That evening, Jaime stood in the corner of his bedchamber, fussing before the mirror above the washbasin, when there was a knock at the door. He tugged on the hem of his doublet, smoothing out the imagined wrinkles as he absently said, "Come in."
The door opened, but Jaime barely noticed. He was too busy fretting over his appearance. He had gained some weight in the months since he'd returned to King's Landing, most of it muscle. His cheeks were no longer gaunt, and his eyes were brighter than they once had been. He looked happier and healthier than he had in a long time, but he still didn't know if any of it would be enough to tempt Brienne.
"I thought only women looked at themselves that way in the mirror," Tyrion said with a laugh as he closed the door behind him. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You always were too pretty for your own good."
Jaime only heard half of what Tyrion had said. He dragged his eyes away from the glass and looked at his brother. Tyrion was making his way to the table by the window, a small wooden box tucked beneath his arm.
"What's that?" Jaime asked, fairly certain that he didn't want to know.
Tyrion put the box on the table and turned to face Jaime. "I've brought you a gift," he said, his eyes lighting up with thinly veiled joy.
"A gift?" Now Jaime was even more suspicious. Tyrion never gave anyone anything without a reason.
Jaime looked down at the box, examining it more closely. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it. No carvings, no sigils, nothing. Jaime had no idea what it contained, but whatever it was, Tyrion seemed quite pleased with himself.
"What is it?" Jaime asked.
"Come and see. You can finish primping when we're done."
Jaime ignored Tyrion's comment and joined him at the table. He laid his hand on top of the box, running his fingers along its smooth surface as he contemplated what was inside.
"Well, go on," Tyrion urged. "Open it. Before we both miss the feast."
Jaime had no idea what his brother was up to, but he was sure it was something. And knowing Tyrion, it probably involved Brienne.
Jaime cast Tyrion a sidelong glance. "This better not be part of some ridiculous scheme to get me and Brienne together tonight."
"I gave you my word that I wouldn't interfere anymore, didn't I?"
"Yes, and then you sent a whore to my room to give me dance lessons."
"With your permission. You asked for my help, remember?"
"Yes, but—"
"It doesn't matter. This has nothing to do with Brienne. Now just open the damned thing already!"
Jaime turned his attention back to the box. He unhooked the latch and slowly lifted the lid. There, lying on a bed of purple satin, was a slate-grey metal hand.
The breath caught in Jaime's throat as a thousand memories came flooding back to him. He'd grown so used to living with just one hand that he'd almost forgotten what it was like to live with two, even if one of them had been made of gold.
Jaime examined the hand with a critical eye, intrigued by the impeccable craftsmanship. The lines were clean, and except for moon-shaped fingernails carved on the tips of the fingers, there was no decoration whatsoever. Everything about it was subtle and refined, not garish and gaudy like the hand Cersei had given him. It was just smart and serviceable and modest.
"I had it specially made for you," Tyrion said. "Go ahead, try it on."
Jaime shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the hand. "I don't want to."
"Why not? I understand why you don't want the old one, but this one is different. Just give it a try. You might actually like it."
Jaime lifted his eyes to Tyrion. "I've lived long enough without a right hand, and I'm doing just fine. I certainly don't miss it."
And that was the truth. The golden hand that Cersei had given him had been heavy and cumbersome and had weighed him down quite a bit. Although Jaime wasn't exactly fond of staring at the stump at the end of his arm, he'd gotten used to it, and he didn't think he could ever go back to strapping a chunk of cold, hard metal to his body every day of his life. Even though having two hands was more aesthetically pleasing, Jaime preferred the convenience of having just one.
"Will you at least try it on?" Tyrion asked. "For me?"
Jaime almost scowled, but he didn't want Tyrion to think he was ungrateful. So he kept his displeasure to himself and turned back toward the box, reaching inside to retrieve the metal hand.
It was surprisingly light, and Jaime couldn't help but marvel at the exquisite workmanship. Although the design was simple, the hand had been expertly crafted. "Who . . . who made this?"
"Gendry Baratheon. He may be Lord of Storm's End now, but he used to be quite the skilled blacksmith."
Jaime looked at Tyrion, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You asked Gendry Baratheon, of all people, to make this for me?"
"Yes, well, he was the only person I could trust to do it."
"Even though he may be Sansa Stark's next husband?"
"Can we please not talk about that? Just tell me, what do you think of the hand?"
Jaime looked at it again, weighing it thoughtfully in his palm. It was at least a pound lighter than the one he'd used to wear and nowhere near as ostentatious. He was surprised to find himself wondering what it would feel like at the end of his arm, wondering if it would feel like a blessing or a curse. He knew if he tried it on, he might be tempted to keep it, and he feared that keeping it would be a symbolic step back towards the past.
