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His cell was filthy; his face grimy, and his hair unwashed. But when the guards left and Brienne stepped inside, his smile was so warm it could have melted the Wall itself.
“My lady,” Jaime said, as grandly as if he were not sprawled on the unclean floor. “What brings you here, wench?”
Brienne knelt and sat across him, uncaring of the filth. “Your looming death,” she said. She was somewhat gratified to see him flinch; it meant he was not as wholly uncaring as he appeared.
“Ah,” Jaime said. “That.”
“Yes. That.” Brienne clenched her fists. “Jaime, surely if you told Daenerys Targaryen about the wildfire—”
“No. It would be no use.” His smile soured. “What reason would the dragon queen have to believe me? Me, the honorless, oathbreaking Kingslayer. And I have other crimes still to answer for.”
Brienne closed her eyes for a moment. She’d expected much the same response, but still, she pressed on. “Try,” she said. “At least tell me you’ll try, Jaime.”
Jaime only shrugged, that old arrogance edging his knife of a smile.
“This is your life, Jaime.” She sighed. “Please. Promise me you’ll try.”
The sharpness of his mouth softened. He slanted a wry look at her. “Oh, Brienne,” he said ruefully. “You’re still so hopeful. Alright. I promise.”
“Good.” She swallowed. “Good.”
He huffed, and slumped back against the wall.
A silence settled in the air between them, roiling thick and heavy with an exhausted sort of aching. In this timeless in-between she let herself look and look, and as she endeavored to memorize the lines of his infuriating, stupid, pretty face, she could almost hear her heart breaking. She watched him do the same; drinking her in as if she were what he had lacked for in his confinement.
When next she would see him again, it would be on the executioner’s block, she thought, and the notion shook her to her bones.
Perhaps it was only this realization—that by tomorrow’s end, Jaime would be dead— that made her summon up the courage to speak the wretched, precious truth she’d kept so close to her chest, for fear of what he would say. For fear of what he wouldn’t say back.
(But now, of course, no matter what he said to her after, he would be dead—and wasn’t that such a terrible way to think about it?)
Brienne made herself speak, and when she did, her voice was a high, faltering thing. “Jaime, I—you should know, but I—”
Love you, she was going to finally, finally say.
But then he reached for her and put his one remaining hand on her cheek, and her words died on her tongue.
“Oh, wench,” Jaime sighed, “I know.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “So do I.”
“Oh,” Brienne whispered. “You do?”
“I do,” he said, with all the reverence of a holy vow. Then he kissed her, so suddenly and so fiercely that whatever else she had thought to say flew out of her mind, and her senses were consumed with only him. And then in no time at all the wonderful, heady, glorious kiss was over, and there were tears on her face.
“Should’ve told you sooner.” Jaime ran his thumb over her tear-stained skin and sighed wistfully. “We should’ve never returned to this godsforsaken place,” he murmured. “Should’ve stayed in the Riverlands. Or the Vale, or stayed in Winterfell with the Stark girl, or the West. Even bloody Tarth. Can you imagine, wench?”
Oh, she could imagine it all too well. Winter nights with him warm at her side. Spring and his hair shining like the sun. Summer bearing down on them as they trudged through whatever lands they wandered. Autumn with him whole and content and alive. Her heart felt like it was being wrung dry. “If only,” Brienne started. “I wish—” A sob cut her off.
He kissed her again, so very gently, and shifted closer so that he was practically on her lap. She could taste the salted sorrow on his lips, could feel his hand moving to tangle in her hair.
“We wasted so much time, wench,” Jaime was rambling, as he kissed along her jaw and followed the line of her neck, “I could have been kissing you like this, all those days on the road, could have—”
She made a strangled noise when he sucked on the flesh of her neck. “Jaime.”
He paused and grinned up at her. “Only making up for lost time, wench.”
Brienne didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry. Both, probably. “I hate you,” she said, unconvincingly.
Jaime’s grin softened into a smile— his smile, the one that made her feel like sunlight, all warm and honey-gold. He leaned close and brushed a kiss on her scarred cheek. “Love you too, sweetling.”
That was how Daenerys Targaryen found them—the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth pressed so very close against each other, sitting on the ground with fingers intertwined. The queen’s heart clenched at the sight.
