Chapter Text
(Cover Art by Ro_Nordmann)
=====
She had first glimpsed him during one of the early performances of his latest play, The Fall of August, sitting in the wings of the gas-lit stage, his body relaxed, long legs spread, leaning back in his chair. From the motions of his head, she noticed that he was following the actors' movements intently and appeared to be listening carefully to the delivery of the lines that he had written. His long, white cravat was loose, tied in a relaxed and imprecise way, giving the impression of a careless, artistic sensibility. His face she could not clearly see, obscured by the shadows of the curtain and stage.
The play itself was an entertaining one, full of action, men killing each other, and a tragic romance. She had seen this same story many times before, under different titles. Yet the audience was hungry for it; they roared at the action scenes, sighed at the declarations of love, and cried at the hero’s death in the end, for there always had to be a death at the end. She sighed, listening to the audience around her clap as the final scenes concluded on the stage; she stopped her writing for a moment. She half-heartedly joined the clapping, aiming for the bare minimum of politeness. Was this where her father had wanted her to end up, in the theatre writing reviews of utterly terrible plays? She thought of her unusually rigorous education, which her father described as a ‘more masculine’ education, and the way in which he tried to instil in her the desire for social and political reform. She sighed again and continued writing, mindless of the commotion of bodies around her.
Lost in thought, she started when she heard a voice address her in the suddenly empty theatre.
“I have observed you furiously writing, sir, throughout the play. Was it not to your liking that you brought your correspondence to the theatre?” the drawling voice with a flinty sharpness called out to her.
She looked up, and saw the infamous Jaime Lannister standing in front of her, his eyes glinting. At the sight of her face, he audibly drew in a breath, his face temporarily struck by surprise. His expression, however, soon smoothed into a mildly amused stare. She could not help but stare back as he was unbelievably golden and easily the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, with his angular jaw, noble nose and a most alive pair of emerald green eyes – eyes that were currently widened in surprise.
“By gods, you’re a woman!” He breathed, his eyes raking her seated form up and down.
She felt a flash of annoyance, but calmed herself as she remembered, in all fairness to him, that she was wearing male attire for the evening: an evening suit, tie and a dark hat. Instead, she ignored him and stood up to leave, giving him an even stare. Randomly, she noticed that they were nearly of the same height, with Brienne being perhaps two inches taller. That certainly was unusual.
The left corner of his lips quirked up. “Forgive me, my lady. I was misled by your…unusual attire.” He narrowed his eyes, closely examining her face and figure.
Brienne felt a blush slowly suffuse her neck and head under the heat of his stare. His mouth widened into a delighted grin as he observed his effect on her.
“Are you in disguise, Miss…?”
She forced herself to look him in the eye. “Brienne Tarth.”
A slight cloud passed over his face, but he resumed a rather false, lackadaisical air. He looked pointedly at the pen and notebook she was holding. “Brienne Tarth…B. Tarth? Of The Examiner?”
“The very same, Mr. Lannister.”
His eyes narrowed. “Ah, so you know me.”
She nodded.
“And so you should. You eviscerated my last two plays, B. Tarth. Didn’t you say of my last play ‘the lack of subtlety in this work means you will acutely feel the sensation of being hit in the head with a heavy hammer’?”
Brienne suppressed a laugh and felt the strange thrill of being quoted. She could not manage the requisite shame that perhaps she should have felt at being in the presence of the playwright responsible for said play. Instead, she looked at him with a frankness.
“I was being honest.”
“Surely you jest!” He frowned at her.
“I liked your early plays, and your poetry books,” Brienne said defensively.
The tightness in his mouth softened. “Ah, I see you are familiar with my works. Perhaps you are a fan?” He started to walk around the stage idly, looking at her appreciatively.
“I admit, my last few works have not been…say, filled with artistic virtue. I admit that.” He grinned, and walked toward her. “But people can’t resist my latest plays. Every night, the theatre is filled to capacity.”
“You are compromising your talent for fame, then?” Brienne said curiously.
Jaime Lannister’s face darkened. Then he smiled. “Ah but Miss Tarth, I’m bringing joy to the masses! Surely there is intrinsic merit in that? Isn’t your own father a proponent of the merits of the populace?”
She felt her cheeks grow pink. He continued. “Yes, I am familiar with your father’s writings. Tarth is not a very common name around these parts. In fact, I’m a great admirer of his philosophy. It’s a shame that his own…daughter is stuck writing reviews of dreadful, populist plays, instead of writing anything of serious value, is it not?” He grinned, showing his shiny white teeth.