"It's very beautiful," Jaime said. "But I fear it's not for me."
"Why? Because of Cersei?"
Jaime nodded, his eyes meeting Tyrion's again. "Yes, because of Cersei. Because once I put this on—"
"You'll what? Be the man you were when she was alive? That's not how this works, Jaime, and you know it. That hand," Tyrion said, nodding towards it, "has nothing to do with the past and everything to do with the future. You're Master of War, for gods' sakes! You need your men to look up to you and respect you. You're not a cripple, so stop acting like one. Be a man and put the blasted thing on!"
Jaime held the hand out toward Tyrion. "I can't be a man and put it on because I can't secure the ties on my own. If you want me to put it on, you're going to have to do it for me, which does, in fact, make me a cripple."
Tyrion looked like he wanted to swear, but he held his tongue. He snatched the hand away from Jaime. "Fine. I'll put it on for you."
Jaime sat down in one of the chairs beside the table and stretched out his arm. Without a word, Tyrion reached into his pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief, draping it over Jaime's stump before slipping the metal hand into place. Tyrion began pulling the ties, snugly but not too tightly, as Jaime sat there watching him.
"You really went through a lot of trouble for me, didn't you?" Jaime said.
"It wasn't any trouble at all. I'm just happy you're back. I'd do anything for you. You know that, don't you? Anything in the world."
Jaime didn't doubt it. Tyrion would do anything for him, just as he would do anything for Tyrion. That was the one great gift the gods had given them both, each other.
"What did you do with the other one?" Jaime asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. He hadn't seen his golden hand since the night he'd returned to King's Landing.
"I still have it. I thought you might change your mind, but in case you didn't, I had this one made."
"Melt it down and use the gold to feed the poor."
Tyrion's hands stilled against Jaime's arm, and his eyes flashed to his face. "Do you mean that?"
"I do. I don't ever want to see the thing again."
Tyrion stared at Jaime for a long moment. Finally, he nodded and turned back to his work. "You know, the sooner we get this thing on, the sooner you can go to the feast and woo the fair maiden who has captured your heart."
"She's not a maiden anymore," Jaime reminded Tyrion, though he wasn't quite sure why.
"Yes, and you owe that to me too. If I hadn't played that drinking game so well the night of the Winterfell feast, you never would have ended up in her bed in the first place."
Jaime snorted. "I beg to differ."
"Beg to differ all you like, but we both know it's true." Tyrion gave the ties one final tug and began to knot them together. "If I hadn't asked her if she was still a virgin that night, she would still be one today."
"It was very rude of you to ask her that," Jaime said, feeling the need to protect Brienne's honor, "especially in a roomful of people."
"Well, rude or not, it had the desired effect, and that's all that matters."
"You don't really expect me to believe that you asked her that question just to get me into her bed, do you?"
Tyrion chuckled dryly. "And why not? I know a thing or two about women," he said, finally looking up at Jaime as he finished securing the ties. "I knew what I was doing."
"Forgive me if I laugh," Jaime said, amusement in his tone, "but I don't think you know anything about women. If you did, the Queen in the North wouldn't be ignoring you right now, would she?"
Tyrion laughed nervously, taking a step back and dismissing Jaime's criticism with a wave of his hand. "How does it feel?"
"How does what feel?"
"The hand."
Jaime stared down at the hunk of metal strapped to his arm. It felt just as light attached to his body as it had in the palm of his hand. He raised his arm a little higher, twisting his wrist from side to side, testing the hand's weight. It fit to perfection, and suddenly, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to take it off. "It's quite extraordinary. Much better than the old one."
"I'm glad. It's the least I could do for you after everything you've been through."
Jaime lowered his hand to his lap and eyed Tyrion pointedly. "You didn't answer my question."
"And what question was that?"
"About Sansa Stark. You can't avoid the issue forever, Tyrion. She came all this way just to punish you, and you don't seem the least bit concerned."
Tyrion shuffled awkwardly on his feet. "Oh, that? That's nothing. I've had far worse treatment from women than that. Silence is nothing compared to a woman's full-blown fury. And even though I've never seen Sansa lose her temper, I've often imagined it's as fiery as her red hair."
Jaime shook his head, amazed that his brother could be so oblivious when it came to women.
"What?" Tyrion snapped. "Don't you believe me?"
"Oh, I believe that you've crossed your fair share of women, but if you think their fury is worse than their silence, then you obviously don't know as much about women as you think you do. Cold silence is always more deadly than raging fury. I think, perhaps, you should start to worry."
"About Sansa? No, I have nothing to worry about there. We're just friends, anyway. If she's angry with me, then so be it. I only told her the truth because I care. Perhaps she'll use this feast as an opportunity to find herself a new husband, and then, it will all be worth it."
