Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She wakes with him, the sunlight streaming over them.

His face caressed by the shadows cast from her curtains while the hairs on his chest look like a golden mane bathed in the glow.

She runs her hands through his hair, the natural loll of him leaning into her touch makes her smile.

His eyes chart a course over the rough angles of her, a journey he has taken a thousand times. He has come to love the familiarity as much as he once loved the freshness of the gesture.

She groans as he stretches and rolls over her, begins a caress along her neck and leaves a small trail of kisses in his path. She shivers as he touches the small markings of freckles collected in the shape of a sword sitting under the joining of her neck to her ear.

He stops.

“Still tender?”

She reaches, smoothes her thumb over it, then returns her hand to him, this time trailing her nails over his mouth.

“Just when it's you.”

He smiles and nips at her fingers, she laughs as he moves down her, following the folds of her body, the dip between her neck and her chest, moving to lick at her breasts as her laugher turns to an exhalation.

“I love when you do that.”

He leans up towards her lips, meeting her breaths as his hand works her. He hesitates as he brushes her hips.

“Do you ever wonder how old our souls are? How many times we have missed and met? How many times we have come together?”

The questions have turned themselves over in her again and again, as long as they’ve been together before he’s asked, before they’d even found each other.

There is a familiarity between them that seems too old for their time together.

There is something about Jaime that seems to unearth space within her. He knew she was settled and satisfied with her life and then he curled himself around her, within her, where he now feels like home. Perhaps there is some part of herself that knows there was a kind of inevitability stacked against them and she doesn’t want to admit it. She would always rather be the master of her own fate than think fate had any say over her. When they first came together, there was a new kind of brightness to them but the way he touches her, the awareness he has, the innate knowing of her, where she craves him and when to pull back, it feels like an ancient understanding. He doesn't need to test her limits because he feels every border within her and skirts the edges.

Brienne likes to think the small mark is sensitive to him because he is the only one she’s let in, the only one who sees the tender sites within her.

“You are arrogant, fierce and foolhardy,” She kisses his nose and smiles warmly at him, “You aren’t weary enough to be an old soul.”

“What a glowing endorsement,” He snorts and then hesitates.

“Is your soul weary?” He asks, his eyes cloudy.

She shakes her head, “Never with you.”

She rakes her hands through his hair as he pulls the sheet over them, basking in their heat.

Chapter Text

She is eight the first time they meet. She is wearing breaches and shirt, matching him in every way, down to the marks on their skin.

If she weren’t so odd-looking, he would think he had a sibling, only with blue eyes instead of green. 

Their fathers confer between them before they order their children to roll up their sleeves. Each forearm has a matching symbol, a lion framed within billowing clouds, the moon and stars with deep blues and dusty reds swirling around the image. The images move with the shadows, the lion seems to bristle his mane while the stars glint against the light. 

“It’s settled then.” The other man states, firmly. Jaime watches Tywin examine the little girl as if she were the pet rat he once cared for. He named the small thing Tyrion before his father deemed the attachment unworthy and killed the creature as it shook between his palms.

The small girl bows and Jaime feels laughter bloom in his chest as Tywin drags him out the door.

He is nine years old and this strange and ugly girl will one day be his wife.

Until Jaime turns ten and then everything changes. 

One night after his tenth birthday, Tywin carries the floppy body of his golden son through the dark streets of Casterly Rock.

The ageing wooden door creaks open after a single knock and he sees a cloaked figure standing by the fire. A hand extends from beneath the folds and fingers curl, directing him to a table where he lays Jaime.

The figure turns. He notes the flashing green eyes, and for a moment, he pictures Joanna here with them, watching over them. She would know this was for the best. She would be certain. She would be standing here watching their son with him if the Gods were not so cruel. The Seven took his wife and now they sought to control his line, marking his child. Tywin knows he lacks the makings of a father, but he will make up for it by setting his son free. 

The witch smiles as her green orbs examine Jaime’s small form on her alter. She reaches forth to brush her hand over his mark as the shapes glimmer and shift beneath her fingers. She cringes.

“This one will be trouble.”

Everyone knows the law. The markings mean your match is set by the Gods and only those who curse the Seven would sever such a bond. When the mates have met, the marks familiarise and the bond is sealed. The fates of the Seven have caused concern through noble families for generations, many marrying far beneath them and some trying to forge the marks of great houses to force a match. Yet truth would out, in time. Those who married their match were certain to be blessed with a child, better than the uncertainty of being baron.

“I can pay you handsomely.” 

The witch’s laugh echoes and seems to entrap Tywin. He shivers to relieve himself from her voice’s grip.

