Chapter Text
The hemp of the noose was coarse and oily where it ground into his skin. Catelyn Stark’s decaying corpse was smiling at him.
For a single heartbeat, as he fell, he remembered Brandon Stark.
Father, Brandon had screamed. Father, Father. He had been purple and grotesque and Jaime had watched him so he wouldn’t have to watch Lord Stark. In his dreams sometimes Brandon turned his head at an impossible angle to stare Jaime down and asked “Jaime, why are you silent?”
Now it’s my turn, he thought to the ghost of that Brandon.
He didn’t think of his father, though. Jaime landed. He choked, his jaw turned up at an impossible angle. He needed air. There was a burning in his chest and his hand scrambled uselessly at the rope, his stump instinctively moving with it. Brienne was screaming something, but he lost the words in the roar of blood in his ears. It was so loud it was painful.
Cersei. I can’t die without Cersei. It was a stupid fucking thought. The world was going gray at the edges; in the tiny tunnel of light that remained, all he could see, dark against the grey sky, were the gnarly branches of his hanging tree.
His vision went black. There was a roaring in his ears like the sea crashing into the cliffs under the Rock. He was burning.
Then he stumbled. He was standing. He was alive. Of course he was.
I can’t die without Cersei.
There was a boy in front of him. Another Brandon Stark, steadying himself on the windowsill. Jaime pushed him away with his right hand, flexed his fingers as he watched him fall. It was a good dream.
“What have you done?” Cersei’s voice was shrill behind him. He turned.
Her eyes were wide and bright and shocked. Her hair was mussed, her skirts in disarray, her skin flushed. She was panting. Messy and imperfect, she was a glorious vision. “What have you done?” She repeated. “What were you thinking? Were you even thinking?” She scrambled to her feet. “We need to ––”
He was across the tower and on her in three steps. She reached for him, and he turned her and pressed her face into the hard of the stone wall.
“Jaime, no,” she started. He hushed her as he slid his hands up her skirts, hiking her up to support her weight. “Stop, Jaime. We have to leave. Someone will come. The boy –– Jaime, stop, stop. The boy. We need to leave.”
Despite her words, she ground back against him.
“No,” he said and pushed into her. He took her hips with both his hands and used them to make her fuck down onto him. He laughed at the feel of it and did it again.
It had been too long. She was warm and tight and squirming. She begged for him and rubbed against him, pulled his hand around her waist and shoved it between her legs where he seized her. It wasn’t enough. He wanted her to scream. He yanked at her hair and thrilled at the pained moan it forced from her. He used it as leverage to pull her head back, and dragged his teeth along her neck, her jaw, her mouth. It wasn’t enough. He fucked her hard and fast and spent himself inside of her though she hissed don’t don’t until he shut her up with a hand over her mouth. It still wasn’t enough.
She slumped bonelessly against the wall when he released her. He found his breeches, put them on. It was easy to tie them; he still had two hands. He reached for his sword belt. The blade was light and when he swung it it moved in his hand like music. Like a breath of fresh air after the noose. He turned for the steps.
“Jaime, wait,” Cersei said. She had slid down to the ground, still breathing heavily. It was a beautiful sight; she would only ruin it with her faithless mouth.
He left her there.
--
It was better than a dream. It was no dream. He had dreamed himself his hand a thousand nights, but never like this. The sword had missed him. It danced for him and whistled and sung as he swung it, found its target with unerring precision, struck home with a force that could cleave kingdoms. Jaime made no effort to constrain his delight. He didn’t need any details or explanations; he was alive.
Most of the Stark men were out hunting with the King, but there were a few dotted about the courtyard. One was a man Jaime vaguely recognized. When he took Jaime up on his silent offer and their blades met, Jaime remembered killing him. Jaime laughed again and again as he whipped the sword from the other man’s hands. Every stroke with the blade was Cersei’s hands moving down his cock, every hit the moment he sheathed himself fully within her. He was free, he was whole, he was home. But Stark’s man could only take so much. He pleaded his escape and Jaime looked for the next target.
Ned Stark’s bastard was swinging a tourney sword at a training dummy, looking for all the world like a memory come to life. He was Ned Stark, young and dour and Jaime couldn’t see his eyes but he could picture their disdainful expression.
Let’s see you then, Jaime thought. The honor of the Lord Eddard Stark.
“Bastard,” he called. “Not welcome at the hunt with your brother?”
The boy’s eyes shot to him, whole body bristling with indignation. His face was too young for Jaime’s memories, Jaime could see that now. It was disappointing.
“Dance with me,” Jaime offered, smiling to ease the insult. The boy was still offended, but obviously intrigued. Jaime knew he was too good an offer to turn down, had seen the boy eyeing his fight with his father’s man.