"For whom?"
"What do you mean, for whom? For Sansa, of course."
Jaime leaned forward in his chair, closing in on Tyrion. "And what about you?"
"What about me?"
"You love her, don't you? Are you really going to just stand back and watch her fall in love with someone else?"
Tyrion broke Jaime's gaze. He looked down at the table and busied himself with closing and latching the box. "I'm sure she's not going to be here long enough to fall in love with anyone. But she will be here long enough to find a husband."
"And of course, the two things have nothing to do with each other."
Tyrion fixed his eyes on the box, idly running his fingers over the smooth wood, ignoring Jaime's stare. "Love is not a luxury a queen can afford. Daenerys taught me that. Love always failed her, right up until the moment it claimed her life."
Tyrion hadn't mentioned Daenerys' name in ages and never in such an intimate manner, and Jaime suddenly wondered if there had been more to his brother's relationship with the Dragon Queen than he had ever imagined possible. "Were . . . were you in love with her?"
Tyrion seemed lost in a long-ago memory, and it took him a moment to respond. Finally, he pulled his attention away from the box and looked up at Jaime again. "You mean Daenerys?" he asked with some uncertainty.
"Yes, Daenerys."
Tyrion shook his head softly. "No. It isn't that. The truth is, there's a part of me that feels guilty for her death. Perhaps if I had seen the signs earlier—"
"There's nothing you could have done."
"But there must have been something."
"No, I'm sure there wasn't. I've seen what power can do to people. I saw what it did to the Mad King and to Cersei. Some people aren't equipped to handle that kind of power. It goes to their heads, corrupts them in ways that nothing else ever could. I'm sure you did everything you could for Daenerys Targaryen. It's not your fault that she went mad."
"I told Jon to kill her."
Jaime was stunned silent. That was the very last thing he had expected Tyrion to say, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. "What . . . what do you mean?"
"When I was being held prisoner, after I betrayed her, after I resigned my post, Jon visited me and I counseled him to end her life, even though I knew he loved her and she loved him."
"You did the right thing."
"But did I? Did I really? There must have been another way. I've spent ages trying to imagine what I could have done differently. I've lost many a sleepless night over it, but I've never been able to figure out what I could have done to save her." Tyrion looked away, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. "And Sansa Stark used to think I was the cleverest man alive."
Jaime hated seeing Tyrion so despondent. He wanted to help, but he knew there was little he could do to ease his brother's conscience.
Jaime put his hand on Tyrion's shoulder, drawing his eyes back to him. "You're a good man, Tyrion. You always have been. And even if you're not the cleverest man alive, you're still the best person to guide Westeros toward a peaceful and prosperous future. I shudder to think what would have become of the Six Kingdoms if someone else had been appointed Hand."
Tyrion snorted. "I wish someone else had been appointed Hand. As it is, I'm little more than a prisoner here, and I shall remain so for the rest of my life."
Jaime frowned. This wasn't going at all as he'd hoped. He slipped his hand from Tyrion's shoulder. "There's a feast waiting for us out there. Why don't we go enjoy ourselves? You can get drunk if you like. I'm sure Bran would overlook it just this once."
"I'd rather spend the night getting drunk alone in my chamber, but I don't have much choice, do I? I'm the Hand of the King, and duty calls."
Tyrion turned and headed for the door, and Jaime pushed himself up from his chair to follow after him.
"Are you going to try to talk to Sansa tonight?" Jaime asked.
Tyrion stopped just short of the door and turned around to look up at his brother, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "Only if you dance with Lady Brienne without trampling all over her feet."
"Don't you worry about me. I've been practicing."
"Oh, really? Been sneaking whores into your chamber while no one was looking?"
"Of course not. I learned my lesson the last time."
"Then what have you been doing?"
"Dancing alone in my bedchamber. I think I've gotten quite good at it, actually."
Tyrion snorted. "Dancing alone in your bedchamber? Yes, I think I've gotten quite good at that too lately."
Jaime knew Tyrion wasn't talking about dancing. Oh, no, he was talking about something else entirely.
"Yes, well," Jaime said, "maybe if you're able to charm Sansa Stark, that won't be the case for much longer."
"You grossly overestimate my charms, dear brother. I'll be lucky if the Queen in the North even looks in my direction tonight. But you?" Tyrion gave Jaime a knowing look. "You might not be going to bed alone."
"And you grossly overestimate my charms if you think there's any hope that Brienne of Tarth will grant me more than just a dance."
"You never know. Stranger things have happened."
"Not that strange. It would take a miracle for Brienne to do more than dance with me, and I doubt the gods are feeling that generous tonight."