“I do not doubt your gold, Lannister, but this one is special. The glimmerings of the marking, they could mean -“

“I want it done. I don’t care about the consequences.”

She shrinks back to a corner of the room and retrieves a dagger, the flame from the fire sparkling in the blade.

“Very well.” She says, plunging the dagger to the boy’s mark.

When Jaime wakes he is in terrible pain. He tries to speak but the sharpness of the ache swallows his breath, instead he curls in on himself.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like this, still and silent.

He doesn’t notice when the curtains are drawn and the sunlight peaks in, nor when the maid sees him and begins to scream.

He simply entreats in on himself, sweating with a fever and not yet noticing the limb below his elbow is missing, along with his mark.

He lives, but his life changes. 

He has been swinging a sword since he was five and now the pommel rests in the other hand. He relearns to hold a quill too, his writing back to the scrawls of when he was a child, and he has never found words easy. He feels as if he has been set back these five years, he was on the edge of manhood and then his next steps were stolen away. 

The way he sees the servants cast their eyes over him with equal parts sympathy and avoidance makes him feel like a child twice over.

He wonders if their looks are because of the limb or the small shining symbol of another who loved him, who was bound to him, is now gone. 

He thinks of the little girl in breeches whose name now feels voided in his mind, he tries to reach for her but he is clouded with the same loss lingering below his elbow.

Nobody speaks her name when he asks after her.

Whoever took his arm from him stole two kinds of futures.

There are other things too.

He has to ask the cook to cut his food before it reaches the table. 

Tywin commissions a golden limb which makes him feel shame and relief at once. When he walks the halls, his body feels heavy and unequal. 

No one wants to talk about what happened. 

Tywin seethes when he mentions it. Jaime begins to feel fury at the idea that bringing up the loss of his limb seems to be impolite. 

He visits the blacksmith and offers him his gold hand.

In two weeks the gold is weaved into a new kind of armour.

A plate that covers his stump with a clip at the side. 

The smith fashions two attachments, a spike and a hook.

Jaime pays the Master at Arms to squire for him, fitting him with his new fighting tools.

He learns to swing with his left and the new strength of right. He knows this song but the dance is now different. 

He alternates the hook and the spike, learning these new limbs like a language only he will know.

After clumsily throwing his weight from one side to the next at first, the weeks teach him equilibrium. 

He bashes and swats at his opponents until his right-hand swoops in and steals the fight for him, the spike casting away swords or jabbing at hips and arms, the hook clawing at open flesh, catching opposing blades like a fisherman's net.

After a year, he makes sport of beating the Master at Arms, he is even beginning to tire of the many ways he disarms him, the spike grazing under his chin, the hook touching the skin of his stomach, Jaime’s sword knocking away others becomes a familiar sound. 

One day, another year later, after Jaime manages to bat away the older man's blade for the thousandth time, he glances up to find Tywin watching them.

A week ago he finally agreed to pay for a squire and Jaime prompts the young boy, Podrick, to ask for a years salary in advance.

A plan begins to awaken in him.

Jaime is sick of his father’s disdainful gaze, hovering in the shadows of Casterly like a villain. Tywin’s eyes on him are equally frightening and infuriating, Jaime wonders, if ever, which feeling will one day win out in him.

Tywin argues against him when he decides to leave.

Jaime is somewhat surprised, he often feels unwelcome at Casterly.

When he was little he was told children were seen and not heard but Jaime is almost a man now, his voice cracking through him with a new kind of depth, and he still feels as if his father wants him to be quiet and obedient, like a pet.

“You are the heir to the Rock, you will not leave this place. You can’t even squire for yourself, how would you make a knight?”

“All knights have squires. I will take Podrick with me.”

He conferred with Podrick many times before approaching Tywin, knowing the boy will back him with unwavering loyalty.

Jaime feels as if he can see his father transform into the kind of frightening figure the Seven Kingdoms know him as, his face stone and eyes a cool grey with a palpable anger simmer beneath. 

Jaime wants to flinch away but even as his hand shakes under the table, his feet sit still and sure, ready for the path he is making for them.

“You can’t keep me here.”

The old man laughs tyrannically.

“You will be here as long as I want you.”

“You want me as a servant of your will, no matter the cost.”

The words tumble out of Jaime as red hot anger wells up within him. He slams his stump on the table, the pain sharp but it was worth Tywin cringing at the sight.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me? I’m no fool, father. I stopped asking questions about my limb because I didn’t need an answer, the truth is in your every look. You were so desperate to control me that you cut a piece from me. Stole it.”

