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He wakes as a young man.
The sun shines through the open window of his childhood bedroom as he opens his eyes. By the Gods, he's home, at Casterly Rock. He hasn't been there in years, and it means that whatever spell the witch had cast with her last, desperate and dying gasp, blood seeping into the snow as she crawled into the flames of her own massive bonfire, it had somehow, impossibly, worked.
The witch had done this. Had sent him back to fix everything as though he had the power to do that, to save the world from the Others with their undead army and dragons with their destructive strength and fire when he was nothing but a child, hardly more than a boy.
He clenches his fists, doesn’t know what he—
—and then his heart stops in his chest and he scrambles up in his bed, staring at his fingers with mouth gaping astonishment and awe. He has—all of them. His fingers, his hand. Ten fingers, strong and unblemished but by the time he spent as a child, a young man, practicing with a sword in the training yard for hours each day.
He gets up. The water basin for cleaning his face lies on the table near the door and he can see a wobbly reflection of his much younger face staring back at him. The lines are gone, he thinks, not having yet taken control of him. He is yet unburdened by the choices of a hopeless, frustrated, lovesick boy pretending to be a man, desperate to stay by Cersei’s side no matter what the cost.
And what a terrible cost it was, in truth, a cost that in the end he’d known hadn’t been worth it.
There had been so much pain, and death.
Tommen. Myrcella. Joffrey.
He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing, and then forces himself to find clothes and get dressed. There is no use in dawdling, no use in pretending that this second chance isn’t just that—and one he has little time yet to take advantage of. There’s so much that needs to change.
They had been far from ready when the armies attacked them from both sides, cold and death on one side, fire and death from another. Battling, fighting, murdering, and the people of Westeros caught in the crossfire until no one and nothing was left.
He’s not entirely unselfish: there’s much he can change here, for himself, for his family. He must.
The breakfast table prepared by the servants is a large affair, as usual at Casterly Rock. Jaime strides in, attempting not to stare at the people and the halls; attempting to appear every inch the sixteen-year-old child he once was and is again. Girls titter and look at him from beneath their eyelashes, and he smirks back. Boys stare in admiration, and he grins. Adults shake their heads, fond of the antics of the children at the rock.
It is—benign and simple, at least so far.
Uncle Kevan, Cersei and Tyrion already sit at the table.
Uncle Kevan looks years younger, far fewer lines on his face than Jaime last saw. He nods to Jaime when he enters the room. Cersei—Cersei, dear Cersei, looks as beautiful as she ever has, long blonde hair and deep, burgundy red dress layering over her shoulders like a cloud. But she never does change, her beauty on the outside as eternal as the spite and the hate and prejudice that spins away in her mind. He loved her, for so long. He still does, in truth, in some way. But it’s changed, through all that they’ve been through.
He cannot go through it again, cannot allow it to happen again.
He has changed too much.
Tyrion, sitting next to Uncle Kevan, is hardly tall enough to see over the table. He must be no more than ten, still a child in truth and yet already burdened by so much hatred that Jaime had never done enough to protect him from, particularly when it came from their sister.
He passes the chair next to Cersei, though he gives her a smile, and sits next to Tyrion, neatly stealing a fresh strawberry from his plate only receive a squawk of protest in return from the young boy. It’s amidst this playful argument that their father, Tywin Lannister, marches into the breakfast hall and sits at the end of the table.
He eyes Jaime and Tyrion without expression, and says, “Food is for eating, not playing.”
Tyrion lets Jaime have the strawberry, not yet hardened against their father. Jaime sighs and slips it back onto Tyrion’s plate. Aloud, he says, “Good morning then, Father. Pleasant night?”
Tywin regards him, again with no expression Jaime can discern except perhaps a touch of disappointment, which is, to be fair, the expression Tywin most often deigns to show his children.
His father is alive again, yet to be murdered by the sweet boy sitting next to him in revenge for a lifetime of cruelty, betrayal and neglect. It’s a strange thought, that this small boy beside him will one day grow up and become a man, and yet it is comforting. Perhaps this time there will be no patricide within their family to worry about.
Breakfast continues, Cersei pointedly ignoring Jaime in response for not sitting in the chair next to her. He sighs and chats with Tyrion about the most recent book he’s been reading, something about dragons, until Tywin interrupts.
“Enough. We have important matters to discuss before your departure.” His voice is abrupt, curling with displeasure. There’s nearly a scowl on his face.
Ah, yes. It was around this time that Jaime had refused to accept any outcome but a place among the King’s Guard in King’s Landing. He’d already been accepted then; may even already be expected to travel to the Red Keep and attend Aerys in court. He’d despised the thought of being forced into marriage and Lordship over Casterly Rock. It was his skills with the sword and his love for Cersei that he’d thought important at the time; the King’s Guard had seemed an honorable, glorious position, particularly if father managed to marry Cersei off to the prince after all—though Jaime knew now that that idea had little to no chance of success, if not for Aerys’ disgust with his father then with Rhaegar’s obsession with Lyanna Stark.
