There Is Nothing To Forgive a Braime soulmates one shot
This fic is a twist on the “shared dreams” soulmate trope, where, in my version, the God’s let your soulmate appear in dreams.
Jaime Lannister had never been good with words. All his life they had evaded him, from the time when he was a child and he couldn’t read without a heafty struggle, to his adolescence when he’d attempt to express to Cersei his feelings.
She didn’t care of course. She didn’t want his love, his admiration, and she didn’t care about his words, or lack thereof. All she wanted was his body and the pleasure it could bring her, all she sought was the security of knowing he was hers, under her spell, forever.
So the appearance of anyone speaking to him in dreams was odd. He was visual, and his dreams often came as a bombardment of images, some cruel, some lovely, all powerful, without a word to be gleaned from any of them.
But this night was different.
The dream was simple really, he was there, in the throne room, watching from above like a raven in the rafters, Aerys on the throne, his own white cloak shining. He watched as the mad king laughed, and he could hear the innocent scream as the king shook with wicked, mad laughter. He tightened the grip on his hilt and stepped closer. He could not hear what Aerys was saying, nor could he hear any other words, but he could smell the sickly chemical scent of wildfire and could feel the heat that would surely come from it.
He watched his own hands shake as he took another step up behind the king, all the fear he had felt in that moment evident on his terrified face.
But suddenly, he was not alone as he raised the sword to strike true. A girl, tall and strong, with long blonde hair hanging down her back. She was younger than him, but her eyes glowed like saphires and as she pressed herself against him, she took his hand on the swords hilt in her own, wrapping a warm hand around his, and helping guide the blade.
I understand. Her words materialized in his mind, and she smiled sadly before helping him guide the word into its sheath through Aery’s back.
Forgive me. Never before had he spoken in a dream. Nor had he cared to.
There is nothing to forgive.
She faded before he could get a true glimpse at her face, leaving him alone to claw at the air, before waking bolt upright, alone in the summer night.
—
Actions spoke louder than words, and yet words were what Brienne put stock in. Honor was her pillar of principle, and she believed in any man’s word as she expected them to do in hers.
And so, when a young man’s begging voice pierced the foggy clouds of her dreams one night, begging for help, for forgiveness, and justifying why he killed.
For the innocent. For those he would slaughter. Because if I do not do it, who can?
She felt a strange sense of longing for that voice, for the man who must wield its mighty tone. She let herself drift towards it, it’s words becoming more and more earnest, panicked, even.
Please, mother, father, someone, guide me.
She searched the crevasses of her dream for its source, but as always found no images, only fragments of words. But then, just as she was about to give up, heappeared.
Forgive me.
The boy was behind the mad king, drawing his sword, tears gathered in his eyes. And suddenly, Brienne was there too. One look at the boy and she knew what he needed. She wrapped her hand around his, and pressed herself gently beside him, taking on the burden of the blade and the sentence it was about to deal. She knew how this story would end.
The sword pierced.
There is nothing to forgive.
All was warm and light was everywhere for a moment, and then it became too much and she awoke, sweating and panting in the summer night air.
Soul dreams are a thing of the distant past. I am no fool. She repeated the sentiment over and over, across years as she travelled lands and seas, and came to the service of Renly Baratheon. Finally, she had stopped thinking about the boy, the Kingslayer, with whom she had shared a dream unlike any other.
Until the night she dreamt of the shadow.
Though she could not see it, she could feel the cool air sweep through the tent, and could feel the hair on her arms stand up. She felt her heart hammer in her chest, and her blood run frozen.
No. No. Please no. Do not make me watch this again.
Renly was dead a week, and yet she could not sleep without watching it play out, over and over again. Perhaps I am the Kingslayer.
You are not.
Suddenly she could see again, and there he was. Older now, but without mistake: Jaime Lannister.
It takes one to know one, and it is not you.
It was his phantom turn to come closer, to warm her against the chill.
How can I ever forgive myself? She wept as Renly before her died once again, and her heart felt as if it were frozen to ice.
There is nothing to forgive.
Her heart beat fast and she turned to see his face.
But he was gone. And she left alone in her bedroll in Catelyn Starks tent.
—
There is nothing to forgive.
Jaime repeated the words his golden haired maiden had once offered him so many years ago. He prayed it would bring her the same solace it brought him.
He had heard of soul dreams, of the most ancient and purest loves, ones which the gods themselves were invested in. Ones for whom the soul was so tightly bound that they could, when direly necessary, appear in dreams.
But he didn’t believe it. Rather, he believed that as comfort had been offered to him, so would he offer it. For some reason. He couldn’t quite place why, but something had compelled him to speak to her, to comfort her, despite not even knowing if she was real, or just a figment of his imagination.
He thought about it a lot on the road to Kingslanding, as him and Brienne walked in silence. There was something in the way she looked at him, this odd familiarity, overshadowed by anger and confusion. It made him wonder a great deal about what she knew of him. It was not an expression he was used to being on the receiving end of.
—
To Brienne’s chagrin, Jaime did not appear in her dreams after the night he lost his hand. Despite the fact that she so sincerely blamed herself for it.
But as they stared at one another at the bathhouse, and he suddenly, inexplicably began to speak, something in her chest thrummed.
“I know, Ser Jaime.” She said, before he had fully begun the explanation of why he killed Aerys. “You did it for the people, for the innocents. If you didn’t, who could?”
His face went slack and his jaw hung loose, eyes fixed on hers as they simultaneously put the pieces together. In unison they spoke their next words carefully.
“There is nothing forgive.”
~~~~~
Thank you so much for reading!!!! I am so happy to be back, and I hope to write a lot more in the coming weeks. Pleaaaaaaaaase send me any suggestions or promps you might have, or if you’d like to see more continuations of any of my work lmk!!!! As always, PM me if you want to be added or removed from the tag list :) Love you all xx, Bea
Thinking about the fact that all of the couples who either had “I am hers she is mine” playing for them or sampled in one of their songs had a tragic ending DONT text
on a scale of luke skywalker to jaime lannister how well would you deal with losing your right hand
or, on a scale of luke skywalker to jaime lannister how well do you deal with latent sexual feelings for your sister
or, on a scale of luke skywalker to jamie lannister how well would you deal with your dad being an utter bastard with unresolved issues about the death of his wife
or, on a scale of luke skywalker to jaime lannister how well would you deal with the fact that your nephew is a complete and total douche
“Blue is a good color on your, my lady,” Jaime observed. “It goes well with your eyes.” She does have astonishing eyes.
Brienne glanced down at herself, flustered. “Septa Donyse padded out the bodice, to give it that shape. She said you sent her to me.” She lingered by the door, as if she meant to flee any second. “You look…”
“Different?” He managed a half-smile. “More meat on the ribs and fewer lice in my hair, that’s all. The stump’s the same. Close the door and come here.”
She did as he bid her. ”The white cloak…”
“…is new, but I’m sure I’ll soil it soon enough.”
“That wasn’t… I was about to say that it becomes you.”