Jaime hesitates. He waits for his father to say something and when he doesn’t, he feels the silence usurp the anger, allowing sadness to flow within him in its wake. 

Tears begin to form in his eyes as he thinks of the way his mark would shimmer, the image of the small girl in trousers.

“It is one thing to maim me but you ruined the life of another too.”

Tywin seems to marinate in the silence and Jaime realises that this man doesn’t hold anything for him anymore. He is no father, just an ageing tyrant who will die alone in this old and giant house. 

“I won’t do you the disservice of pretending at a meaningful goodbye. You sought to take my life. I am strong and gifted, despite everything you have done. You tried to ruin me, there is nothing left for me here.”

He walks from Casterly Rock with his squire and he never sees his father again.

Chapter Text

He is nineteen when he finds her.

He has made a name for himself in tourneys, the one-handed swordsman is often mocked and ridiculed by his opponents until they find themselves on their knees at his mercy.

The crowds marvel at him, often whispering of him as the Hook-Handed Knight and even if he lacks the title, he likes the honour.

Others are less inviting, the men don’t wish to talk with him and he considers this a curtsey. 

One night he finds his body being crushed underneath the boots of five men who have seen him excel past their mediocrity and have sought to settle the score. 

After that, he ensures Podrick arms him with his spike before he steps from the tent, the sun glinting off the sharply polished gold and dancing in the eyes of his enemies like a blinding threat. 

When the next man tries, Jaime pushes the sharpen point through his skull. The men take little notice of him after that.

He feels like he is always furiously fighting but he prefers it to the years of cold war with his father. At least here he can better them, channelling his fury into coins and later plying the other men with wine to garner their grudging tolerance and ensure their swordsmanship is sloppy come morning.

He gave up on a knighthood after a year or so, realising nobody would see his skill as anything more than an anomaly. The years on the road have hardened him and his head feels empty of dreams. He is not yet twenty but e already feels old and hollowed. He wanders from one tourney to the next because fighting is the only way he knows. 

He only ever feels at ease when the horn blows and he’s allowed to bash at them openly and call it a competition.

He is nursing mulled wine on a Winters evening, watching the flames dance in the fireplace when the figure across from him catches his eye.

The girl, for she must be a girl with those enlightening eyes, pays him no mind and he finds himself frustrated. 

He is used to the kind of double impression he makes on women. First with his dashing looks, then the hesitancy and fear when they see his golden appendage, hurriedly trying to politely slip away from him. This girl gives neither.

She is polishing her sword with a fastidiousness that Jaime doesn’t see on the circuit and it intrigues him.

“Don’t you have a squire who does that for you?”

She doesn’t even glance up at him, shaking her head is the only sign she gives that she’s heard him.

“How does a woman find herself at a tourney?”

She stops, their eyes meet and he is struck again by the depth of hers. His gaze flits over her face. She is not so easily branded a woman, she is large and strong and her face is oddly proportioned but there is something unique and captivating about her.

She seems to study him similarly, noting the spike extended from his elbow and lying flat on the table between them.

“Perhaps the same could be asked of a one-handed man.”

Jaime breaks the seriousness set by her tone and chuckles. The girl has given him the first laugh he’s had in Seven knows how long. He decides he likes her.

“Jaime.” He says, extending his left hand and she hesitates before matching his greeting.

“Brienne.” 

Their palms meet and something shifts for him. He feels slightly breathless. Jaime is the only child of a harsh father, he never felt the sense of comfort from another human the way he does with the feeling of Brienne’s large hand cradling his.

Brienne tugs herself away and wipes her palm over her breeches. For a moment, Jaime feels like a part of him is reaching out, clambering for a small glimpse of… something. He stands and looks down at the wench, now staring up at him. He feels dizzy, from the wine or the suddenness of his movements or the intoxicating girl before him, he isn’t sure. 

He gulps in a breath as Brienne’s forehead creases. She places an arm on his shoulder as his legs fall from under him. The last thing he remembers is feeling as if he is swimming in those deep blues of hers, his head struggling to stay above the water.

Everything fades to black after that.

He wakes to find Podrick and has the boy arm him as he would any other morning, today he chooses the hook.

He is training with his blade and practising his footwork when he catches the girl watching him.

“I don’t usually prefer an audience.”

“You have chosen the wrong career then, but I can tell you don’t fight in tourneys for the love of the crowd.”

“How do you imagine you know this?”

“I am here for the same reason you are.” He stops and examines her.

“Your conversational skills are lacking, wench. What is it you’re trying to say?”

She sighs and steps in front of him, blocking his path. When he tries to move past her, she raises her blade to his, their steel joining and jumping apart as she throws him off with her strength. He straightens and steps back, lowering his sword as she continues.

