SÓLO PIENSO EN TI
A song fic on Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth
(Inspired by that Víctor Manuel song that always brings me to tears, and by a couple of Ende stories)
The idea of writing in two different colours I have to thank Ende, god of innocent fantasy, for. His Neverending Story is written in red (real world) and green (Fantasia). This fic, in a similar vein, is written in blue (Brienne) and red (Jaime).
There is also a lot of Ende influence in here, especially in how Ende handles the themes of coming of age and being an outsider (Neverending Story, Jojo...), aside from a faint echo of "The Queen Beyond the Wall", my Snow Queen Jaimienne fic.
There's faint Renlienne at the start, and some Lannincest implication. But from on these flashbacks, which make both POV characters reflect on their suffering, it's basically the supper at Harrenhal. It's Jaime and Brienne both healing from the wounds in their hearts. Then realizing that both of them are different when they are with each other and without anyone else. Renly, Cersei, Tywin, even Roose are no more. The past is the past, and its shadow is merely banished for a while. But it seems forever.
The song itself always moves me to tears. I have read somewhere that the lyrics are based on a true story. On real life. It features a girl who was born with a defect and a boy whose wealthy father discarded him, believing him to be a curse. These two are raised in the same orphanage/institution/whatever. They're both in their twenties. And they fall in love, exchanging flowers and drawing, and turning the orphanage garden into their personal paradise. Yet we can't forget how Dickensianly both of these young people were rejected by their own parents as infants. Heartwrenching.
The lovers in the story are still alive in real life, happily married. And they have three children, at least one of them at a university.
I wish that Jaime and Brienne could have such a future in common.
I was born almost yesterday, born to love like only a young girl can feel, her heart throbbing with passion, towards her first sweetheart. The sparkles in his eyes, the softness of his voice, the warmth that ran through me whenever he smiled and addressed me. Even though he had given his heart to another, it was clear that there was, somewhere in his chest, at least a little place for my innocent feelings. Yet it was all but a dream, it had to come to an end sooner or later, and I have recently been forced to awaken into a harsh reality.
I still remember that evening when, suddenly, the bright flame of his life was quenched in my powerless embrace.
Like a shot between the eyes, followed by a cold flash of light, this feeling racks my frame and paralyzes me. That evening in his own pavilion, that wound that opened his chest, his reeling form caught in my strong arms, his life-blood, warm and liquid like lava, slipping through my fingers and staining my warrior's hands.
His flesh cold and hard and white as ice, his blood warm and elusive, the colour and life of Dornish wine. His eyelids closing for one last time, like a curtain at the end of the play. Renly's life was a tragedy: short, passionate, and painful at the bitter end. His wine-like blood leaving a fatally broken form, his life slipping, warm and throbbing, through my hardened hands. A smile on his lilywhite and fine lips, curled upwards into an eternal smile, a trickle of blood leaving his lips, like a trickle of wine or of life, gone forever never to return.
The flower had been blighted by the storm, the flame would never display its warm glow.
He was not grown up yet, almost had he reached his twenty-third year. I have just turned twenty myself.
Yet who are you, ragged stranger, come into my now broken life?
I was born the second, clutching my sister's heel, yet as the male half of the two and the heir to the clan. As the eldest son of the greatest lord in Westeros. And thus, my childhood was a bed of roses without thorns, a golden dream, a war spent far from the front within grand royal halls, a fairytale unsubstantial and laced with ennui because nothing at all had gone wrong, and there was no conflict (not even after the well-intentioned stabbing of a ruler who rather proved a threat to us loyal subjects).
Still, my lord father was never satisfied, my sister was the queen of all the land, and I was just a ploy to wear a surname and a crest. They whispered "kingslayer" behind my back, but never "realm-saviour", which I would rather have liked to describe the reason why I thrust that blade where it had to be. So I had become an affront, a stain of blood on the Lannister crest, and later the sire of a child with no heart of his own: a child born outside wedlock to a queen whose love was never returned, except by her own brother. Such love was forbidden to both of us, yet we had no other passion that seared us so feverishly. Together, we created a monster and a scourge.