It was as if he cut her. She flinched. His grin grew even wider.
Suddenly she saw the lovely figure of a woman slink on to the stage. Brienne recognized her as the lead actress in Lannister’s productions, Cersei Lannister, his twin sister. She was a smaller, sharply beautiful version of her brother: her hair was long, hanging in honey blond waves down her back, her face was delicate and her mouth red, and her eyes a hard, everlasting green. She was barely clothed, wearing a flimsy silk robe that barely hid her generous curves and slim figure.
“Jaime, why are you still here?” she called, stopping short when she spotted Brienne. She slowly sneered when she realized that Brienne was a woman. An ugly woman. Jaime turned to the voice and quickly walked toward his sister, his face eager.
“Cersei,” he said, stooping to give her a lingering kiss on the cheek. “I’ve just been talking to the theatre critic, Miss Brienne Tarth.”
Cersei Lannister’s eyes scoured over her face and form. Brienne was more conscious than ever of her immense height, her muscular frame, her crooked nose, her large, wide lips, and the millions of freckles all over her body.
“I’m surprised you can even tell that’s a woman, brother,” Cersei said a barbed tone. Jaime made a noise of disapproval at his sister. She turned to Brienne and gave her a very faint smile, nodding slightly.
Jaime sent Brienne an apologetic grin and bowed a goodbye. He placed his arm around his sister’s waist and started to guide her off the stage. Just as they were walking away, he turned back and called, “I look forward to seeing your review, Miss Tarth!”
=====
She was surprised to find an invitation from Jaime Lannister for them to join him for dinner at his home a fortnight later. It was a rare invitation for them, as Brienne was not socially active, and Robb and Sansa had only been in King’s Landing for only two moons.
“Jaime Lannister?” Robb said, smiling as he touched the thick paper of the letter. “He is quite infamous in King’s Landing. Didn’t he kill some nobleman in a duel?”
“I’ve seen all of his plays since I’ve been here,” sighed Sansa. “They’re so entertaining and exciting. And Cersei Lannister is so beautiful.”
“How on earth did you happen to make his acquaintance, Brienne?” Robb turned to her, tilting his head with its mass of auburn curls in her direction.
“By chance,” said Brienne, frowning slightly. “I happened to speak to him after his recent play, The Fall of August. I don’t imagine why he would remember me enough to invite me to his home.”
Robb raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t you give that one a bad review as well?”
“I did,” Brienne said, slowly. Robb raised an eyebrow at her.
“Well, I can’t wait to meet him,” said Sansa, with the enthusiasm that confirmed her eight and ten years. The pretty young girl widened her eyes. “He’s scandalous. Did you know that he caused a Lady to leave her husband for him? And that half of King’s Landing is in love with him?”
“I wouldn’t bring that up, Sansa,” Robb said, frowning at his little sister.
On the evening of the dinner, Sansa dressed carefully in her hand-embroidered lavender gown, which emphasized her tall, willowy frame and slim figure. She also took great pains to dress Brienne, much to her impatience. The girl went through her closet and scoffed at the selection she found there.
“Brienne, don’t you down any clothing that has colour?” Sansa asked, incredulous. And the answer to that was no, she did not. Finally, she settled on a dove grey gown which had a round neck that revealed just her collarbone. The skirts were long but not voluminous; she detested the feel of too many petticoats around her legs, which was why she was most comfortable in breeches while she was at home. Sansa took great pains to braid Brienne’s thin, straw-like hair into submission, until her hair was neatly piled away from her face. She looked in the mirror, turning to smile gently at the red-haired beauty. She suppressed an inward sigh; she was presentable and neat and clean looking, which were the best descriptions anyone could have for her. She knew she would never be pretty, and had mostly reconciled with that fact years ago.
Still, Robb smiled at both of them with pleasure as they came down the stairs, declaring how lovely they both looked. For that moment, she appreciated the Stark honesty, which made everything that came out of their mouths seem truthful.
The Lannisters lived in a large town home in the wealthy part of King’s Landing; the three of them were ushered inside with little fanfare and were led to a drawing room in which a fireplace was lit. Brienne noticed that while the furnishings were expensive, there was an air of artistic excess to the place: the paintings on the walls were either of strange landscapes or of scandalous nudes; fabrics of cushions and curtains were mismatched but somehow came together harmoniously. Books were strewn everywhere.
