Chapter Text
They marry amongst the rubble of King’s Landing, only a handful of friends in attendance. It is a far cry from what is expected of the Golden Lion, a point he states with great relish that night in their chambers, and for many nights after.
In another lifetime, Brienne would be offended or uncertain, but she thinks perhaps this is the first true decision her husband has made in many years—to wed for love, wearing armour beaten and dust-covered from a worthy fight. It is not so simple as that, there are political considerations and alliances strengthened or weakened by the decision, and emotional wounds that cannot be healed by a ribbon around their hands, but it is close enough.
Three weeks after their marriage, a package arrives from Tarth along with a letter addressed to Brienne. It is from her father, admonishing her for her foolishness in the same breath that he praises it, and insisting that her new bride-groom accept this gift from the island.
The package is small and wrapped in oil cloth, tied neatly with rope from a fishing net. She knows precisely what lies within, and it is with no small amount of glee she deposits it onto Jaime’s lap.
He looks up at her, gives that smile that leads to them tumbling into bed more often than not.
“I fear I shall need your aid, Ser,” he says, “for I am only a poor, one-handed man.”
“You unlaced my tunic easily enough last night,” she scolds. “And I must reply to my father.”
She crosses their small room and pulls ink and quill from the small desk, settles in the chair. There is space enough on the letter to write her short reply, but instead she watches Jaime examine the package with confusion. No doubt a Lannister wedding gift would come wrapped in gold and rubies, or perhaps a lion’s pelt, but the fishermen of Tarth had long believed the heart of the island lived in the sea. A bride-groom who did not know his way around rope and sails was not prepared for the duties of marriage. Seven knots to test a man’s readiness; that tradition had made the knots more and more complex over the years was simply an island jape.
Jaime, being a man of practicality in his heart, reaches for his dagger.
“You would not wish misfortune on us so soon?” she says, and the look he gives her… She ducks her head to hide her smile. “It is said that to cut the rope is to sever the vows.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I did not believe the dead to walk until I saw it,” she replies.
He grumbles, but begins to work on the knots. It is difficult and she is tempted to aid him after all, but he works with a determination that she cannot bring herself to deny.
Eventually, there is a small crow of victory. The rope falls to the floor and he lifts the cloth away, and even from across the room she sees the way his brow furrows.
“It is socks,” he says, in the same tone one might say The septon was particularly pious today; slightly incredulous and deeply confused.
“It’s tradition. A groom is meant to wear them on his wedding day. For felicity.” “They’re socks.”
“A sailor must have dry feet,” she says primly.
He leans back, deliciously insouciant as he looks at her. “Am I a sailor, then?”
“It is tradition,” she says. “The bride’s family might spend moons on them before the wedding, a promise to care for the groom as much as he might care for his bride.”
He lifts the offending items up for her examination and she nearly guffaws—her father had exceeded himself in the construction: the wool is fine and the pattern of the knitting complex, perhaps the grandest wedding socks in a century, and all of it in the most hideous shades of orange and purple she has ever seen.
“I do not believe your father is pleased with our news,” Jaime says dryly.
She does laugh at that, and rises to her feet to join him once more.
“Well, we are pleased,” she says, tugging the socks from his hand and tossing them aside. “He shall learn to accept it.”