Jaime Lannister (ex_oathbreak914) wrote in antecedents, @ 2010-09-24 04:56:00 |
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It had been an entire year since Jaime had seen his sister, and it was the knowledge he would see her again that pushed him through all the hardships he'd suffered in that year. During the six months he'd been imprisoned by Robb Stark he'd soon lost track of time, the days and the weeks dragging on endlessly when one had nothing to do but sit in a dark cell. Then, when he was traveling with Brienne, everything started to happen too fast. The ambush on the river, and their capture by the Brave Companions. The loss of his hand and the short stay at Harrenhall where he'd been treated for it. Lucky for him that Qyburn had been there to see to the wound, or he most certainly would of lost the rest of his arm, if not his life. That had been where he met Pia, who had climbed into his bed and told him of all the fantasies she had about him, ones she'd had for years. She didn't even look twice at his severed limb; she still saw him as the whole man he was, the one he'd been back when she'd first heard his name as a child, a fresh face in the Kingsguard. She told him how she'd imagined him in place of the other men she'd slept with, and all the things she'd do for him now that he was here with her. Yet he'd pushed her away and told her to leave. As delicately as possible. It had nothing to do with Pia herself; she was gorgeous and her words were enough to tempt even the most pious man. Yet he already had a woman, one he had always, would always, be faithful to.
Cersei will not be happy when she sees this, he'd thought to himself plenty of times, looking at the bandaged stump at the end of his right arm. He'd cut all the hair off his head at the start of his journey with Brienne to minimize the amount of people who'd recognize him as Jaime Lannister, and he kept a beard now (it had been a long, tangled mess of one before his release from prison, spilling down onto his chest when he'd been unable to shave for over half a year; he'd since cut it down to just what was closest to his jawline). Already his image no longer mirrored Cersei's. But his hair would grow back in-- already there was a bit of length to the choppy pieces. He could shave his chin clean again. But he could never regrow a hand. Would she still accept him so readily back into her arms as Pia had been? If he knew his sister... he was beginning to regret his decision to turn the servant girl away, it may have been his last chance for a woman's company.
Gods knew he wouldn't be getting that from Brienne. Not that he wanted it from Brienne. She was huge for a woman, he'd seen men less built than she. When he thought of the woman he loved, she was unblemished skin, soft golden hair, her body curved in all the right places. This one was covered in unbecoming freckles, her hair was thin and lusterless, and she had not the slightest hint of a woman's shape, more like a straight line. Her neck was thicker than his own. Her jaw was square, and her large mouth fit awkwardly with the rest of her facial features. Were Jaime not a tall man, she would of been looking down on him. Yet, it was for this utterly mannish woman who he'd gone back to the place where the man who'd cut off his hand still resided, to save her from him as well. He tried not to spend much effort explaining his reasoning to himself. If she didn't come with him back to King's Landing, he would not be honoring the terms of exchange that Catelyn Stark had issued him-- not only did she want her daughters returned, but Brienne was not to be harmed either, and sent back to her with Sansa and Arya. Jaime had given her his word on that, and he planned to honor it. And, incredibly ugly or not, she was still a maid, and as a knight it should be natural he would rescue her.
Brienne treated him differently too now, although not in terms of before-stump and after-stump. More like, who he was as defined by the general public, and who he was as defined by his actions. Oathbreaker was what she had been using in place of his name, but after he'd saved her for absolutely no personal gain, she started to say Jaime. She'd better give him a little respect after that show of his, not many men could say they'd taken on a bear one handed with a blunted tourney sword and lived to tell the tale.
Quite honestly though, he would be glad that soon he would never be seeing her homely face again, that he would be returning home and he could put as much of the past year behind him as possible. Cersei wouldn't be pleased, no... but it had been so long since he'd seen her, perhaps she would overlook it, at least at first. His father would be disappointed in him as well. Probably make it sound like it was all his own fault-- but perhaps it was, since none of this would of have ever happened in the first place if he hadn't let himself be bested by a group of green soldiers. Robb Stark was only fifteen at the time, and the Greyjoy boy who'd helped him pull off the trap couldn't have been much older. But then, Jaime had only been a teenager himself when he'd slain Aerys.