“Come in,” Tyrion Lannister, a short man with an odd but kind face, called to them. He handed them a glass of wine, then looked at each of them with shrewd eyes.
“Brienne Tarth, and the Starks,” he said, giving them each a handshake.
Cersei Lannister sat by the fire and smiled at them. The firelight highlighted her golden hair and luminous skin, and the red dress that she wore was cut low and revealed the tops of her full breasts. Robb smiled at her and she lifted her hand, allowing him to kiss it with a benign smile.
“Mr. Starks, Miss Stark, Miss Tarth,” Jaime Lannister greeted them, coming into the room in a resplendent suit and an artfully tied gold cravat. He turned to her. “Miss Tarth, I barely recognized you out of your suit and tie. I would never have taken you for a man,” he added cheekily.
Brienne frowned at him, while Robb gave her a puzzled look.
“I love your work on the stage,” burst Sansa to Cersei, smiling widely. Tyrion guffawed. Cersei, after giving her brother a peeved look, smiled gently at the girl. “Thank you, my dear.” Her mouth was red and full. “It is always good to hear from your audience.”
“You happen to be extremely fortunate, Miss Stark, to have seen one of Cersei’s last performances,” Jaime Lannister declared, grinning broadly.
Sansa raised her eyebrows, as Jaime came to stand next to Cersei’s chair, resting his hand on the soft velvet surface of the armchair.
“Yes,” Cersei said, a cold excitement in her eyes. “I’m getting married.” She smiled demurely. Brienne observed Jaime’s smiling face tighten a little.
Sansa was enthusiastic. Robb and Brienne murmured their congratulations.
“Cersei finally caught herself a stag,” Tyrion said dryly.
“Robert Baratheon,” Jaime clarified, frowning.
Robb raised his eyebrows. “Baratheon…the leader of the opposition party?”
“The very one.” Jaime said. “She’s lucky she’s a Lannister, because it would be a scandal if the possible future Prime Minister was going to marry just an actress,” he said sardonically.
Cersei stared at her twin. “I haven’t been in too many productions, in truth.” She looked at them. “This acting hobby was just a favour to Jaime. You see, he needed someone to be his leading lady, and I happened to fit the role at the time.”
“Now you’re becoming someone else’s leading lady,” Tyrion remarked, a sly smile on his face. Cersei gave him a dark look.
Jaime turned to Brienne. “So you see, B. Tarth, perhaps now I will have time to pursue higher forms of writing that you’ll approve of, rather than my simple-minded, popular plays.” He smiled ironically at her.
They were interrupted by a servant, announcing that dinner was being served. Cersei took Robb’s arm, while Jaime offered his arm to young Sansa.
Tyrion smiled up at her. “I suppose that just leaves us, the odd ones.”
Brienne smiled down at him, smiling. “Yes, indeed. We odd ones.” It was impossible to take his arm, so she offered his hand instead, which he gratefully took.
Dinner was a fancy affair, and not what she nor the Starks were normally used to. The head of the table seat was empty as the pairs arranged themselves according to the order they came in. She sat across from Tyrion and next to Jaime.
“Tell me,” Cersei said, addressing Brienne. “You three live in the same house?” She sipped her wine. “Isn’t that...unusual? An unmarried woman living with…an eligible bachelor.”
Brienne and Robb exchanged embarrassed glances. It was not the first time they were asked this when they were out in society.
“Well, Robb and Sansa have only recently arrived. I’m good friends with their family – I stayed with them for a time in Winterfell.” She spooned some bisque into her mouth.
“Brienne is practically family,” added Sansa. Robb nodded, taking a big gulp of wine.
Brienne continued. “Whereas I have lived on my own for a while, since my father returned to Tarth four years ago. The house is large enough to accommodate both Robb and Sansa, so I thought it would be best if they stayed with me.”
“Your father…he does not mind you living with an unmarried man?” Cersei asked disapprovingly.
“Ah sister, but you don’t know Brienne’s father,” Jaime interjected, a brightness in his eyes. “Selwyn Tarth is the famous radical…he’d be the last person to care about societal propriety, isn’t that right?”
Brienne nodded. “He has…unconventional ideas; which is to add, I’m afraid he has passed them along to me.”
“And to our sister Arya,” Robb added, laughing. “She’s been running around in boy’s clothes and fighting with swords, our Arya.”
“That’s hardly the fault of the Tarths,” Sansa sniffed. “She’s been wild ever since she was born.”
