Chemical Bonds

by ofaclassicalmind

Summary:

"Chemical bond (noun): An electrical force that holds atoms together to form a molecule." - Cambridge Dictionary

Starts at the end of the seventh season of the show. Will mostly showcase Jaime/Brienne, some other characters along the way. *Now complete!*

Notes:

Haven’t read the books, but researched them enough to know some interesting moments that weren’t included in the show... Yet.

I owe D&D and GRRM for the wonderful characters, and the actors who have brought them to life. Rock on, love hard.

Enjoy my imagination, because I sure as hell do.

Chapter 1: Fire - Jaime I

The further north he traveled on the Kingsroad, the more unbearable his golden hand became. The damned wrapping was freezing to the metal from his sweat, and any movement of the hand tugged on the sensitive scar tissue on the other side. His stump was beginning to blister from the friction, and he gritted his teeth when he felt moisture there as one popped.

Perhaps I should tie the cursed piece of metal on a strap and drape it around my neck like the last one, he thought. It’s apparently just as useful.

He’d been traveling hard for nine days and nights in an attempt to reach Winterfell and deliver the news of his sister’s betrayal. He had brought the bare necessities for his journey, and slept only when he felt as though he’d fall off his horse with fatigue. Despite the cold, the wind, and the snow that, at times, blew so hard he could hardly see, he continued on. His discomfort meant nothing compared to what he had seen lurch out of that crate in the dragon pit.

But, as the sun slowly waned, he sought shelter. The nights were becoming longer, and with it came all manner of uncertainties that could usually be prevented by a place to rest.

He dismounted when he found himself approaching a small home, probably part of a farm. There were no signs of life, but he just needed a roof for a few hours.

After knocking loudly on the door, he heard nothing but the cold blast of air. Wind, he thought. Only wind lives here.

The door opened easily enough, but he started when he saw that huddled in the corner were the frozen, perfectly preserved corpses of a man and a woman, clinging to one another. They were covered in blankets, a skin or two, and likely every item of clothing they owned.

His mind filled with questions as his heart sank. Had they starved to death? Were they robbed of their food? Their gold? Had they consumed all their livestock, only to freeze to death under the skins of the very animals they had used to make a living?

Glancing around, he noticed there wasn’t a scrap of food left in the place. So they had starved, then.

An alarming thought passed through his head; something Ned’s bastard had said as he killed the wight in the dragon pit.

Fire. They could kill them with fire.

He knew he had to burn them, wretched as they were. If circumstances were different, he would have buried them. At one time, it would have been the more honorable thing to do. But he remembered what Jon Snow had said about the corpses... How they would only become more soldiers in the army of the dead.

They were huddled so closely together, this man and this woman. They had bravely accepted their fate together; he’d be damned if they were torn asunder in death. Without another thought, he searched the dirt floor for a piece of flint. He found a chipped piece easily enough, but where would he find enough dry wood to start a fire in this weather?

“Looks like you could use some kindling.”

Jaime whirled around to see Bronn standing there, as inappropriately dressed as he was for the winter chill.

“Good to see you too,” he muttered. “But yes, kindling would be a better sight.”

Bronn chuckled at this.

“Here,” he said, extending his hand to Jaime. “Take these.”

In Bronn’s outstretched hand were a few sanded bits of wood that suspiciously looked like—

“Nabbed them off a banner I stole from some dumb cunt heading south for some house we’ve never heard of,” he said with a shrug. “Figured some dry wood might come in handy these days.”

Jaime tried to smile, and placed the broken poles against the bodies.

“Ever so resourceful, aren’t we?” he said lightly, casting a glance at the sellsword. “I still have nothing to light it with. Not with one hand, anyway.”

Bronn rolled his eyes and stepped forward.

“Seven hells...” he muttered, swiping the flint from Jaime’s hand. “Take off your glove.”

Jaime frowned, but suddenly grasped Bronn’s meaning. He took off the glove covering his golden hand, and held out his arm so that the hand was leaning against the wood. Without a moment of hesitation, Bronn struck the flint against the hand a few times, attempting to spark the poles. Each strike made Jaime flinch with pain, but within moments, the poles were alight.

They stood back and watched as the blankets caught fire first, then the skins, and finally, the corpses themselves.

“Time to go,” Bronn said, and he walked out of the house.

Jaime stood there for a moment, watching the fire grow. There had been a time when he would have believed that he and Cersei would have ended that way... Clinging to one another for warmth once all else had failed them. He had loved her that much. He had believed he loved her that much.

Now, he knew she would rather kill him, grill him, and eat him for survival than die by his side. The thought that he had given so much to someone who would do that sickened him.

He stared into the flames, noting how they reflected off his golden hand. It was scuffed from the flint, but he could still see the reflection of so many things in the metal. When he looked back up, the flames were catching on the wall, and he was tempted to stay within the burning structure. It was so warm, there, in the flames. It felt clean, somehow. Gods, he wanted to stay.

That’s when he saw it.

From the flames, a pair of twins sprung forth. A boy, and a girl, running and brandishing their parrying swords. Their smiles were contagious, and he saw them turn into adults in an instant, fighting side by side. They fought what looked like demons together, and when they had won the battle, they turned to look at him. His blood ran cold, and as they locked eyes with him, he was terrified. But then he saw the swords they held. Each pommel glinted with gold and rubies.

And one bore the head of a lion.

As a scorched plank fell from the ceiling, he bolted to the door, and looked back one last time.

They were gone.

Chapter 2: Oaths - Jaime II

Summary:

Jaime arrives at Winterfell among mixed company.

Notes:

Thoroughly enjoyed writing this scene. Hope you like it!

He and Bronn arrived at Winterfell the following evening, and Jaime couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired. Not having slept well enough during the journey, he walked his horse through the gates, handing him to a stable boy.

“Be good to him,” he said with a shiver. “He had a harder journey than we did.”

The boy nodded silently, scurrying off with the poor animal.

As Jaime looked around, tendrils of his beard frozen from snow and ice, he noticed Podrick Payne approaching them. He also noticed he wasn’t accompanied by his knight.

“Good to see you again so soon,” Bronn said with a smile. “Causing any trouble yet?”

“Always trying my best, m’lord,” the young man responded with a smile that warmed the air. “Ser Jaime.”

Jaime nodded as respectfully as he could.

“I need to speak with the Dragon Queen,” he rasped. “It’s urgent.”

Bronn flashed him a look of disbelief, knowing what conversations would ensue.

“Can’t it wait until—”

“No, it cannot.”

Bronn raised his eyebrows in defeat.

“Suit yourself, then.”

He dismounted and walked his horse to the stable himself, while Jaime followed Podrick wordlessly through the coldest, harshest place he’d ever visited. He could remember that visit with so much detail. After all, he’d pushed a ten year old boy out of a window; it’s not something any decent human being would forget.

As he walked with purpose behind Podrick, he tried to ignore every person that walked by, pushing everyone from his mind. What he needed to tell the Queen was far more important.

Podrick led him through two double doors and into the Great Hall, where he had once sat with—

No. He would not let the guilt eat him alive. He had loved those children.

He looked up, his face hard and tired from his journey, to see Queen Daenerys, sitting beside his brother. This was a war council chamber now, not a hall for feasts. There were wildlings and noblemen alike, scattered throughout the room.

On the other side of the Queen sat Jon Snow, the King in the North, and beside him sat the striking image of Catelyn Stark. Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell.

Then his eyes fell on the woman standing behind her. He met her confused gaze, and remembered the pained look on her face when he had walked away from her in the dragon pit.

“Your Grace, Ser Jaime Lannister has just arrived,” Podrick announced to the Queen. “He has urgent news from the Capital.”

Podrick looked over at Brienne, who nodded. He walked around the table to stand by her side, and Jaime swallowed hard at the distant look in her eyes as she stared on, one pair of bright blue eyes against the hundreds in that room that stared at him.

“And what is this news?” the Queen demanded.

So Jaime began.

---

He might as well have slaughtered all three dragons himself to earn the looks that he had just seen.

“How are we to fight hundreds of thousands of White Walkers when we don’t have an army to withstand them?” stammered the King.

Jaime pressed his eyes closed. Silence filled the room as thoughts flooded the air.

“You are only one man,” stated Sansa plainly. “A man who betrayed my family. Who attempted to murder my brother.”

He saw a hand tighten on a blade; the hand appeared to belong to the spitting image of a shorter Ned Stark.

It was Arya. Both the Stark girls had made it home, safe and sound. He almost smiled.

“What can you possibly offer us alone?” she said coldly. “Why shouldn’t we kill you?”

He looked at Brienne for strength, but her gaze was conveniently focused on the floor. He closed his eyes, willing the words to come of their own accord.

“I will not pretend that any amount of time or apologies can ever erase what I have done,” he began. “The man who pushed your brother from that tower died when he lost his hand, and the man who remained has regretted it every day since.”

He searched their faces, yet no one believed him.

“If you wish to kill me, I won’t argue,” he declared, a hint of arrogance in his voice. “I’d even agree with you. I deserve to die. I’ve betrayed my family, your family,” he said, before glancing at the Dragon Queen, “even yours.”

He saw Daenerys’s nostrils flare at this.

“My father was an evil man,” she said. “I am not sorry that you killed him.”

“Well, I am,” he replied bluntly. “Serving the king was all I ever wanted.”

Every face at the table looked up then.

“I broke an oath,” he continued. “And for twenty years, I have paid the price. But I have also upheld an oath. I promised Lady Catelyn Stark that I’d return her daughters safely home,” he said, looking at the Stark girls. “I sent Lady Brienne away to find you,” he whispered painfully, glancing at the blue eyes that were now staring directly at him in fear. “I gave her that half of your father’s sword. To keep you safe.”

Arya’s grip loosened, and he saw Sansa’s face soften and look down. Tyrion had even cast his eyes down at the table. Yet again, no assurance from anyone.

“I tried to kill you once,” he muttered, looking at the Dragon Queen. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” he growled, shivering in the cold as his tiring journey weighed upon him. “Otherwise, I should retire and rest. I kept my oath to ride north, and it was a long journey.”

With this admission, his shoulders slouched a little. He had never felt so utterly alone.

“Would you swear another?” asked a harsh voice.

He looked up to see a young woman, hardly a teenager, cloaked in black, and standing as regal as a queen. Beside her stood Jorah Mormont. Ah, he’d heard of Lady Lyanna Mormont. She spoke suspiciously like a much younger version of someone else he knew.

“And what oath would you have me swear, my lady?” he asked, too tired to smile.

“An oath of allegiance,” she stated, unyielding. “To our cause. And to Queen Daenerys. To forsake your sister, and serve the rightful queen.”

His eyes looked to his brother at this. Tyrion was staring right into him now, willing him to accept.

“I cannot swear an oath to a Queen I have never met,” he began, and felt the room become tense, “but for the living, I would swear cities to the ground.”

The King in the North smiled.

“You have my word,” Jaime asserted in the murmurs. “I will fight for you, die for you, and do all that is required to serve you.”

He noticed Arya Stark wasn’t touching her dagger anymore, and that Tyrion was smirking.

“And... I forsake my sister, as queen, and as family,” he said, staring at Daenerys. “I swear I will support your claim to the throne of Westeros, once the battle is through. My sword is yours to command.”

He drew Widow’s Wail and knelt on one knee, to the snickers and delight of several Northern lords. He placed the sword between himself and the table, bowing his head, feeling that he might not have it for much longer.

“May you be a better ruler than those I’ve followed,” he finished quietly.

The murmurs grew, and then suddenly fell silent. The only sound that could be heard was the clicking of boots on stone as someone approached him. He dared not look, so precarious was his position.

“I hope I can be a ruler worthy of such an oathkeeper.”

He hadn’t expected that. Looking up in wonder, he saw the Dragon Queen standing before him. She offered him her hand, and he pressed his forehead to it as he felt the warmth of tears sting his eyes, beginning to see why so many followed her.

“Thank you. Thank you for my life,” he whispered, looking up again.

She smiled.

“Thank you for your oath.”

He heard someone clap, and then another, until the entire hall was filled with cheers. He wiped a stray tear or two from his face as his little brother approached him.

“Don’t cry too much,” he said with a smirk. “Ladies don’t like to fuck men who cry.”

Jaime laughed, and then the two threw their arms around one another. For once, they were on the same side.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t lose your throat like the last person who knelt on this floor in tears,” Tyrion murmured in his ear.

Jaime drew back.

“What? Who?”

Tyrion smiled.

“Lord Baelish,” he said, giving his brother a knowing look. “He caught himself in his own web, and the Starks ate him whole.”