He’d been such a child, hoping for honor, loyalty, brotherhood, just like in the stories.
What a crock of shit that had turned out to be.
He puts down his fork and clears his throat, turning to his father. At least this should go relatively well, comparatively speaking. “I’ve decided I no longer wish to join the King’s Guard.”
Cersei drops her cup.
Uncle Kevan puts down his fork and says, “Look at that, Tywin! The boy has come to his senses after all.”
His father has narrowed his eyes, though there’s a slight turn of his mouth. Perhaps a smile—perhaps a frown. Jaime really can’t tell. He never could; he supposes he’ll never be able to parse his father’s mind.
“And why have you changed your decision?” Tywin asks, blunt and directly to the point.
Jaime can’t exactly tell him the truth, so instead he answers with a half-truth: “I’ve lost my taste for the idea. It seems... childish.”
The answer may have been tailored for his father, who must certainly realize it. But he doesn’t appear to mind—perhaps he’s content with Jaime’s platitudes in the moment, for either way, he’s gotten what wants: an heir for Casterly Rock that isn't Tyrion.
Speaking of, Tyrion is grinning joyfully next to him. Yes—Jaime hadn’t cared much when he was sixteen, but when he’d left Casterly Rock, he’d been leaving Tyrion to fend for himself amongst the lions. It had been a terribly cruel thing to do to his brother. He won’t make that mistake again, not this time.
“Good,” Tywin says, after a moment. “Then you’ll continue your lessons with myself and your uncle. You’ll learn to be the Lord of Casterly Rock one day, as you’ll inherit. We’ll start looking for potential brides as well.”
Jaime winces. “I have no objection to looking, of course, but surely we can—put that off, for some time? I’m hardly so old that I need to be married.” This was true, though he certainly felt closer to forty than he did to ten-and-six.
Tywin watched him, but said, “We’re in no particular hurry. You’ll attend the gatherings, nonetheless.”
Yes, yes, the gatherings. They held no fear for him now, the way they did when he was truly a child.
He knows, of course, who has the tattoo that matches his own; he knows who holds the other half of his soul, and in this time, she’s hardly more than a child. Perhaps even younger than Tyrion.
“Of course,” he says, flashing a smile toward his father. “Who am I to reject a chance to meet my mark?”
Uncle Kevan scoffed and said, “Quite the turn in attitude there.”
It was Cersei who’s face was stricken through, and Jaime felt momentary pain in his heart. But they’d already agreed in this time, hadn’t they? She wanted to marry Rhaegar, and believed she could. She wanted his mark to match hers, knowing that it didn’t match the mark of the Dornish princess he was already married to.
It was unfair for her to be upset with him for this, though he still felt the guilt in the pit of his stomach for it.
In secret, he carefully writes a letter to Eddard Stark, the coolest head and softest temper of the Starks. It says simply, “The mark that rests on the prince’s wrist is a small blue rose.” He thinks, perhaps, that this one, simple note may be enough to avert the kidnapping of Lyanna Stark, and Robert Baratheon’s foolish rebellion. He hopes, instead, it will lead to a second marriage, and to Rhaegar’s planned-and-once-foiled rebellion against his father in its stead.
He doesn’t particularly care, after all, if a Targaryen with Stark blood eventually sits on the Iron Throne.
He just wants there to be people alive to still fight over it.
It takes hardly more than three weeks after having accepted responsibility as the heir of Casterly Rock for his father to arrange a gathering of marks. Young lords and ladies from all over the Westerlands and indeed, some from outside their lands, come to Casterly Rock for the chance to meet the one who has a mark matching their own—most, he supposes, and terribly hopeful that they’ll match with him, or perhaps with Cersei who is also required to attend such gatherings.
Tywin himself had married his match, and believed in them—though not so far as to marry his children off to someone advantageous if they took too long in finding them. Of course, Tywin’s belief was skewed: he thought Jaime and Cersei’s matches would no doubt be among the richest, noblest families.
Jaime knew from experience that it didn’t always work that way, and a noble may well be matched to the lowliest of Flea Bottom scum.
Love was funny that way.
Jaime met every one who came up to him. They would touch his skin fleetingly, hoping for that tingle that lit you up from the inside. A few tried to fake it, though he just lifted an eyebrow and said, “I’m quite sure we’re not a match.”
The party ends with no marks found for Jaime, Cersei or Tyrion, who sat uncomfortably next to Jaime whenever Jaime wasn’t dancing with someone on the floor—so as often as Jaime could manage to escape having to dance on the floor, which wasn’t as often as he’d have liked.
