Re: Brienne/Jaime FILLED 1/2
anonymous
July 14 2012, 23:51:42 UTC
Warnings: anxiety, panic attack, no smut, sorry :(
A Fear of Darkness
When she wakes in the night, she shuts her eyes.
Go away, she demands silently. Go away, go away. Do as Jaime said and go away.
Focusing on her stuttered breathing, she wills herself calm. She imagines sitting beside her father. Go away to Tarth. Go away inside. She cannot know where she is, in this darkness. The dark is dangerous-not in itself, no, but because of what it spawns.
Go away.
Her father tells her the story of the talking aurochs and the clever grumkin, his voice rising and falling melodically like the sea below the windows of the dining hall. She loves this room best of all, how it juts out of the castle on Tarth floats over the ocean. Her freckled, unscarred hands smooth out her dress as her father grins and sups his midday wine. She misses the ever-present sound of waves, the blue, and the sea breeze that lived in the walkways of her father’s castle.
Go away, go away to home.
The day is bright, beautiful, and her father smiles and whispers. This is where she feels safe.
There is a loud, inanimate groan behind her and she chokes.
“Did I wake you?”
Brienne can’t move. She knows this voice but cannot open her eyes. The groan sounds again, the croak of a heavy wooden door.
Go away. Go away.
She hears a step. Of course, she remembers no noise from that night at Renly’s camp, but her teeth clench and toes curl all the same.
She hears breathing and soft footsteps. The shadow is trying to be quiet and failing. For her sake? She is a woman of strength and fury, a woman with a sword of Valyrian steel, so she peeks into the dark and sees the shadow.
It is clumsier and slower than it was when it murdered Renly, but it still frightens her, darkness against darkness. She remembers the blood and the horrible noises that Renly made. She remembers his eyes, what they looked like in death. She remember what the shadow did.
Brienne squeezes her eyes shut and sucks in a breath.
“Go away,” she says, small and weak. It’s not a command, it’s a plea.
“There is a bed for me in this room as well, wench,” the shadow’s voice says, amused. She listens to the shifting of wood in the hearth, flint striking, a crackle of flame. “It’s bloody cold, why did you let the fire go out?”
The room is brighter now, and she feels stupid. Curling into herself, shaking, Brienne decides that she hates this place and every place that is not Tarth.
She wills herself to go back to sleep but feels Renly’s blood on her hands, fresh and wet. Her exhalation is a sob, an accident too private even for her.
The mattress dips. Jaime grabs her shoulder and she flinches, tense and hot. He is silent for a long while but his grip becomes gentler.
“Were you weeping?” he asks.
She gives him a hard look and her face reddens. Still, her heart is wild.
“I had a nightmare,” she lies.
Jaime looks at her, his eyes green and blank.
“Tell me,” he says calmly.
“I am not a child,” she snarls, brushing her unscarred cheek. It is only a little wet.
Jaime frowns and his hand goes to her elbow. She doesn’t understand why he is touching her, but it is not helping. She simply feels more embarrassed. A woman grown and a warrior afraid of dark and shadows; pathetic.
His eyes search her face and she looks away. This moment is not bearable and she wills it to pass. “Let me sleep.”
“Brienne,” he says softly. “Tell me, and tell it true. What did you dream of?”
She draws a breath, but it catches in her throat.
“A shadow.”
“Ah,” Jaime says, awkward. His hand is still on her arm.
Re: Brienne/Jaime FILLED 2/2
anonymous
July 14 2012, 23:52:20 UTC
Her heart is slowing, and she feels calmer. This is the best part of it, she knows. The panic is immobilizing, the aftermath embarrassing. Relief, a reminder of safety-that feeling is wonderful. She feels herself relax inch by inch, the iron knot in her chest unfurling. This isn’t the first time she has felt this fear, no.
“It’s-I dream of Renly, sometimes. Not-I dream of his death, not of…” she mutters. “His blood and the shadow. I wake up, and they’re still there. His blood and the shadow.”
She looks back at Jaime and he nods tersely, looking at his feet. His eyes are hooded. The firelight picks at the gold in his hair like string.
“I apologize if I worried you,” Brienne says, calmer, duller. She sits up a little against her pillow and Jaime releases her arm. She wipes her cheek again, though this time it is nearly dry.
“I’ve never seen you cry,” he says darkly. “I was indeed worried.”
Her mouth twists.
“I have dreams, too,” he continues in a low voice. “Dreams where I lose my hand. And I wake up, and it’s gone. A living nightmare. I might know what it feels like to wake in the dark.”
