Author's Note: So this story is for JB Week, I've had a tough week so I forgot to post it here as well as on AO3- sorry! Hope you enjoy it :)

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Jaime had not wanted to leave the hospital. It was where he had started this new life of his, where he had first opened his eyes and found only darkness. The hospital suite had been almost like a little apartment, with its luxurious bathroom and plush bedroom and the sunny deck off the sitting room. It was compact, sparsely furnished, and Jaime could feel his way around without worrying too much about damaging himself or, worse, the things around him. More than one fragile thing had been smashed beyond repair thanks to his clumsy fumblings.

But the day had inevitably come when he had to be discharged; the Citadel was not an apartment building, and with the exception of his blindness, he had recuperated his former state of health. Or perhaps even better— the vigorous program of physical therapy had given way, over the weeks, to fitness training, and by the time he'd left his room for good, he'd scarcely fit into his clothing, body bursting the seams of his shirt and trousers with new dimensions of muscle.

He'd wanted to go back to his own home in King's Landing, but the family had deemed it inappropriate for his safety, with all the steps and angles. He'd tried next to stay with Tyrion, but knew it wouldn't be permitted the moment the words left his mouth, thanks to the family's horror at Tyrion's perennial drunkenness and ceaseless parade of whores.

Jaime knew better than to ask for Cersei to provide any tender loving care.

So that left either Casterly Rock or Castamere. His first inclination was to go to Casterly Rock, but it belonged to the old Jaime, the one who could see, the one who'd grown up there, the one whose family had something to do with him beyond dutiful inquiries to his private nurse about his condition. In one fell swoop, he'd lost anything that gave him value, and now he was pensioned off like an old retainer after many years of faithful service.

The winner by default was Castamere. Tywin had acquired it after a canny and half-unethical maneuver involving the stock exchange and bribery, and its owners, the Reynes, subsequently drowned in a flood of bad publicity and demolished reputation. Jaime had been there exactly once, and recalled it as a place of modest size, its only claim to excellence being its location on the rock-strewn shore of the Sunset Sea.

After almost four months in residence there, Jaime was developing love and hate for the place in equal measure. He liked that it was small enough that he couldn't get too terribly lost; even if he miscalculated counting his steps, it was easy for shouts to be heard from one side to the other, so Bronn could find him. And the gardens were reputed to be magnificent. Jaime woke each morning and slept each night to the sound of waves crashing upon the shore, fresh sea air filling his lungs. Ironically, he felt the best he had since his childhood, with the one notable exception.

On the other hand, he had been exiled there, swept beneath a gold-and-crimson carpet so as to not shame the family any more than he already had done. With a continent between him and King's Landing, everyone could forget the unpleasantness Jaime had forced upon them and go back to their prosperous lives.

And all it would cost was discarding Jaime like a broken toy.

"Stop moping and go outside, you glum cunt," came the dulcet tones of his nurse. Jaime couldn't imagine what had inspired Bronn to go into health care, because he had the worst bedside manner of anyone Jaime had ever met, and that included his sister, which was saying something. "Go out to the garden. I'll bring your lunch when it's ready."

Heavy footfalls, growing fainter: Bronn had left the room. Jaime thought of ignoring his directive, but it was just easier to comply. Why fight it? Wasn't like he had anything else to do.

So he left the library, counting the steps from the leather sofa he'd been sitting on until he reached the glass doors leading to what he knew was a wide, shady veranda. A cautious toe explored the floor before him until he found the single step down. Five more paces, more floor exploration, and he had descended the half-dozen steps to the plush lawn that stretched between the house and the garden.

He inhaled deeply, lifting his face to the sun while he thought about what he was smelling. Fresh mown grass, flowers, and something dusty— perhaps churned-up gravel?

Fifty-seven steps and he had entered the garden. Fine-raked pebbles crunched under his feet as he followed the path for eighteen steps. An outstretched hand felt for petals, but found a thorn instead; that plus the unrelenting smell told him he was in the rose arbor. The stink of the roses was so cloying that he hurried to pass through it, heading for the tinkling splash of the fountain at the heart of the garden.