Surprised, startled, and relieved to find that he had been given a mercy of whom someone else had been deemed unworthy, he sighed.

“I’m sorry to have missed it.”

“So was I,” Tyrion said, cocking an eyebrow.

The other lords and ladies had begun to empty the hall, or turned to one another to discuss amongst themselves the new alliances they had gained. Jaime stood, sheathed his sword, and looked up at the high table again, but she was gone.

“She’s retired to her chambers, Ser Jaime,” Podrick said behind him.

He turned to face the lad, looking over his shoulder at where she had stood.

“She told me she would speak with you later, once you’ve rested,” Podrick continued.

“She’s angry, then?” he asked gingerly.

Pod could only try to smile.

“Here, m’lord,” Podrick gestured to the door. “I’ll show you to your chamber.”

So she was angry. He’d expected as much.

Notes:

Oh, Lady Mormont. Kicking ass since the day she was born... Like, twelve years ago.

Brienne's POV next.

Chapter 3: Swords - Brienne I

Summary:

Brienne speaks with the Stark women.

Notes:

Three of my favorite ladies, all in one room.

Enjoy!

The entire meeting in the dragon pit had been absolute, abject hell, only to worsen as he had walked away from her, not even bothering to look back. It was the first time he’d ever hurt her, and she’d hated how it had been because of Cersei. In that moment, she’d realized her own loyalty to his honor might have been as empty as the halls of Castamere themselves. Even now, as she recalled it, she could feel the ache in her stomach at the realization that Cersei would always come first.

He had deserved every account held against him, she knew. She couldn’t forget the look in his eyes as she’d raised her voice at him in King’s Landing, and yet every breath she had taken today was a prayer that he wouldn’t do (or, more likely, say) anything stupid in front of the Queen. She couldn’t even look at him, knowing he would look to her for truth, as he always had. But this was something she could not help him through. Despite her own conflict, she was furious at the Northern lords and wildlings that had snickered as he knelt for his life. They didn’t know him, didn’t know the value of his word, and it hurt to see him treated with such disrespect.

But then the Queen had called him ‘oathkeeper,’ and the anger, the hurt as he’d turned away from her, was allayed. He deserved that title far more than most. Much more than ‘kingslayer.’

She remembered how wisely he had used his words, though they had been laced with his typical impudence, and smiled at the fact that, despite his sister, he had come so far north to be true to his word. He most certainly was no longer an oathbreaker.

In fact, he may have just become the most honorable person she had ever known.

“You’re glad he’s here,” said a calm voice from behind her.

Brienne turned around to see Sansa standing in the doorway, her sister beside her.

“Who?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“You were thinking about him just now,” Arya said knowingly.

Brienne sighed, collecting her thoughts.

“I am glad he is safe, and I’m glad he kept his word,” she said truthfully, “as we should all be.”

Sansa looked at Arya, whose eyes fell to the sword on her belt.

“I didn’t realize it was forged from father’s sword,” Arya said with wonder.

Brienne took Oathkeeper from its sheath and handed it to her.

“Yes,” she replied. “Ser Jaime has the other half.”

Sansa and Arya looked at one another, surprised.

“He kept Widow’s Wail?” Sansa asked.

She nodded.

“What is that?” Arya questioned.

“It was Joffrey’s sword,” Sansa explained. “A wedding gift from Lord Tywin. He had father’s sword forged into two others.” She gently took the sword from her sister and looked at the rubies decorating it. “He gave one to Ser Jaime, and the other to Joffrey.”

“And Ser Jaime gave his to you,” Arya stated simply, looking at Brienne. “And now they’re both in Winterfell, where they belong.”

Brienne almost blushed at this. Sansa, through looking at the pommel, carefully handed it back to her sworn sword.

“I apologize for being so rash,” Arya explained. “I didn’t know he was part of it. Of the oath.”

Brienne took a conscientious breath, sheathing the sword.

“He’s been a part of many honorable things,” she said, “some of which he can tell you himself.”

Sansa smiled before sweeping out of the room, leaving Arya behind.

“I’m glad you wield it together,” Arya said. “Ice was an honorable sword. Father would have wanted honorable people to use it.”

Brienne nodded in thanks, and Arya smirked in return before following her sister.

Deeper in thought now than she had been when they found her, she sat on the edge of her bed, placing Oathkeeper in its belt beside her. A hundred memories of baths, sword sparring, torture and beatings, lies and screams, and the smell of their wastes mingled with one another as they were tied back to back on a horse came to her.

“You were slower than I expected.”

The corners of her lips tugged into a faint smile at the memory. He’d always been a slow learner.

She took a deep breath, leaving the sword she’d once been told was hers, and hers alone, on the bed behind her as she left the room.

Notes:

Yes, short, I know. But hey, Brienne and Jaime reunion is next. :) Thanks for reading thus far!

PS - I had to quote Gwendoline when she called the dragon pit Brienne's idea of 'absolute, abject hell.' It's too perfect of a description not to utilize it in Brienne's thoughts.

Chapter 4: Boots - Jaime III

Summary:

Jaime is paid a visit.

As Jaime stepped into the chamber, he noticed it was sparse, but at least there was a fire. There was a hot meal waiting for him on the table, and he shuddered as his snow-soaked clothes became unbearable. He turned to look at Podrick, who made to leave.

“Podrick, would you...”

Podrick turned to him, an expectant look on his face.

“Yes, m’lord?”

Jaime couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He shrugged instead.

“Thank you.”

The squire nodded, trying to smile.

“Of course, m’lord,” he replied, before turning to walk down the hall, closing the door behind him.

Alone at last, he pulled the only chair close to the fire, and with difficulty, began to undress, anxious to be rid of the winter chill. His jerkin was easy enough to remove, as was his cloak, but the boots gave him difficulty. His feet were swollen from the journey, and he sat, as trying to remove them with one hand had never proved easy work.

He grunted as he managed to pull one off, tossing it near the fire, before starting to work on the other. It had been so long since he’d lost his hand, and still he could barely undress without another set of hands to help him.

Thinking that standing on the toe of the boot would be useful, he attempted the maneuver, but put too much of his weight on the other foot, and as a consequence of the misstep, tumbled to the floor with a groan of pain, his golden hand digging into the raw flesh that covered his stump as he attempted to catch himself. He sat up with a sigh that rustled his undershirt, temporarily accepting defeat. Undressing was as exhausting as battle these days.

“Ser Jaime?”

He jumped at the sound of her familiar voice, having not heard the door open, and then looked over his shoulder to see her standing there, a puzzled look on her face. Gods, those eyes.

“What on earth are you doing?” she murmured.

“Failing at undressing myself,” he said, gesturing to himself with a sardonic smile. “Boots are always the hardest part.”

She didn’t move, and he clumsily stood, cursing himself for looking so weak. But as soon as he’d made it to his feet—

“Sit,” she quietly demanded, closing the chamber door behind her.

He felt his breath catch in his throat as he obeyed her words, and watched as she approached, kneeling on the floor in front of him to work on the boot. He tried to forget how warm her hand felt through his trousers, just behind his knee, as she supported his leg with one hand, tugging the boot with the other. Within moments, she’d removed the cursed object without any discomfort and tossed it beside its mate by the fire, and now stood towering over him as she once had so long ago. He looked up at her then, and found his breath had still not restored itself.

“It’s good to see you,” he whispered, despite a shiver.

Without responding, she walked to his bed and took one of the furs that lay there, returning to drape it over his shoulders, and he clasped it together at his chest with his hand gratefully.

“You came,” she said, standing behind him.

He nodded, painfully aware of how he could feel her sapphire eyes piercing through him without even seeing them. She moved to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle, looking into the fire rather than at him, her eyes flickering in the light. Neither of them spoke for a few moments, and it was all he could do to not let the memory of their last encounter swallow him whole.

“I’m... I don’t...” he mumbled weakly.

“I know.”

He looked up at her, and swallowed hard when she looked at him, understanding mixed with something else in her eyes—was it pride?

“I’m glad you kept your word,” she said simply.

He pressed his eyes shut at this, finally finding his breath. She deserved the truth.

She’d always deserve his truth.

“I left her,” he murmured. “She’s pregnant, and I left her anyway.”

His gaze met hers then, the shock of what he had said written in her features. He’d never spoken about Cersei to her, afraid that she’d run the moment he mentioned her. The look on her face certainly made it seem as though she’d like to do so.

“I tried to talk to her. To reason with her." He gulped at the memory. "She threatened to kill me when I told her I was riding north,” he continued unevenly. “She called me a traitor, and gave Ser Gregor the order... But I walked away.”

The silence was deafening, and her eyes were as wide as they’d been in the Harrenhal baths.

“Say something,” he begged. “Please.”

She tore her eyes away after a long moment, pressing them closed as she carefully assembled her words.

“You risked your life to do the right thing,” she began, “knowing it would hurt you and those you love.”

Her blue eyes met his own once more, the firelight dancing in their depths, steadfast in her words.

“I would expect no less of an honorable man,” she said resolutely. “Of you.”

He choked in a breath, and bowed his head in relief and exhaustion, but especially gratitude.

“You need to rest,” she said, stepping toward him and kneeling, grasping his hand as it held the fur. He could barely look in her eyes, hoping she couldn’t feel the beat of his heart quickening beneath his hand. “You’re useless to us all half dead already,” she breathed.

She was so tall, that even on one knee, she was nearly his height sitting. Her eyes compelled him to nod, rather than fight her on the subject, and he stood as she took the fur from his shoulders with her free hand, draping it over her arm. He couldn’t remember feeling so tired in all his life, and wished that he could pay more attention to the way that she gently, but firmly, guided him to his bedside. He sat on the edge of the bed, but put his golden hand down to catch his weight in absence of the other, and he gritted his teeth.

“It’s hurting you,” she whispered, concern in her voice as she tossed the fur on the bed.

He met her eyes, and released her hand to start awkwardly untying the straps of his golden hand. She immediately sat on his right side, helping to remove the object. He hissed with pain as she pulled it off, and saw her cringe when she saw the wrapping come with it. Without a word, she put the hand on the bed beside them and took the stump with both hands to examine it.

She stilled for a moment, no doubt remembering the night he’d lost it for bribing Locke for her honor. He knew she’d heard him scream after Locke had severed it, and he watched her carefully as she closed her eyes, likely willing away the worst memories of their journey south.

“It’s just blistered,” he mumbled. “It was a hard ride. I’ll be fine—”

“It’s bleeding,” she said firmly. She gave him a look that he wouldn’t argue with, if only because he knew whatever she said would be right, and he would be wrong.

She walked to the washbasin, taking two cloths and dampening them in the water, and he felt his chest tighten as she knelt before him, taking the stump and cleaning it gently.

“Why didn’t you take it off before?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“I had no place to put it,” he said unabashedly. “It also makes hitting people much more enjoyable. You never know who you’ll cross on the Kingsroad.”

“You’ve hit people with it?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow as she glanced at him.

“One or two,” he smirked.

She smiled at this, and he felt his heart skip at the sight.

“There,” she said, examining his arm. “You’ll have to leave it off for a while.”

He could feel his heartbeat in his throat as she looked up at him expectantly, and he nodded in agreement.

“Thank you,” he murmured, meaning so much more as he searched her eyes.

Watching her in wonder, she stood and walked to the basin, putting the washcloths to the side before rinsing her own hands in the water. After drying them with a towel, she looked at him.

“Rest well, Ser Jaime,” she said. “Perhaps we’ll see you at supper this evening.”

She made to leave, and he felt his feet padding across the cold floor before he’d even registered what he was doing. When she was halfway to the door, his fingers had gently closed around her forearm, stopping her.

Turning to face him, she sighed.

“Ser Jaime, you really should—”

His arms were wrapped around her tightly in a fraction of a moment, his hand behind her head, his stump at her waist, pulling her close. Her body tensed at the contact, but he felt her neck slowly relax as she exhaled, bending her head to rest against his. He could feel her breath on his shoulder, shaky and uneven, causing him to shudder, pulling her tighter as he buried his face in her neck. Gods, this woman.

“I’m glad I'm here...” he whispered against her collar. With you, he finished silently.

He felt her breath catch at this, and smiled to himself as she wrapped her arms around him in response. Their chests rose and fell unsteadily against one another, and she stepped back after a moment, one hand taking his left, her other slipping down his arm to the sensitive skin just above his stump.

“I’ll see you at supper,” she said quietly.

He swallowed hard, before nodding in agreement, lightly squeezing her fingers. She squeezed his hand in response, then turned around and was gone. After he’d curled up under the furs, he noticed how cold the room suddenly felt without her there.

Notes:

Yay!

Hope you're enjoying so far. Much more still to come. Brienne's POV next.