Jaime knows, of course, that Tyrion’s match has yet to even be born. The small red bird on his wrist will have to wait quite a long while before it finds it’s other half. It’s a shame—Tyrion could use the knowledge of a match now, to keep the ugly words people use at bay.
Jaime assures him, “She’ll be lovely when you meet her, and she’ll love you as much as I do, which is quite more than a rascal like you deserves.” Tyrion looks at him, stunned and delighted, and Jaime feels guilt twist in his chest all over again. Had Tyrion always doubted his affections?
Three weeks later, they hold another, and then another three weeks after that.
It becomes repetitious, though sometimes a relief between all the lessons he must sit through that is often simply learning how to count the gold that sits in the treasury. (There are plenty of lessons on other things as well; Jaime tries not to think about them once they’re through, but they seem to chase him even in his dreams, and he once wakes from a dream quite certain he must settle a dispute between two men arguing about the price of melons changing by the color of the melon.)
They’re invited, of course, to a fair few gatherings as well, and despite some grumbling from everyone involved about the travel, Jaime good naturedly attends them all, well-aware that he’s in no danger of finding his mark.
At least, until he sees her.
How had he forgotten?
Brienne had attended her first gathering at Storm’s End, a party held for Robert, Stannis and even little Renly who was hardly older than Tyrion at this age. She had told him how the boys all laughed at the big, ugly brute of a girl searching for matching mark, how Renly had taken a kind sort of pity on her and danced with all night, over and over and over until Brienne had found herself quite in love with the boy.
She’s standing in the corner, taller than any of the boys her age and most of the boys older than her at that. Her blue dress rather ill-suited her, a soft and flowing thing with puffed sleeves and matching heels that she clearly didn’t know how to walk in, let alone dance in.
He can hear the snickers, and suddenly it doesn’t matter that she’s hardly more than twelve or thirteen. It doesn’t matter than he isn’t ready for marriage, that she certainly isn’t, that their parents may well force them into it anyway. He pushes through the people dancing, and comes to a stop in front of her.
He’s seventeen, and already she’s an inch taller than him.
She’s beautiful, in her way—sweet and kind and soft despite the sharpness of her jaw, the wide set of her shoulders, the square shape of her entire frame. She’s nothing like Cersei, but her eyes shine with something genuine, something good.
Something he’s always been certain he doesn’t deserve, but something that he desperately wants anyway.
He holds out his hand.
“May I beg you for a dance?” he asks, and his voice doesn’t shake despite knowing what’s coming. She looks at him in surprise, in hesitance. She may well think he’s going to be cruel to her.
He smiles as gently as he can, and says, “I hear you’re quite skilled with a sword. I promise the skill does translate to the dance floor, though there’s certainly a few tricks you need to learn before everything goes as well as you’d hope.”
She nods, and reaches up to take his hand.
The space around them slows to a stop, and short, sparking heat spreads from the place where their palms touch. It surges through him, twisting and searching out every piece of him, searing it together with every piece of her. Brienne jerks her hand back, her eyes wide, her mouth fallen open.
It is, he thinks, her first match gathering, and perhaps the first time she’s been asked to dance.
It will be quite the story, he supposes.
“My mark,” he says, “is a sword. It has a blue jewel in the center, and it’s held by a golden fist.”
She gapes up at him. Her mark, he knows, he’s seen, is on the curve of her backside and hip.
His is on his forearm, and he gladly pulls up his sleeve to show her. She reaches out to trace it with shaking fingertips, and then jerks her hand backward.
“We’re a match?” she says, the first words he’s heard her say. He smiles. Soon, when she’s over her shock, she’ll be berating him, challenging him, laughing with him. It was easy to fall in love with her the first time. He’d resisted, and he’d been unable to help it. This time, he doesn’t intend to fight it at all.
He’s already in love with her, of course, though it will be a challenge to adapt to this younger version of her.
“My name is Jaime,” he tells her.
“Brienne.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, and means every word. “Now, what do you think about that dance?”
They dance, and they dance, and by the following morning, their fathers have already begun planning the wedding.
It will all be better this time, if for no reason more than that Tyrion is by his side, than that Cersei hasn’t been married off to a Baratheon for the sake of a chair and that Brienne is already there, brandishing a sword nearly as big as she is, wearing trousers and a shirt she must have stolen from someone, challenging him to a fight.
“I refuse to marry you if you can’t beat me,” she says, and though her face is set strongly, there’s a smile in her eyes and at the edge of her mouth.
This girl, this is the one he fell in love with. She's beautiful in her strength, in her challenge.
She's beautiful, and he loves her in a way that is far too pure for a man like him. He hopes, desperately, that in this second chance at life, he can prove to be worthy of her.
To be worthy of her loving him in return.
Jaime picks up his sword.
“Don’t worry then,” he says, “I don’t plan to lose.”