Chapter Text
It took all Jaime had to not wring his hands in the presence of Warek as the latter cleaned Brienne’s burns. The sea captain, whose hands looked rough and heavy even from the foot of the bed where Jaime stood close, was surprisingly careful and light of touch as he applied salve on each mark.
The salve smelled of honey and other herbs that Jaime didn’t recognize.
What doubts he had about Warek’s claim about knowing proper burn treatments from his mother were long gone. Gone were the red blisters on Brienne’s face ready to burst the slightest touch. Scars would mark her from cheek to neck for the rest of her life, Warek had said.
It matters not. She lives and that is all that matters.
Jaime crossed his arms as Warek put clean dressing. Brienne remained still; if not for the plump pillows propping up her head it would loll and she would likely end up with a broken neck.
He wished her face did not rival the whiteness of the pillow. Above all, he longed for her eyes to open.
“Her burns are healing well, milord.” Warek’s voice pulled Jaime’s eyes from her. “She’s not had a fever. A good sign.”
“She still won’t wake.” Jaime tried to keep the edge from her voice. His eyes returned to her face before settling on her cracked lips. “All she’s had is drops of water and broth.”
“My mother, the Seven bless her soul, told me about the rule of three. The body can survive three weeks without food, three days without water.”
“It’s been ten days.”
“Milord, she breathes. It would be better if she can eat proper food but she heals. You tell me she’s a knight. I also see she’s young.” He nodded at Brienne. “Those strengths should bring her back. But—”
“Yes?”
“Something else my mother mentioned.” The captain was suddenly hesitant.
Jaime sighed. “Out with it. Good or bad, I’d rather know now than later.”
“The right herbs and treatment, food, water and care, for as long as the body is strong, ensures the person lives. But my mother also spoke of the spirit. That it’s more powerful than them combined. The Citadel’s maesters scoff at healers like my mother but she knows more than their collected chains will prove about the world. She spoke of the spirit as that which cannot be measured but sensed.”
“What do you mean?”
“The spirit, milord, is what pulls a person through from the darkness. When the spirit knows. . .if the lady has something to live for. . .then she will return.”
Jaime was about to bark a harsh reply but stopped himself in time. Something to live for.
Someone he couldn’t give her.
Seeing his expression fall, Warek quickly stammered, “Milord. . .I’m sorry—very sorry. I don’t mean to cause alarm.”
“No. You didn’t.” Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired and frustrated. Wished he could throw things and shout at the gods and curse Daenerys Targaryen. But Brienne. He had her to think about. She mattered more than his temper.
“She was bleeding when we got her that night. Then three days ago she started bleeding again.”
“Moonblood, my lord. I imagine her shock caused her to bleed that night—I know next to nothing about women’s bodies but I’ve heard my mother discuss it with some of her patients. Shock and exhaustion can affect moonblood for a while. It may stop or returns earlier than expected.”
Confused, Jaime demanded, “Moonblood? But she—”
He looked at Brienne but of course, she remained still.
“Milord?”
“She-she told me she was barren. But I had thought because of the blood—I thought she was with child. Had been with child.”
It was the first time he spoke about that fear. When she had confessed about being barren, he had been disappointed. It was pure selfishness why he wished her fertile—he spoke true about welcoming a child with her. It would be a bastard but it was their child. A proof of goodness in this shit world.
The blood cleaned from Brienne was just that. Blood. He wouldn’t be new to disposing a dead child but that memory from many years ago was hazy. There had been blood. A lot of it. And it-the child, had what looked like a form—a ragged, bloody pulp.
Though there was nothing anything like that when he would clean Brienne, he did wonder. She would know she was barren but part of him had hoped, foolishly, that she was wrong.
“I assure you, milord,” the captain’s voice took him from thoughts that should never be. “A miscarriage would be bloodier, for one, and there is a smell. A smell of death—one that you might know something of with your experience of war. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
Jaime knew what he meant. “There has been no such smell,” he said quietly, looking at Brienne. “That will be all, Warek. Thank you.”
“Milord.”
No sooner had the captain left when a tentative knock came to the door. Jaime sighed. “Come in.”
“Good evening, my lord.” Garrett bowed, red hair spilling down his face. He entered carrying a bucket of water and clean rags slung over his arm. Jaime took them from him.
While Jaime arranged the clean rags on the table before plunging one in the warm pool in the bucket, Garrett picked up the soiled sheets and clothes piled in the corner. He brought them outside then returned for the chamber pot. At the door, Jaime suddenly called him.
