothing.”
But those mischievous green eyes reveal crafty thoughts. “Spit it out.”
Tyrion wipes his hands and climbs down his chair. “This lady you brought with you—”
“I didn’t bring her with me,” Jaime corrects him. “She was tasked with taking me home.”
“I heard you snatched her from Roose Bolton.” The curiosity on his face intensifies. “You could have left her behind, but you didn’t.” The unsaid why following Tyrion’s statement politely waits for an answer.
“I don’t know,” Jaime says, though a feeling inside insists on probing.
“Many claim you softened after she took care of you at Harrenhal.” Tyrion looks at his golden hand. “They say she's your whore—”
“She is not a whore,” Jaime roars.
“I never said that. They—”
“She’s a highborn lady, worthy of the respect due to her.”
“She’s a maiden,” Tyrion adds, refilling his goblet. “It would immensely please her father if she were to find a groom who marries her for more than the sake of an alliance.” Tyrion helps himself to some wine. “Our father would be pleased, too.”
“Not interested,” Jaime quickly says. “She’s just a part of the vow I made to Lady Catelyn.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Tyrion leaves him alone, but Brienne wouldn’t leave his mind. His mind wouldn’t stop questioning the assertion he’s just made to his brother.
+++++
His father, unlike Tyrion, doesn’t have the habit of strolling around a matter before getting to the core of it. “Why is this Tarth woman here?”
“She brought me home.” It would be wise to keep the other half of her purpose from his father for now.
“You brought her here.” His father’s wrinkled face reeks of disapproval. “You didn’t stop at losing your hand. You turned back for her and leapt in front of a bloody beast for her?”
Jaime breathes before he can speak. “I thought it was an honourable thing to do.”
“Is that all?” His father leans across the desk in a way he used to when they were children concealing a petty lie from him. “They say there’s more to your act. That she’s your whore—”
“She is not a whore,” Jaime says, struggling to keep his voice and emotions down. “She is Lord Selwyn’s daughter.”
His father sits back, in thought, then says, “She’s not what I would have liked for you, but she’ll do if she’s good enough to bear your children. I can write to Selwyn Tarth—”
“Not interested,” Jaime immediately cuts him off. The idea of Brienne bearing his children sticks like a leech to his thoughts. “I did that because that’s what a knight would do.”
His father is not impressed. “Honour?”
“Honour,” Jaime agrees.
His father seems convinced, but Jaime’s mind is not. One good turn calls for another, but this cannot be just that, it argues.
+++++
“Lord Commander—” Joffrey’s haughty eyes roam to his golden hand. His smirk is condescending. “Do you really think you’re up to it?”
It is a hard-hitting blow, but Jaime recovers quickly. “You will have no cause for complaint, your grace.”
“If you wish—” The young king tilts his head, something obviously cooking in his head. “You could resign. Move to Casterly Rock. Make a family.”
“I have no interest in Casterly Rock,” Jaime makes it clear as courteously as he can. “I don’t want a wife. I don’t want a family.”
“I happened to hear differently: foul rumours, uncle.” Joffrey lays Widow’s Wail on the table. “This Tarth woman you brought home—are you and her—”
“She is not a whore,” Jaime defensively jumps up.
“You saved her life risking yours.” The king doesn’t think much of his deed. “Such unselfishness from a Lannister…” The rest is a question unsaid.
“She saved my life.” Jaime is tired of repeating this explanation. “I just paid back the debt like a Lannister would.”
“Pity you don’t want a family,” mocks his son. “The one-handed kingslayer shunned by the world and the woman no one would take - she’d make you a perfect wife.”
Jaime keeps quiet. The insult stings. But his mind pushes it aside. It takes a fondness to the prospect of Brienne as his wife.
+++++
Jaime finds himself face-down on the ground. Again.
“You’re the worst student I’ve taught.” Bronn withdraws his sword and steps away. “On your feet. Let’s try one more time.”
Jaime picks himself up. “How many have you taught?” he snaps back, though it’s fault. Bronn’s not responsible for his lack of focus. It is not the sellsword who has taken over his dreams and waking thoughts.