“The men won’t train with me.”

“Of course they won’t, you’re a woman.”

“Is that a problem?” She raises her chin at him, perhaps thinking she’s misjudged him.

“Not for me.” She nods, she’s proven herself correct after all.

“Good. Then we can train together.” She steps a single foot back and inhales as she lifts her sword, ready to meet him.

He realises the bitterness built within him these last few years. This harshness the circuit and his father and the solitude have given him. Less than two decades on this earth and he’s already feeling tired of life. 

He recognises the kind of courageous youth that he felt when he left his home.

He takes her challenge and doesn’t hold back, fiercely attacking her. She blocks him initially until he comes in with his right and disarms her in a matter of minutes. The blade knocked from her hand, his hook scrapes under her knee causing her to stumble to her knees before him. She seems equally frustrated and intrigued by him.

He raises his hook under her chin and draws the point up her neck, trailing to meet her ear. He means to remind her of her fragility but instead, he is emboldened by the way her face shifts and for a moment, he thinks he can feel the touch of the metal on her skin as if it were his limb.

The gesture feels almost like the caress of a lover and she cringes at the implication of the intimacy, he stops teasing when he notices the small mark under her ear and hesitates.

She takes her chance, grabbing the hook and pushing his attentions away.

“Enough, you’ve had your fun.”

Jaime jumps back as if he’s been burnt. He feels that same kind of energy kindling within him like the night before, as if his mind is grasping for something far off. 

She stands and examines him.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes… it’s just… there is something within me that feels muddled when you’re near.”

She looks offended and it strikes Jaime how plainly she wears her emotions.

“If you don’t want to train -“

“No!” He hardly knows where this comes from, what it is about this girl that is so beguiling? He’s had women in his years on the road, one of the benefits from his striking looks and his small fame in the fighting ring. Jaime wonders if it's simply been too long since his last or if he’s starved for company altogether, yet something in him feels tied to her.

“No.” He says again, more calmly, “Let's begin again. Is it your first tourney tomorrow?”

It isn’t, she’s skilled enough to prove that and she tells him in more than words as she finally begins to learn his steps and match him blow for blow, in a moment of his weakness, she even manages to disarm him. They train for hours until Jaime has beaten her thrice and they are both exhausted.

They share a drink at the inn that evening as the men watch on.

Jaime is used to ignoring their stares and it seems she has learned the same. He wonders aloud how long she’s been competing.

“Two years now.”

“And how does a woman find herself fighting in tourneys?”

She bristles at that.

“You speak as if I’ve stumbled into the circuit with no planning or training. I beat you today, you’ve seen I have the skills to be here.”

Jaime hadn’t intended to anger her and he seeks to calm the storm brewing in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -“

“I am questioned every day I am here. There is not a single time I enter a competition that I am not berated for my gender. If I lose, I am weakly woman. If I win, I am a whore or a cheat or a beast. I thought you of all people would understand -“

Anger bubbles up within him as his voice slashes through her attack.

“You think we are the same? Because I lack a hand that I would know your struggles as a woman?”

Her face looks pained with regret. He wonders how they started on this path and how they can return to this strange comradely that has been building between them. He doesn't know friendship; if that is even what she is after. He has companions, his horse and his squire, but nobody who understands him. 

She posed great hope when she shook his hand as if there was some prospect between them, a fellowship of outsiders. 

Now, it feels like she’s drifting away, her eyes a distant mirage of what they could have been. She looks as crushed as he feels, any prospect of a relationship slips away between them.

“That isn't the reason.” She quiets and takes her wine in a single gulp as she stands and leaves Jaime to himself.

He thinks of their exchange and turns her words over and over in his mind, trying to understand why their parting causes him such sorrow and how this girl has quickly become a comfort he didn’t know he needed.

Chapter Text

He watches her in the fighting the following day. She is magnificent, her sword blazing in the sun. He hadn’t had the time to watch her skill when they had fought, but as an observer, he notes her form and grace.

She stuns the men as they finally refrain from underestimating her, the laughs that follow her entrance quickly quieten as the audience watches their expectations subverted.

Jaime has felt throttled since their conversation and doesn’t focus on his battles. He finishes in 10th place, far behind his best.

Brienne places second in the fighting and sixth in the joust. He can see the moment the audience turns against her and begins to favour the conventional champion.

She bares it well. When her final fight is over, she offers her hand to the other fighter. He sneers at her and raises his hand in victory towards the crowd instead. 

Jaime watches her polish her sword again that evening as she continues to ignore his presence.