“Garrett. Let me look at you.” He was frowning. “Turn around.”
The boy was puzzled but did as ordered. Jaime went over and picked up the loose cuff of his tunic. “Have you been sick? This seems more a sack.” The boy’s red hair hung down cheeks more defined as well.
“No, my lord. But we’ve been rationing.”
“Rationing? We’ve only been at sea ten days.”
“Captain Warek thought it would be better to skip some port stops to replenish supplies, my lord, since we are not aware how much of Westeros is. . .is—”
Jaime sighed, realizing what he was trying not to say. “He thought it better to keep moving until we’re more westward and in friendlier waters. Because of the Targaryen threat.” At the back of his mind he knew why it was better for them to keep going, to remain in the water. But he had almost forgotten the brewing war.
“Yes, my lord. But I assure you, we’re not starving. Just smaller portions. And in order for the dried meat to last some of the men have been teaching Peck and I fishing. Captain Warek says fish is healthier than boar meat.”
“Let me guess. His mother told him.”
Garrett grinned. “Something like that, ser. Would my lord be wanting supper soon? It’s seafood chowder tonight.”
“Perhaps later. But bring some for the Lady Brienne as soon as you can. Thank you, lad.”
Alone for the time being, Jaime threw the bar across the door then went to Brienne. He stroked her bare cheek. Its warmth should reassure but it wasn’t enough. He wished for the familiar ruddy shade of her skin. Her eyes to be open. The sound of her voice.
He kissed her on the forehead, her hand, then pulled the blanket to her feet.
Giving Brienne as thorough a cleaning as possible in her state was a duty he’d taken on without question. The first few times Warek had to help, for he had to be cautioned about moving her so as not to hurt her even more or damage her dressings. Jaime was quick to learn—he had to. The process wasn’t only delicate because of the care needed but also required her to be stripped. He didn’t want anyone else seeing her body.
He got on the bed to pull her up in a sitting position. Supported by his arms and chest, he slid the robe off her.
The press of Brienne’s shoulder on his mouth, a softened slab rather than the firm muscle he knew, had him blinking back tears once again. He hugged her, filling his nose with the scent of dried sweat from her skin. How many times had he held her like this—as he fucked her, or when he just wanted to be with her?
His lips brushed up and down her undamaged cheek and neck, smoothing away the blunt edge of short hairs that tickled his nose. Her hair had to be cut to prevent it from sticking to the burns and exacerbating her discomfort while healing. He’d been the one to take a dagger to her limp tresses.
He cradled her by nape to look at her sleeping face. The sound of her breath, faint as it was, brought some reassurance but for how long? As much as he would like to believe Warek, Brienne had not awakened after fainting in his arms.
“Come back to me,” he whispered against her lips, kissing her. He thought she kissed him back. The things hope made him think.
He put her back on the bed, sliding the rest of the long robe off her. It left her face resting a bit on the burned side so he turned her. Again, hope made him think she had turned her head slightly after adjusting her position.
Rag and bucket were in his hand but he stole another glance at her face, her body. She always looked calm in sleep—soft and quite sweet. Back in Tarth when he found himself restless, he would draw the blankets from her body and look at her in the firelight. He envied her broad shoulders and thick arms. The large, fat nipples on her small breasts made him smile. Admired her long, strong legs and even her wide feet. He liked to stare at her cunt the longest, still fascinated by the thick hairs.
She looked far from calm now. She was too still, too much at peace. Though her nipples were peaked from the cold air drifting from the sea, there was no stirring in his breeches. Her cunt was covered in a makeshift pair of smallclothes, the center already red with her moonblood.
Slowly, he started cleaning her. Slid the damp washcloth up and down an arm that had become some sadist’s canvas with the fading cuts and yellowing bruises. He’d seen enough battle wounds to know she hadn’t made it easy for Daenerys’ forces. It enraged and made him proud at the same time. As he covered those marks with kisses in some foolish belief that they would heal faster touched this way, his eyes veered back to her face.
Warek had warned against touching her burns except to clean and change the dressing. Helplessness washed over Jaime staring at her face, that for a few moments the rag just dripped to the floor, his boots. He didn’t want to think exactly what happened for those burns though he had an inkling.
The Mad King’s children should have perished too.
He dropped the rag in the bucket, wiped his hand on his tunic and leaned toward her. As his lips touched her cheek, he remembered how she turned pink and laughed at his butterfly kisses.
No laugh. No blush. Just quiet breathing.