“Is it true your father doesn’t believe in marriage?” Tyrion asked, his eyebrows raised.
Brienne looked at Tyrion evenly. “It’s true. He believes marriage is a result of a series of delusions by the parties involved; that it becomes a monopoly of the heart and mind, especially if it is entered into blindly.”
Cersei stared, shocked. Tyrion and Jaime chuckled.
“Of course,” Brienne continued, “My father was married to my mother, in order for me to be legitimized and them not to be entirely shunned by society.”
“This is often true, isn’t it, how our philosophies, noble as they may be, cannot be translated into real, everyday society,” Robb said thoughtfully.
“What a droll idea,” Cersei said, puzzled.
“In order to live within one’s philosophies and stay true to them, one must be prepared to be apart from society. Or perhaps create your own society that believes in the same ideas,” Jaime offered, his green eyes intent on her.
She looked at him, impressed, slipping him a small smile. “Yes, that’s very true. Artists are one such group that seem to live apart from social convention,” she said, acknowledging Jaime beside her. He smirked knowingly.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing scandalous about my dear brother,” Tyrion said lightly. “Nothing much, anyway,” Tyrion gave a pointed glance at Cersei. “He is unfortunately quite conventional, as far as society goes, even though he avidly writes his poems and plays, and is an artiste.”
“But, but…” Sansa impulsively burst out.
“Sansa.” Robb said, his voice a warning.
“What is it, young one,” Tyrion said, grinning. He looked at his brother teasingly. “Ah, she’s heard those dastardly rumours about you, my brother. That you ran away with married women, impregnated virgins…isn’t that the case, Sansa?”
The girl blushed prettily, looking down at her hands. Cersei rolled her eyes.
Jaime stole a glance at Brienne, an unreadable expression on his face. He broke out into a smile. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but alas, those rumours about me are completely unfounded. I have not ruined any maidens or married women. Yet,” he said, with a wolfish grin.
=====
Brienne kept busy at The Examiner, reviewing every play and book, trying to earn as much money as she could. She had sold a few of her stories, silly romances and tales of revenge that she wrote in her spare time under a pseudonym; these sales kept her afloat financially, although in her heart she was ashamed to be writing such trash. She felt her own hypocrisy now – how she criticised Jaime Lannister for writing populist plays while she wrote forgettable stories in newspapers that titillated one day and were used to wrap fish the next.
She also had to admit that she was in a dire financial situation, though admittedly not of her own making. Four years ago, her father had given up his publishing business – he had been publishing books for children, and political works, and had been keeping the business afloat with personal gifts from his political and philosophical followers – but Mrs. Roelle (her stepmother, with whom she decidedly did not get along) birthed another child, and monetary gifts were no longer enough to support the business and the growing family. Her father had taken his new family back to their ancestral home in Tarth, where he continued to write and oversee the farms on the island. At the first chance of freedom, Brienne had taken it, choosing to stay in their King’s Landing house that she grew up in. The house was lovely and old, painted white; it was separated from the city by a large wild heath and gentle hills.
However, when her father left, she had inherited his debts, and creditors quickly came calling, asking for repayment. From her understanding, the house was in jeopardy. Letters to her father were answered in a vague way; he suggested they sell the house, if it had to come down to that. He suggested she join him in Tarth and his new family. Returning to Tarth to live with her stepmother was the last thing she wanted to do. So Brienne spent all of her time writing, begging the newspaper for more stories without success, and selling silly stories to the rags. She knew that it was only a matter of time that she would need to leave the house, sell father’s books, and find her own living arrangements.
Her guests did not know the extent of her financial difficulties – she had spoken to Robb about it, and he insisted on paying her rent to help, which she refused, and Sansa was as yet untroubled by the news. The Starks had their own monetary issues to deal with, especially since Ned Stark died four years ago, leaving Catelyn Stark with five children; it was with some desperation that she sent Sansa to King’s Landing with Robb, in order for her to find an eligible and wealthy husband. She sighed, rearranging the papers on her desk. She imagined that when it all happened, when the creditors finally demanded their payment for the last time, she would need to consider taking up a governess position for a wealthy family.
