Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Everything else belongs to G.R.R. Martin and HBO.

Summary: There is still time, Jaime thinks as he looks at the book, at the pristine white pages, at the gleaming dark blue armour. Time to keep his vows, to right his wrongs, to write her deeds.

A/N: God, it's been a rough two months. But writing has always healed, always been a sign of recovery. It hurts to stretch those mental muscles but if ever there was a couple and a story to do it for, this is it. Mostly based on the show-verse, with that dreadful bastardisation of the Sept scene duly erased; it just doesn't happen in my world.

OATHKEEPER

I.

Cersei had asked for Sansa Stark's head. His shining beautiful sister, tall, slender, golden as the armour he had worn when he had slain a pitiful dangerous old king who had thought himself more dragon than man.

Jaime's mouth quirked in a mirthless twist as he thought of them, standing at the balcony of the White Sword Tower, feeling the wind as it combed through his hair and swirled the white cloak around him. Perhaps in some ways, lions really were like dragons. Her shining knight, his sister lover had called him. What she really meant was her assassin. She had meant to send him after a child whom she had held captive in King's Landing, whom Joffrey had tormented repeatedly, who probably could not lift a sword in defence of her own life...this was whom Cersei meant for him to kill. A child more defenceless than the blubbering Aerys who had pissed on himself. Except that Sansa would probably meet her end with more dignity, given all that he had learnt she had endured and survived.

Cersei never took no for an answer. She had murder in her heart and would find a sword to wield and Lannister gold, queen's gold, was not something most people said no to as well. And the city he now looked upon was full of skilled sellswords and dishonest knights who were a disgrace to the title they bore. As though it had heard him, a particularly strong gust snapped the white cloak hard and Jaime felt its weight more than he should have. "Yes," he murmured softly, maybe to the gods who had hardly ever heard him. "I know I am unworthy of this too."

Turning inside, he stepped into the lengthening shadows of the room. It was late in the afternoon and the servant he had sent for Brienne had been gone for quite some time now. She would want to see this; he stepped up to the table, eyes on the thick book, the White Book as it was informally named. He could imagine those extraordinary eyes lighting up as she read of the exploits of the Lord Commanders that had preceded him. And then there was his chapter. Jaime grimaced as, with a clumsy left hand, he turned the pages and stared at the short paragraphs, written in script that would have embarrassed a six-year-old. Whatever would Brienne think?

She had been right. Sansa Stark had not been safe in King's Landing and he ought to have moved faster, been less complacent, been less distracted with trying to fix everything and make it work like it had before. He would have had more luck trying to grow back his right hand. And like a fool, he always realised it far too late. Gleaming dark blue drew his attention as the sun moved farther in through the latticed window and the balcony. There was still time though, Jaime clung stubbornly to that belief as he perused the armour, made by the finest and most discreet blacksmith he could find. Cersei may have her gold and her assassins, but he already knew who would be his champion. Like all champions, she must needs have a favour, although she would never know it for what it was.

It took several minutes as he struggled to unclasp the cloak from around his shoulders, wrestling with it until it finally yielded to his fingers. He would call his squire in after this, have the lad assist him in removing the rest of this white armour and bring him the ordinary garb he much preferred. No amount of beautiful metalwork or fabled swords would have ever gotten Brienne to acknowledge his knighthood before Harrenhal. When she had called him Ser Jaime though... Sighing softly, Jaime proceeded to drape the white cloak over the dark sapphire-hued armour he had commissioned for her. It had been meant as a surprise to make up for the losses she had suffered on his behalf, a way of thanking her for all she had given him. She had saved him, Jaime reflected soberly, running a hand over the soft cloth to smooth out the folds.

If ever there were deeds worth recording, if ever there was a chance for him to put the cloak on someone's shoulders and feel truly proud. Stepping back, Jaime swallowed against the sudden thickness that clogged his throat. He had always felt it soiled him, that pristine whiteness, that symbol of purity and honour that others wore so very effortlessly, that threatened to strangle him with a tangle of fear, regret, remorse and outrage as he thought of the caches of wildfire and a city burning to the ground and of his vows and a glorious day when he had knelt to the Sword of the Morning and had sworn in his heart to be no less than what Arthur Dayne was. He had been so young then, so naïve and bright-eyed, his ideas about chivalry as narrow and slender as the sword he had held.

There was still time though, time to right his wrongs, to keep his vows, to write her deeds. Others had begun his own history on those hallowed pages and he would do the same for her. The first and probably only knight who was a lady, in every sense of the word. The Maid of Tarth, he mused, the words writing themselves across the pages as he imagined them. The Just Maid. Now that drew a genuine smile from him. Oh, he knew he was no Galladon, far from it. But Brienne was so much like that enchanted sword of legend and he needed her, in such a time as this. She would match any assassin Cersei could hire, and with that Valyrian blade in hand she would be unstoppable. "No sword could check her, no shield could withstand her kiss," he murmured.

