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His shroud was as golden as his hair, as golden as the crown that had once sat heavily upon his small head, and as Jaime stood vigil over another king, another member of his ever dwindling family, he could only hope that the boy's death had been quick. But, having witnessed the way his father's men had so brutally disposed of Elia Martell and the Targaryen babes, he doubted the returning royal forces were filled with anything resembling mercy.
He had been breaking his fast in Brienne's chambers, drinking deeply from between her legs, when the warning bells had rung out, signalling both the start and end of a brief but tragic attack. The city had answered the cry but they were all too late to make a difference.
Earlier that morning he had been relieved of his guard duties, as usual, when the keep had quietened and the moon was still hanging low enough to bathe the empty corridors in an ethereal glow. There were few brothers left in the golden company whom Jaime trusted to stand at the king's door, his replacement thankfully one of the steadfast men his uncle had sworn in to replace Cersei's ruthless Kettleblacks. The boy's favourite, the Tyrell pup, had already been sent to protect his sister, Queen Margaery, and her ladies after their recent ordeal in the Black Cells.
Free to spend his time, and soil his cloak, as he wished, Jaime had headed straight to the waiting arms of his wife in all but name, the exact nature of their relationship an open secret ever since Jaime had returned from the Riverlands with Brienne and half of the Lannister army in tow. He could still remember how his wench had been fighting a fever from an infected cheek wound and mourning her amicably inept squire after a moons turn spent in the company of Ramsey Bolton. And if he'd have known what the Wardens of the North had been planning, right before Brienne's timely escape, it would have been just the catalyst he needed to lead a likely doomed charge on Winterfell.
As it was, after exchanging the appropriate pleasantries and making sure Brienne was seen by a maester, his uncle had merely looked resigned to the fact that the Evenstar's daughter needed a job to do and a place to stay. And a reminder that any future bastard children would not be tolerated. Brienne had blushed as Jaime laughed, but, at the end of each day, after she had dispatched the group of boys too young to be true squires from the stables, she rarely refused him the comfort of her company.
She stood beside of him now, an honorary member of a crumbling order for as long as they, as he, needed her, emotionless in comparison to the crowds of weeping women from court. The thrice widowed Queen was swathed in ebony damask and black pearls as she sorrowfully swept past them, her exit giving Jaime a chance to notice the silent tears drying on Brienne's face, glistening in the candlelight as she tried not to shake in her borrowed gold armour. Reaching for her hand, he pulled Brienne as close as he dared under the watchful eyes of The Seven and ever present spying little birds alike, sharing in the heartbreak from losing another child he could not save, sinking under the weight of blame but knowing she would shoulder it with him, no matter how far into darkness they would walk.
His shroud was as golden as his hair, and as Jaime clutched Brienne's fingers between his, he vowed to whatever god could hear his unspoken prayers that no child of their union would ever suffer the same fate.