=====
Jaime had written to Brienne, asking permission to peruse her father’s library. He had arrived soon after she sent her reply, wrapped in a thick wool cloak, his cheeks pink from the walk across the heath. Their hands touched – briefly – as she accepted his cloak and hat from him. For a moment they were too close, their cheeks almost touching, but she quickly stepped away to hang his things in the closet. She wondered why he didn’t wear gloves, for she felt the chill of his fingers. He started when he looked at her, as usual, as if remembering her face after a long absence, which was ridiculous, as the dinner was less than a week ago.
She led him to the library, which in recent years served as her study. He looked around, scanning the shelves of books, the small printing press which was once used to print pamphlets, and little books, the large desk in front of the window that was covered with Brienne’s attempts at writing.
“When my father was around, he often would have young men over often to discuss politics and the state of the country. I remember always being surrounded by people discussing ideas, art, and politics.”
“And did you join in on the discussion?” Jaime asked, smiling mildly.
Brienne blushed, recalling how when she started growing up, her presence suddenly turned offensive. When her father was not there, some of the young men used to insult her because of her looks. She was mockingly called “Brienne the Beauty”; there was even a bet on who could take her maidenhead, which no one won, but for which a couple of the young men had received broken noses from her as a reward. Since then, she stayed in the shadows.
“No. Even with Selwyn Tarth as my father, my opinion was rarely sought out or listened to. Some of the young men were…unkind,” she said, mildly, her voice unexpectedly breaking. She felt a sudden warmth and pressure on her right hand. She was surprised to find Jaime holding her hand, rubbing it with his thumb.
“I’m sorry,” Jaime said softly. She looked at him in astonishment, but his face was not mocking, but kind. A shiver ran through her. She moved away toward the window.
“And you write as well, aside from your theatre reviews, Miss Tarth?” He looked down at the mess on her desk. Brienne quickly gathered up the papers and deposited them in the desk drawer. Jaime looked like he was suppressing a laugh.
She looked down and nodded. “Little scribbles here and there. Not poetry, nor politics or philosophy.” She looked wistful. “I’m afraid I haven’t inherited the political or philosophical mind of my father – or my mother.”
“Your mother?” Jaime leaned toward her, keen and interested.
Brienne opened up a cabinet next to the desk and pulled out two leather-bound volumes and passed them to Jaime. “She was an author, a thinker, with even more radical ideas than my father, if you can believe it.” She bit her lip. “But I suppose her ideas were considered more radical because she was writing about women and their education.”
Jaime gingerly perused the volumes with fascination. He looked up at her, his eyes bright with intelligence. “This is fascinating….” He looked down at the pages and up into her eyes, his expression tentative. “Is it permissible – I mean, may I – possibly borrow these?” His cheeks took on a pink tinge. “I promise to return them promptly and in excellent condition.”
Brienne burst into a big smile. He stared at her, as if surprised. She nodded. “Of course you can borrow these. We have multiple copies of her books, thank goodness, though they are not read these days, nor are they particularly well regarded.”
He smiled broadly, his dimples dazzling his face. “Thank you. I shall take good care of them.” He stared at the books in his hands, and suddenly remembering, looked at his pocket watch. He cursed under his breath at the time.
“I must go. My apologies for this sudden exit.” He stopped and looked into her eyes. He paused. “Will you allow me to call on you next week, Miss Tarth? I should surely like to return the books to you and discuss them.”
She nodded shyly. He took her and in his and kissed it. His lips were hot and dry on her skin and somehow made her whole arm tingle.
=====
When she returned from her editor’s office the following week, she found Jaime sitting by the fire with Robb and Sansa, who had a pretty piece of embroidery on her lap.
“Miss Tarth,” Jaime stood up when she entered the room. Robb gave her a smirk and winked at her. Sansa smiled, her cheeks luminous by the fire.
“Mr. Lannister,” Brienne greeted him, surprised at how genuinely happy she was to see him. She hung up her cloak and hat.
“Please, call me Jaime,” he said to her and the others.
“Then you must call of us by our names as well,” Sansa said, gazing at Jaime with a shy fondness. Jaime looked at Brienne for confirmation.
“Please do, Jaime. We are all friends here,” Brienne said. Jaime gestured for her to sit on the chair that he was sitting in, but she shook her head and plopped down on the rug, stretching her long legs in front of her and warming her feet. He smiled, and sat back down, staring at the length of her legs. She suddenly felt quite heated.
“Robb has been telling me he plans to go into politics,” Jaime said brightly.
Brienne looked at the auburn haired man, whose eyes twinkled at her. “Yes, he’s been barely here two moons, and he’s already gotten a clerkship with Brynden Tully.”
