Chapter Text
The air inside the Westerlands Civic Center pulsed with heat and energy, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder in the cavernous hall. Cameras winked like a constellation above the crowd, and the chant of “Lannister! Lannister!” rolled like thunder against the walls. The podium gleamed beneath the stage lights, already adorned with a spray of banners in crimson and gold, the lion sigil bold as a promise.
And then he stepped out.
Senator Jaime Lannister walked onto the stage with the poise of a man born for it. Golden hair immaculate under the glare of the lights, green eyes catching and holding the crowd as though every gaze belonged to him alone. His smile was measured yet dazzling, the kind of smile that made strangers trust him, rivals curse him, and reporters scramble for their pens. He lifted a hand, and the chant crescendoed into a roar.
From her post just off his shoulder, Brienne Tarth scanned the room with the precision of a hawk.
She was an unmistakable figure—tall, broad-shouldered, every line of her posture radiating alertness. Dressed in the dark, tailored suit of the Lannister campaign security team, she looked every inch the professional, though she dwarfed the men beside her. Her pale blond hair was cropped close enough that the stage lights couldn’t catch it, her sharp eyes flicking across the crowd, noting exits, movements, the twitch of a hand in a jacket pocket two rows back. She catalogued every risk in silence.
Her silence was part of her power. Jaime filled the hall with his voice, smooth and commanding, while she filled it with her presence—an unspoken warning that no one would touch him without going through her first.
And yet.
As Jaime leaned into the microphone, his hand gestured wide, sweeping over the crowd in practiced ease. He shifted a half-step to the side, as if instinctively making space for her in his orbit. She moved with him, seamless, and when the crowd surged forward to get closer, her hand brushed the small of his back. It looked casual—professional—an act of steadying. To anyone else, it was nothing. To him, it was everything.
For the briefest moment, Jaime’s shoulders eased under her touch. His head tilted, the corner of his mouth curving, a smile not meant for cameras. And then it was gone, replaced by the blinding confidence that belonged to the man onstage.
“Westeros deserves a leader who will not falter when faced with hardship,” Jaime declared, his voice rising over the cheers. “A leader who knows that loyalty is not a weakness—but the shield that guards us all.”
The crowd erupted, applause echoing like gunfire, but Brienne caught the subtle flick of his eyes toward her. A glance, no more than a heartbeat, but sharp enough to pierce through the noise.
It was a dangerous thing, that look. And even as she shifted her stance to keep the crowd in check, her pulse betrayed her.
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The crowd’s roar still rang in her ears, but Brienne hardly heard it. That look—the flash of green meeting blue—had a way of pulling her backward, into a moment she could never quite forget.
Her mind slipped, unbidden, into the past. It hadn’t started with adoration. It had started with disdain.
Two years ago, in a paneled office lined with books and whiskey decanters, she had stood stiffly before Tyrion Lannister as he tapped his fingers against a stack of incident reports.
“My dear brother nearly got himself killed outside the Capitol last week,” Tyrion had said dryly, pouring himself a drink though it was barely past noon. “An overeager protester with a knife. The only reason we aren’t arranging a state funeral is because security managed to tackle the man before he reached him. I’d prefer not to rely on chance again.”
Brienne said nothing, waiting.
Tyrion’s sharp gaze flicked up at her. “You come highly recommended. Service record flawless. Former military. Decorated.” He paused, then smirked faintly. “And terrifyingly tall. Just the sort of deterrent Jaime needs, though he’ll loathe me for it.”
He hadn’t been wrong.
When Jaime first met her, his laugh had been low and amused, curling around her like smoke. “Seven hells, Tyrion, is this your idea of a joke? A woman? I asked for protection, not a babysitter in heels.”
Brienne’s jaw tightened. She stood her ground, silent, her gaze steady as stone.
Jaime’s smirk deepened, but there had been a glint of something else in his eyes—challenge, maybe. Or curiosity.
The first test came not a week later.
Outside a town hall in King’s Landing, a shouting match in the crowd turned ugly. Metal glinted—a gun raised high. The Secret Service dove too late, but Brienne was already moving. She caught Jaime by the arm, yanking him down and away as the shot cracked across the square. Concrete shattered where he had been standing.
The chaos that followed blurred into sirens and shouts, but the moment that lived in Brienne’s memory was smaller, quieter: Jaime pinned beneath her in the shelter of a barricade, his chest heaving, his eyes wide not with fear but with astonishment.
Her forearm braced across him, shielding his body with her own. Close enough to smell the sharp tang of his cologne, close enough to see how the adrenaline carved his features into something rawer than charm.
When it was over, when the gunman was disarmed and Jaime was led back inside to safety, he had looked at her again—really looked at her. No smirk. No mocking edge.
Just a man realizing the shield he’d mocked was the only reason he was still breathing.
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The memory fractured like glass under the sound of applause, dragging Brienne back to the present. The speech was over, the crowd chanting again, Jaime basking in the glow of victory. He looked every inch the untouchable golden senator.
But Brienne knew better. She had seen him raw, vulnerable, human. She had been his shield.
And she still was.
The gala that evening glittered with chandeliers and champagne, every surface polished to a shine, every guest adorned in silk, jewels, and ambition. Jaime worked the room as though he owned it, moving from senator to donor to reporter with effortless charm. His smile was a weapon sharper than any blade, his laugh disarming.
Brienne stayed close, eyes sweeping over the crowd. Her dark suit set her apart from the gilded throng, her presence a reminder that power always came with danger.
It didn’t take long.
The protester slipped through the double doors with a burst of noise, his voice sharp above the music: “Lannister’s a fraud! Bought and paid for!” A hand shoved through the crowd, too quick, too aggressive. Guests gasped, glasses shattered.
Before the man could reach the senator, Brienne was there. Her hand clamped around his wrist, twisting with controlled force, her body interposing like a wall of stone. The man shouted, tried to wrench free, but Brienne’s grip was unyielding. Within moments, other guards swarmed in, dragging him out.
The gala’s music faltered, then resumed shakily. Jaime smoothed his jacket as if nothing had happened, flashing the crowd that same reassuring smile. But Brienne saw the flicker in his eyes—the reminder that safety was always a breath away from shattering.
Later, in the hushed quiet of the private elevator, the facade slipped. The doors slid closed, sealing them away from the glittering ballroom, from cameras, from the world.
Jaime exhaled, leaning back against the mirrored wall. For the first time all evening, he wasn’t smiling.
“You saved me again.” His voice was low, stripped of performance. He reached for her hand before she could stop him.
“Doing my job,” Brienne said evenly, though her pulse jumped when his fingers closed around hers.
He lifted her hand slowly, deliberately. His lips brushed the back of it in a gesture that might have looked gallant, almost old-fashioned, had it been anyone else. But the way his mouth lingered—warm, reverent—turned it into something else entirely.
Her breath caught.
“Jaime—” she began, warning in her tone, but the protest faded when he shifted, pressing the briefest, most dangerous kiss against her knuckles. A kiss that was not gratitude. Not performance. A kiss that tasted like a secret.
The elevator hummed softly around them, the only witness to the moment.
When the doors opened, Jaime’s hand slipped from hers, his smile sliding back into place as if nothing had happened. He strode out into the corridor, golden and untouchable once more.
Brienne followed, her heart pounding, the phantom of his lips still burning against her skin.