They depart the next day and he doesn’t see her for another month, by this time he feels regret clinging to him like wet clothing, weighing him down.

In the time they’ve been apart, Jaime has begun to reconsider the way he attacked her for likening their struggles. 

Of course, she has no idea what it is to live without a limb, but as the next tourney begins, he feels the crowd watch her with the same kind of back-handed admiration that follows him. 

They see he is an excellent fighter despite himself, the same as she. Heaven forbid that they are recognised as superior because of their differences. 

She takes every underestimation as an advantage and uses it against her opponents.

He learned a long time ago that being able to wield two weapons at once made him a far greater fighter than his opponents but he will never be seen as equal to them (let alone superior), no matter the times he vanquished them. Instead, he and Brienne must be made into mocking jokes or inspirations for defying the odds, a kind of backwards example. 

He watches her fight again, still in awe of her skill. Today she has already beaten three men and there is bristling between the tourney audience as they watch her climb the ranks. 

Jaime has seen this before in his matches until he finally allows himself to lose, lest he is heckled by the crowd.

They love the Hook-Handed Knight until he is better than all the abled bodied men and then they seek to tear him down. 

Jaimie has learnt the limits and he carefully skirts them to maintain his position and his life.

Brienne is young and rash and the way she beats the men into the dust will not win her any favours here. 

When she comes to fight Jaime, he feels as if he’s in a freak show, being prodded for the delight of the fair-goers.

The crowd seem to delight in their battle, they cheer as each of them jabs at the other. Jaime slashes at her side with his steel and she blocks him, her sword cutting through the air from overhead, her strength getting the best of him as his blade is knocked to the ground. He stumbles back, reaching for his sword as he lifts his hook to catch her next blow, metal screeching against gold as the audience screams at them. Brienne asserts herself over him, throwing off his hook as Jaime is knocked to the ground. 

He sees this woman, standing over him in breeches and suddenly something slots into place as her blade points at his chin and her sapphire eyes show her astounding dominance. 

The roaring applause is drowned out by his heartbeat drumming in his ears. He takes her offered hand and she pulls him up, except he pulls her closer. He stands and brushes back her sleeve to reveal a soul mark, faded and grey. 

He lets go of her arm and falls back again. His mind jolts into focus as a memory finally drifts closer to him. The mark on his arm was once like hers, a Lannister lion adorned with the moon and little glimmering stars but with bright reds and a blue that matched her eyes. Jaime remembers the little girl with dusty blonde hair and breaches who made him laugh with her steadfastness. He feels dizzy as he looks at the same girl in breeches now, over a decade later. 

“Brienne…“ His mouth falls open as everything stills.

She looks almost ashamed as sheaths her sword and turns away from him, leaving him startled and shocked, laying in the mud as the sky opens and the rain rushes down. 

Once Jaime collects himself, he watches Brienne readying herself for the joust. He doesn’t know what she thinks of him.

It all seems to click into place now as he replays their conversation in his head. He watches her care for her horse, a brilliant chestnut mare with a long dark mane. 

He walks towards her, still unsure of himself and how to approach her as if he isn’t worthy of any connection they might have.

“Brienne, may I speak with you?” 

He hears the strange formality in his voice and immediately curses himself.

She turns towards him, she's wearing a white jerkin which makes her look maidenly in the sunlight. She’s likely taken her breastplate off to wipe it down before the event begins, perhaps hoping the shine of it in the sun might blind her opponent. Jaime dismisses the thought, she’s far too honourable for that.

“You can walk with me to get my armour.” She grumbles. Jaime struggles to keep pace beside her.

“I don’t know where to begin.” His voice stumbles and she already looks tired with him.

“Say whatever you will, it makes no difference.”

“How can you say that?”

They’re inside now and Brienne finds her breastplate, newly polished and ready for the fight. She lifts the front part over her but Jaime’s hand rests on hers as she attempts the straps.

“Please, let me.” She hesitates but acquiesces and he realises how poorly this strategy will work with a single hand. Nevertheless, he will do whatever he can to touch her, to keep her near him and close. He hopes he can figure out how to fix this and whatever comes next.

He works slowly as she sighs and begins to speak.

“I was only nine when my father told me the engagement had been broken. I lost all faith then. I’m not what men dream of, I am strong and defiant. I choose to tackle my problems headfirst. I don’t understand what it is to be ladylike and I don’t want to learn to embroider, I am better with a sword than a needle. I admire those who have the concentration for such arts but it isn’t my way.”