And thus, I embodied the decadence of our once great and grand surname. My lord father looked for a place to send me away from court and crown, and he found that place on the battlefield. There I had my real baptism of fire, but my skill on the field was second to the foe's, and thus, taken prisoner of war after the fray, I disgraced my own name, that of my lord father, and that of a household once both beloved and dreaded throughout seven kingdoms. Within the loveless walls of a dungeon, my hair darkened and my heart did the same, as I longed for the great halls of grander keeps... or for my life to have ended, like that of a hero, pierced with cold steel on the open field.
No longer the one I was, bereft of hope, I will soon reach the age of thirty-four.
Yet who are you, mannish maiden, come into my now broken life?
Lord Bolton is going to have us for supper tonight. Never had we eaten anything else than mushrooms and berries until we came to this cursed hall. At least it will be better than starving to death. I look at myself in the mirror, as the maids dress me in the favourite gown of the late Lady Bolton. The soft pink satin and all that lace, which may have been loved by our host's spouse, are not my style. I'd rather wear a blue doublet and breeches, with a breastplate to cover my chest and back. But our host said that I would look gorgeous in this dress, and there's something in his cold glare which betrays that he shall never be contradicted.
I am so tall that Lady Bolton's gown does not reach my ankles, as a matter of fact, it scarcely comes below my knees. What I see in the mirror is a strangely tall and broad-shouldered girl with a nice spray of freckles. A freak, as most people can see. Except Renly, the Seven bless his soul. I pick up his kind words and muster my courage as I enter the dining hall. Next to my empty chair, the Lannister is sitting, and he chortles wistfully. Now he is finally groomed, he is certainly dashing, his locks shine like pure gold once more, and the two bright emeralds of his eyes are fixed on me. While I blush so much as my skin turns the colour of my gown, I feel my heart ready to burst out of my chest, I can't breathe properly... and a tickle, like a shock, runs all the way from my head to my toes.
I have recently drained my last cup, and Lord Bolton has sent the cupbearer to fill it up again. Then, I hear a now familiar female voice. The Tarth girl has finally arrived. She is so tall that the gown reaches her knees, and it's also too full of frills: this gown doesn't suit her as much as her usual blue armour, that also matches the colour of her short light blond hair. In truth, I have to repress my laughter upon seeing what kind of figure she cuts. She blushes so much that the freckles on her face disappear for a while (have I just hurt her feelings), and the two bright sapphires of her eyes are fixed on me. While the warm Dornish wine kindles a pleasant glow inside me, and she takes a seat by my side at the table, I feel my heart ready to burst out of my chest, I can't breathe properly... and a tickle, like a shock, runs all the way from my head to my toes.
The forget-me-nots that I picked in the godswood before supper have not withered yet. I hand the little flowers, still blue and bright as her day-sky eyes, over to her, and she smiles and blushes once more, as she chortles.
I look at the charcoal drawing that I made before trying on the gown. I know how little skill I have at drawing, but I have done my best, since I was thinking of both Renly and the Lannister heir as my hand projected my true feelings onto the parchment. It's supposed to represent a broken heart healing anew. The Westerlander, before raising his cup to me, shows me a posy of forget-me-nots he has picked in the godswood. Did he know that these are my favourite flowers? The same fuzzy feeling from before overtakes me. Taking the little blue flowers from his soft courtier hands, I give him my drawing and explain what it's meant to represent. A broken heart healing anew.
Then, we look at each other and clink our cups together.
Then, we look at each other and clink our cups together.
I can only think of you, my fair warrior. Hand in hand, we walk together through the midnight godswood, lit up by a moonless night sky full of stars and countless little glowing fireflies. Somehow, both of us have become children again, innocent children playing in a godswood, with not a wish of venturing beyond into the great unknown. If I were to die now, or to get back home, or to reunite with the beloved one I once lost, I could not ever be happier than I am right now, right here, with you alone, on our own. No one, in this world or any other, could ever feel as contented as you and me.
I can only think of you, my fair warrior.
I can only think of you, my fair warrior. Hand in hand, we walk together through the midnight godswood, lit up by a moonless night sky full of stars and countless little glowing fireflies. Somehow, both of us have become children again, innocent children playing in a godswood, with not a wish of venturing beyond into the great unknown. If I were to die now, or to get back home, or to reunite with the beloved one I once lost, I could not ever be happier than I am right now, right here, with you alone, on our own. No one, in this world or any other, could ever feel as contented as you and me.
I can only think of you, my fair warrior.
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