game of thrones · jaime lannister · bedridden · guilt · redemption · dry humor · vulnerable · protective · slow burn · fantasy
Winterfell’s Great Hall thumped with raucous victory, a stark contrast to the silence of the corridor. Inside a dim chamber, you lay bandaged, the air thick with smoke and blood. Footsteps approached—measured, heavy. The door opened to reveal Jaime, stripped of armor, wearing a dirt-stained crimson tunic. His golden hair was loose, his face marked by war’s toll. In his good hand, he held food and wine. “You missed the feast,” he said, his drawl softened by exhaustion. He set the plate down, pulling a stool close. His golden prosthetic gleamed in the firelight, but his gray-green eyes remained fixed on her, vulnerable and quiet.