I won't be slaying anyone else for a long time like this. He'd have to learn to fight again with his left hand instead of his right. He'd held that tourney sword with his left, his first try since he'd lost the right, and it had been incredibly awkward. He felt like a little boy in the training yard again, not even knowing how to properly grip the hilt. Before, his sword had just been an extension of his own body; he could fight with it and it didn't require a thought. His hand just knew what to do. His left hand carried none of that knowledge. He was slow and clumsy with it and it would be a long time before he was good with it. He would never be as good with it, of that he was sure.
These were the sort of thoughts that filled his head during the nights when he and his escort made up camp. The closer they got to King's Landing, the more Jaime took time to himself. He thought of what he would say to everyone. He thought of all the things he would need to do. He thought of how much he must have missed, being gone an entire year. Cersei's children would be a year older. For a boy of Tommen's age, that could make all the difference; during Jaime's own eleventh year, he'd shot up almost an entire foot. Joffrey himself would soon be a man, one who looked so much like him it was a sad testament to the intellect of the people that they'd ever thought him to be Robert's child.
Myrcella will be twelve, he thought about the boys' sister, far away now, living in Dornish land with the Martells. Soon she would be a married to a boy neither him or Cersei had ever seen. Cersei had absolutely hated the idea, something she had raged at Tyrion for even suggesting, but Jaime could say nothing about it. After all, wouldn't it look strange that an uncle would consider their input as important as the mother's? Perhaps the father's would have carried more weight in the decision, but to the rest of the world, to even Myrcella herself, Jaime was not the father. Like his sister had asked of him, he had locked away whatever feelings he might have for his children inside of himself as their father, but he could at least harbor the ones an uncle might have for his nephews and niece.
Even so. This year allowed him time to reflect. He realized how close he could have been to serving out a fate exactly like Eddard Stark's. He may have never gotten the chance to return to King's Landing. If he not been captured by a young man like Robb, but instead one like Joffrey, he would have been long dead. He would have never been able to see his family, the people he loved, again -- his sister, his brother, his father. He would die without his children ever having known that he thought of them often, even if he rarely expressed it. He realized how much that fate sickened him, and he resolved that, as soon as he was home, he would ask Cersei to end this farce of theirs for good. He would return and become an honest man.
An honest man...
In his dreams, Aerys burns them all alive. No one in the entire city is spared. The children are the first to go. Three of them with hair of gold scream for him. "Father!" they yell, as they're ushered along towards their funeral pyres, and the word stabs him deeper than any sword ever could.
Next, his lady is torn from his side. "Unhand my children! You can't take me from my husband!" she shouts, but for all her struggling, she's taken away all the same. His wife is his sister, but that isn't considered odd to many. They live under the rule of the Targaryens, after all. They will also die under their rule.
Just like his children and so many others, she and the other women are burned next. Their dying cries fill the city square, until they're swallowed up by the flames. He looks and sees the fire dancing in the Mad King's delighted eyes; the only time he's ever looks truly alive is when he's burning someone to death. A detail about him Jaime knows only too well. The smell of roasting human flesh is a vivid memory that finds its way into his dream.
Like in most of his dreams, he has his right hand again. It works perfectly and he's a man who can wield a sword properly-- not just properly, but better than nearly any other man in Westeros. Yet when he reaches for his, he grabs nothing but air. He has no sword.
A man of the Kingsguard can not marry. In a world where he could choose Cersei, he did. In this world, he's husband, father, a man who's never broken a promise. Nobody treats him with suspicion or disgust. It's exactly what he wants.
In this world, he can't stop Aerys. In this world, an honest man is sent to burn with everyone else, and can't do a thing to save anyone.
Dreams of Aerys have been his night time companion since he was seventeen; Jaime had learned how to wake from them and to leave behind the fear, regret and anger in that darkness he'd emerged from. He thought not about it when he woke up, but rather what it was he'd find was for breakfast. Rolling over on his side, he planned to look towards where the campfire had been alight last night... but it was then that he was suddenly falling.
Branches snapped underneath his body as he tumbled over them, a rock knocking him in the ribs on his way down. He instinctively used his arms to try to shield himself, but that was of little use, he just ended up getting them scratched and torn at as he rolled down the steep slope. At such an incline, only reaching the base of it would stop his momentum; he must have fallen for nearly forty feet before that came. He let out a curse when he finally to a stop, covered in dead leaves, twigs, and dirt. What had happened...? They had stopped for the night on a completely flat expanse, where had this hill come from? How could he not have seen it yesterday, so close to where he'd slept? Rising, he took a few steps back from it, surveying where he'd come from-- were it not for his quick reflexes, he would have taken another fall. His heel came in contact with the precipice of another cliff, but this one was a straight drop.