Chapter 5: Stew - Brienne II

Summary:

Jaime joins Brienne and Podrick for supper.

“What do you think that golden hand is covering?” a Northern bannerman sneered, slopping food into his bowl.

“Probably the fist he fucks his sister with,” a Wildling replied.

She tried her hardest to ignore the way some of them snorted their beer through their noses with laughter, and felt her entire body tense with rage instead.

“M’lady, would you like me to bring your supper to your chamber?” Podrick asked.

The conversation at dinner had been centered on Jaime, and she’d done her best to disregard every remark, no matter how disgusting they had been. She silently thanked the gods he hadn’t come to eat yet.

“No, Podrick,” she replied coolly. “I am, however, grateful for your kindness... And your patience.”

He smiled ever so reassuringly at her. The lad did have such a wonderful smile.

“Yes, m’lady.”

They continued eating, and she returned to her stew, looking up to see the red-headed Wildling—Tormund, they called him—staring at her with a concerned look on his face.

That’s new, she thought. Usually he’d be leering.

She’d be commanding the watch that night, and Tormund was assigned to that number. He hadn’t made any advances, but she hated the way he’d look at her, and it was going to be hard watching from the battlements when he’d likely be staring at her the way most men eyed a full meal after weeks on the road.

Suddenly, the raucous behavior of the men around her fell to a slight murmur.

“M’lady...?” she heard Podrick whisper, nodding over her shoulder.

She turned to look, and saw Jaime standing at the high table, speaking to his brother, a bowl of stew in his hand. He wasn’t wearing the golden hand, and the sleeve of his tunic was rolled up, which made his amputation stand out. Smiling secretly to herself, she realized he’d listened to her. He turned to search for her, and she looked back at her bowl, refusing to be another set of the now many pairs of eyes that were staring at him.

Her heart quickened its pace as she felt him sit beside her, and she immediately thought back to the failed dinner they’d shared with Lord Bolton so long ago. This time, however, she wouldn’t have to help him cut his meat. She silently thanked the gods for whoever had planned this meal.

“It’s good to see you, Ser Jaime,” Podrick said, meaning it.

In the corner of her eye, she saw him try to smile back at the lad.

“Thank you, Podrick.”

They ate in companionable silence, but the murmurs and snickers carried through the hall so effortlessly, they may as well have shouted their insults. She frowned when she felt Jaime hunch a little, his body stiff with discomfort, before stealing a glance at Podrick, whose face was now sullen as he stared into his stew. Why were people so cruel?

She threw a murderous glare at the Wildling who’d joked about Cersei, giggling like the little girl he was. When he saw her face, he leaned over to whisper in his friend’s ear, whose body shook with laughter.

Jaime’s warm hand covered her own, which she hadn’t realized she’d clenched into a fist so hard her fingernails were cutting into the calloused flesh of her palm.

“It’s okay,” he said, gently squeezing her hand. “I’m used to it, remember?”

She looked at him, and though he wasn’t smiling, she felt herself relax at the resolve she saw in his eyes.

“So,” a husky voice said, “you’re the Kingslayer.”

Their hands moved apart slowly as they looked up to see Tormund taking a seat beside Podrick, ale in hand.

Shit.

“Yes,” Jaime confirmed cheekily. “I also respond to Ser Jaime.”

Tormund chuckled at this, and Brienne held her breath as Tormund looked at her for a reaction.

“So, Ser Jaime,” he grumbled, gesturing to Jaime’s arm, “how’d you lose the hand?”

You’ve got to be joking.

Jaime fell quiet as her heart stopped beating, and from across the table, she saw Podrick slosh his stew in response, bits of it falling back into the bowl. She promptly winced in his direction, but neither Tormund nor Jaime seemed to notice.

“I was defending a maiden,” Jaime murmured, attempting to finish the subject by taking a mouthful of stew.

She held back a smile, but the warmth from which it rose spread through to her fingertips. Looking up, she noticed Tormund was examining her with a curious expression.

“Looks like it was a clean cut...” Tormund said, his voice indicating deep thought.

Jaime nodded.

“It hurt like one too.”

Brienne took a bite of food, sneaking a look at the two men. Tormund was smiling. Not a leer, or a joke, but actually smiling. She looked at Podrick, who seemed just as astonished as she was.

The two men continued their conversation, speaking about how the Wildlings came south of the wall, and how Jaime had come to find himself at Winterfell. She sat in near silence as they spoke, mechanically chewing and swallowing the stew.

“You married?” Tormund asked. “Got kids?”

Jaime tensed, and then swallowed hard, shaking his head ever so slightly. She felt an unfamiliar feeling in the pit of her stomach that stole her breath away, and she was momentarily unsure that she would not vomit with the fullness of it.

“No,” he said. “I’m not married, but I had children. Three of them.”

Tormund nodded.

“I bet they were golden haired beauties, weren’t they?” he asked with a smile.

“They were,” was all Jaime replied. 

She felt him shift uncomfortably beside her.

“I had four, but now I have two,” Tormund said quietly. “Lost two of my boys.”

Brienne’s eyes darted to meet his, a look of surprise on her face.

“Stannis’s men beat down one of them,” he explained, looking down at his beer. “Wights got the other. Had to kill him myself.”

She had no idea how to react to this information. No one had ever mentioned it, and she’d never even known he had children. Perhaps she should have guessed it, based on the way he looked at her. But now, seeing the pain on the Wildling’s face, her resentment for him vanished, especially when she noticed that the murmurs and stares in their direction had completely ceased.

He was talking to Jaime so the others would stop talking about him. She smiled to herself as Jaime looked at Tormund, an understanding look on his face.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Notes:

This chapter was a pure joy to write. Probably wrote it in about an hour. :)

What Tormund says about his boys is book canon, by the way--a sad fact that we, the showgoers, never truly get to hear him talk about. What a shame. The actor who plays him would probably crush content like that.

Thank you so much for all of your kind comments. I'm glad you all are still reading it and enjoying it, truly. Hopefully, I can continue to do these characters justice.

Chapter 6: Songs - Brienne III

Summary:

Brienne shares a tale of adventure with unexpected company.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, walking down the corridor.

“Better than I have in months.”

She smiled to herself.

“That Wildling is impressive, isn’t he?” he asked.

Surprised, she shot him a look, wishing they could talk about something else.

“Yes,” she answered shortly, looking down. “He is.”

“But...?” he implied, wanting her to say what she was thinking.

She sighed.

“When I first met him, he stared at me far too much.”

He laughed so hard at this he had to stop walking. It made her furious.

“What’s so funny about that?” she demanded.

He stepped closer to her, smiling brightly, and she froze, a frown plastered on her face as he placed his hand on her arm, bracing her.

“Forgive me,” he said tenderly. “It’s not funny. It just amazes me that you still don’t understand why an intelligent man would look at you twice.”

Her frown dissipated as her heart got the better of her, leaping into her throat, and she stilled as something she’d only seen a handful of times before filled his eyes. It terrified her.

“I have to prepare for the watch,” she said, her voice sounding more strained than she’d intended.

For a moment, it looked as though he would say something, but he faltered, and chose to nod instead.

“Until tomorrow then.”

She nodded in goodbye, and watched as he slowly walked away from her, her arm suddenly missing the warmth of the hand that had been there moments ago. As she stepped into her chamber, something within her wondered what he had wanted to say. Now she’d likely spend the entire watch trying to think of words to put into his mouth.

Damn him.

---

She’d heard that the Stark boy could see things, hear things, and do things that no other man could. The ‘three-eyed raven’, he’d called himself. By the time he’d summoned her to thank her for her part in bringing his sisters home, the true tale of who’d pushed him from the tower window had already reached her ears. The boy insisted there was no need to recall such an event, since his crippling was simply a part of his destiny, but the truth of it had shocked her. How could she, of all people, possibly still care about someone who could do something so awful? Was there something wrong with her? She should be furious, or disappointed. But, perhaps worst of all, she wasn’t surprised. It was all she could think about during their conversation, since she was entirely unfocused on the topic at hand.

“He’s not the same man,” he answered. “You needn’t feel ashamed for me.”

She stared at him in wonder.

“How did you—”

“We don’t get to choose who we love.”

Her breath seized in her chest as he looked right into her. He knew. He knew everything, had seen everything. Of course he had.

She watched, suddenly self-conscious of her every thought, as his eyes fell to the hilt of her sword.

“It’s yours now,” he murmured, and she nodded.

“Yes.”

He smiled to himself.

“I wasn’t talking about the sword,” he asserted, "and neither was he.”

---

“That southerner is a good man,” a rumbling voice said, distracting her from the memory. “Decent.”

She sighed, remembering how he’d sat with them in front of everyone. Turning to look at the Wildling, she did her best to offer a smile.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded in response, standing beside her as she looked out over the battlements.

“You were the maiden, weren’t you?” he asked without looking at her. “The one he lost his hand for.”

She exhaled as the memory of his scream invaded her mind, her breath a visible white cloud against the backdrop of the winter surrounding them.

“Yes,” she confirmed, more than a hint of grudge in her tone.

He chuckled, and she half-heartedly frowned at him.

“And how did a woman like you become someone’s prisoner?” he asked.

The look of genuine interest on his face unnerved her. She was sure he meant it as a question, but especially as a compliment.

“It’s a long story,” she said dismissively.

“If we’re lucky,” another voice said from beside her, “time is all we’ll have tonight.”

To her surprise, Ser Davos Seaworth had been listening.

“Why is everyone suddenly so concerned about my journey with Ser Jaime?” she accused them both. “Are you boys, or are you men?”

Tormund simply shrugged, but Ser Davos gave her a knowing smile.

“I think most of us are just interested to know how Jaime Lannister came to be in the confidence of someone as respected as yourself,” Davos explained, “if’n you don’t mind, my lady.”

She felt the cold air enter her lungs as her nostrils flared in exasperation. Why did everyone find her connection to Ser Jaime so fascinating?

“Fine,” she ground out, “but it is not your place to share it among the others.”

“We understand,” Ser Davos said, nodding in agreement.

And so she shared the short version of their journey with the two men, hardly looking at anything but the snow falling in front of her as she did so. They stayed silent for the most part, laughing now and then, especially when she told them of how she’d beaten Ser Jaime on the bridge. But as she progressed into the darker points of their journey, describing Locke and how Ser Jaime had lost his hand, her voice lost its strength. Though she didn’t mention the baths (that was his tale to tell), she pressed through to the bear pit, and how Ser Jaime had jumped in without any idea of what he was doing. She heard Tormund chuckle at this, but couldn’t understand what could possibly be so funny about it.

“And you both made it out alive,” Ser Davos finished for her.

She nodded.

“By some miracle, yes.”

“Now that is an interesting history to share with someone,” Tormund said with a grin. “You should write a song about it someday.”

“Thank you,” she said with a polite smile, “but I don’t sing.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I bet you—”

“Shush,” said Ser Davos, holding up a hand and looking out into the darkness.

She frowned, trying to follow his gaze. At first, she saw nothing against the black backdrop that had become a winter night in the North except for the fires of the campsites of the Unsullied, Dothraki, and the Wildlings. But as she squinted, she saw that out in the night, beautiful blue diamonds were sparkling in the moonlight, silently moving closer to them.

Her blood ran cold. There were only about five hundred of them; likely a troop sent ahead of the army, meant to deplete their numbers before the true battle began.

“Ser Davos,” she whispered urgently, “get word to Podrick. Tell him to retrieve Lady Arya, and to make sure Lady Sansa is safe. Then go find the King. We need his steel.”

“What about the Queen?” he asked. “The dragons could—”

“We have to conserve their strength,” she said. “The King alone.”

The man nodded, quickly turning to leave. She looked at Tormund.

“I’ll alert those below,” he said, completing her thought so she wouldn’t have to do so.

“We’ll meet them outside, alongside the other armies,” she assured him. “Be sure everyone is armed with dragonglass.”

He nodded, turning on his heel to follow Ser Davos down the stairs, and she gazed over her shoulder once more at the Walkers in the distance before heading down to the yard. Men were already rustling around, sprinting here and there with boxes of dragonglass, carrying it through the gates to the tents outside. She instinctively clutched Oathkeeper’s pommel to anchor her against the rapid beating of her heart.

Scanning the yard, she looked for someone she knew was fast asleep at this hour. With any luck, the battle would be short-lived and cause little disturbance.

Notes:

Y'all. I've officially caught up with everything I've written in the last two weeks, and cannot WAIT to write the next two chapters.

Also: Had to add the bookish bit about Brienne not singing. It's such an interesting/sad fact about her that we don't get to see in the show.