The Kingslayer murmured something and bowed his head to press a kiss to the Lady Brienne’s hand. They had yet to notice Daenerys’s presence, and now she felt very much like an intruder. Daenerys decided she should probably interrupt.
“Kingslayer,” Daenerys said, and the two jolted. “And Lady Brienne.”
“Your Grace,” Lady Brienne said hurriedly, cheeks splotching red. The lady tried to stand and extricate herself from the Kingslayer’s grasp, but the man only pulled her closer defiantly. He did not, Daenerys noted, even say a word to acknowledge her presence.
“I would like to speak to the Kingslayer.” Daenerys looked at him pointedly. “Alone.”
Lady Brienne glanced at the Kingslayer; he shrugged, as if to say, who am I to say no?
“Is this farewell, then?” Lady Brienne asked her.
Daenerys nodded.
Lady Brienne bit her lip. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, for a few seconds more.”
“A few seconds,” Daenerys acquiesced. She made no move to leave. Lady Brienne turned back to the Kingslayer.
“Jaime,” Lady Brienne said quietly, but not so quietly that it escaped the queen’s hearing, “Don’t forget. You promised—”
“It will do no good, wench. You know this,” he said just as softly. “I have run from my sins for far too long, and now they have caught up to me. It will not be so bad—I can always go away inside and dream of you.”
“You promised,” she said again.
Jaime sighed. “Yes, fine.”
“Good. ” Lady Brienne kissed him; Daenerys averted her gaze. “I will see you again,” she told him.
Jaime Lannister inclined his head. “Likely not.”
“Don’t—don’t talk like that.” Lady Brienne rose, turned to Daenerys, and bowed shallowly. “Your Grace. I hope… please, have mercy, Your Grace.”
Daenerys pitied her—pitied them. She nodded, but even as she did so, she knew she could not possibly let the Kingslayer free, no matter how much Lady Brienne begged her mercy.
“I take my leave, Your Grace.”
“Lady Brienne.” Once the lady had left, shutting the door behind her, Daenerys turned back to face the Kingslayer.
He was not what she had expected—certainly, she had not expected to walk in on him having a lover’s tryst. She could tell he was pretty under all that grime, much like they said his twin sister had been. The softness of his gaze had sharpened once Lady Brienne had left, and now he flicked cool, assessing eyes over her.
“Daenerys Targaryen,” he pronounced carefully. “What brings Your Grace to see me?”
She regarded him and said nothing.
“You know, this is quite a familiar scene, Your Grace,” the Kingslayer mused. “The last time I was like this, I was freed and sent back to King’s Landing. With Brienne,” he added, “but of course, I hated her then.”
“You are rather cheerful, Kingslayer,” Daenerys finally said, “for a man who faces execution on the morrow.”
“Don’t you know, Your Grace? I’m a Lannister. We don’t fear anything.”
“I think not.” Daenerys stepped closer, arching an eyebrow. “Everyone fears something. I do not know you very well, ser, but I think I know at least one of yours: you would fear for Lady Brienne, if she were in danger.”
Jaime Lannister blanched at once. “Lady Brienne—? Your Grace, I am wholly guilty of my crimes, but she has never done any wrong to you or yours.”
“Nothing?” Daenerys asked. “Yes, nothing, save for loving the man who murdered my father, who lay with his sister and singlehandedly helped start the War of the Five Kings.”
The Kingslayer flinched, as if a physical blow had been struck. “Yes,” he said quietly. “And the gods know I don’t deserve her love. But if you would punish her for mere infatuation… I have heard you are a merciful queen. It is true I am like to never receive such mercy, but Brienne has never done anything wrong.”
“You would beg mercy for this Lady Brienne but not your sister?”
The Kingslayer’s face darkened. “Brienne has done nothing wrong,” he repeated. “Cersei has made her bed, and now she will lie in it.”
Daenerys nodded, even as she turned over his words. He was more interesting by the minute. Lord Tyrion had spoken of his brother as a man so blinded by love for his sister that he did terrible deeds in her name. Yet here he was, pleading for the life of some other woman, and seemingly uncaring of his sister’s fate. She pondered, and suddenly remembered something Lady Brienne had said. “What was it the lady asked you to try, earlier?”