He follows her words with awe. In all the ways he has pictured his future, never once is he married. The life of a swordsman isn’t the life for wife, at least, not for any woman Jaime could think of. Then Brienne arrives in blue armour with a faded soul mark on her arm and suddenly he can see the perfect match the Gods have made for him. He can see them fighting alongside one another, no longer outsiders but partners. 

“When I heard what had happened, that your mark had been removed and you no longer wished to marry, I wasn’t distraught as I should be. I felt free, to fight and take my will and my life as my own, not belonging to another…”

She trails off and Jaime senses she is about to reveal a deeply guarded part of her.

“And yet… I felt a kind of severed loss within my soul. A part of me had been taken, callously and coldly removed. Perhaps you wouldn’t understand but, there is a part of me that I knew to be yours and when it as handed back, I felt freedom and solitude all at once. To know that nobody would love me, there was a kind of gift in being given the choice… but there was such loss as well. I accepted my loneliness, I will never be loved or married. Then I heard of you, the fighter with one hand, and I knew.”

Jaime stills over her final strap as their eyes meet, him slightly above her shoulder, sitting perfectly still as she lays her heart before him. 

“You came to find me?”

She laughs and the moment is broken.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Lannister. I never intended to find you.”

“You weren’t even looking?” Jaime feels as she’s gutted him. He couldn’t remember her but the thought that she knew and didn’t tell him, wasn’t even looking for him. His heart begins to ache.

“I thought you didn’t want to be found by me. When we met and you fainted that evening, I was sure you knew.”

Jaime stands and begins pacing, shaking his head.

“Brienne, if I had  any  idea that you were my match, I certainly wouldn’t have been  quiet  about it.” He feels angry again, what is it about this girl that seems to inspire such intense feelings within him? Is this the effects of the soul connection trying to tether him to her by bonding their emotions together?

“How was I supposed to react, Jaime? I see my match, the man who cut off his limb to reject me -“

“Is that what you think happened?” He yells, “What horse shit did my father give you?”

“He said you had asked your arm to be removed, that you didn’t want to be married to me and sought to find a solution.” Her voice shakes as she says the words but she stands steadfast.

“Those are his words and this,” He holds up his hook, “Was his solution. Do you think I chose this? Do you think I didn’t want to love you? To be loved by you? I spent  years  trying to recall your face, your image, your name. All have eluded me since they were taken from my mind along with my limb, part of the bargain, no doubt. Do you mean to tell me you’ve been here all this time? Brienne -“

He reaches to cup her face but she pushes him away.

“No! Jaime, don’t you see? You were right. We are different people now, we have different paths. Look.” She rolls up her sleeve to reveal the faded mark, the colours dulled to a silvery grey and the image smudged, “The Gods have broken the seal that kept us together, and what does a mark mean? Nothing but a healthy child. What does a faded mark mean then, a broken tie? A cursed marriage? You said as much yourself, Jaime. We are not the same and it matters not. I don’t want to be a wife. I don’t even know you, how could you claim to want to be loved by me?”

She shakes her head, her nostrils flaring as she stomps from the room, Jaime following her.

“So this is it then? You don’t even want to know me?”

“I know you enough. You are arrogant, fierce and foolhardy. I am weary of men like you.”

“There are no men like me. Only me!” He yells but she doesn’t respond, she doesn't even turn around.

As she reaches her horse and pulls herself up astride, Jaime stands back to watch her ride away. 

When he finally finds his feet and turns to leave, he notices a few of the men gathered by the stables, laughter bubbling between them.

Brienne steadies her horse as she waits for the tourney horn. 

Jaime watches from the stands, his fingers drumming against the wooden railing in anticipation with the niggling feeling that something is wrong. 

He sees Brienne's fingers brushing through the horse's mane as she whispers to him kind things that Jaime will likely never hear from her.

He is not sure how he plans to woo her from this estranged place they have found together. They have unearthed a bond between them while being so far from any sort of relationship, but Jaime wants to try. 

He doesn’t know love or romance, but Brienne makes him feel like all this is possible, like it might feel good to trust someone, to let her in. He wants her to make space for him too.

His ears catch the sound of the horn as Brienne kicks her mare and begins to ride towards her opponent, a big man dressed in black armour who almost looks as if he will topple from his matching black horse.

Everything seems to still the moment before they collide.  Brienne begins to tilt away from his weapon and Jaime’s stomach sinks as he watches her saddle slip from under her. She falls to the ground, black hooves clobbering her crumpled body, leaving her limp form lying in the dust.

Jaime finds himself standing and screaming with the rest of the crowd as he begins pushing and shoving people out of his way.

In a flash he is by her side, picking her up like she is a maiden from a story and carefully looping her legs under his metal limb. He watches with despair as he cradles her bruised face against his chest.