As always, thanks for reading and your wonderful comments. They are so appreciated. :) Jaime's perspective (and battle aftermath) next!

Chapter 7: Snow - Jaime IV

Summary:

A mere taste of the war to come arrives at Winterfell.

He was running, a much younger Myrcella and Tommen trailing behind, trying to tackle him, but failing at every attempt. The summer clouds were nowhere in sight, blue skies above them, and he was smiling at the way the children’s’ laughter seemingly outshone the sun itself. Looking back, he could hardly see their heads over the tall grass as they chased him, their golden hair gleaming in the sun’s rays. Finally, he turned on them with a playful roar, catching them in his arms as they knocked him over, giggling with glee.

When he was through tickling each of them to bits, he stole a glance at their faces, and his heart arrested at what he saw smiling down at him.

They were laughing, their perfect, sapphire blue eyes setting their freckles aflame.

He’d never seen these children before, but somehow, he knew they were his. The way they were looking at him, pride and joy on their faces... Never had he seen any of his own children look at him that way, and it roused a feeling of comfort and warmth that he hadn’t known before.

Love, he realized. This is what true love feels like.

Without a second thought, he pulled them to his chest, kissing the tops of their heads, trying to catch his breath as they smiled into his maroon jerkin. Nothing could ever feel this real. He had never felt this real.

“Jaime!” he heard a voice calling him. It was a woman’s voice, gentle but firm in its resolve. He could almost hear the smile he was sure graced the face he wanted to see when he looked up, tugging at the little scar that hovered over her lip.

“Ser Jaime,” the voice called to him, shaking his shoulder.

Slowly, he opened his eyes to see Podrick standing over him. He could hear the storm of hundreds of swords in the distance, and shot up at the realization of where he was, what time it was, and who he was.

“Where is she?” he demanded, stumbling out of bed to hurriedly dress, his fingers fumbling with the laces of his tunic. Podrick immediately moved to help him.

“She’s fighting,” he calmly explained. “She was commanding the watch...”

He froze, meeting Podrick’s eyes. The fear he saw there rivaled the placating tone of the young man’s voice. Without another word, he continued getting dressed, trying to steady the race of his heart as Podrick fastened his armor as quickly as possible.  Once his golden hand was in place and Widow’s Wail was resting on his hip, he placed his hand on Podrick’s shoulder.

“Go to Lady Sansa,” he commanded. “Bar her door. Do not open it for anyone until the battle is over.”

The young man nodded before leaving the room without another word, Jaime hot on his heels.

As he jogged down the corridor to the yard, he noticed how silent everything seemed within the walls of the castle. How long had they been fighting, and how had he missed it? He should be in the thick of it, fighting as much as any other man.

Or woman.

His feet moved more quickly, spurring him through the gates and into the deserted campsite. He could see it now, the back of the army, as they fought to hold their line against an immeasurable force of wights. Sprinting as fast as he could, he covered the last hundred yards to join them, drawing Widow’s Wail and thrusting it through the spinal column of the first wight he could see, relishing the crunch of its bones as it immediately fell, but the creature did not rise again. Valyrian steel, he realized in seconds, could kill them just as well as dragonglass.

Her sword was also Valyrian steel, he remembered hopefully.

He glanced around, the boiling heat of battle singing its way through his veins with every lethal swing of his sword as he scanned the faces of those around him, cutting down every wight in his path as he gradually pushed his way through to the center of the fight. There were unearthly screams surrounding him, penetrating him to his very soul with their depth as he cut down what felt like an endless number of creatures that he once thought had never existed.

That’s when he saw it.

Their commander, he assumed, was slowly stalking his way through the fold, killing Dothraki and Unsullied alike as he intentionally strode toward something.

Slamming his sword through the rotting neck of a wight, he changed the direction of his fighting, trying to push his way through to where the long-haired creature might be heading. Whatever he meant to achieve, it couldn’t be good.

The grunts of living men fighting with everything they had started to audibly outweigh the shrieks and screams of the men and women who could not die, and above the din, he could hear a familiar cry—

He turned to see the commander, almost fifty feet away, engaged in single-handed combat with Brienne while ten wights were simultaneously trying to grab at her. The Hound was there, swinging his own sword against them, but each one he slew would stand again moments later, his castle-forged steel not enough to beat them down.

As Jaime forcefully cut through what he had to in order to cross the short distance between them, he heard her scream as three wights pulled her down into the snow, her sword falling from her grasp and her fists swinging. The commander made to strike while she was down—

His sword met the blow instead, holding the ground between the commander and his prey. Hearing the steel of his sword sing against the icy blade, the commander raised his eyebrows in question. Jaime’s blood froze through, but he was determined to answer.

With more dexterity than he thought possible, he met every swing of the commander’s sword, forcing the cunt to switch places with him so that he might see if she was still on the ground—

She was still alive, wrestling with two of them now—

He felt an acute burning sensation in his right thigh, realizing his opponent’s weapon had sliced him just below his right hip as Widow’s Wail was bashed into the snow. With nothing left to defend himself, he dodged the blows as deftly as he could, the blood from his wound running coldly down his leg—

“LANNISTER!” a voice cried.

Rolling down to the ground to avoid a cut to his torso, he looked to see Arya Stark, her dagger flying toward him—

He caught the hilt of it with his left hand, rising to his feet as the commander tried to strike a blow at him on the ground, taking the opportunity to beat the icy blade from his grasp. Using his golden hand, he slammed a blow against its head, a chunk of pretty white hair falling to disappear against the snow as his opponent staggered. Without hesitation, Jaime shoved the catspaw dagger through the commander’s back with a snarl, watching as he screamed before he split apart into shards of ice.

In an instant, more than a hundred of the remaining wights fell to the ground. Realizing the small number left would be killed in a matter of moments, he ran to her, kneeling beside her still form in the crimson snow.

Notes:

This chapter is short. But it was SO DIFFICULT to write that it feels like the longest chapter I've written. Like, Maester-Aemon-outlived-me-as-I-was-trying-to-write-this long, y'all.

Battles are hard. Like, holy crap hard, especially when you try to write them in under 48 hours. And I had a microbiology test today too, so that's fun. (EEK.)

Thanks again for reading, commenting, and being your wonderful selves. I'm glad to have such a wonderful audience to write for!

Chapter 8: Hands - Brienne IV

Summary:

Brienne recovers after the battle.

The sensation of liquid fire running down the right side of her face and jaw jolted her awake, a hand holding both her own steady as she unconsciously tried to stay the assault.

Opening her eyes, she saw Jaime sitting beside the bed, his face dirty, his hair matted with blood.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, lightly squeezing her fingers.

She gritted her teeth as she felt a warm, thick liquid running down her neck now. Pressing her eyes closed in pain, the memory of what had happened rushed back to her in an instant.

The commander of the force that had been sent was fighting her, but she’d been wrestled to the ground by a few of his soldiers instead, Oathkeeper wrenched out of her grasp. With a fierceness bordering on desperation, she ripped apart what she could of the walkers as they clawed at her.

But the pain in her face blinded her more as one wight bit down on her right cheek, and she screamed as the soft flesh there was torn away, feeling the tendrils of remaining skin draping across the exposed muscle. Breathless from how cold everything had suddenly become, she swung her fist, connecting with the head of the creature, only to see it scramble back. She was struggling to keep it away, but was growing weaker as she resisted, and within moments she felt numbness below her jaw as it returned for a second bite. The priceless blood that spilled from her now forced her heart to beat faster, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Before her eyes clouded with darkness, the last thing she could remember was how the wights weren’t struggling against her anymore.

And now she was here, the Tarly boy gingerly stemming the flow of fresh blood with a cloth as he cleaned her wounds with what smelled like boiled wine. The pain she could handle, but the memories such a substance aroused were better off forgotten. She grabbed Jaime’s fingers in silence, groaning in pain, willing herself to keep those memories at bay, but she failed, hissing in a breath as her mind betrayed her.

She’d heard that Qyburn had used boiled wine to clean Jaime’s festering stump at Harrenhal, and the thought of the same medicine being used on her own wounds brought back the sound of his screams as they had echoed through the halls of the decrepit structure. She’d never heard a more wretched sound, and had gone to the baths because it was the only place where she couldn’t hear him roaring in pain from the price he’d paid for her honor.

“I’ll speak with the kitchen maids about having some soup made for you, my lady,” Sam said, pressing a cloth soaked with the wine to her wounds. “It isn’t particularly deep, but it could have been very serious. You should avoid any unnecessary movement of your jaw for the next few days.”

She nodded, and saw Jaime sigh raggedly out of the corner of her eyes, realizing she couldn’t bear to look directly at him; in fact, she was afraid to do so. Her heart was racing again, probably from the pain. It had to be the pain.

The Tarly boy wrapped the wound on her neck, but dabbed the blood from her cheek with the wine-soaked cloth, leaving it open.

“Ideally, this wound will scab over,” he said. “I’m afraid if we apply a bandage here, it will pull whatever new skin develops with it as we change the dressings... But we'll watch it for today, and keep it clean.”

She pressed her eyes closed, nodding in agreement.

“Thank you,” was all she could manage. The boy smiled as best he could, and then turned to Jaime.

“The leg?” he asked.

“Better,” Jaime mumbled. “Thank you, Sam.”

Had he been injured too? She didn’t even know he’d joined the fight. Taking the look on her face as a cue, Sam left them alone in the chamber.

Looking down at the furs, she noticed that the way Jaime still held her hands was entirely too intimate for her own good, yet she couldn’t bring herself to move away. Taking a second to peek at his face, she noted how his head was bowed, making his eyes unavailable to her.

“Ser Jaime—“

A towering figure entered the room, a smile gracing the unmarred half of his face.

“Tarth.”

She smiled back at him as best she could.

“Clegane.”

The man sat silently in the chair Sam had just vacated, and she saw him glance at the hands she’d been examining just moments ago before quickly looking back at her face.

“You’re as ugly I am, now.”

She chuckled.

“I’ve always been uglier than you.”

The Hound grinned at this, and she felt Jaime’s hand tense, but she held it fast. She didn’t even have to look at him to see the frown on his face. Ignoring it, she thought back to the field, where Arya had been fighting only feet from her.

“The girls...?” she asked, looking back at Clegane.

“They’re safe,” he assured her. “Your squire looked after Lady Sansa, and Arya fought better than most of us.”

“I’m not surprised,” she muttered.

“Neither am I.”

She furrowed her brow, remembering how he had fought to keep little distance between the three of them on the field.

“Thank you for staying close to her,” she murmured.

He smirked.

“It’s not like either of you needs protecting.”

She smiled to herself, achingly aware of Jaime’s hand, anchoring her to reality.

“Still,” she said softly, covering his hand with her own, “it’s nice to have the option.”

Something in the room shifted as she said it, and she could feel Jaime looking at her. Rather than see what those green eyes held, she raised her eyebrows at the Hound.

“Would you give them my regards?” she whispered.

“They actually sent me to give you theirs,” he explained. “Said they’d sup with you this evening, if you were feeling up to it. They want you to rest.” He glanced at Jaime for a moment. “Both of you.”

Jaime opened his mouth to say something, but she grasped his hand a little harder, hoping he’d take the hint and stay silent.

“Thank you,” she said weakly, the weight of exhaustion beginning to take hold of her. “We’ll do our best.”

Clegane nodded, standing to leave.

“You fought well, Lannister,” he declared, staring down at Jaime with a smirk. “The Queen’s thinking of making you the commander of her armies after your little show on the battlefield.”

Brienne looked at Jaime then, confused, as the Hound left the room, closing the door behind him.

“What did you do?” she asked.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, looking down.

“I killed their captain... or commander, whatever the hell you want to call him,” he struggled to say. “I drove a dagger through his back. It killed most of the rest of them.”

She couldn’t speak, her lips parted in shock.

“It’s not like I didn’t have help,” he said with a shrug. “It was the Stark girl’s dagger. I’ve only got the one hand, remember?”

He smiled at his joke, but she didn’t. Her body struggled to sit up in the bed, shaken by this information, and he immediately frowned, on his feet in an instant, his hand at her back to support her as he knelt on the bed.

“What is it?” he asked worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

She looked up, suddenly realizing how close he was, and her heart started to race. His hand was so warm through the fabric of her undershirt.

“Nothing,” she breathed. But he didn’t move, looking in her eyes.

“Brienne...” he whispered, the tone of concern still there.

She braced a hand against his chest as she adjusted herself, but left it there when she was through. The rise and fall of his chest captivated her.

“I didn’t realize you’d become so competent with your left hand,” she murmured.

He sat on the bed where he knelt so close to her, and clasped the hand on his chest, giving her a knowing look.

“Neither had I.”