If only he could go with her though. Jaime felt the weight of his sword at his right hip. It still felt wrong, even though his body and instincts were slowly adjusting. It was still embarrassing to have his arse thrashed by Tyrion's sellsword, but he seemed to be making some progress. Today, it had taken Bronn three strokes more before he knocked Jaime's sword to the ground. It showed exactly why he would have to remain behind. All he would have was his wit and the strength of his family's name and even then, that was no guarantee, as he had learnt to the cost of his right hand. He would slow her down.

Straightening his shoulders, Jaime wrapped his hand around the shining lions and their glittering rubies that formed the hilt of the sword. It whispered as he withdrew it from its sheath, all fire and shadow, seeming to slice the very air itself. It made him hold his breath without him knowing it. Gently, he placed the sword on an empty stand next to the table. He could not wait to see Brienne's reaction to this, the first of his gifts.

He certainly did know the wench well. Jaime tried not to let the smugness he felt show up anywhere on his face as Brienne, once he had nodded in response to her questioning gaze, made a beeline for the White Book. He had done the very same thing the first time he had entered the Lord Commander's chambers and had been given permission to feast his eyes on the stories it held. She had glanced at the sword though and he had seen those extraordinary eyes light up. He might never make it to Tarth, to see those famous waters. Then again, maybe there was no need to now.

'The wench is a quick reader,' Jaime realised as he watched her skim a page swiftly before turning to the next, a familiar look of serious earnestness on her face. Once, it had irritated him to no end. He just hoped that he would see it again, someday, when Sansa was safe and Brienne along with her.

Looking over her shoulder, Jaime knew he was hovering and shamelessly continued to do so anyway. As she read, he took in the sweep of her pale golden hair that ended in soft slight waves at her neck. It smelt faintly but clearly of flowers; she had bathed not an hour before. She had such pale skin. Lannister colours, he had said she had. But there was some faint freckling there, one had to look hard to see it. He found himself wondering if the same dusting of freckles would be found over those broad, strong shoulders. They certainly weren't there on her hands. Maybe some place else—

"Ser Jaime Lannister," she said aloud and it took every ounce of control for Jaime not to jump. A flush warmed his face and he scowled to cover it before he realised that she was not even looking at him. She was reading from his page. That was his cue to walk away; there was nothing in there that was at all impressive.

"Knighted and named to the Kingsguard in his sixteenth year."

That pretty much summed up the best moment of his entire life as a knight.

"At the sack of King's Landing murdered his king Aerys the Second."

Maybe if he had known how Aerys would come back from the grave to haunt him, he might not have killed the bastard. Perhaps just incapacitated him. Jaime glanced down at his golden hand. 'Now there's an idea,' he thought sardonically.

"Pardoned by Robert Baratheon."

A king's pardon only went so far as to save one's neck. It was never quite enough to salvage one's reputation. "Thereafter known as the Kingslayer," he mouthed along silently to Brienne's reading. Her disappointment was audible, but now he knew it was not aimed at him but something she felt on his behalf. She had not used that title since Harrenhal, when the fever and the pain and the heat of the baths and the need in his heart had loosened the iron bands he had wrapped his secret, had gotten the better of his injured pride which he used to defend his mangled honour, whatever he thought was left of it at any rate.

"It's the duty of the Lord Commander to fill those pages," he informed her, as if his bad writing had not clued her in on that fact already. "And there's still room left in mine."

Picking up the sword from the stand, he showed her the blade, let the dusky light swirl over the metal, the lions' eyes with their red glitter like blood. It was a sword fit for a king. Carefully, he placed it on his right forearm, shifted his grip to the crossguard and, ignoring the sudden rapid beat of his heart, offered it to Brienne for her inspection.

She gripped the hilt, testing the lightness of the weapon, feeling its balance. They were a perfect fit, Jaime decided as he watched her. She held that sword like she was meant for it and in her hands, what was once Ice, the sword of House Stark, would know no dishonour.

"Valyrian steel," she pronounced, her words wrapped in soft undertones of hushed reverence. What she meant was that this was undoubtedly the best sword that she had ever held and would ever hold. That much was clear in the slight smile she gave him and the depths of her eyes. To Jaime's irritation, his pulse decided to kick up its speed a notch.

Clearing his throat, as though that helped at all, he said gruffly, "It's yours."

Part of the pleasure, he had always known, came from the genuine refusal she expressed. He had been around enough flatterers, enough aristocrats who kissed his father's arse and did worse things to gain Aerys' favour, to know a show when he saw one. Brienne was sincerely taken aback at his offer, even more so in her refusal. The Maid could not be tempted even with so rare a gift. It made him feel absurdly proud and mildly curious. What would it take to tempt Brienne of Tarth?