Turning around, Jaime quickly backed off from what would of been a fall into a river running far below. The current looked fast, and the rocks jutting out of the water would have burst his skull open like an overripe fruit from such a height. Now that he wasn't so bewildered in confusion, he could properly make out the sound of the water's flow faintly echoing below. Was this some stream that connected to the God's Eye? Yet with the time they were making, they should of been far beyond that location by now.
Jaime walked for a long time. He called for Qyburn, for Nage, for Steelshanks. He even called for Brienne, after a time. Nobody responded. It was a bad situation, and he was well aware of it. He had no sword, and even if he did, he couldn't very well have defended himself with it. It was now known he'd been seen at Harrenhall, so there were probably a good deal of men who'd be looking to pick up where Vargo Hoat had left off, realizing what a fine price Jaime would fetch in King's Landing. Yet, he couldn't of been very far from it. Maybe he could make it the rest of the way on his own. If he stayed off any main roads-- though he was yet to see one to make a conscious effort to stay clear of-- he should be fine. This was the way he often wished he could of handled things, the many times he'd thought of escaping Brienne when she'd been bringing him to Cersei by herself, still in chains then. But now he'd had a proper escort and that had been nice...the five minutes it had lasted. Of course things couldn't of gone easy for him for too long, not this close to the finish line.
The sun rose, and it fell. By night fall he had no better idea of where he was, and berries he'd found on a bush made up his meal for the day. He slept a little bit, but a sleep where one knows he is completely defenseless is never a very restful one. He awoke hungry and still tired, yet he began to walk again.
Five more whole days passed like this. He walked with very few pauses from sun up to sun down, and got nowhere. Now and again he would try and calling for someone, and he cared little by the sixth day if it brought out anyone who meant him harm. At this rate, he might end up dying out here if someone didn't find him. He hadn't found any more of those berries he'd eaten the first day, and he'd left the river far behind almost two days ago. His muscles ached from all the walking he did on such little resources, crying out even louder with the knowledge they'd been promised a soft bed by what should of been now and were given only hard ground instead. His body had already been heavily taxed by his journey with Brienne, it hadn't been ready for a second round of this.
He had to laugh at himself, though. He'd survived all that he had, and now he was going to die out in the middle of nowhere, not even knowing how he'd ended up here in the first place? Perhaps it was truly against the gods wishes that he reach home. He'd cheated death when he'd survived the fever brought on by his crude amputation; no one had expected him to survive it.
No, he thought to himself, I can't die. Cersei's face came to mind. He could not die before he saw her again. He saw Catelyn in his mind's eye too. She was dead now; he had heard all about it when they'd stopped at an inn alongside the King's Road one night. She would never see her daughters again, whether or not he ever reached King's Landing. But he had promised her they would be given to Brienne to be brought home safely. If not to Catelyn, to another family member-- if there were any still alive, Jaime thought with some dry amusement. The father, the mother, all of their brothers, all as dead as he might soon be. But those were the Starks. The Starks had always been foolish. He was a Lannister. Lannisters always came out on top. And they always paid their debts.
Jaime heard the sound of the melodic voice as clear as day, despite how faint it was. He'd been surrounded by near-silence subtract for his own voice occasionally for the past week now, and it made it impossible to miss even such a distant sound. A girl's, he recognized. That was a good sign. Ruthless bands of mercenaries didn't typically have girls with them, and if they did, they would be in no mood to sing. He quickly moved towards the sound, before it stopped and he wouldn't be able to find her. And the closer he got, the more he recognized the beauty in the girl's voice. Could he really be about to stumble on some ordinary peasant girl, with a voice like that? But who else would be out here, in the middle of this forest?
He had to travel an awkward path to reach her, nearly tripping in his haste, before he finally pushed aside a thick bush to see who it was he'd found. Before him, he saw the pretty young girl, holding in her hand a waterskin which she must have just recently refilled, the tips of her thin fingers still damp. Her auburn hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the sunlight coming through the trees in a most flattering way. Coupled with her clear blue eyes which he caught a glimpse of when she looked up to see who had come, it would be impossible to mistake her for anyone else.
Jaime meant to say Sansa but instead it came out as: "Water." His voice was dry from a thirst he hadn't quenched in two days, and he would of just grabbed the container from her hands, but he was bred better than that, and while that hadn't been his most eloquent introduction, it wouldn't be his first of that kind in recent weeks.