Jaime beat him and beat him and beat him. It wasn’t just his hand – his whole body was reborn. This was a body that had never betrayed him, never stunk in its own shit and piss for months and months and months as it grew weaker and weaker from hunger and disuse. He was flying. The boy pulled himself up off the ground time and again, with a stubbornness that he couldn’t help but respect. By the time the boy reached his limit, Jaime was panting and satisfied as well.
He sheathed his sword, offered the boy his hand and helped him up. “Well fought,” he said, and meant it. “What’s your name, bastard?”
“Jon Snow,” the boy said. He looked torn between scowling at the insult or smiling back, still half-lost in the thrill of the fight. Jaime liked the confused turn to him. He laughed.
“You wanted to join the Night’s Watch,” he remembered. Now wasn’t that an even better joke.
“Yes,” Jon said proudly. “I will ride north when the King’s party leaves.”
“How old are you, then?”
“I’m a man grown, I saw my sixteenth name day already.” The boy was offended.
“It’s no small oath, for a man of sixteen,” Jaime said, thinking of other things.
The boy bristled and haughtily reminded him of the Watch’s noble purpose. Jaime wasn’t listening. The boy looked so much like his father. Much more than his trueborn brother had. Was he conceived in a moment of weakness, or was it an affair of love? It tickled him to imagine Stark breaking his oaths for a reason as human as the love of a woman. If only you knew, he thought, picturing Cersei instead. Stark kept the boy with him, here, at Winterfell. Because he loved the mother? Or just to remind himself of his sin? But now he wanted him hidden away, far off, at the edge of the world.
“For eight-thousand years, we’ve stood at the Wall ––”
“Is it ‘we’ already?” Jaime interrupted. “Have you taken your vows then?”
“Soon enough,” Jon answered. The sour dislike in his voice was all his father too.
Jaime had a wonderful idea. “You have your whole life to take the Black, you know,” he said. “You can try a different cloak first, if it’s a noble calling you seek. Come to King’s Landing as my squire.”
I want to see your father’s face.
The boy spluttered.
“I’m not japing,” Jaime repeated. “You fought well. Most of your family is going anyway, why not? You’ll be with your sisters and one of your brothers.” If the boy lives. “With your father. We’re here to tie our two families together, aren’t we? If you don’t like it, I assure you, it’s easy enough to find caravans to the Wall in King’s Landing. You can travel in good company.” The more he spoke of it the more sure of his genius he was.
“What?” Jon was still searching for words.
Jaime clapped him heartily on the back with his perfect right hand. “Think on it, Snow. Jon. I’ll talk to the King.”
He left the boy. He needed another target. He caught the eye of a Lannister guardsman.
He imagined the look on Ned Stark’s face and grinned.
--
Instead of Ned Stark’s face, he saw Catelyn’s, when they carried the little body into the courtyard. It was uncomfortable to see her like that. She was fresh and whole, the way she had been when she stood above him and bound him by sacred oath to protect her daughters. She was clean, beautiful, nothing like the corpse that had condemned him. But she was distraught, bent over the boy and wailing. His cock twitched. It reminded him of Cersei in the Sept.
He would keep his oath to her, he decided. Still. To this version of her. It didn’t matter that Brienne had lied, or that Catelyn Stark’s revived corpse had hanged him. What did that prove? He already knew the way of the world; the wench might have been fooling herself in her quest for honor, but not him. That didn’t mean he would abandon it.
He had work to do to that end.
“The younger one has the look, doesn’t she?” He asked without prompting, as the King was being changed the next morning. He was on duty now, but instead of standing at the door, he had wandered slightly into the room. Robert was frowning as he looked out the window, his mood still low after the scene with little Brandon that had met their party upon return to Winterfell the previous day.
Robert looked surprised that he had spoken, then confused.
“The younger Stark girl. Arya. All her father. I never met Lyanna Stark, but she had the Stark look about her too, didn’t she?” Jaime continued.
“Yes,” Robert said. The subject was unexpected enough that he forgot Jaime’s gross disregard for protocol. “She was all North. Like Ned.”
With an influence like that, Renly’s behavior should’ve come as no surprise, Jaime thought. “You should give her to your boy then instead of the older one. The way it should’ve been for you.”
“And you should stand at the door with your mouth shut like you swore to do!” Robert roared at him. Something in his words had offended; Jaime did have a way with that. Cersei had an easier time convincing the King to bend to her will. He should’ve gone to her, he supposed. He had never thought to sway Robert on anything before; it wasn’t an exercise he was familiar with.
Jaime shrugged glibly and returned to his post. He could think of something else to free Sansa Stark.
The King thought on it, though. He summoned both girls to him with their father. Stark was obviously uncomfortable with the way Robert fingered their faces, examining them carefully. His hands were large, fingers fat, and the younger girl squirmed in his grasp.
