Noon sunlight spilled across the dusty road like shimmering brass, and the air carried the dry bitterness of late summer heat. After several long days of travel, the mud, blood, and marsh-stenched winds of the Riverlands finally faded behind them. Yet, as the massive silhouette of King's Landing rose ahead—golden, sprawling, crowned with towers—Brienne of Tarth felt no surge of relief. Instead, her heart grew heavier with every step her horse took.
The closer they drew, the stronger the city's presence became—oppressive, vast, and suffocating. A thick, humid breeze blew against Brienne's face, and the unique scent of the capital filled her nostrils, coiling in her throat. She tried to swallow it down, but her stomach lurched instead.
As the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, King's Landing lived in the imaginations of lords and peasants alike. Songs praised its splendor, merchants dreamed of its streets paved with opportunity, and knights imagined entering through its gates in glory and renown. Brienne had once shared that distant longing, though she would never admit it.
But now that she truly stood before the city, her fantasies cracked and crumbled in an instant.
It wasn't that King's Landing lacked grandeur.
For someone raised in the Stormlands, used to rugged cliffs and windswept keeps, a city capable of holding half a million souls was astonishing—its walls towering, its architecture layered like stacked crowns, its red roofs glowing beneath the sun.
Yet none of that mattered.
Because the city smelled—horrifically.
Even standing at the gate, a nauseating stench surged outward, striking her like a physical blow. She held her breath, but it was useless; the foul odor seemed alive, greedy, and determined, burrowing straight into her senses.
It wasn't a simple bad smell. It was a monstrous fusion—salt-heavy sea air, sour human sweat, rotting straw, spilled wine, and the thick ferment of human and animal waste.
How could she describe it properly? It was even worse than that time Jaime hadn't bathed for a year, then rolled in horse piss and mud, and then let his infected wounds fester under the sun. Compared to King's Landing, that had been practically refreshing.
One word:
Overpowering.
"Cough—cough—cough—!"
Brienne couldn't help coughing violently, eyes watering. She shot a fierce glare toward Jaime, her frustration bubbling over.
"We could have entered through the Gods' Gate," she snapped. "Why insist on this ridiculous detour, Jaime?"
Jaime didn't respond immediately. Instead, he lifted his chin and stared up at the enormous bronze-clad iron gates ahead. They loomed open like the jaws of some lazy, ancient beast, swallowing and spitting out crowds without pause. Above the archway, a roaring lion was carved—fangs bared, claws extended, mane flaring with sculpted fury. It radiated intimidation and pride.
"A lion must act like a lion," Jaime murmured, voice tinged with a kind of fragile pride he hadn't worn in a long time. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply—as though the sickening smell brought him nostalgic comfort instead of revulsion.
Brienne stared at him with the expression one might reserve for someone who had just licked a chamber pot.
Softly, almost like a whispered reminder to himself, Jaime added:
"A Lannister must enter through the Lion Gate."
The group exchanged looks but offered no argument. They understood. The man had endured too much. Captured. Shamed. His sword hand severed. Forced to drink urine. Dragged through filth, humiliation, and powerlessness. His dignity had been crushed again and again.
If reclaiming a sliver of himself meant acting like a pompous idiot for a moment… so be it.
Only Yigo snorted loudly—whether because Dothraki culture didn't care about symbolic stone gates, or because the big woman hadn't spared him attention the entire journey, no one could say.
Jaime straightened his spine, puffed his chest, and gently pressed his heels into his horse's sides, preparing to enter the gate with as much dignity as he could muster.
But before he could reclaim that glorious moment—
"Out of the way! Don't block the road, country bumpkin!"
A shrill voice blasted from behind, followed by the rapid thunder of hooves. A lavishly adorned warhorse barreled past, its tack studded with polished brass. The rider wore a brightly colored silk jacket, a feather bobbing foolishly from his hat—more a fashionable accessory than a necessity. He looked young, arrogant, and offensively proud of himself.
To cut ahead, he swung his whip dangerously close—nearly striking Jaime's horse across the nose.
As he passed, he even turned and flashed a look dripping with disdain.
"Fuck!!"
Jaime's horse reared in panic, nearly throwing him. By reflex and habit—old habits, from before the stump—Jaime regained his balance with impressive horsemanship.
But then the worst humiliation—
Mud and horse dung splashed up, spraying directly across his chest, face, and hair.
"Damn bastard!!"
Jaime sputtered, outraged, shouting after the fading rider.
"Blind idiot! How dare you call me a country bumpkin! I am—!"
"Save it, Jaime," Corleone cut in quickly, stepping forward before the man could embarrass himself further by shouting something like My father is Tywin Lannister.
"But—he called me a country bumpkin!" Jaime protested, voice cracking with indignation.
He was Jaime Lannister!
The golden son of the richest house in Westeros!
He had endured enough humiliation on the journey. If he returned to King's Landing only to be treated the same way—what was the point of coming home at all?
Corleone shrugged casually.
"He wasn't wrong."
Jaime stared at him, stunned.
"Look at yourself," Corleone continued. "What else are you right now, if not a country bumpkin?"
Jaime instinctively looked down.
Coarse, mud-splattered linen. Bloodstains that had dried into dark flakes. Hair—normally golden and flowing—now greasy, twisted, and tangled. His face covered in dust, sweat, and patches of rough stubble. His right arm suspended in a crude, uneven sling.
He froze.
Damn it.
He did look like a country bumpkin.
A frustrated groan escaped him. If only he had thought to ask Roose Bolton for better clothes before leaving Harrenhal. Would Cersei even recognize him? Would she recoil? Would she—
Before he could finish the spiraling thought, another force shoved him aside.
"Move," Brienne said flatly, riding directly between Jaime and Corleone, entering the Lion Gate first without even glancing back.
Jaime stumbled, but didn't complain. He simply exhaled and cast a helpless look toward Corleone.
They both understood.
Brienne was still carrying the weight of what had happened by the Gods Eye Lake.
Days earlier, after dealing with the Karstark soldiers, they arrived at the lake to find Arya and The Hound already gone—only Corleone and two corpses remained. Brienne had wanted to pursue them immediately. She didn't trust The Hound to protect a Stark.
But Corleone stopped her.
He reminded her—gently, logically, painfully—that another Stark girl waited in King's Landing. Another oath. Another duty.
Brienne had chosen responsibility.
But the burden of that choice had only grown heavier since.
"Come, blood of my blood," Corleone called, his voice steady as he flicked the reins and steered his horse toward the gate.
"Wait—!"
Jaime suddenly spurred forward, blocking Corleone's path, a strange flicker of… dependence… in his eyes.
Yes. Somewhere along the journey, he had grown used to Corleone's presence—his planning, his steadiness, his irritating competence. Now, seeing him ride ahead felt like losing his balance again.
"Where are you going?" Jaime asked, voice tense. He swore by the Seven that even in the heat of battle, surrounded by Robb Stark's forces, he had never been as nervous as he was right now.
Desperate to anchor the moment, he spoke quickly:
"Aren't you going to the Red Keep with me—to see my father first?"
He rushed on, as if afraid Corleone would vanish if he paused.
"Don't forget the bathtub full of gold dragons I promised you!"
Corleone chuckled.
"That's not urgent."
He reached out as though to pat Jaime's shoulder—but seeing the smear of dung across him, withdrew his hand mid-gesture.
"You and Brienne should go ahead," he said warmly. "Go to your family. Your sister. Your brothers. You've been gone from King's Landing for a long time. They'l
l want you home."
He paused, his tone deepening.
"A real man spends time with his family. A man who doesn't protect his family… isn't a man at all."