“Brace yourself—” He’s on to Jaime before he can prepare himself. “You need to—” Within seconds, he has Jaime on all fours, his blade on his neck. “Something’s wrong.” Bronn frowns as Jaime rubs his ass and shuffles to his feet again. “You’re never this distracted. You—”
“Nothing,” Jaime dismisses. “We’re done for the day.”
Bronn watches as he helps himself to a drink of water. “Your eyes—” He peers closely. “You’re tired. You haven’t slept all night.”
Jaime doesn’t answer.
Bronn’s speculation takes the shape of a smirk. “Those gossip mongers - they’re right. You spent all night with her. Fuckin’ and—”
“You have no right to talk of her like that!” Jaime’s heated reaction only has his ears heating up. “She’s—”
Jaime puts the water skin away and begins his way up the stairs.
“What?” Bronn follows. “Is she more than your whore?”
“Don’t you dare call her a whore!She’s—” His temples begin to throb.
“What?” Bronn is a picture of calm. “What is she to you, Lannister? Why did you save her life?”
His heart claims to know the answer. His mind agrees. But Jaime steps away from both of them. They’re wrong. It’s Cersei. Not her.
“You want her,” Bronn says.
“I don’t. I saved her because—” He looks for a convincing reason. “I can’t leave a woman behind to be raped if I can help it.”
Bronn doesn’t push further, but Jaime’s heart and mind do. They criticize him for acknowledging only part of the truth.
+++++
Cersei sits down beside him. “How long is that ugly cow going to stay here?”
“Don’t call her that!” The heat in his words is spontaneous. “She’s—” Jaime desperately needs a fake motive. “She was mauled by the bear. She’ll be on her way as soon as her cuts have healed.”
“She looks quite fine to me,” Cersei says, with a cold indifference. “And even if she isn’t, why would you care if she—”
“I do.” Jaime regrets it immediately. He must guard his words in front of his sister. “I mean, she brought me home despite all odds. It would not be right to let her go until she’s fit.”
“You brought her home.” Cersei’s eyes shift to suspicion. “I’ve heard things about you two.”
“They’re untrue,” he hastily stops her. “I have not touched her.”
That calms her down. “I should have known. You’re not Tyrion. You wouldn’t take a whore—”
“She is not a whore.”
“Jaime—”
“She's a highborn woman, the daughter of Lord Selwyn,” he goes on. Something has snapped in his head and it wouldn’t settle. Not until he— “Why won’t people treat her like one?”
Cersei’s stunned. When the initial effect of his words wears off, she’s no more suspicious but almost certain. “You have fallen in love,” she hisses. “You love that stupid cow—”
The insult prompts him to revolt, but something more important prompts him to get up. “I must go now.”
Jaime heads for the only place he wants to be; to meet the only person he wants to be with.
+++++
“Ser Jaime!”
She looks surprised. And why wouldn’t she be. She’s been here for weeks, but this is the first time Jaime has bothered to visit her.
“I’m tired of questions,” he says, coming directly to the point. “You and me, my lady - what are we to each other?”
Her eyes soften. But she waits.
“I’m supposed to be with Cersei. Why does it feel right to be here?” His hand begs to be with hers, lips twitching to touch hers, and it’s difficult to hold on. “I’m supposed to think of her; dream of her, so why can’t I get you out of my head? Why does my blood boil whenever someone calls you a whore?”
“I’m supposed to be thinking of ways to get Sansa back. Instead—” Brienne blinks hard. “I must be eager to be going my way, so why do I dread the day I’d have to bid you goodbye?” She wets her lips. “Why do I feel like drawing my sword whenever someone calls you Kingslayer?”
“I’m tired of giving excuses, Brienne,” he says, his voice cracking under the strain of the past exchanges. “Of trying to convince my family you mean nothing to me.”
Her eyes acquire a sweet shyness. “I’m tired of trying to drag Renly back into my heart.”
“Then why don’t we just give up and accept it?” His hand is in her hair. He tilts his chin up, making up for the inch of a difference in their heights. “Why don’t we just—”
Her lips part. Her eyelids flutter. Then his mouth claims hers.
Her lips are softer than he has imagined. Gone is his desperation from the last few days; he embraces a new desperation as her fingers run down his neck. No more explanations to be cooked up. No more confusion to be battled. There’s only the wonderful sensation of being cared for and loved.
Brienne is not the first woman he has kissed. But she will be the last.