“A little northern rose just waiting to be plucked,” Robert chuckled.
Jaime preened at his own brilliance, then looked away in case Stark was watching.
“She’s very young,” Stark said. Jaime could hear the frown in his voice. “And you’ve already good as announced Sansa. I’ve spoken of it with her.”
Robert turned back to the older girl. “Have you? What do you think of it, then, little lady? Marrying my son?”
“It would be a great honor, Your Grace. I love him very much.” She was all charm and demure grace.
“What about you, then?” Robert huffed, turning back to Arya. Her eyes were Stark, it was true. But she was a scrappy thing, all skin and bones, with a long, boyish face. Jaime couldn’t see the beauty in her. At least the older one was like to grow like her mother, a fine woman. There was no accounting for taste. “Would you want to marry my boy?” The King asked.
“I’m not going to marry anyone!” The girl looked horrified. So did her sister. “And most of all not your awful son!”
Ned Stark cringed and scolded her, but Robert gave a great big belly laugh. He didn’t say it, then, but Jaime knew he was convinced. The humiliation for the girl of such a public spurning might be enough to leave Sansa behind in the North. Of course, he’d still have to look out for Arya. She’d died, hadn’t she? Some other hostage had been married off to the Boltons in her name, he thought. But one seemed much easier than two, especially if she was younger and uglier. The world was less dangerous for such girls.
Yes, foreknowledge made easy even a task as bootless as fulfilling one’s vows.
“You don’t want your sister to be alone down South, do you?” Jaime needled at the bastard some time later. The boy was half-convinced, he could feel it. Otherwise why would he be hanging about the training yard, where Jaime was so obviously bound to find him? “King’s Landing is a dangerous place; lonely, for a Queen. I know I wouldn’t have left my sister there by herself.”
“Is that a threat?” Jon bristled.
“A threat?” Jaime raised his eyebrows with feigned shock and laughed. “Have I truly done such a poor job making my motivations known? I’m attempting to take you to squire, bastard, not to duel.”
“Sansa will have father to look after her,” Jon said dully.
“But it’s Arya due to marry the Prince, isn’t it?” Jaime retorted. “She doesn’t seem quite the lady. I think she might need some fraternal support.”
“Arya?” Jon shook his head in denial. But Jaime’s knowing smile convinced him, and he made his excuses and fled. To his father, most-like.
Jaime was smug when he watched the boy beat his retreat. There was another victory.
--
Other questions were more difficult. He was off duty at supper, and Tyrion clumsily hoisted himself up into the seat besides him in the small private dining hall they had taken to using. His ugly face was twisted with good humor and he greeted Jaime gaily.
“Quite a lot of excitement today, I should think,” his brother said as he ordered a servant to fetch him a different wine. Tyrion and Cersei both had taken a liking to the spicy, warm mulled wines that were so popular in the North.
Jaime didn’t want to see him. I helped you, he thought. I should’ve strangled you myself.
He remembered Tyrion that night in the cell, bitter and hissing. Smiling. I killed your vile son. Their father’s body in the Sept. The one thought like a musical refrain, repeating over and over in his head: Lancel and Osmund Kettleback and Moonboy for all I know…
The reminder was like ice on his shoulders. This wasn’t a dream.
He managed some sort of response to his brother, but his heart wasn’t in it. He thought of the little boy that had followed him so pitifully through the grand corridors of the Rock shouting wait for me, Jaime! as he attempted to run on uneven legs. He couldn’t. No – he didn’t want to.
It was the truth about the girl that had broken his brother. He could stop that, save their father. But Joffrey? He wondered.
“Tyrion,” he said. “Do write from the Wall.” Joffrey was an acceptable exchange.
Cersei cornered him in the corridors after his meal. He was intending to go back to the training yard and was already dressed for it. He couldn’t get enough of the feel of it; he never wanted to stop.
She pulled him into an empty room along the hall. “What are you doing? What game are you playing?” She hissed at him.
“I’m not playing anything, sister dearest.” He looked her up and down. She was wearing heavy furs; he had the feeling she was bare under them.
“Joff is furious. You’ve quite ruined his betrothal, and Robert’s given him an ugly babe-in-arms instead. And what are you plotting with Ned Stark’s bastard?” She sounded incredulous more than angry.
“If he’s told his father, he’s good as agreed,” Jaime mused. He had no interest in this conversation.
They were alone in a small, under-furnished guest room. The corridor outside was quiet.
He examined her thoughtfully. Winterfell was a dangerous place to fuck, but they probably had some time before a servant wandered by. If he took her behind the dresser they would even have a couple seconds if someone entered the room. Enough time to grab his sword. She was thinking the same thing, it seemed, because she had moved closer to him, pushing up onto the tips of her toes.