The Kingslayer grimaced. “That… have you ever wondered why I slew the Mad King?”
“No,” Daenerys admitted. “Not truly.”
He was silent for a moment, seemingly struggling with himself. Then he sighed. “Wildfire,” the Kingslayer finally said, and then the whole tale came spilling out of his mouth. Her father’s descent into further madness, the sack of King’s Landing, the pyromancers, burn them all.
“So there it is,” he said. As if he hadn’t just told her something that threatened to shift her entire perception of him. Jaime Lannister shrugged flippantly, but Daenerys spied the tension tight around his eyes. “Do what you will. Curse me or kill me or call me a liar.” At that, a secret smile flitted over his lips, but Daenerys was lost in thought, her brow now troubled.
King of ashes, he’d said. How many times had Daenerys feared becoming that very thing? Oh, she’d known her father had turned cruel as he’d grown older. But even Ser Barristan’s tales had not prepared her for this: that Aerys would have gone to the extent of wiping out the population of King’s Landing, all for the sake of some foolish pride. She did not want to believe it, but the way Ser Jaime had told the tale, with so much detail and bitterness that it could not have been fabricated—
“I—” Daenerys shook her head. “That may be so. But you must understand that I cannot release you without evidence. And besides that, the rest of your and your family’s crimes remain. You led the Lannister men in harassing the Riverlands, and later subdued them in your boy king’s name. The Red Wedding; the sack of King’s Landing and the murder of Elia and her babes. And the people of this city have suffered much under your sister and her small council. Even now they bay for the blood of the Lannisters.”
Jaime Lannister huffed out a dry laugh. “That’s what I said, but the wench insisted I try.”
“I am sorry,” Daenerys said, and she was surprised to find she was sorry, even just a little bit. Not so much for his sake, though. More for Lady Brienne’s. Regardless of who she loved, she had seemed a decent enough woman.
“I almost believe you.” He sighed. “Your Grace,” he said quietly, “is it true my brother stands at your side? He lives?”
She hesitated—but what harm would it do to tell him the truth? “Yes,” Daenerys said.
The hope in his eyes was half-longing, half-afraid. “And—and he is well?”
“Yes.”
“Does he—would he come see me, do you think, Your Grace?”
Daenerys bit her lip. “I… I don’t know, ser.” Truly, she did not. Lord Tyrion professed a deep resentment toward his family, but when she’d announced the Kingslayer’s execution, she had seen some unspoken conflict in him.
Jaime Lannister slumped. “Ah.” One shoulder shrugged tiredly. “I suppose I should have expected that, but… well, I thank you all the same, Your Grace, for being truthful. I don’t know is better than no, at the very least.”
Daenerys dipped her head. “Honesty is the least I can do for you, ser. If that is all.” She turned to leave.
“Wait—” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Your Grace, I am sorry, but—if he will not see me, can you tell him…”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you didn’t mean it. And I’m sorry.”
Daenerys nodded slowly. “I will tell him,” she said. “But do not misunderstand; this is more for Lord Tyrion’s sake than for yours.”
His throat worked, then he nodded. Jaime Lannister looked so miserable she almost felt bad for him. But she had seven kingdoms to run now, and Kingslayers, no matter how honorable they may be, must be served justice. This one especially, who had the further crime of being a Lannister.
Daenerys turned her back on him and stepped out of the cell.
In retrospect, Daenerys should have expected this.
“Gone,” she said flatly.
“Yes,” Missandei said.
Tyrion Lannister was very decidedly not looking her way.
“He was supposed to be executed today,” the queen said coldly. “And now he is gone?”
“Yes.” Missandei wrung her hands. “Your Grace, the people…”
“Will riot.” Daenerys sighed. “They were denied Cersei Lannister; they were denied Tyrion Lannister. And most of the remaining Lannisters have perished in some way or the other. Do we have a culprit?”
Ser Barristan scowled. “Your Grace, the Imp—”
“Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys said. “Yes, I know. My lord of Lannister, tell me true. Was it you?”