Brienne’s eyes widen. He speaks to her in this fashion from time to time, as if she were his confessor. As if he considers her his equal.
He lifts his hand and brushes a lock of hair from her forehead.
“Thank goodness I was here to save you from the shadows,” he says quietly, a touch of kindness in his voice. “You are my protector. I owe you that much.”
She can’t help her smile, equal parts grateful and charmed. Brienne blinks and stares at her lap, watches as Jaime’s fingers slide into hers.
“May I keep you company this night?” he says into her ear, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand. “Perhaps you will keep my nightmares away.”
She trusts him enough to grip his fingers and pull him down next to her, releasing his hand to allow him to adjust himself. He is awkward, landing on his elbow, but he toes his boots off and slides beside her, pulling the quilt to his neck.
She closes her eyes, preparing to fall asleep again. Jaime’s hand goes to her waist and he tucks his face into her neck. Her arm falls unwillingly over his, unmoving and awkward. This was… unexpected.
Why?
Suddenly nervous, she tries to go away to again, but the warm light of the fire is too different from the bright blue of Tarth’s sky.
The roar of the ocean gives way to Jaime’s breathing, her father’s stories morph into Jaime’s plea into her throat.
“Wench, please don’t make me pity you, you know I cannot bear it,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing into her waist. His lips brush her skin and she suddenly regrets allowing him into her bed.
“Don’t pity me, then,” she whispers. He kisses her collarbone.
She’d never imagined that would happen to her, ever. Does that make her pitiable?
He kisses her collarbone again.
“You loved Renly.”
She nods, unable to speak. He angles his head to kiss underneath her jaw. He stills and she feels the itch of his beard against her skin. Sighing, he shifts closer.
Brienne stays awake until the fire dies and Jaime’s breathing evens in sleep. She allows her arm to curl around him and her hand to spread wide across his back. He likely wouldn’t allow anything like this again, not for some time. She knows he still loves his sister, that whatever comfort she provides is temporary and platonic.
And she knows that she loves him.
Perhaps not like Renly, perhaps not like her father. This is a love altogether different.
She allows herself wrap around him, her lips brushing his forehead (such a risk, such a risk). He is a complicated man, awful and important and dear.
She doesn’t fall asleep until the shadows have died, destroyed by the sunlight that peeks through the narrow window.
Re: Brienne/Jaime FILLED 2/2fallingtowersJuly 15 2012, 06:56:52 UTC
That's just wonderfully sweet (and a bit sad) without ever being too saccharine - I love especially how you weave some of Brienne's happy childhood memories into this! ♥
Re: Brienne/Jaime FILLED 2/2iorwen107July 15 2012, 14:03:24 UTC
My heart is always breaking for Brienne. This was so sad and so lovely at the same time. I hope Brienne makes it to Tarth again (with Jaime on her arm!)
A Fear of Darkness
When she wakes in the night, she shuts her eyes.
Go away, she demands silently. Go away, go away. Do as Jaime said and go away.
Focusing on her stuttered breathing, she wills herself calm. She imagines sitting beside her father. Go away to Tarth. Go away inside. She cannot know where she is, in this darkness. The dark is dangerous-not in itself, no, but because of what it spawns.
Go away.
Her father tells her the story of the talking aurochs and the clever grumkin, his voice rising and falling melodically like the sea below the windows of the dining hall. She loves this room best of all, how it juts out of the castle on Tarth floats over the ocean. Her freckled, unscarred hands smooth out her dress as her father grins and sups his midday wine. She misses the ever-present sound of waves, the blue, and the sea breeze that lived in the walkways of her father’s castle.
Go away, go away to home.
The day is bright, beautiful, and her father smiles and whispers. This is where she feels safe.
There is a loud, inanimate groan behind her and she chokes.
“Did I wake you?”
Brienne can’t move. She knows this voice but cannot open her eyes. The groan sounds again, the croak of a heavy wooden door.
Go away. Go away.
She hears a step. Of course, she remembers no noise from that night at Renly’s camp, but her teeth clench and toes curl all the same.
She hears breathing and soft footsteps. The shadow is trying to be quiet and failing. For her sake? She is a woman of strength and fury, a woman with a sword of Valyrian steel, so she peeks into the dark and sees the shadow.
It is clumsier and slower than it was when it murdered Renly, but it still frightens her, darkness against darkness. She remembers the blood and the horrible noises that Renly made. She remembers his eyes, what they looked like in death. She remember what the shadow did.
Brienne squeezes her eyes shut and sucks in a breath.