The scent of it grew ever-stronger in Jaime's nose. He reached out and encountered cool marble, fingers running up a long, rounded bit of stone until it flowed into a larger one, and from there, the unmistakable shape of a perfectly formed breast, complete with erect nipple. He realized he was groping the statue that formed the centerpiece of the fountain, a scarf-draped nymph pouring water from an amphora clutched in her lissome arms. Jaime gave the nipple a playful tweak and moved on to trailing his fingertips in the water cascading from the vessel.

As he walked past the fountain, the smell of the water and the lily pads and the faintest hint of pond scum underlying it all receded. Twenty-three paces, and he'd reached the knot garden, where the medicinal herbs had grown since the time of the Targaryens and probably even earlier. Their smell rose so sharply that it hurt his sinuses and he hurried the thirty-one steps it took to escape that section, to the meadow where wildflowers sprawled, a riot of color lost to Jaime forever.

He liked to eat in the meadow, grasses and flowers rising as tall as he was, when seated, to cocoon him in a world that swayed and whispered with the wind as honeybees zoomed around. It was sixty-four paces to the exact center of the meadow, but he hadn't gone more than eleven of them before crashing into something that was not supposed to have been there. A thud sounded, then a series of clangs as something tipped over and spilled its metallic contents. Jaime landed draped over the object, palms coming down hard on whatever had fallen out of it, and he began to swear viciously.

Pain radiated up from his wrists and knees, and he was certain he'd bruised a rib when he landed on the thing. He tried to scramble away, or up, but his footing was insecure, with things sliding beneath him. Anger rose in him to mix with the pain, and he found himself shouting obscenities in enraged frustration.

"Ser!" exclaimed a voice, female, pleasing to the ear— if Jaime weren't on the verge of killing someone or himself in fury. "Stop— stop thrashing around like that, you're just— stop!"

There was command in the voice, and Jaime had been well-trained to heel by father and military both. He froze, chest heaving with exertion from both trying to stand and the cussing, and then hands, large and gentle and warm, covered his own. He sat back on his heels, feeling precariously perched, and permitted her to take his hands and raise them. He presumed she was inspecting the palms for damage.

"How did you trip over the wheelbarrow?" she asked, a fingertip tracing over an abrasion on the heel of one hand. "Didn't you see it?"

He flashed her his widest, meanest grin. "With what?" he asked, silken menace in his voice. Woman or no, he felt a near-overwhelming urge to strike her.

She tsked at him, clearly thinking he was being obtuse. "With your eyes, of course, you—"

Then she stopped, sudden as a fall off a cliff, and sucked in a gasp. For a protracted moment, there was nothing but the far-off chittering of a squirrel fighting for a nut. He knew she was taking in the scars pocking and slashing over his face, the clear green of his eyes having gone milky, and how he was probably not 'looking' at her like a sighted person would. He was probably 'staring' at her ear or over her shoulder, he thought bitterly, looking daft and feeble.

"Oh," she breathed at last. "Oh, no. I'm… I'm…"

"Stupid as well as careless?" Jaime snarled, wrenching his hands from her grip.

"Sorry," she finished. "I didn't know— no one told me—" She stumbled to a halt, and then, "I'm sorry."

Jaime wasn't particularly interested in her apologies. He tried to stand and, yet again, slid and slipped and gave up in defeat.

"Wait," she said. Clinking of metal told him she was standing— no problem for her to navigate the heap of whatever they were ensconced upon— and then those same warm hands had slid under his arms. One soft exhalation of breath by his ear, and he was hoisted up, then frog-marched a few feet over until the soft crackle of wildflowers beneath his feet said he was standing on regular old meadow once more.

"Who are you?" he demanded, prodding at his sore ribs and hissing in reaction to the bright flare of pain it caused. She was unbelievably strong for a woman, and though he could smell the exertion of her work on her, there was an underlying scent of the sea as well, all saltwater and fresh air.

"The gardener," she replied absently, and then she was grabbing his hands again, thumbs rubbing over his palms. This time he could tell there was wetness there— he was bleeding.