She met his gaze and he instinctively pulled her against him. But she was facing him, and the look in her eyes reminded him of that night in the White Sword Tower. He thought uncomfortably of the White Book waiting for him there. Just as he had then, he found himself pushing her away.
She was pliable flesh and warm blood before him. He wanted to fuck her mouth until she cried. But he’d had the right of it before. She was sweet, but he didn’t need her.
“Jaime?” She eyed the same dresser he had been looking at, made in its direction.
“I’m a knight of the Kingsguard,” he said aloud, tasting the words as he spoke them.
She propped herself against it and turned around to face him. Her fingers played with the clasp of her fur collar and he could already see the white skin underneath. “My white knight,” she purred.
Yes. He’d always liked the sound of that. He imagined the way she’d say it without her teeth, like Pia at Harrenhal. There were no s’s; it would still sound just as sweet.
“This is done,” he said, and opened the door into the corridor.
He heard her swift feet behind him, let her catch him.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I made a sacred vow,” Jaime smirked.
“A vow?” He could hear the frustration building in her. She shook her head slightly as she examined him, like she was trying to read the jape in his face. “What vow?”
“My Kingsguard vow, Cersei,” he explained, gently, as though she were slow. He could see she didn’t understand what he was saying. “It’s all done, sweet sister. I am to be a man of my vows.”
“To Robert?” She was so outraged she lost control of her voice. Her shout echoed and they both paused – waiting, listening. After a moment of silence, she continued, softer this time. “To Robert?” She repeated. “Jaime, what are you even talking about?”
Confusion warred with hurt on her face. She reached out a hand to touch his, but he pulled away. And Moonboy for all I know… It was all lies; she had no hold on him.
“It was to Aerys,” he said, voice cold.
He heard her pattering after him as he walked away, but his swift steps and the sound of passing voices soon stopped her. Still, there was something to her words. He thought of it in the training yard. It removed some of the magic from his swordplay, and he sheathed the blade to keep the sensation pure. He approached the training dummy and hit it with all his strength, relishing the pain in his hand.
Lancel, like a shadow of himself as he had been. Unbroken and whole and young again. A portrait, drawn to life, preserved and cherished, even while the subject degraded. Whispering the same promises to her that he had as children, back when they had still believed them.
Kettleback’s dark, coarse hair against her smooth pale skin. Robert’s fat fingers groping at her while she pretended to smile. His hands on her breasts, his seed inside of her. Calling her another woman’s name. Cloaking her in the Sept in the eyes of the gods and men.
He hit it again and again until his knuckles were bleeding.
He stalked back to his chambers unsatisfied. Cersei was in his bed.
She was sprawled naked across the heavy furs, lazily petting herself. She shone in the firelight, golden hair loose in a soft cloud beneath her. When she heard him enter, she propped herself up on an elbow and smiled. It was a dangerous look. As she shifted, her breasts pressed into each other. She followed the direction of his gaze and ran a finger across her hard nipples.
The room was dark, the fire running low. Someone would soon be by to stoke it.
“You saved us, Jaime,” she said. “With the boy. I can see it’s tormenting you, but I’m grateful. Let me show you how grateful I am. You saved me.”
He leaned back against the door and watched her until he couldn’t any more. Then he turned her around and took her from behind like an animal.
When he was done, he let her up from where he’d pressed her face down into a decorative fox fur. She made a fine vision against the ruddy pelt. She looked smaller, softer, like a savage northern girl instead of a queen. It suited her better than a thousand diamonds. Her bare skin and his cock.
“My oaths to Robert mean nothing,” he said thoughtfully.
“You made an oath to me,” Cersei said, sitting up to kiss him. Her lips were soft and tasted of cloves. He bit down hard on her lip as she pulled away and she huffed at him.
He stood, lacing his breeches. She looked pleased with herself. She lied with the rest of her body as well as she lied with her tongue.
“If you give yourself to him again...” Jaime said. He stopped, considered it. Lancel, and Osmund Kettleback and probably Moonboy, for all I know. “I’ll kill him.”
“He’s my husband,” Cersei responded, not even looking at him as she began to dress. Her tone was light but derisive, as though he were japing. He was silent, and she turned to face him, saw the sincerity in his eyes. “Jaime, have you gone mad? Jaime? Jaime!”
He didn’t need to take her tongue out, he had realized; he could just walk away. He did. Her voice followed him from his own chambers, loud enough it could easily ruin them, but he ignored it. He didn’t need her – he’d proved that, hadn’t he? He still wanted her. He could have everything he wanted. It was easy enough: just like this.
He even had enough presence of mind to tell the little maid rushing past him not to bother with his fire.