Chapter Text

Somehow she knows Jaime is with her. She can feel herself, heavy in his arms, hear his short breaths as he lays her body down. She feels his absence just as sharply as cold hands begin to prod at her.

She disappears within the blackness of her mind after that, only drifting back for moments at a time. He sits by her side, holding her hand, brushing his fingers over her mark, sometimes doing nothing at all but watching her.

She can feel his eyes on her like the sun, as warmth that spreads through her. 

When she isn’t aware, she is untethered as her mind swims through all sorts of visions. The images ebb against her conscious mind like waves on the sand.

She knows she must be dreaming because the things she sees can’t possibly be real.

Brienne watches herself standing next to Jaime, they are clean and bright and regally dressed. The pair stand in front of a man in a long black robe. There is quiet from the small crowd gathered as the Septon binds their hands. The smile as they say the sacred vows together.

I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.

Brienne recognises herself, only with longer hair, falling just past her shoulders. She is gripping Jaime’s hand as she screams and sweats through a white gown she’s wrapped in. 

This vision is full of strange machines and a man peering between her legs when a moment later the image changes. 

She’s alone with Jaime, cradling a beautiful baby with her bright blonde hair and his piercing green eyes. The child cries as both parents gaze adoringly.

“What should we name him?”

“Tyrion, for your brother.”

But Jaime doesn’t have a brother, at least, not the Jaime she knows.

He leans over them and caresses his son, his thumb brushing the little sword marking under Tyrion’s ear. It resembles the small cluster of freckles Brienne has in the same place, but his is a well-defined sword while hers is pretending at an image.

“Look, he has my mark.”

Brienne feels shaken at Jaime’s words but the feeling is washed away as she watches herself smile down at her son.

“You will make your own fate.”

She hears the Septon’s voice echo through as the image ripples in front of her.

I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.

Then there is a Knight covered in brilliant blue armour slashing against another who wears a deep crimson red.

“Jaime, please.” The Knight pleads and Brianne recognises her voice.

“Brienne, I can’t betray my family.” 

Suddenly, a soldier she fights alongside rises behind he beloved and slices his blade through Jaime's hand, forever maiming him and making his body resemble the Jaime she knows. Then the blade slips closer to him, cutting through his torso, spraying blood.

“Podrick!” She screams at the young knight who removes his helmet to look at his first kill and Brienne recognises Jaime’s squire, “You fool! Get help, quickly!”

The boy rushes away as Jaime takes long breaths, preparing himself for the Stranger.

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t betray her, she is my family.”

“I am your family, I am your wife.” Her bitterness cuts through the deep ache she feels shuddering through her second self as they watch blood gushing through his armour.

She catches his body as he falls, cradling him as if he were their child.

She removes his helmet and watches as tears slip down his face.

“Jaime,” She cries, “Jaime, I never wanted it to end like this.”

“Neither did I.”

“Then remember why the Gods choose us! Remember the markings we bear and let us change our fate. We don’t have to be enemies.” She whispers to him.

Brienne realises how intimate this moment is as she watches them. She realises that death is perhaps the most tender time the pair have seen together. His only hand reaches up to brush under her ear and Brienne notices the sword marking again, only this time on herself.

“In the next life, perhaps. Come now, love, is this truly how you want to spend my last moments? I prefer your lips to the kiss of death.” The words sputter from his mouth with blood as the red splatter coats her face. Brienne turns away as the blue Knight leans down to press her lips to his.

With this kiss, I pledge my love.

She is dressed in what must be a variation on breeches, black and sharply outlining her legs like the material had shrunk to tightly fit her body. The shirt she wears is blindingly white with small plastic dots down the centre. She’s pacing before a large clear window in front of the man Brienne now knows as Podrick.

“He can’t possibly think we can work together! The world doesn't even need another book on soul marks, my research has already proven that they are meaningless. Less than one per cent of the population claim to have them, and the numbers continue to decline meaning that even if the marks exist, they will eventually be bred out altogether. Anything Dr Lannister has to say -“

“Brienne, the book will sell. Jaime Lannister is, above all, a romantic. If you’re so sure of your work then you can be certain it won’t hold up against his and if a sceptic like you can convince him that soul marks are a fallacy, who knows how much this deal could be worth.”

Brienne watches herself consider his proposal and arrive at a decision.

“Podrick, I need to tell you something and it can’t leave this room.”

“I’m all ears.”

Brienne thinks this is particularly strange as he is not ‘all ears’, he has but two of them.

She sees herself pull up the white sleeve to reveal a mark similar to the one Brienne has only without the stars and the moon, this one is a simple Lion, strongly outlined and embossed under the skin.