"You're not the gardener," he replied. He wrenched his hands free for the second time and rubbed them over the thighs of his trousers. "Clegane has worked here for decades. I might be blind, but even I can tell a wench from an old man."

"Uncle Conor had an accident and hurt his legs. With both Gregor and Sandor off at the war, he asked if I'd come and help until he was better." She paused, then added, with an edge to her voice, "And I am not a wench."

Jaime barked out a laugh, though he couldn't tell why. Nothing was funny. "You're a wench if I say you're a wench. Now help me to the edge of the meadow so I can count my way back inside."

She cupped his elbow and tugged him solicitously along. He could tell when his feet left the meadow and trod on the pebbled path once more, but she didn't leave him to his own efforts, continuing to guide him. His stomach growled again, and he signed in resignation; Bronn wouldn't feed him until he was cleaned up, and that could take upwards of an hour, depending on how extensive the lacerations on his hands and knees were.

"What was in the wheelbarrow?" he asked, trying to jerk his elbow from her grasp, but she would not permit his escape, merely recapturing it the moment he broke free, persistent but never anything but gentle. Jaime could not help but compare her to Cersei; his sister's sharp little fingers would have pressed displeased bruises into his arm by now, furious at the mess and noise and inconvenience he'd caused.

"All my garden tools," she replied, sounding abashed. "Trowels, cultivators, forks, spades, pruners—"

"Yes, I know what garden tools are," Jaime said testily. "Now more intimately than ever." He was just lucky he hadn't impaled a hand on one of the forks; the last thing he needed was to lose one of them in addition to his sight.

The smells and sounds informed him of their location just as they had on his trip into the garden, and despite his ire, he couldn't help but reach out to trail his fingertips over the plants within reach as they passed by.

They'd just reached the rose garden when he heard the crunching footsteps of another person, and then, "Fookin' hell. I leave you alone for fifteen fookin' minutes, you cunt, and—"

"No," the woman said, sharply. "It's not his fault, it's mine. I didn't know that— I didn't know, and left something in the way, and he tripped."

Bronn was miraculously silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Let's get you cleaned up. If we hurry, you can eat lunch before it's stone cold."

But instead of grabbing one of Jaime's hands and plunking it on his arm so Jaime could walk with him, there was the sound of footsteps circling Jaime and then two hands in his back.

"Walk ahead of me," said Bronn. "I'll tell you when you're about to fall up the steps."

"You'd better," Jaime muttered, and left without another word to the woman, Clegane's… niece? She'd called him uncle, though that could just be an honorary title.

"Who the hells was that?" Bronn asked after they left the rose garden for the lawn.

"Said Clegane was hurt and couldn't come, so she was working for him until he was well again," Jaime said, then gave voice to his curiosity. "What's she like?"

The nurse gave a filthy-sounding laugh and said, "You must be desperate if you're interested in that one."

Jaime's already-sour mood took a turn downward. "I can't fucking see. I didn't know her before, when I could see. Is it unreasonable to want to know how a stranger looks? Are you going to think I want to fuck every new woman I meet?"

They'd gone twenty-six of the fifty-seven steps from rose garden to veranda steps, so he moved away from Bronn's guiding hands and began to stride toward the house like he used to, with confidence, devoid of apprehension that he'd maim himself with a misstep.

"Jaime…" Bronn said from nearby, having effortlessly caught up to him. He said no more, but his tone was as close to an apology as Jaime was going to get. Jaime felt a touch at his elbow but he shifted away.

"Leave," he said coldly.

"Fine, Your Highness," Bronn muttered. Jaime soon heard the rustling of his footsteps on the lawn as he stalked away, likely just as disgusted with Jaime as Jaime was with him.

He ended up being only two paces off in his counting, having to grope just a little to find the railing and climb the steps. Once inside, he made his way to the bathroom, where he soon had the hot water roaring into the tub as he stripped off. Climbing in, the water stung his cuts but he didn't care. Not about that, or Bronn, or the gardener woman, or anything else.

At all.