“Please come back.” His voice was so small he wasn’t sure if he’d spoke out loud.
Nothing.
Finding himself in a battle against despair again, he turned and wrung the rag. He wiped her throat, down her chest, her breasts. After each pass of the cloth he laid more kisses. Rested his head on her heart to listen to it. There. A faint but sure thump. A sign of life. But far from the strong, vital beat he had come to know on the many nights he’d slept in her arms.
Taking a deep breath, he resumed cleaning her. He forgot her underarms so they got an extra scrubbing. The blond hairs that were faint feathers when he left Tarth were now a thickish cluster.
He replaced the rag with a fresh one, plunging it in the warm water, wringing again before cleaning her thighs and legs. Finally, he removed the smallclothes from between her thighs. The bright crimson of her moonblood covered the inside of the cloth, with some smeared on her thighs.
Then without warning, it came. He squeezed his eyes shut as if in great pain.
Cersei.
She came for him, clawing at the walls his mind had erected from her. Beat her fists at them. Screamed. Such was her anger at being kept out that the walls shuddered from her blows. As she cried and cursed and clawed over and over came a floodgate of memories: her face beautiful even when lined with sorrow as she looked at their son, her mouth soft and opening wider and wider through their kiss, the desperation in their embrace as they fought to fuse one and for always through clothes, skin, and bone.
He shoved rag into the water, squeezed it so while wishing it were her, any part of her that could crush and turn to dust. Still she came.
Her hurried whispers of his name. The dark crimson moonblood on her smallclothes. White thighs flung wide. The delicate curls of her bush stained with blood. His tongue. In her mouth. His release. Seed and blood staining their thighs in the aftermath. For every beginning his seed promised was blood bringing its end.
Just as suddenly as the memory of Cersei had attacked him, she was gone. He meant to take a breath but instead began to gasp. His mind was quick to warn was going to happen yet barely managed to bend over the bucket and vomit.
It seemed an endless outpouring of sick. It felt like a hand had reached in and was determined to scoop out all that was wrong. He groaned. Moaned. Clutching at his stomach with one hand while grasping the edge of the bucket with the other, he felt the sickest he had been since finding worms in his food back in Harrenhal.
Harrenhal. Brienne.
Strong, scowling, ugly, massive Brienne. His Brienne. Younger and standing in the pool of Harrenhal. Rage in her sapphire eyes after he’d mocked her about Renly. He could only stare at her, dumbfounded and oddly amazed at her pointy little breasts and thick, dripping bush. She was everything that Cersei was not, all that he thought ridiculous and probably wouldn’t even give a single thought but he had been hard. The hardest he had ever been in his life. For her.
But it was the memory of her eyes, round and so very blue, that he held on to as he let go of the bucket. Collapsing on his back, he clutched at his heart. It beat fast. As if he’d just been in a fight. Or fucked. The room seemed to spin. Went from light then dark then back. He flung an arm over his eyes. The sea urging the boat long didn’t help.
Thinking of Brienne did. Brienne in nothing but her blue cloak. Brienne grinning back at him as she galloped ahead. Her lips on his hand. Her voice in his ear. The safety of her arms. Her eyes. Her truly astonishing eyes.
When all was calm, he sat up. He stared in confusion at the blood between Brienne’s thighs before remembering. Goosebumps covered her skin. Cursing, he quickly pulled the blanket over her, touched her cheek in apology. He hurried out of the room.
“You there,” he called to a Lannister soldier happened to be passing by. Passing the bucket to him, he said, “Look for one of my squires and tell them I need fresh water. At once.”
The soldier bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”
Jaime shut the door and rubbed his eyes. Then he returned to Brienne’s side, sitting heavily on the chair. He took one of her hands and covered it with kisses.
“I apologize,” he said as if it was the most normal thing conversing with her in her state. “I don’t know what came over me. But I’ll get you clean. You will be comfortable.” Holding her hand tightly, he gazed at her face. “I’ll make you well, Brienne. But you have to come back first.”
He leaned close, still holding her hand to his heart. With his other hand he played with the short lock of hair that kept falling over her forehead.
“The captain says. . .he says for you to heal that. . .that you must have something to live for. With Tarth taken and how you came to the water. . .how I found you—” He rested his head on her shoulder, wishing for her strength to keep him together.
He swore her heartbeat raced under his cheek. Holding his breath, he held her closer and listened again.
It had been all in his mind. That soft thump that he was beginning to hate. A kitten’s heart was stronger.