“Go away,” she says, small and weak. It’s not a command, it’s a plea.
“There is a bed for me in this room as well, wench,” the shadow’s voice says, amused. She listens to the shifting of wood in the hearth, flint striking, a crackle of flame. “It’s bloody cold, why did you let the fire go out?”
The room is brighter now, and she feels stupid. Curling into herself, shaking, Brienne decides that she hates this place and every place that is not Tarth.
She wills herself to go back to sleep but feels Renly’s blood on her hands, fresh and wet. Her exhalation is a sob, an accident too private even for her.
The mattress dips. Jaime grabs her shoulder and she flinches, tense and hot. He is silent for a long while but his grip becomes gentler.
“Were you weeping?” he asks.
She gives him a hard look and her face reddens. Still, her heart is wild.
“I had a nightmare,” she lies.
Jaime looks at her, his eyes green and blank.
“Tell me,” he says calmly.
“I am not a child,” she snarls, brushing her unscarred cheek. It is only a little wet.
Jaime frowns and his hand goes to her elbow. She doesn’t understand why he is touching her, but it is not helping. She simply feels more embarrassed. A woman grown and a warrior afraid of dark and shadows; pathetic.
His eyes search her face and she looks away. This moment is not bearable and she wills it to pass. “Let me sleep.”
“Brienne,” he says softly. “Tell me, and tell it true. What did you dream of?”
She draws a breath, but it catches in her throat.
“A shadow.”
“Ah,” Jaime says, awkward. His hand is still on her arm.
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“It’s-I dream of Renly, sometimes. Not-I dream of his death, not of…” she mutters. “His blood and the shadow. I wake up, and they’re still there. His blood and the shadow.”
She looks back at Jaime and he nods tersely, looking at his feet. His eyes are hooded. The firelight picks at the gold in his hair like string.
“I apologize if I worried you,” Brienne says, calmer, duller. She sits up a little against her pillow and Jaime releases her arm. She wipes her cheek again, though this time it is nearly dry.
“I’ve never seen you cry,” he says darkly. “I was indeed worried.”
Her mouth twists.
“I have dreams, too,” he continues in a low voice. “Dreams where I lose my hand. And I wake up, and it’s gone. A living nightmare. I might know what it feels like to wake in the dark.”
Brienne’s eyes widen. He speaks to her in this fashion from time to time, as if she were his confessor. As if he considers her his equal.
He lifts his hand and brushes a lock of hair from her forehead.
“Thank goodness I was here to save you from the shadows,” he says quietly, a touch of kindness in his voice. “You are my protector. I owe you that much.”
She can’t help her smile, equal parts grateful and charmed. Brienne blinks and stares at her lap, watches as Jaime’s fingers slide into hers.
“May I keep you company this night?” he says into her ear, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand. “Perhaps you will keep my nightmares away.”
She trusts him enough to grip his fingers and pull him down next to her, releasing his hand to allow him to adjust himself. He is awkward, landing on his elbow, but he toes his boots off and slides beside her, pulling the quilt to his neck.
She closes her eyes, preparing to fall asleep again. Jaime’s hand goes to her waist and he tucks his face into her neck. Her arm falls unwillingly over his, unmoving and awkward. This was… unexpected.
Why?
Suddenly nervous, she tries to go away to again, but the warm light of the fire is too different from the bright blue of Tarth’s sky.
The roar of the ocean gives way to Jaime’s breathing, her father’s stories morph into Jaime’s plea into her throat.
“Wench, please don’t make me pity you, you know I cannot bear it,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing into her waist. His lips brush her skin and she suddenly regrets allowing him into her bed.
“Don’t pity me, then,” she whispers. He kisses her collarbone.
She’d never imagined that would happen to her, ever. Does that make her pitiable?
He kisses her collarbone again.
“You loved Renly.”
She nods, unable to speak. He angles his head to kiss underneath her jaw. He stills and she feels the itch of his beard against her skin. Sighing, he shifts closer.
Brienne stays awake until the fire dies and Jaime’s breathing evens in sleep. She allows her arm to curl around him and her hand to spread wide across his back. He likely wouldn’t allow anything like this again, not for some time. She knows he still loves his sister, that whatever comfort she provides is temporary and platonic.
And she knows that she loves him.
Perhaps not like Renly, perhaps not like her father. This is a love altogether different.
She allows herself wrap around him, her lips brushing his forehead (such a risk, such a risk). He is a complicated man, awful and important and dear.
She doesn’t fall asleep until the shadows have died, destroyed by the sunlight that peeks through the narrow window.
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