"It's reforged from Ned Stark's sword." He knew how to silence her, how to get her to take it without feeling as though she was depriving him. Brienne was no fool; she would have known such a sword had to have been made for him. And only one family would have had the chance to take what had once been Ned Stark's. "You'll use it to defend Ned Stark's daughter." Between the two of them, she was the only one who had a hope of doing so. "You swore an oath—"

Her brows raised slightly, those large lips pursed and Jaime knew what she meant to say. We. We swore an oath. But she let him continue. He looked away from her mouth.

"—to return the Stark girls safely to their mother. Lady Stark's dead." The news had turned Brienne white-faced and grim-eyed for days. In the end, he had had to tell her to stop feeling guilty. It would not have been possible for her to defend the lady she had pledged herself to. There was no knight who ever lived who could be in two places at once. In the end, to distract her, he had shown her the protective measures he had drawn up for Joffrey's wedding. Brienne would not care for his son, though she would certainly never have expressed that sentiment to him. But she was concerned for the Tyrell girl's safety and had devoted herself to making sure his plans were as foolproof as could be. That she did it for the woman who had married her first love touched Jaime in a place that had flickered to life only because of her.

"Arya's probably dead too," he carried on and felt regret clench mildly at his chest. "But there's still a chance to find Sansa and get her somewhere safe." She knew what he was asking, that she go out on the road again, on a task to find a girl who had vanished without a trace. It could mean months of searching. It would mean months of danger as well. She had already begun nodding before the last words left his mouth. 'That's my wench.'

"I've got something else for you." If he had been a green boy of fifteen, he might have grabbed Brienne's hand and dragged her towards the mannequin. Or if they had been something else... Still, such behaviour would not do. So he kept his hand to himself and focused instead on pulling his cloak away to reveal the present beneath.

Her sharp intake of breath was not lost on him and he would have gladly paid more gold dragons for the luminous expression on her face. She was highborn but not that rich. Men had laughed at her all her life; her looks would have invited it and her ambition and position as a knight all but assured it. The finest armour his money could buy and a Valyrian sword could not possibly make up for a lifetime of such treatment. But it was a start. She deserved so much more. Jaime ran his eyes over her, memorising each line, the sound of her breathing as she fought to steady it, the sound of her steps unfurling in the otherwise silent room.

"I hope I got your measurements right," he blurted out nervously before he could stop himself. Inwardly, he cringed. What a gods-awful stupid thing to say. And all it did was make him think back to the one time he had seen her without her clothes on. Of course he had gotten her measurements right. He had sent a clothier to her once she had been installed in her rooms, only for the perplexed man to return stating that the lady did not want dresses and shoes but shirts and trousers and boots. Jaime told him to let her have them. The same man had provided him with her measurements.

Thankfully, Brienne did not seem to notice. "I'll find her." It was a declaration, as true as any made ever made in this room, probably truer than some. "For Lady Catelyn." Of course, always for her lady. It would be a lie to say that he liked the woman better now that she was dead. But it had been a brutal ending and an unworthy one. It smelt of his father all over—however else had someone like Walder Frey have gotten the balls to move against the Young Wolf—but that was one matter Jaime wished to leave alone. No good would come of learning the truth. "And for you."

For a moment, he thought his ears had deceived him. Then he saw the slight flush that touched Brienne's pale cheeks, the way she would not meet his gaze, the uncertainty she fairly radiated with, as though expecting some harsh or flippant remark that would allow her to steel herself against him. Brienne had been as locked down and stony as any citadel he had ever seen when he had first met her. And now the wench was blushing. Ser Jaime. Things had changed between them before that but after that moment, nothing had ever been the same. He knew what she meant when she had called him Ser. And now... the silence stretched between them and Jaime was well aware that he was still staring at Brienne. How she managed to do it, to knock him off his feet without so much as raising a hand. That would be something for him to contemplate in the quiet, long hours after her departure.

"I almost forgot," he lowered his head, fought to get back some measure of control even as the sudden huskiness of his voice betrayed him. "I have one more gift." He started for the door, then stopped. "I've taken the liberty of choosing a horse for you. A bay mare, the stable masters assure me that she is both fast and strong. I almost instructed them to name her Wench." Brienne shot him a half-hearted scowl. "I'll send my squire in, to assist you with the armour. When you are done, come meet me at the Gate of the Gods."

"Jaime..."

He felt the twitch of phantom fingers that he would have squeezed into a fist.

"Thank you."

He ought to have been thanking her. He hoped she understood all he meant with what he had given her. Seven hells, there were times he was not entirely clear about that himself. Swallowing hard, he managed a quick nod before turning on his heel and letting himself out.