“I know what you think,” he said, sitting up to look at her. “What you believe—what we know—” He braced himself for what he was about to say next. “What Cersei has done.”
His fucking curse of a sister.
“I am not reason enough to come back for. I am loved for the most hateful thing I’ve done and hated for an act that is my finest. I break oaths as easily as breathing. I fucked my sister. Loved her for most of my life. Until you. Until you—you who deserves better than someone so soiled but I love you.”
Bringing her hand to his lips, he whispered, “Perhaps. . .perhaps that is something that can bring you back here at my side. I have no right to ask but I am, anyway. I know what I ask, Brienne. I’m not only asking you to return to a world already at war but one where the thing you love most is gone.” He opened her palm and buried his face there. “I ask you to leave what peace you’ve found to return to this place of pain. But. . .Brienne, I-I can’t. Without you I can’t. I am not. I need you.”
Shudders seized him and it wasn’t the cold wind from the sea that brought them. He clung to her hand. Her strong, big, beautiful hand. His lips brushed the bluish web of veins on the inside of her wrist. She smelled of salt and steel.
As he gazed at her face again, willing for her eyes to open, the door opened. He lowered their joined hands on the bed as Peck entered the room.
“My lord.”
“Peck.” He sighed. “Next time, don’t forget to knock.”
Peck froze, his knuckles turning white as his hold on the bucket tightened. “My apologies, my lord. It won’t happen again. I ah. . .I brought extra rags. Garrett said you might need them.”
“Good.” Jaime nodded at the door. “Go on now, you.”
Peck nodded, bowed, and rushed out of the room. Jaime reluctantly let go of Brienne’s hand and sat back on the chair with another heavy sigh.
He was tired but got up. Barred the door again then took the bucket and all the rags.
With the blanket at her feet, he resumed cleaning. This time, he was more gentle while dabbing her cunt clean.
And for every surface of her skin brushed by the rag, his lips followed.
He kissed her thighs. How soft she was, here. She smelled of moonblood and faintly of water. The scents drew him closer, bringing his mouth fully on her cunt. He kissed her slit through the coarse hairs. Soft kisses like the ones he pressed while she slept. Kisses that made her coo his name as she was roused.
But she didn’t stir. No sharpening of breath. He closed his eyes and felt a tear slide down his cheek before it plopped on her bush. He wiped the cuff of his sleeve on his eyes then dressed her again—one of the rags knotted at her hips to serve as smallclothes, the robe. The blanket was drawn high to her shoulders.
“Wench—” It was out of his lips before he realized. Clasping her hand, he continued, “I hope to the Seven that my gamble has paid off. That Lyonel lives. You charged me to deliver him Starborn but. . .it’s the Tarth ancestral blade. It’s not right for it to pass from my hand to his. It should only be between Tarths. I am not his father.”
But he had been a father. Still a father. Yet he felt no tie to his last living child. Not even some fondness—Myrcella was a stranger to him. It was odd he cared more for a child he’d seen only once. A child who wasn’t even his blood.
Because he’s hers. He looked at Brienne.
There was no telling if the scroll he’d sent to Addam reached him in time. Perhaps he should have just used the seal of Master of Laws rather than the Kingsguard for his bannerman to know right away the urgency of the message.
Though Uncle Kevan had no love for him and Cersei because of their marriage, there was no telling who exactly within Casterly Rock felt the same. Not all of the Westerlands supported Cersei for the same reason but there was a handful, Jaime was sure, whose loyalties were for sale. He couldn’t risk anyone knowing he’d sent a message to Addam.
Yet he wasn’t worried about Cersei finding out. What frightened him was breaking his vow to Brienne.
Someone knocked on the door and he reluctantly left Brienne’s side.
“My lord.” Garrett and Peck bowed before pushing a trolley into the room. The dome concealed the food but Jaime picked up the aroma of the seafood chowder mentioned earlier. His squires set up his meal on a table before picking up the rags and bucket from the floor.
“Ser, the captain has asked if you could join him for ale after your meal,” Peck said.
Jaime was about to say no but changed his mind. It was the least he could do for the man, considering all the help with regards to Brienne. He’d given up his room for her as well.
“I’d be most pleased,” he replied. “But one of you should stay with the Lady Brienne.”
“I can do it, Ser,” Garrett volunteered.
Peck rolled his eyes and insisted, “No, ser. I will do it.”
“Here’s a solution. You both look after her. I won’t take long but I don’t wish to leave her alone.”