Was his heart beating faster, or was it hers? She couldn’t tell.

Looking headlong into his sea-green eyes, she tried to steady herself.

“I’m proud of you.”

Was that what she meant to say? It seemed so, but it felt like she was saying something else. That’s when she saw the change in his eyes. The look she’d seen every time they’d parted ways. In every time she told him what he deserved to hear, good or bad. In the almost final goodbye they’d shared the night before... But something was different this time.

She brought her other hand to his face, letting her calloused fingers graze the slight beard they found there, noticing the way his wrinkles were starting to create shadows on his face that hadn’t been there before. He was slowly beginning to show his age, his dark blonde hair shimmering with more greys than it had on their journey south. The dirt on his face did nothing to dissuade her from her exploration; she’d seen his face covered in shit, mud, and blood. It didn’t matter to her.

His lips were barely an inch from hers, she realized, so close she could—

A light knock on the door made them both start, and she realized how uneven her breath was as he pressed his forehead to her own, her hand still cupping his face. After a moment, the chamber was silent.

Damn it all.

Her hand brought his chin forward, placing his lips on hers, but she was careful not to disturb the wound on her face as she leaned into him. His mouth moved against hers, softly at first, and she felt his hand go to her waist, his stump sneaking around to support her back. There was a faint taste of salt and dirt on his lips, but after what she’d just told him, nothing could have tasted truer than this.

A knot of something started to coil within her stomach that only seemed to tighten the faster that her heart beat, and as she let him deepen the kiss, she heard him moan ever so slightly as he pulled her body closer to his—

An audible gasp separated them, and Jaime pulled away from her, only for an exasperated look to cover his face before he turned to see who stood in the doorway. Brienne noticed his stump was still at her back, smiling at the thought.  

“Yes?” she heard Jaime demand.

Sam’s Wilding friend, Gilly, was standing in the doorway, a petrified look on her face.

“What is it?” she asked the girl, throwing a placating look at Jaime.

“Well,” she began quietly, “I was told that you might want a bath, m’lady. I can have the maids draw one for you, if you like?”

She smiled at the terrified girl, nodding.

“A bath would be wonderful, Gilly,” she said. “Thank you.”

The young woman bit her lip and nodded.

“Yes, m’lady,” she said, starting through the door again. “I’m sorry I interrupted,” she finished with a suppressed smile, closing the door behind her.

Jaime ran his hand through his dirty hair, looking sidelong at her, a smile tugging on his lips.

“You should prepare for your bath.”

She tried to smile back at him, nodding like a silent fool.

“Do you need me to stay?” he asked sincerely.

To be completely honest, she hadn’t thought about it.

“Not this time, I think,” she murmured, bringing her knees to her chest. “But you could join us for supper, if you—”

“Yes.”

She smiled, and saw him lean in toward her again, ever so slightly brushing his lips against her untouched cheek, leaving his forehead there for a moment.

“Get some rest,” she said, meaning it.

He made to stand, taking her hand in his own.

“I’ll try,” he relented, lightly squeezing her fingers.

As he turned to leave her there, he smiled, and she was left to wonder what the hell had just happened, and why she couldn’t stop blushing.

Notes:

This was difficult, fun, unnerving, and WONDERFUL to write. The fact that they released Season Eight photos while I was writing it made it a lot easier. Also: Since we don't get Biter in the TV series, I threw in the cheek bit anyway. :)

Enjoy! Next chapter will be Jaime's POV at supper.

Chapter 9: Words - Jaime V

Summary:

Jaime visits Brienne for supper.

He’d tried to rest. Truly, he had.

But he still couldn’t shake the tightness he'd felt in his chest as he saw her lying unconscious, blood-soaked snow cradling her body like a field of flowers.

The bath they had drawn for him was only helping so much. His leg had protested initially, but it was a welcome distraction from the events of earlier. She’d said she was proud of him, and the significance of her words was not lost. Pride was almost as valuable as love to someone like Brienne. But then she had reminded him, quite unexpectedly, that there were no other people like her, and whatever they’d had before was shattered the instant their lips met.

Jaime rubbed his weary face with his soaked hand, leaning his head against the back of the tub.

She was more than a friend, and somehow, more than a lover. He'd always felt a sort of familiarity in her presence, even when she’d started dragging him around the Riverlands in chains. Through every betrayal he’d ever suffered at the hands of his family, never had Brienne faltered in her belief in him or betrayed the trust he had given her at Harrenhal. She was his equal in every way.

Sighing, he stood from the tub, his leg aching more than he’d previously noticed. The cut must have been deeper than he thought. Damn.

Struggling to wrap a towel around his lower half, his stump still sore from the journey north, he thought forward to supper, and how the Stark women would respond to him being there. Perhaps he should stay, and let them sup with Brienne alone. Certainly they’d prefer it that way...?

No. Brienne would be expecting him, and he would not fail her. Not after how brave she’d been.

And not just on the battlefield.

---

Limping ever so slightly, he made his way to her chambers, knowing the girls would likely already be there. As he turned the corner, he heard low voices echoing down the hall, confirming his suspicions.

Her door was cracked open enough to let some light escape, and he stopped just outside, the warmth of it beckoning him to enter. He pushed the door open to see her sitting up in bed, smiling at the Stark children as she ate her soup, her maimed cheek still open to air and slowly drying out. Seeing it gave him the strength he needed to close the door behind him.

Only when he stepped forward did he notice the wheelchair, and the young man sitting in it.

His stomach seized, and for a short moment, he felt sick.

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa greeted him with a tight smile.

“Lady Sansa.”

“Lady Brienne said you’d be joining us.”

He tried to smile as he slowly made his way to Brienne’s bedside, conscious of the way the Stark boy’s eyes followed him as he awkwardly picked up the bowl of soup that was waiting for him in his chair.

“It was hot when it arrived,” Sansa said pointedly. “It may have cooled by now.”

“I’ll survive.”

As he sat, he tried to arrange the bowl in his lap so that its contents wouldn’t spill, noticing how Lady Stark was eyeing his stump with curiosity. He took a bite, staring at his bowl.

“How did you know?” Arya asked.

He looked up at the young woman as she sat on the bed beside Brienne, crossing her legs.

“How did I know what?”

“When you killed the commander, you destroyed most of his army,” she said. “How did you—”

“He didn’t.”

All eyes were suddenly on Bran.

“He did it to save Lady Brienne,” he declared. “Their commander meant to kill her.”

Jaime felt heat rise up his neck and into his cheeks, but couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Instead, he glanced at the Stark boy, unsure if he should be thankful for his statement or afraid of what else he might know. The silence in the chamber was unsettling, and he saw Brienne readjust herself in the bed out of the corner of his eye as he took another spoonful of his soup.

“The next war council is tomorrow morning,” said Sansa, her eyes glancing between them. “Jon wants you both to be there.”

“Yes, my lady,” Brienne murmured, and Jaime nodded in acquiescence.

The unspoken histories in the room were beginning to suffocate him, and he was entirely unable to say anything.

“Lady Brienne said you faced down a bear with one hand,” said Arya, her eyes actually showing a sparkle of mirth. “Is it true?”

He felt his lips curl in a smile at the memory.

“Yes.”

He saw Sansa smile ever so slightly, and slowly, he answered their questions about his journey south with Brienne. She’d obviously already told them the story, but recalling the trip soothed him somewhat, putting his mind at ease. Arya especially liked the bit where he’d lied to Locke about the sapphires.

“That was clever,” she said, surprised. “A low-born soldier wouldn’t know it was a lie.”

Jaime put his empty bowl on the floor, smiling at the compliment.

“That’s exactly what I thought too,” he explained. “It saved her, but in the end...”

He fell silent, knowing they all were well aware of how he’d lost his hand.

“Does it ever hurt?” Sansa asked. “Father told us that men crippled by war could still feel whatever they lost, sometimes years later. Is it true?”

The boldness of her question left him blinking, and he glanced at Brienne, who was looking at him expectantly. He nodded at Sansa, unable to lie.

“Now and then, it’ll feel as though my fingers are on fire,” he explained, holding the stump up to examine it. “Or they’ll itch. Somehow, the itching is usually worse than the pain.”

Arya stared in blatant fascination at this, and he looked up at Brienne, who was unable to hide her pained face. Of course she wouldn’t want to hear that it still hurt, not after he’d been maimed in return for rescuing her.

“Does anything help it?” Arya asked.

“Clove oil helps with the pain,” he responded, “but lemon oil helps with the itching. It just depends on the day. It’s not all that bad.”

Sansa nodded at this, obviously filing the information away, but Bran stared at the stump, his head tilted in interest.

“The things we do for love.”

Jaime froze, unable to look away from the young man. His eyes searched Bran’s own, expecting to see rage or sadness follow this statement. But, of all the expressions that Jaime could imagine flitting across the boy’s stoic features, a smile was not one of them. And yet, he smiled, seemingly satisfied. It almost felt like forgiveness.

Almost.

Sansa stood, stacking their bowls on the bedside table.

“You should rest,” she said with a smile. “The war council is meeting at dawn in the great hall. We’ll expect to see you there.”

He nodded, as did Brienne, and he watched as Sansa sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, wordlessly wrapping her arms tight around Brienne, who did the same.

“Your mother would be so proud,” she murmured in the young woman’s ear.

When Sansa pulled away, her eyes were glassy as she tried to smile.

“She’d be proud of all of you,” Brienne affirmed, her own eyes filling with unshed tears.

Arya grinned, rising to her knees on the bed to hug Brienne as well. He couldn’t help but notice how much they loved her. By the time Arya pulled away, a few tears were running down her face, but she was smiling.

“I’ll meet you in the yard tomorrow,” she told the young woman, gently dabbing at her unbandaged cheek. “After the meeting, we’ll train.”

Arya smirked and nodded, pushing herself off the bed to take hold of Bran’s wheelchair. Sansa looked at him then.

“Ser Jaime.”

“Lady Sansa.”

Bran met his eyes once more, tilting his head forward slightly in acknowledgement. Jaime did the same, and without another word, the Stark children left, Sansa closing the door behind her. Stealing a glance at her face as the door closed, Jaime recognized the look he saw there.

“You love them like they’re your own.”

She blushed at this, looking down at the furs, a secret smile on her face.

“I’d be honored to call them mine,” she whispered. “Anyone would.”

He wished she would look at him, so he could see what those blue eyes were thinking. But instead, she kept them hidden. He should go to bed anyway. Rising to his feet, he immediately winced, the pain in his leg taking hold of him.

“It isn’t healing, is it?” she asked.

“It’s sore,” he muttered. “It was deeper than I thought.”

She frowned, and he had to stifle a chuckle.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “I just need to rest.”

Casting a doubtful glance at him, she nodded in agreement, scooting over in the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Get under the furs,” she ground out. “I won’t offer twice.”

Cocking an eyebrow, he gave her a questioning look.

“You do realize what people would say if they saw me in your bed, don’t you?” he asked, hearing the smirk in his voice.

“I hardly care what people say about me,” she said, annoyed. “You cannot walk back to your chambers like that. Your leg needs to heal.”

He sighed, knowing she was right. Would he ever get the chance to be right in an argument with this woman?

Running a hand through his hair, he hobbled over to the table, blowing out the candles that lit the chamber before returning to the bedside, sitting down. As he removed his boots, his jerkin, and untied the top of his tunic, he felt her shifting as she lay down. Within a few moments, he was under the furs beside her, her astonishing eyes staring at him in the darkness; if anything, the winter nights made them even bluer.

“You did well.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“They like you,” she answered. “The Stark children. They respect you.”

He smiled.

“They love you,” he pointed out. “They respect me because of you. It’s the only reason my head is still attached to my body.”

She chuckled, smiling. Gods, she was beautiful. Neck half-bandaged, eyes full of love for the Starks, trying to be humble about the only reason he’d been alive for years... The same blue eyes he wasn’t sure would remain that shade only a day ago.

“What is it?” she asked, frowning.

He hadn’t realized he’d shown his worry in his face, and he let out a trembling breath, pressing his eyes closed at the thought that hadn’t left his mind since the end of the battle.

“I could have lost you,” he struggled to say, unsure if he could look at her with this admission. “There was so much blood... and I hadn’t... I couldn’t...”

The warmth of her hand encompassing his under the furs calmed him, and he clutched her fingers, trying to ground himself rather than continue succumbing to the what-ifs.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m safe. You saw to that.”

He took a deep breath, opening his eyes to see her smiling. It was easy to smile back at her when she looked at him like that.

“Just promise me that you won’t let me sleep through the next battle,” he almost begged. “I want to fight by your side.”

At this, he pulled her hand toward him, brushing a kiss against her bruised knuckles.