Tyrion finally looked at her with those mismatched eyes, and she swore she could almost see a smile on his grotesque face. “No, Your Grace,” he said very insincerely.
“Lord Tyrion.” Daenerys slumped into her chair. “You know that is treason.” Ser Barristan moved his hand to his sword hilt, but Daenerys shot him a restraining look.
“Treason? I tell it true; I did not do anything, Your Grace.” Tyrion spread his hands and widened his eyes innocently. “I did not do anything,” he repeated, “but perhaps someone else. Someone… close to my brother?”
Ser Barristan snorted. “Who? The Kingslayer has no more friends, and his sister and family are dead. There is only you, Imp.”
“Lady Brienne,” Daenerys said tiredly. So Tyrion had helped the lady of Tarth; perhaps he had even been the one to suggest it, then had turned a blind eye during the act itself so he could still claim some semblance of innocence. “Of course.”
Lord Tyrion did smile, then. “And good luck getting him back from her. I hear the Maid of Tarth is a fearsome fighter.”
Ser Barristan was gaping; Missandei absorbed the information in quiet shock.
“The Maid of—but she was with Renly!” Ser Barristan sputtered. “I mean—I apologize for my outburst, Your Grace, but—truly?”
Daenerys nodded, brow furrowed in frustration. “I do not want to punish her,” she said, conflicted. “She is a dear friend of Lady Sansa’s. And the Evenstar’s seat has no other heir but her.”
“Your Grace,” Tyrion said. He cleared his throat and seemed to choose his next words carefully, aware of her dissatisfaction. “If I may suggest a solution. There are plenty of prisoners awaiting execution who are yellow-haired and of equal height. Take one, soil his face, dress him in crimson and gold, and you have a Lannister.”
He had prepared for this, Daenerys thought ruefully. She looked up at the ceiling. If she were being honest she was tired of this.
“Fine,” Daenerys bit out, even as beside her, Ser Barristan made an outraged noise. “I have had enough of this mess. Let Lady Brienne keep her Lannister, for all I care. But do not think I will fast forget this, my lord of Lannister. And tell Jaime Lannister that for all intents and purposes, he is dead. No titles, no lands, no name, nothing.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, and now he was well and truly grinning.
When she returned to her chambers Daenerys went straight to her bed and flopped down on the mattress.
“I hate this. I hate them, Missandei,” she said seriously. “I really do.”
Missandei laughed. “Your Grace,” she said, “permission to speak freely?”
“You’ve always had it, Missandei.”
“We both know you don’t hate them.” Missandei went and sat next to her gingerly. “Do you?”
Daenerys rolled over onto her back and grumbled. “I do. I do hate them,” she complained. “Ruling is hard enough; but then things like this just have to happen.”
“But you have to admit,” Missandei said wistfully, “it is rather romantic.”
Daenerys found she could not disagree. She scowled harder at her bed’s canopy.
“It’s somehow worse than Meereen. If it is always like this, then it will not take long for me to grow sick of being queen, Missandei,” she said moodily. Missandei muffled a laugh into her hand.
“I suppose I’ll have to give up Lannister,” Jaime said, as they picked their way through the shadowed streets of King’s Landing, each leading a horse by the hand. “Ser Jaime of Tarth. I quite like it. Do you suppose I can be your consort instead of lord? I rather dislike dealing with lord’s work.”
“You’re very noisy for a dead man,” Brienne said, her cheeks coloring.
“I’ll sew and host banquets and look pretty, like a good little husband,” Jaime continued, tossing her a blinding grin over his shoulder. “How about that, wench?”
She only huffed and did not dignify him with a reply. He laughed, in a way she had not heard him laugh in quite some time.
“Or I suppose you’ll have to keep me in my rooms when people come over,” Jaime said. His smile was positively wicked. “Like some mistress.”
“Shut up,” Brienne muttered, her cheeks aflame.
He laughed again.
When they finally reached the city’s outskirts, they mounted their horses to make their way to some discreet harbor. Jaime turned to face her. His smile was warm enough to chase away the chill of early morning.
“Well,” he said, “shall we, my lady?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “We shall,” Brienne said.
When she spurred her horse into a gallop, she did not have to look back to know he would be right behind her.