“Is that -”

“My soul mark. The Lannister sigil.”

The image changes again. Brienne finds herself and Jaime lying in bed together, a sheet pulled over the lower half of his body as she rests on him, her body draped over her chest.

“Now do you believe me, Dr Tarth?”

She turns to look at him and finds herself admiring his beautiful face, her fingers brush the plain marking of the moon and stars etched on his arm.

“Well, you’ve been fairly convincing but I have considered your thesis Dr Lannister and I must continue to disagree. I don’t believe we are bound by the Gods, fated to find one another.”

He raises his eyebrows at her, tilting his head.

“Perhaps you need more evidence.”

He takes her hand in his and begins trailing kisses from her knuckles and along her arm. She laughs and snatches her hand away, rising to meet his eye level as she bows her head down, unable to meet his gaze.

“There are marks on our arms, but what does that mean? I still don’t agree with you that the marks mean we are fated to be together because I don’t believe in fate.”

She looks up into his piercing, familiar green eyes.

“I refute the idea that the Gods marked us for one another because it takes away our free will. I want to choose you, Jaime. In this lifetime and all the others.”

One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.

Chapter Text

When Brienne wakes, Jaime is holding her hand with such tenderness, she feels tears spring to her eyes.

“Jaime.”

He raises his head. His eyes are hollowed out and he has an unkempt beard coming. He looks as awful as he can while still being devastatingly handsome.

He rises from his kneeling position to sit atop the bed, beside her. They’re in a dark room with a fire warming them both and the shadows flit over his face with the flames.

“You’ve been asleep for a week. When the first few days came and went, I thought you were gone.”

He caresses her cheek.

“I feel as if I’m still dreaming, I can’t believe you’re alive.”

She tries to laugh but the expression catches in the dryness of her throat and she coughs instead.

Jaime cradles her head as she sips from his flask. She winces as the memory of when she held him as he lay dying shudders through her mind.

“What happened?”

“You made some enemies on the circuit. It seems a few of the weaker men tried to prove their strength by tampering with your saddle before the joust. When I saw you hit the ground…”

Jaime trails off and although the effort feels enormous, lifts her hand to his head, combing it gently through his hair to soothe him.

“I thought I’d lost you, but then I woke in pain yesterday and found this.”

He meets her hand and trails their fingers to an indentation she can feel below his ear. She doesn’t need to look to know it must be the same sword marking she saw in her sleep.

“Jaimie, I don’t believe in the soul markings.”

He lifts his head so their eyes meet and for a moment, they are the reflection of her final dream. She feels the pull of something towards him but, like the sharper version of her other-world self, she also is hesitant to call their connection fate.

“I believe that you and I have met in this lifetime as we will do in many others but the future is always ours to make.”

Jaime reaches for her had and squeezes her palm, she feels another flash, this time the memory of when she gripped him as she brought their son into the world.

She isn’t sure how to interpret the things she’s seen. The stories were likely nothing more than fantasies from her imagination, no more real than the stories Septa's tell to children, and yet -

She watches the gentleness in Jaime’s eyes as he attends her and thinks of all the possible futures they could have together, in this life and the next. 

It takes her the longest time to trust him. She has to seperate the emotions her other selves felt which make her a widow, a mother and his love all in one. Brienne still feels ill at ease with depending on another soul when all she has known is solitude but she can’t handle the intensity of all these lives alone so she tells him.

He is thrilled to hear her tales and despite her best efforts to assuage him, he is wholly convinced she is some kind of prophet.

She shrugs off any reality he attaches to them as he teasingly tries to convince her otherwise. Once Brienne is well enough, they argue this debate (and many others) between them as often as they spar. He helps her recover, trains with her, builds her strength as they travel together.

He is patient with her feelings, waiting for her to catch up to him as she will wait for him in other life times.

This is their first form together and the foundation between them takes time, but the knowledge of what is to come helps them grow closer. 

They compete, side by side, and when the sun sets they find another kind of tussle between their sheets. They have the rashness of youth, battling against the paths that convention has set for them and instead fighting their way to one another.

When they stand beside each other in the Sept for the first time, Brienne and Jaime pledge their lives to one another. Their souls are young and fresh, ready for all that is to come, the joys and the pains.

In the mornings, she rolls over to find her husband, lazy, like a golden lion in the sun. If she wakes him, she knows he will kiss the new marking under her ear, her freckles having properly forged a sword to match his in the months they’ve grown together. 

He will prod her to admit the connection of their souls. 

She continues her scepticism.

She chooses him in this life, and the next, and the next.