“Besides,” he said, his tone filled with mock irritation, “I might need you to save me eventually, rather than the other way around.”

She smirked at this, suppressing an obvious desire to laugh. Releasing her hand, he reached out to gingerly stroke the flesh around the wound, marveling at how soft the skin of her face was compared to the rough, seasoned skin of her hands. She closed her eyes at the contact, her breath quickening as he moved his fingers down to just under her jaw, where the wrapping kept all but part of her neck from view.

“Brienne...”

She opened her eyes to look at him expectantly.

“Come here.”

It wasn’t particularly descriptive, and he half expected her to freeze, but she understood him as she always did, scooting closer to him before rolling over, allowing him to pull her close. As he settled against her back, pressing a kiss to the space between her shoulder blades, he reached his hand over her waist, and she took it, lacing their fingers together and bringing them to her lips before holding them over her heart. She wasn’t too small, or too tall, though she was easily at least an inch taller than he was standing; in fact, she fit perfectly.

“Goodnight, Ser Jaime,” she whispered, her voice heavy with sleep, and he squeezed her hand in response.

As he felt her breathing slow and even out, sleep taking her, he thought about the look on her face as the Stark children had left; a proud lioness, watching her cubs support one another as they stepped into the world once more.

He briefly entertained the thought of the children from his dream, running into the room to crash into the bed with them. But they wouldn’t shoo them away, or call for the maid as Tywin had done while his mother was alive when he and Cersei had run into the room, too excited for their nameday to sleep or too frightened of the sounds of southern thunderstorms to close their eyes. No; he and Brienne would have left them there, let them crawl over and between them, pressing kisses to their faces and holding them close. They would have been loved.

As he closed his eyes, slipping into darkness, he wondered if she ever dreamt of those children as he did.  

Notes:

Gah! I love these two so much. Next chapter will be the following morning from Brienne's POV... And the war council.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you all SO MUCH for reading this and leaving your kudos, bookmarks, and comments. I definitely feel the love, since this is my first multi-chapter fic. Thank you thank you thank you!

Chapter 10: Laces - Brienne V

Summary:

Brienne wakes up the following morning and attends the war council.

As she stirred, she could faintly smell the comforting aroma of cloves. Opening her eyes, she blinked a few times, her sleep having been so deep she’d nearly forgotten where she was, and who was lying beside her.

Or rather, who had draped himself across her.

Jaime’s head was resting on her shoulder, his quiet snores muffling themselves in her neck. A leg was haphazardly thrown between her own, and she could feel the length of his relaxed, warm body against her, his arm draped across her torso, his hand anchoring himself to her side.

Her arm had gone numb from the weight of his head, and when she made to move ever so slightly to rectify the issue, Jaime growled in protest, tightening his grip on her ribs, pressing a kiss to her bear scars that made her shudder.

The Lion of Lannister indeed.

It was still dark, and the moon remained high in its shelter amongst the stars, the light piercing the clear night sky enough to spill through the cracks in her shutters. They had some time yet, she thought groggily, resting her cheek against his hair, smiling to herself at the contented, wordless murmur he made as she did so. Bringing a hand to rest against his head, she sighed, relishing the way he nuzzled the bottom of her neck as she fell asleep once more.

“Again.”

The teenager frowned at her in confusion, her fiery blue eyes glinting in the sun.

“You do realize I beat him, don’t you?” the girl demanded, gesturing to the young man on the ground in front of her, looking up at her in shock.

“Beating him is not the point,” Brienne said, crossing her arms.

The young woman held out her hand to her brother, who took it, grabbing his practice sword with the other hand. As he stood, locks of his light blonde hair fell out of the half-knot he’d tied, his blue-green eyes defensively staring over at her in a way she knew too well.

“Mum, she’s trying her best...”

“I know,” she offered. “But her best isn’t good enough. Not yet.”

The siblings looked at one another uneasily and nodded, the girl wiping sweat from her brow before positioning herself across from her brother, who was easily a foot taller than she was. She stepped forward to strike—

“Wait.”

They froze, turning to look at her.

“Use this,” she said, drawing Oathkeeper from its hilt. The girl’s eyes widened, passionately shaking her head.

“I can’t,” she declared. “It—it wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

“Take it,” a voice softly commanded from beside her. “He can use mine.”

The young man looked startled out of his skin, but Brienne smiled, hearing him draw Oathkeeper’s mate from its scabbard.

“Father—”

“You’ll never learn to spar properly until you hold a proper sword,” Jaime explained, meeting her eyes as he read her thoughts. She nodded in agreement, stepping forward to take the practice sword from the girl’s hand, replacing it with Oathkeeper. The boy handed her his so that he might take his father’s sword, glancing down at the hilt in admiration, but the young woman simply stood there, staring at her mother’s sword like she’d never seen it before.

“Honestly, Jo,” she sighed, growing impatient. “It’s just a sword.”

Within moments, the girl’s arms were tight around her, her head only reaching the top of her mother’s chest.

“It’ll never be just a sword,” she whispered between them. “Not to me.”

Brienne felt a comfortable pressure build in her lungs and warmth behind her eyes as she returned the embrace, resting her chin on top of Joanna’s dark blonde hair. She loved this young woman so much.  

“Shall we begin?” her brother asked impatiently.

Joanna pulled back, smirking over her shoulder at her brother before eagerly joining him. As they tried out the swords, feeling their weight and testing their strength, Brienne wiped away the lone tear that fell, and felt Jaime’s stump wrap around her, his lips pressing a soft kiss to her temple as he pulled her close. She instinctively returned the gesture, slipping an arm around him, smiling.

A second kiss to her forehead woke her, and she opened her eyes to see him looking down at her, the faintest light echoing in through the shutters now. His arm was still draped across her, warming her through to the bone in the now chilly room.

“It’s almost time,” he whispered, trying to smile.

“‘Almost,’” she carefully quoted.

His eyes were so green, a dream of spring in the winter dawn as he stared at her like he always did, mouth slightly open, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Gods, it was breathtaking. Tugging her gently, he rolled onto his back, her body following his to lie along his side, her face pressed into his neck, his stump resting against her shoulder. She felt him breathe deeply, resting his cheek against her head, and reveled in the way her hair fluttered with his exhale.

“How is your leg?” she asked quietly.

“Better.”

Silence filled the room, except for the faint sound of his breaths flowing in and out. Her eyes fluttered closed at the warmth they shared there, under the furs, and for a moment, she let the steady noise of his breath slowly lull her to back to sleep.

“Marry me,” he whispered into her hair.

Her eyes flew open. Gods. She couldn’t breathe. She had to breathe.

She sat up abruptly, unable to look at him, feeling sick.

“Brienne...?”

Hurriedly, she got up and walked to the table to grab her blue jerkin, pulling it over her head and tightening the laces as quickly as she could with her fingers shaking from whatever nameless emotion had filled her. The sound of the furs rustling made her heart race even faster, and soon enough, she felt his weight behind her as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her to him. Even through the leather, she could feel his warmth enveloping her as her hands stilled, her body molding into his. He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, and she could feel his unsteady breath in the rise and fall of his chest against her back. It unsettled her.

“Why...?” she begged, holding back tears of which she had been unconscious until now. “Why would you say that?”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he whispered.

The sincerity in his voice softened her slightly, and she turned to face him, stepping back.

“You didn’t frighten me,” she said unevenly.

“No, you’re right,” he murmured, taking her hand. “You’re terrified.”

Her nostrils flared at this, but she couldn’t deny it. She tried to pull her hand from his grasp, but he refused to relent.

“We’re going to be late,” she protested. “They’re expecting us—“

“To hell with them,” he grumbled, and her blue eyes immediately met his green ones. “Tell me what you’re so afraid of.”

She tried to think of something to say, but she couldn’t. How could she possibly put into words what she herself did not understand?

“Why did you say it?” she demanded instead.

He stared at her disbelievingly for just a moment, searching her eyes.  

“Do you truly not know?”

She furrowed her brow, confused, and the look of pain that crossed his features cut her like a knife. He released her hand like she’d burned him.

She watched, rooted to the spot, as he stiffly walked to the bed to sit and slowly started to dress himself, which was something he was unused to, especially with one hand. He couldn’t do it without help, and as he struggled with the laces of his jerkin, she was suddenly reminded of how drastically his life had been altered after the loss of his hand. The thought stirred something in her chest, and she couldn’t bear the pressure of it.

Trying to take a deep breath, she walked to kneel in front of him, taking the laces from his fingers into her own. He didn’t resist as she busied herself with helping him, but he wouldn’t look at her either. When she stole a glance at his face, she saw a glint of dampness on his cheeks as he stared over her shoulder, his jaw set against some unnamed force. She tried to think of something to say as she finished tying the laces together, smoothing the leather against his chest, but the words still wouldn’t form.

He took a shuddering breath before reaching for his boots, ignoring the way her hands rested on his chest, and she stood, unable to stop him. Within moments, he was donning his cloak, heading for the door.

“Jaime...”

He stilled, and she watched his broad shoulders slump in a deep exhale, his hand wiping his face before he opened the door. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her own breath until he closed the door behind him.

What have I done?

---

She’d remained quiet for most of the council, her eyes never once glancing at Jaime. Rather than sit near him, she’d decided to sit closer to Sandor Clegane and Ser Davos Seaworth when she arrived, likely stone-faced and sour. Sansa had given her a look of concern at this, but Brienne forced herself to smile at the young woman, trying to focus on the matters at hand. She was kind to worry, but it certainly wasn’t necessary.

The King told everyone present of his plans for the Army of the Dead, most of which included an escape plan if Winterfell were to fall. Lady Sansa, of course, hated the idea, and Brienne could see her purse her lips in silence as each situation was explained, though out of sadness or fury, she did not know. Likely both.

Currently, they were all debating on the final issue at hand: Where the safest place to retreat might be. The council couldn’t choose between the Twins and Riverrun. The Starks were advocating for Riverrun, the Twins holding too many dangerous memories for their family, while Daenerys was advocating for the Twins due to the castle’s proximity to the Kingsroad. After a few minutes of heated debate, they were no further in choosing a place to retreat than they were to defeating the Night King.

“If we cannot choose, then we must compromise,” Tyrion concluded. “What about Harrenhal?”

“No,” said two voices simultaneously.

She looked at Jaime, and he looked at her. And everyone else was looking at both of them.

Shit.

“It’s too far,” Jaime quickly recovered. “If we’re going to run that far south, we might as well go to King’s Landing.”

She took a shallow breath at this, and glanced up to see Tyrion looking at her, a smirk on his face.

“And why would you say no, my lady?” he inquired, almost teasing her.

Her eyes looked to Jaime, who was staring up at her, his look of apprehension matching her own internal storm.

“The castle is a ruin, my lord,” she explained, doing her best to sound resolute. “It could not withstand an attack.”

Tyrion cocked an eyebrow at her.

“We would only be there for a matter of days while we regroup...” he explained, a curious tone to his voice.

“It’s also large enough for a good portion of the armies,” Sansa confirmed. “It’s the largest castle in Westeros.”

Brienne looked at Sansa, who was smiling at Tyrion.

“Its proximity to the Kingsroad is also useful,” the Dragon Queen murmured, running a finger along the map. “We wouldn’t waste as many supplies as we would traveling further west.”

Daenerys smiled at Tyrion, who nodded.

“Then it’s decided,” he said confidently. “If Winterfell falls, we make for Harrenhal.”

Her heart stopped, but she tried to control her facial features, conscious of how many people were still looking at her. Stealing a glance at Jaime, she noticed that he was glaring icily at Tyrion, who gave him a sympathetic smile as he took a sip of his wine.

“If nothing else is to be brought before the council,” the King affirmed, “then we are finished here.”

“For now,” Tyrion said, giving Sansa a knowing look. She nodded.

What are they up to?

Various conversations broke out, all at once, but she could see Jaime remained seated out of the corner of her eye, speaking to no one.

"You're making a damn fool of yourself," Clegane muttered at her. "Both of you."

Without realizing it, Brienne was already halfway toward the door to meet Arya in the yard. She needed a fight like she needed air.  

Notes:

I fought like hell to get it into the semi-decent condition it's in, but couldn't resist pointing out to Brienne that literally everyone knows she loves Jaime... And that he loves her. Not to mention that, heartbreakingly, the first time she calls him 'Jaime' is ignored.

Chapter 11: Blows - Brienne VI

Summary:

Brienne spars in the yard.

The brittle winter air whipped across her face as she dodged Arya’s strike, Needle barely missing her neck. There was a fluidity to the young woman’s movements that, with time, had started to flow into her own technique, and for the first time in her life, she felt graceful and elegant. Almost beautiful.

