Work Text:
In his last moments, with the ground unsteady beneath his feet and the foreboding grinding of rock growing closer as it rained down from above, Jaime’s fear was eclipsed by acceptance. Coating his skin and clogging his lungs like the ash that darkened the air around them, it settled into his bones, heavy and familiar like the weariness that followed battle as bloodlust waned and the high of victory softened. His fate, he knew, was sealed as surely as the blocked path ahead and the world caving in behind. He could see it all so clearly, and he wore that new insight, his understanding, as an ill-fitting second skin; every terrible decision, every selfish action, every cruelty committed under the guise of his love had brought him to his fate.
He had allowed what he and Cersei had to become a tainted, twisted thing. It had taken up residence in the deepest crevices of his being and shackled him to her. For most of his life, he had been willfully blind to the chains he had bound himself with in her name, ignoring how they tightened and chafed with each passing year, until they had completely dissevered him from who he once was; until one day, he awoke and found that the person in the looking glass was more stranger than self.
Brienne’s very presence had illuminated all that he had spent years hiding from. It was with her that he faced a true test of character and found himself wanting. He was craven, too entrenched in his ways, too guilty from his sins, hands coated in too thick a layer of blood to choose the path that would let him keep her. So instead he ran—back to what was familiar, back to save a sister who he couldn’t rightfully say deserved saving, and when she began to unravel before him, he had forced her eyes to his, “Just look at me,” and vowed with everything he had, “Nothing else matters. Only us.”
The lie settled like ash on his tongue; the taste so familiar, he almost believed it true.
In that moment, he had seized Cersei, hunched over her, clutched her tight, tucked her away in his arms, felt her body mold to his as she hid her face in the crook of his neck, and shielded her with himself, as if his body could protect her from their fate. It was a paltry offering. He knew that. After all he had done, all he had given to her, all he had given up throughout their years together, this last act was a measly thing. His body for his twin, and even that would not be enough to save her or their unborn child.
Yet even as they faced their death together—as they always knew they would—-he could not help but to betray her one last time, for his mind was with Brienne.
Brienne, who deserved better than him: a conviction he wore like armor when he marched his way back to Cersei. His love for Cersei was a millstone around his neck, dragging him down, a hook in his chest, reeling him back to her, chains binding him, perpetually pinning him in place at her side. He could no more shake this love from his being than he could forget the calloused touch of Brienne’s hands upon his body, the lightness that filled his chest when she looked upon him in trust, the fire that burned in his stomach at her presence, or the tears that traced her cheeks as he left, the ragged sound of her broken sobs now a relentless tattoo in his head.
He had turned his back on the sun, walked away from her sapphire eyes and warm embrace, to die in the dark, buried beneath cold stone. He truly was the stupidest Lannister.
When the pain hit, trapped in his eternal conflict—unable to free himself of Cersei and the strength of his desire for her, yet unable to banish the space in his heart that had taken the shape of Brienne—he could not help but find a sardonic humor in his ending. He thought: How fitting. He would die as he lived. Body intertwined with Cersei. Mind consumed by Brienne.
Eyes like sapphire seas were the last image in his mind when the darkness took him.
⚔️
Between one breath and his last, Jaime found himself knelt before The Warrior. He could not find it within himself to be surprised. If any god would claim his soul, it would be one who wielded a sword as deftly as Jaime had in his youth. The god looked upon him in indifference and made no move to speak.
The silence stretched, becoming a physical thing between them, heavy and cloying, broken only by Jaime’s ragged pants as he fought to draw air into lungs hampered by fractured ribs. He shifted impatiently; his knees aching against the cold stone of the floor. Blood coated the side of his head and began to itch as it dried into a tacky crust. And the silence stretched. And stretched.
Jaime ground his teeth, wishing death had magically cured his ails, so he could await judgement in peace instead of pain, but it had not, so Jaime kneeled in death, bearing the discomforts of living, as the silence stretched, alive in its quiet, bearing down onto him. He kept his head tilted down, counted his ragged breaths, and cursed himself for caring about the judgement of the gods.
Or at least one god, who still continued to look upon him silently. Jaime felt absurdly like he was once more before the honorable Ned Stark whose stoic judgement had burned him every time he deigned to grace Jaime with his presence. It was this thought that caused Jaime to shore up his edges, gather the shattered remains of his dignity, and look the god in the eye.
He would not cower before Ned Stark. He would not cower before a god. He was Jaime fucking Lannister. He forced himself to speak, the words rough, like loose gravel grinding along his dust-coated throat, “What is to be my fate?”
The god titled his head. Silent. After a moment, stretched, stretched, stretched between them, molasses thick, The Warrior spoke, “You were once one of my favored ones.”
Jaime felt the words like a blow. He sucked in a sharp breath that ricocheted across his hurt ribs and barely managed to wheeze out, “And I no longer am?”
The god spoke slowly, each word carrying physical weight that bore down onto Jaime’s shoulders, “Your skill with a sword, your bravery in battle, your deeds as a warrior,” Jaime bowed his head once more, unable to hold eye contact with the god, “do you believe they outweigh your sins?”