“Ah, the opposition. If you ever meet my father, don’t tell him that,” Jaime said, grinning.
“Lord Tywin Lannister, of course – he’s your father.” Robb said thoughtfully. He glanced over at Brienne. “I don’t know if Brienne told you, but I was one of the young men that hung to Selwyn Tarth’s every word every time I was in town visiting from Winterfell.”
“Is that how you met Brienne?” Jaime said, curious, looking between the two of them.
Robb shook his head. “Our fathers were old college friends, and although Winterfell is far from Kings Landing, we’ve managed to visit and stay in touch over the years.” He looked over at his sister, who had suddenly turned somber. “He’s gone now, though; my mother remains with our brothers and sisters up North.”
“And you both came down here to make your fortunes,” Jaime supplied, his words glib and his smile easy.
Sansa nodded. “I’m visiting for a couple of seasons. Mother hopes I might make a match here.”
“Not much chance of that, Sansa. We are not out in society much.” Robb patted his sister on the hand. The girl gave a longing look at Jaime.
“I fear that it’s my fault. I have no society about me, and I loathe parties.” She gave the Starks a crooked smile.
“Oh you never know. A pretty girl like you will catch any man’s eye,” Jaime said, winking at Sansa. The girl blushed, making her look even more lovely.
“And you, Brienne? Are you planning on making at match yourself?” Jaime asked, his eyebrows raised. “Or do you take after the beliefs of your father, that marriage is a delusion that places chains on one’s freedom?”
“I think that path is closed for me,” Brienne said simply. “Although I differ from my father in this opinion, especially in the context of women’s everyday lives: I believe in marriage and having children; in this imperfect society, marriage protects women from men’s inconstancy and whims.”
Jaime’s eyes narrowed and he looked at her shrewdly. “As to which of our sex is more inconstant, we shall have to debate that another time. I have my own opinion on that matter. But Brienne, why is that path closed to you, if it’s something that you perhaps might want?”
Robb looked at her with knowing eyes – they’d had this conversation before. Sansa was wide-eyed, perching on her seat in anticipation of a response.
“I know what I look like,” she began. Jaime started in surprise at her words. “Men do not want someone who looks like me for a wife, especially compounded with my modern ideas and general voicing of those ideas,” she said firmly. “I’ve been resigned to spinsterhood for some time.”
Jaime barked out a laugh. Brienne reddened and felt irritation rise within her. “How old are you? You must be no more than one and twenty-”
“I’m two and twenty,” Brienne said, her jaw tight.
“Ah, two and twenty. An advanced age. You are hardly a spinster. You are nowhere in the vicinity of spinsterhood.” Jaime stared at her. “And you have a poor opinion of our sex indeed if you believe that there aren’t plenty of men out there who would worship you for your looks.” He thoughtfully rubbed his chiseled chin. “And no one with eyes like yours can claim ugliness.”
Brienne could hardly stand the power of his gaze, how he so often stared at her and looked into her eyes. She looked down; he was wrong in what he said, but she nonetheless felt a warmth suffuse her at his words. Perhaps she was a soft girl after all, so easily moved by superficial male flattery.
Robb pressed his hand on top of hers, and looked over at her. “He’s right, you know, Brienne.” She felt herself grow pink. Sansa sat there, smiling at both her and Jaime.
Later, as he prepared to go, he reached into his leather satchel and pulled out the two books he’d borrowed and handed them back to her.
“Thank you for allowing me to read your mother’s books. She was a formidable woman indeed.” Jaime looked at her kindly.
She ran her fingers along the leather covers. “When I was a child, and even now, I went to these books when I needed comfort. When I needed my mother. These words were the only things I had left of her, for she died mere days after birthing me.”
“I see that she has guided you well, then, judging from the way you turned out.” Jaime said, suddenly stepping close to her. She could feel the heat of his cheek on her skin, how he smelled of pine trees and ink.
“I wish I had my own mother’s words like you do, Brienne,” he said to her cheek, his breath warm against her cheek. “She died when I was eight, and all I have left are vague, watery memories.”
“I’m sorry,” Brienne sighed. She had an impulse to press her lips into the angle of his jaw.
“Both of us, motherless, Brienne.” Jaime said, his hand coming up to gently stroke her cheek. Her skin tingled from his touch. He smiled softly and stepped back, fastening his dark cloak closer around him.
“Goodbye, Brienne. I shall see you again soon.” Jaime said, as he walked into the grey gloom.