As she whirled to meet Arya’s next blow, her chest met with the young woman’s foot as she pushed her back, and though it wasn’t enough to flatten her as she had done to Arya during their first spar, it was strong enough to send her reeling back several steps, dropping her practice sword. Arya grinned, waiting for Brienne to recover.

“Well done, my lady,” she rasped, trying to catch her breath. “You’re getting stronger.”

“I’ve had a good teacher.”

Brienne smiled, nodding in appreciation.

“Shall we switch to the dagger?” she asked. “You’ll need its steel more than the sword.”

Arya smiled and nodded, sheathing Needle before grabbing the catspaw dagger by the hilt, drawing it with a twirl of her wrist. Brienne made to pick up her practice sword, making a mental note to try another way to draw—

No. She didn’t want to think of it just now.

As they circled one another, she saw Arya move her feet before she let the dagger glide through the air, and Brienne immediately knocked the dagger out of her hand. The young woman looked at her in shock.

“Watch your feet,” she explained. “They’re giving you away.”

Arya nodded, picking up the dagger, resuming her stance.

Brienne made to strike first this time, and Arya quickly discovered that dodging blows would be the best way to fight with her dagger. Luckily, it was something at which she excelled, but then Brienne tried another technique, attempting to lure Arya into a productive trap that would require her to draw Needle. It worked, and she smiled as her blow met Needle’s steel, while Arya moved the dagger to try to tap Brienne under her arm, but she dodged the blow, turning around to knock the dagger out her hand once more.

Arya wouldn’t relent, however, no doubt realizing that against the wights, her Needle could do nothing. Dancing around her blows, Arya led her in a circle until she realized, too late, that she had retrieved her dagger from the snow, slapping Brienne’s thigh with the flat of the blade. She’d never been happier to lose a fight.

When Arya’s face beamed up at her, it rattled something in her chest. She remembered the smile on another face, with blue eyes and dark blonde hair. That feeling, when the teenager from her dream had wrapped her arms around her... She felt it now, in this moment, with Arya. It filled her with a longing she didn’t quite understand.

Applause rang out behind them, and the young woman grinned again at the revelation that others had been watching them. After a moment, though, her face fell slightly, looking over Brienne’s shoulder at something. Brienne followed her gaze, stepping aside as she did so to let others pass through the yard.

Jaime was standing there, amongst the small group of clapping soldiers and men behind them, his face expressionless.

He stepped forward as Arya sheathed her dagger and her sword, drawing his own, and the applause immediately died as she watched him, wary of what he was going to do.

“May I have this dance, my lady?” he asked, bowing slightly.

There was darkness in his eyes, and she wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to kill her, eat her, or worse.

She huffed in response, her shallow breaths visible against the chill as she nodded, conscious of how their audience had scattered.

He circled her, as he had a few years previously, but this time, she moved to strike first.

Their swords bantered lightly, and she couldn’t help but notice the beauty of Oathkeeper’s mate. The Valyrian steel sang each time her practice sword hit it. She almost wished she’d been wielding her true sword rather than the borrowed one Podrick had brought her from the armory. Perhaps the sound of their swords dancing together would have made him smile, helping him forget their uneasy encounter.

However, the determination she saw in his eyes as he fought with her said this was meant to be her punishment.

As they continued to spar, his thrusts eventually became relentless, his steel driving her back, and then back again, until she was forced to arch against the wall of the battlement with a guttural cry, kicking him hard to the ground. He rolled to stand, and there was a hint of pain in his eyes as he released a deep groan, favoring his left leg over his right, but he immediately swung again.

She dodged the blow, effortlessly turning herself around to the center of the yard once more. As she met his recovering parry, their swords ground against one another as they locked themselves together, their faces inches apart. That was when she noticed the smirk on his face as she struggled to keep her grip steady.

“You’re trembling, my lady,” he breathed in a tone so low that only she could hear.

Frowning, she broke their swords apart, pushing hard against his chest as she did so, striking blow after blow at him, each time meeting the steel of his sword. Before he knew it, he was backed into the wall as she had been, but as she made to strike a final blow to his chest, he ducked and tackled her, bringing her to the ground with a monstrous grunt, her armor rattling loudly at the impact as she dropped her sword.

He made to straddle her as she struggled, fists pressing against his chest, bucking her hips against him in an attempt to knock him off. Groaning at the effort it took to keep her beneath him, he pressed his right arm firmly against her throat to keep her in place, his blade’s point below his arm against her neck, his unsmiling face a mere inch from hers as she froze.

“Yield.”

She glared at him.

“No.”

“You’re not in a position to argue this time, wench,” he growled, lowering the point of the blade so that it grazed down her throat. She shuddered at the contact of the cold steel against her warm, sticky skin, noticing his eyes were dilated, and the way they darted to her lips before meeting her own eyes. As she shook her head in defiance, the point of his blade scratched her ever so slightly, and she winced.

“No,” she grit out, her breath coming in shallow gasps as his weight continued to bear down on her, refusing to let her move.

He searched her eyes again, and gradually, she saw the same sadness she’d seen earlier take root in their green depths. His lips parted ever so slightly, as though he wanted to say something, and she felt the weight of his arm against her throat slacken, the sword’s point no longer touching the soft, tender skin of her neck.

“I can’t—”

“Lady Brienne,” a restrained voice said.

Immediately, Jaime made to stand, wincing at the pain she was sure he could feel in his leg, and she turned to see Lady Sansa standing a few feet away. Brienne sat up, refusing Jaime’s outstretched hand as she clambered to her feet.

“My lady,” she managed through short breaths.

She saw Sansa was almost frowning, as though she were afraid of something. The fact that she was holding an opened raven scroll didn’t help quench the worry that quickly grew in Brienne’s heart.

“What does it say?” she asked the young woman. “Are you in danger?”

Sansa quickly shook her head at this.

“No,” she murmured, shifting her gaze to the snow below her, seemingly unsure of what to say.

Jaime sheathed his sword, suddenly suspicious of the eldest Stark’s behavior. He held out his hand, and Sansa wordlessly gave him the scroll, straightening it out so that he might read it with one hand. He did so silently, and then looked at her, sadness of a new kind spreading its way across his features like the gentle snow that had started to fall around them.

“Brienne...” he began, stealing a glance at Sansa, who looked down once more.

Without another word, Brienne snatched the raven scroll from his hand, determined to read it herself.

Friends of the North,

The aid requested by Lady Brienne will not come. Euron Greyjoy and his fleet have taken the island of Tarth, alongside the Golden Company. Lord Selwyn is dead, his navy burned, his men slaughtered. The Sapphire Isle burns red. My sincerest condolences to our Lady of Evenfall Hall. – Bird of White Harbor

 

Notes:

(*Runs away from the arrows and pitchforks, and looking behind her, shouts--*)

I know it's a short chapter, but next is Jaime's POV immediately following this! LOVE YOU! MEAN IT!!!

Chapter 12: Godswood - Jaime VI

Summary:

Jaime comforts Brienne.

He watched her intently as she read the scroll, all memory of their current situation erased from his mind at the way she inhaled, but couldn’t exhale. When she looked at him, her face stricken with devastation, he couldn’t remember ever feeling so helpless. She glanced at Sansa.

“I’m so sorry,” the young woman murmured with understanding. “If you should need any—”

“Thank you, my lady,” was all she said before she handed Sansa the scroll, briskly walking out of the yard. Her curtness combined with the news visibly pained Sansa, who set her mouth in a grim line, turning to look at him after a long moment.

“Tarth is hundreds of miles south of Braavos,” she reasoned slowly. “Is it possible that...Did Cersei know? About Lady Brienne...?”

His heart shattered at the realization of what Sansa was implying, and he swallowed hard. Euron had acted on Cersei’s orders, and the ugly cunt had been blind enough to her true motives to see it through. She’d done what she thought would hurt Jaime most, and as usual, she had won. He had wasted so much time on painful goodbyes with Brienne, trying to keep her away from the capital, to keep her out of danger... And Cersei had gotten to her anyway.

He clenched his fist in rage, staring at the young woman.

“She knew,” he bit out. “She’s always known.”

Sansa took a deep breath, pressing her eyes closed, no doubt remembering how her own family had been so brutally slaughtered on the orders of Lannisters. She was as much of an expert on Cersei as he was, after all. When she opened her eyes again, he saw they were glassy.

“Go to her,” she brokenly commanded. “No one was ever there for me. She deserves someone.”

He wanted to reach out to her; to tell her the thousands of ways in which he was sorry for what had happened to her family. She was only a few years older than Myrcella would have been, and yet she had been through so much. But words would never heal those wounds. Perhaps nothing ever would.

“Thank you, Lady Stark,” he managed to say with a nod, and he took off in the direction of Brienne’s chambers. He’d only taken a few steps when—

“Ser Jaime...?”

He stopped and turned to look at her, noticing a lone tear fighting its way down her cold cheek.

“Please let me know if she should have need of anything,” she pleaded softly. “Lady Brienne is not one to ask for help, even when it is necessary.”

He smiled at her, surprised at her forethought. Or perhaps he wasn’t.

“I will,” he declared. “She’s lucky to have family in you, Lady Stark.”

The young woman nodded.

“And in you as well, Ser.”

With that, Jaime bowed his head, walking as quickly as he could despite the protests of his leg.

---

When he reached her chambers, he quietly rapped on the door, and was surprised when Podrick answered, holding pieces of her armor.

“She’s gone to the godswood, my lord.”

Jaime nodded stiffly, turning on his heel. Of course she’d gone there.

“Ser Jaime?” he heard the squire ask.

He looked back at Podrick, and noticed the look of concern on his face.

“If there’s anything I can do...”

Jaime placed a reassuring hand on Podrick’s shoulder.

“You’ll be the first to know,” he finished for him. “You have my word.”

The young man bowed his head before stepping back into the room, shutting the door behind him. Jaime continued down the hall toward the yard, his thoughts so entwined with his emotions he hardly noticed when Ser Davos spoke to him.

“Ser Jaime,” the man said, stopping him in his tracks, “give the lady my sympathies, if you would. She has a good heart, and many of us would be glad to help her in any way we can.”

A knot formed in Jaime’s throat at the comment, and he tried to speak around it.

“I will.”

The older man nodded, the ghost of a smile on his face, as he continued up the flight of stairs Jaime was traveling down.

The snow started to fall more heavily now, and he took a deep breath as he entered the godswood, reveling in the cold air that grounded his emotions as it simultaneously stung his lungs. Never had he known anyone to garner as much respect as she had; you’d think she was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the way people spoke of her. She deserved all of Westeros far more than Cersei ever would.

His stomach churned at the thought of his twin sister, the one person he’d thought he loved most in the world, committing such an act out of spite. She had always been a jealous, hateful woman, and yet it had taken him far too long to see it.

The way Brienne had looked at Jaime after speaking with Cersei at Joffrey’s wedding was an immediate indicator that he had to get her out of the city. He knew that sending her after Sansa would not only fulfill their oath; it would protect her from Cersei. If he could have done so, he would have gone with her. Instead, he’d endured the pain of letting her go with only Podrick by her side. He knew she would be safer without him.

But the sleepless nights increased as word of her whereabouts slowly dissipated. When he heard that Sansa had been sold to the Boltons, and the Hound hadn’t been seen for months, he prayed for what must have been the first time in nearly twenty years.

And then, on his supposedly redemptive journey to Dorne, when he thought his circumstances couldn’t have been worse, he had looked across the water and seen the island of Tarth. Even from a distance, it felt like home. The very thought of her felt like home.

But now, her home was gone. Her father was gone. Her people were gone.

The heart tree was further than he’d imagined, and by the time he reached it, his toes were starting to feel the chill of the snow seeping through his boots. He shivered at the thought that she was out here, all alone in the shadows of the godswood as snow fell around her.

As he approached, he saw her sitting against the trunk, her long legs pulled into her chest, her head hidden by the arms on which it rested. A thin layer of snow had accumulated on her shuddering form, and her light blonde hair was damp from the flakes that had melted against her warmth.

His boots crunched in the snow, and startled, she looked up at him, tears running in rivulets down her red cheeks, where they fell from her strong jaw onto the fur of her cloak. The bandage covering her cheek was soaked, already separating from the new skin trying to grow there, and the wrapping around her neck was streaked with moisture.

But her eyes struck him hardest.

They weren’t the blue he’d grown used to seeing; instead, they were a stony grey, and the redness and pain behind them broke his heart.

“Jaime...” she choked.