Shame flooded his body, visceral and overwhelming. He had once glibly thought, Let the gods think what they will. They are of no concern of mine. But now The Warrior’s judgement burned into his skin like a brand.
When Jaime did not respond, The Warrior spoke again, “The Stranger wants your soul.” Jaime’s head snapped up. What could that mean? Was the Seven Hells to be his fate? The Warrior continued, “But I am reluctant to give up one I once favored so highly.”
Jaime could only stare with wide eyes. Knowing he once held The Warrior’s favor to such an extent that even now—after his sins piled so high he could not distinguish where they ended and the sky began— the god still did not want to let him go was heady. Knowing his own actions—that unscalable tower of sins—had lost him the esteem was devastating, enervating. Jaime was exhausted by it, endlessly torn in two, trapped between who he was and who he allowed himself to become. He could not escape it.
The Warrior watched his struggle, looking through him as if he could see every tiny thing that Jaime was made up of: every moment, every laugh, every ache, every second he drew breath. When the god spoke again, he sounded perplexed, “What to do with one such as you?”
Jaime had to suppress a hysterical laugh, reminded of the words he had once tossed out at Catelyn Stark: There are no men like me. Only me. Even then, he did not know how much truth the words carried. Jaime considered The Warrior’s question, and he came up with no answer. For even beneath the weight of his own shame, all he could think about was what his fate could mean.
He found himself opening his mouth and speaking before he had thought it through, “Will I never see her again?”
The god did not ask him to clarify what she he spoke of. Even as Jaime thought to himself that he should be more concerned with the fate of Cersei, with the fate of his children, with the fate of his father, of his mother, of the endless people he had known and lost in the wars, he could not bring himself to think of them. In death, the chains that bound him—Cersei, duty, honor—had finally broken, and his only thought was for Brienne.
The god looked intrigued by the question, as if for the first time since his arrival Jaime had done something particularly interesting. “No.” Jaime felt the small bud of hope that had begun to blossom wither. “She is a favored warrior, with the heart of a maiden, and one day, the disposition of a mother. Her soul will be fought over when she meets her end.”
His mind latched onto the thought of Brienne as a mother—a dream she had once confided to him, a childhood hope that she believed would remain unfulfilled. It would come true for her. His eyes burned, and he swallowed thickly around the bittersweet sorrow of it. He would not be the one to make her dream come true, but she deserved better than him anyway, and now, he was sure she would get it.
“Do with me as you would,” he said hoarsely, resigned. He was tired now, weary of all that had passed and all that would come. He was ready for his fate to be sealed, for this body to no longer ache, for this moment to end. But The Warrior remained quiet, watching him. Jaime did not deem to break the silence this time. Instead, he let his mind fill with thoughts of Brienne cradling a blonde haired babe close to her breast.
When The Warrior spoke again, it was not a proclamation as Jaime anticipated, but a question, “Would you do it again?”
Uncomprehending, Jaime asked, “Do what?”
“Everything,” the god declared, “Live your life as it was once more.”
Jaime swallowed. He thought of the wars, the horrors, the cruelties, his loyalty to Cersei that never led him to absolution. “I would change it. Make different decisions,” He answered honestly, thinking of a life that would lead to Brienne, to making her dreams come true, to standing side-by-side wielding swords and cradling their babes, to having The Warrior claim their souls together, so they would never separate again.
“No.” The Warrior said, not unkindly, dissipating the fantasy, “No changes. What is, is done. History cannot be unwritten. Would you do it again? Live it once more?”
Jaime, in that moment, found the answer was easy, “Yes. Anything. To see her once more. To talk to her. To hold her. I would relive it all.” Aerys, Cersei, Joffrey, a year in captivity chained to a post sitting in his own shit, losing his sword hand, and everything that came after. He would endure it all, relive every stupid decision, to look into her eyes once more.
The Warrior smiled.
⚔️
Jaime jerked awake in his cell disoriented. He felt as if he was pulled from a deep sleep, the edges of the world blurry as he tried to orient himself in time and space. The pole he was chained to dug uncomfortably into his back. The thick layer of dirt, grime, and shit that coated his body itched fiercely. Catelyn Stark stood before him, nose turned up and looking upon him in distaste.
He felt that familiar mixture of annoyance and amusement that came with her presence stir to life inside him. The conversation that followed gave him the strangest sense of unreality, as if he had lived this before. He shook his head, dismissing the feeling. He thought it must be a result of that self-righteous honor all the Starks carried. They all managed to bore him equally with their monologues on right and wrong. How anyone could tell them apart was a miracle.
As amusing as the conversation was, and he truly did enjoy getting so thoroughly under her skin with a well-placed barb, Jaime soon found himself wishing she would get on with it and leave him to rot in peace. Even if it initially was a nice break from the monotony of imprisonment, he was now weary of her grating presence.
But then a great beast of a person stepped forward.
The moonlight glinted off of their mismatched armor, and when they finally stepped close enough for him to catch a glimpse of their face, he was met with eyes like sapphire seas, the rich color clear even in the dim torchlight. He felt something within himself perk up in interest. How utterly unique, he thought glibly.
He could no more stop the words that fell from his lips than he could break the chains that bound him, “Is that a woman?”