Pleased, the two squires nodded eagerly although Peck was smirking. Jaime sighed. He would need to have a word with the young man about his attitude soon. Nothing irked him more than someone who thought himself better than others. The lad did not even come from a fucking major House, nor had distinguished himself in any way.
“Good. That’s settled then. Wait for me outside while I have my meal.”
But Jaime didn’t eat. His share of the chowder went untouched because he wasn’t very hungry. Instead, he spent the hour feeding Brienne.
He had to dip a clean cloth into the thinned chowder and feed her drop by drop. The same went with water. It was a long and delicate process but he threw himself at it. Anything that kept her alive, that held the promise of her return, he did more than willingly.
What he was far from willing was joining the captain. He did not share his siblings’ love for the drink but refusing the invitation would be rude. Besides, after all that Warek had done, sharing ale with him was a small price to pay. So he allowed him to fill his glass until half-full. Even toasted with him and sipped some.
“I apologize for the absence of a finer drink, milord,” Warek said, leaning back on his chair and stacking his feet on a stool. “But I thought you might want a respite from all the work you’ve been doing for the lady.”
“Hardly work,” Jaime muttered. “Else she’d be awake now.” He raised his glass. “But I don’t believe I’ve properly thanked you for your efforts. You gave up your quarters for her. Your knowledge on healing has been invaluable.”
Warek spread his arms a little and gestured at the crimson and gold accents of the room. “I have no complaints regarding my grand chamber. I should be thanking you.”
Jaime chuckled. He held a hand over the rim of his glass but took the bottle and offered to refill Warek’s. The captain looked surprised but pleased with the gesture and held out his glass.
As he poured, he remarked, “This mother of yours. Where is she? I would like to thank her.”
The captain’s eyes seemed to dim and the smile fell from his face. He moved like an old man taking the glass from the table.
“She is long gone, milord.”
“I am sorry.”
Warek nodded. “I struggle to remember her face. Strange that I remember how to make poultices, the kind of herbs to brew into a tea but her face—” he looked at Jaime, shaking his head. “She was a healer, as I said. With a vast knowledge of the world—knowledge my own father believed drove her mad.” He sipped the ale and was smiling again. “My father thought that for her to heal it would be best to bring her back east. She came from Essos. I loved her. Very much. I stayed with her until the Stranger came.”
“And your father?”
“Ah, that is a story for another time, milord.” Though smiling, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I try to not to think of the past so much. But a night such as this, and ale, company—” he raised his glass. “My mother. Would you join me in toasting to her?”
“Of course. What’s her name?”
“Maggy, milord.”
Jaime raised his glass. “To Maggy. And you.”
“Thank you—”
The sharp, rapid ringing of a bell cut off Warek. Glasses fell and ale spilled on the rich carpets as they hurried out of the room. The icy air whipped at Jaime’s face, stunning him for a moment before he dashed along with everyone else to the direction of the sound. It came from the crow’s nest.
Lanterns and torches were lit. As one was handed to Warek, he bellowed towards above, “What goes on there?”
“An iceberg, captain!” Came from the faint cry.
Jaime elbowed the other sailors and his soldiers out of the way to look. For the first time since he’d been out to sea, the night was silver and the sky filled with streaks and spirals of lights the color of blue, pink, and green. Someone handed him a torch and he aimed it towards the water.
“It’s some twenty yards ahead, captain! Straight ahead!” Shouted the same voice from above.
Jaime didn’t have to squint. The block of ice sat in the ocean looking like a squat, jagged piece of diamond. It was that big. Before them were other pieces the size of human heads and bigger.
“Drop the anchor!” Warek ordered. “Now!”
Growls and squeaks accompanied the device as it was dropped into the water. Warek continued barking orders. “Lower the boats, men! Three to a boat and no more, no less! Milord,” he said to Jaime, “There’s bound to be growlers in the water. Not as big but harder to spot and can cause as significant a damage as an iceberg.”
“My men can help.”
“My thanks, milord, but the task is for sailors such as I. We need to get those bits out of the way and also spot where other icebergs may be to avoid them.” He glanced at the heavy furs on the Lannister soldiers. The sailors were in light vests over their clothes. “Your men can be trusted in a battle on land but the sea needs hardier men.”
“How far along are we that there are icebergs?” Jaime demanded.
“We’re approaching the Cliffs of Shields, milord. Mountains of ice and snow protecting the Shield Islands.” Warek suddenly grabbed a rope and swung himself off the edge, landing firmly on a boat lowering into the water. “If the ice is melting, it can only mean one thing.”
“And that is?”
“Winter is ending, milord.”