He was at her side in an instant, wishing more than anything in his entire life that he had two hands with which to hold her. As his knees sank in the snow, she leaned into his chest, grabbing his cloak with her fists as he wrapped his arms around her. They stayed like that for a long while, his chin resting on top of her head, her arms slowly wrapping around him, pulling him closer.

“Everyone was asking after you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her head as her crying slowly abated.

He felt her body shudder against another sob.

“He begged me to come home...” she murmured, “but I couldn’t bring myself to leave...”

A hard quake shook her body as she buried her face in his chest with a moan, so he simply held her rather than spoke to her.

By the time she had calmed, they were both sitting against the tree as the winter sun was crawling under its cloudy blankets, and the trees were casting an odd glow on the now settled snow. Looking up, he noticed the leaves of the heart tree were slowly turning black in the shadow, its face staring back at them in wonder.

“Jaime, your knees...” she murmured, glancing down at how wet his pants were from kneeling in the snow.

He smirked at her, lightly squeezing her shoulder. Of course she would worry about someone other than herself, even in her worst moment.

“I’ll manage.”

She looked at him then, her eyes shining a steady blue once more as she seemingly searched for the words to say. He didn’t rush her this time.

“You were right,” she rasped. “I—I’m afraid. Everyone I’ve ever loved... They’re all...”

He felt her heave in a deep breath, unable to continue, her tears entirely spent.

“I know,” he said, brushing her hair back from her face with his hand and pressing a kiss to her forehead before pulling her head to his shoulder once more. “Me too.”

He truly understood her. Everyone she’d ever loved was dead, and everyone he’d ever loved had betrayed him or used him. Silently, he wished that they could stay under this tree, away from all the people who had hurt them, or wanted to hurt them. Here, he could protect her.

But the long night that would follow their equally long day was falling more quickly than he’d imagined it would, and with it, the temperature outside. He felt her start to shiver against him, and smiled softly into her hair.

“We should head back,” he whispered, and she nodded, allowing him to help her to her feet this time. However, she did not release his hand once she stood, proud and puffy-eyed, pulling him to her again as she buried her face in his neck.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He held her close, looking over her shoulder at the face on the heart tree. The imagery of the two of them, standing before the Old Gods, was not lost on him, and he pulled back to look at her for a moment, wordlessly asking for her permission. Ever so slightly, she nodded, and he leaned forward, pressing a tender, devoted kiss to her lips.

It was a single, simple kiss, unlike their first had been, but he’d never felt more bound to another human being than he did in that moment. Resting his forehead against her own, he sighed, mentally thanking the gods she had made it through the day, and praying that they might just live to see another together.

“Yes,” she said.

He frowned, confused.

“Yes, what?” he whispered, leaning back so that he could see her face.

She bravely looked at him then. No smile, no mirth. Only determination.  

“I’ll marry you... But only on one condition.”

His heart soared into his throat, and he tried to control the childlike giddiness he felt at her admission as a smile spread across his face.

"Whatever my lady requires," he declared.

Her face was almost stern in its resolve.

"I forbid you to die."

Notes:

Close to halfway through, now, I believe. :)

Fun fact: I had literally *no* idea that the desolation of Tarth by the Golden Company is actually canon in the books, and tying it to Cersei trying to get at Jaime was something I did entirely of my own accord as well. Sansa realized it before I did! Haha.

The next chapter will be from Jaime's POV as well. Trying to keep their perspectives even. Plus, I want to write more Tyrion. He's such fun. :)

Chapter 13: Touch - Jaime VII

Summary:

Jaime and Brienne discuss matters.

They had silently walked to his chambers rather than her own, the distance it offered from the other guests a welcome reprieve as she was greeted by every face with a somber nod. It gave him hope to see her tight-lipped smile in response, and as they made their way through the castle, she never let go of his hand, releasing it only as she sank into the chair in front of the fireplace as the Wildling girl—Gilly, was it?— stirred it to life.

“You’ll need to eat,” the young woman said with as much of a smile as she could muster. “I’ll fetch some soup and bread. I’ll be sure to get Sam too.”

Brienne just stared into the fire, so she looked to Jaime, who nodded, thankful for her offer.

“Thank you, Gilly,” he murmured. “We appreciate the help.”

“It’s nothing,” she assured him. “I’m glad to do it.”

He sat on the bed as she left the room, closing the door behind her. The warmth of the newborn fire spread through the chamber, and he sighed with relief as it encompassed him, his hours of contact with the snow finally chilling him. Brienne’s face was stiff from the remains of tears that would no longer come, and he hated the helplessness he felt as he watched her blue eyes flicker in the firelight.

“She was the first person to tell me that I loved you.”

He blinked, lost at her statement, as she glanced at him.

“Cersei,” she murmured. “She told me at King Joffrey’s wedding.”

A moment of hard silence rang out, second only to the rapid pace of his heart; she knew. She knew it had been Cersei’s orders.

Of course she does.

“I couldn’t even deny it,” she said, staring down at her hands as they fidgeted in her lap. “I don’t think I realized I did until she spoke to me.”

He pressed his eyes shut, recalling the way Brienne had looked at him in confusion that day.

“She hurt you because she knows I love you,” he said wearily. “This is my punishment, not yours.”

“I know.”

In the stillness of the room, she slowly stood, unfastening her cloak and placing it over the back of the chair before sitting once more to remove her boots.

“I feel sorry for her.”

The shock he felt at her comment, combined with the nonchalant manner with which she said it, consumed him instantaneously.

“How can you possibly pity someone who has just destroyed everything you love?” he asked, more anger evident in his voice than he’d intended.

To his surprise, she shrugged.

“I just can’t imagine feeling so alone,” she explained. “To have become that broken, that bitter...” She pulled the jerkin over her head, tugging her tunic down as she did so. “It’s heartbreaking.”

He could only stare at her.

“And she hasn’t destroyed everything I love,” she said, throwing him a pointed look. “Not yet.”

His heart fluttered at the determination in her eyes. How had this wonderful, honorable, altogether singular woman come to love him? And how did she not hate Cersei, after everything she’d done?

He stood, slowly crossing the room to stand before her, taking the folded jerkin from her hands and placing it over the back of the chair. Squatting there, he used the firelight to examine her bandages.

The one on her neck was simply damp here and there, though it was coming loose at the top of her jawline from where her tears had soaked the edges. Her face looked noticeably worse, the bandage all but hanging from her face. It was a miracle that it had stayed on, if he was honest, and he frowned at how much it must have hurt to feel her tears against the raw flesh as he gently reached up to pull what was still adhered away, revealing what would soon leave a nasty scar.

“Why me?” she asked him, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

He could feel his frown deepen.

“You could have had any woman in the Seven Kingdoms,” she continued, “and yet, here you are, looking at me like you’ve never had another option.”

Her remark caught him by surprise, and he chuckled, covering one of her hands with his own.

“Because I didn’t.”

Something passed over her face at this; it was the same slightly overwhelmed, astonished look she’d given him at Riverrun when he had told her Oathkeeper would always be hers. He often wondered if she knew he wasn’t talking about the sword at all.

Stroking her knuckles with his thumb, he sighed. Everything would always require an explanation, and he could accept that. Though she trusted him, she felt like she couldn’t trust herself. He was entirely too familiar with that feeling.

“You’re the only person who never asked anything of me for yourself,” he murmured. “The only person who has ever truly believed in me. You’ve always seen something more.”

At that, she started to curl her lips upward. He smiled back at her as it lit a few of the shadows on her face.

“Yes, I could have had any woman in the Seven Kingdoms,” he whispered, bringing her hand to cup his face, covering it with his own. “But I’ve only ever wanted you.”

Her cheeks pulled her lips even further into a full smile, and she placed her other hand against his face, leaning forward to cover his lips with hers. Unlike their kiss at the heart tree, this one was warmer, full of something else he hadn’t experienced with her before. As she scooted her body closer to him, he moved onto his knees, pressing his weight against the chair between her legs. He felt her deepen the kiss of her own accord, and he groaned in response, bringing his hand to the base of her head, pulling her even deeper, savoring the moan he received as it trickled into his veins.

Within moments, they were standing, his mouth moving down below her ear to her jaw as heat struck its way through his spine, every inch of him desperately needing every inch of her as their bodies glued themselves to one another. Her breath hitched in her throat as he pulled on the neck of her tunic, and he kissed the very top of her shoulder, grazing the sensitive skin there ever so gently with his teeth, relishing in the way her hands moved into his hair as she gasped into his ear.

All his life, he’d thought he was meant to fight for other people. But loving her, showing her how loved she was by everyone they knew... This was what he was truly meant for.

He smiled against her skin as she tugged his hair, pulling his mouth back to her own as she started to unlace his jerkin with shaking fingers, breaking away only to look at the progress she was failing to make.

But, glancing at the moisture on her neck wrapping, his mind traveled back to their time under the heart tree, and the news she had received only hours earlier. Based on the way she tugged on his jerkin, impatiently pulling it over his head before tossing it on the floor, she had forgotten all about her earlier pain. Or worse—she was trying to drown it.

“Brienne...” he whispered between kisses.

He almost gasped at the contact of her nearly naked torso writhing against his own as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close once more. This woman was so strong. No wonder she’d beaten him on the bridge.

Focus, damn it!

“Brienne.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she pulled back to look at him. Her eyes had never been a deeper shade of blue, and for a moment, all he wanted to do was bar the door and love her until the entire castle could hear her scream his name.

He swallowed hard.

“I want this more than you can possibly imagine,” he murmured breathlessly, taking her hand, “but not like this.”

Watching her face carefully, he saw disappointment fill her eyes first, followed by hurt.

“Believe me, my lady,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers, “someday very soon I will make you mine entirely. But, after the events of today, I think we should wait.”

Ah, there it was; a look of comprehension flitted across her face, followed by an almost imperceptible nod as he pulled her close, her whole cheek against his.

“You mean too much for me to rush this,” he breathed in her ear, and he felt her hold him more tightly.

“I know.”

He held her there for a long time, never wanting to let her go. It was becoming a pattern, holding her like this... Not that he was complaining, of course.

“Gods,” she muttered. “I didn’t realize how tired I am.”

Smiling despite himself, he drew his head back to look at her.

“Perhaps we should go to—”

A clear knock rang out on the door, and they both sighed.

“Ser Jaime?” they heard Sam ask through the door. “May I come in?”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead before he stepped away from her, immediately missing the warmth of her. Reminding himself that he’d have that warmth again soon enough, he walked to the door, opening it for the lad.

“Ah,” he said a little hesitantly. “Gilly told me I’d find Lady Brienne here.”

Jaime smiled to himself at the comment, gesturing for him to enter.

“Thank you, Sam,” he heard Brienne say graciously. “I know it’s late.”

He nodded toward her, an understanding, relaxed look on his face.

“It’s no trouble, my lady.”

Jaime closed the door behind the lad, then made his way to sit on the bed while Sam knelt beside Brienne, smearing fresh salve on her cheek. Soon after, Gilly brought them soup and bread, as she had promised she would, but rather than leave, the young woman lingered by the fire for a moment.

“I’m sorry about your father,” she said, looking at Brienne. “He must’ve been a good man, to have raised you.”

He watched as Brienne nodded with gratitude, Sam lightly pressing on the new bandage he’d cut so that it might adhere to the salve.

“I heard my father mention him once,” he began. “He said that Lord Selwyn Tarth was one of the most honorable people in the Seven Kingdoms. You could always trust him to keep his word... He said he was quiet, but he was always strong.”

Brienne smiled.

“He was,” she agreed.

Jaime saw Sam’s uneasiness was placated by her response, and he continued his work in silence, asking Gilly for her assistance here and there. The way the two of them interacted told him that they were much more than friends, but that didn’t surprise Jaime. He could understand how Sam’s cleverness and Gilly’s kindness could easily meld into a relationship.

“There,” Sam said, examining his handiwork. “That should hold for now.”

Brienne nodded her thanks as Sam silently took his supplies and stood.

“We should tell them,” Gilly said quietly.

Sam turned to look at Gilly warily, and it made Jaime uneasy.

“Tell us what?”

With a sigh, the lad turned to face him. Something had happened, Jaime could tell.  

“Jon called a council while you were both gone,” he said slowly. “Bran has seen the Army of the Dead. They’ll likely arrive sometime tomorrow, after dark.”

Jaime met Brienne’s eyes, but rather than the fear and doubt he’d expected to see there, he saw something else completely.

Hope. Her eyes were filled with hope, and it lent him a resolve he’d never felt before. An army of dead men was walking sleeplessly toward them all, and yet, he couldn’t find it within himself to be afraid; not when she looked at him like that.

“Let them come,” he said in a flippant tone, situating the bowl of soup in his lap as he met their astonished faces with a degree of a smirk. “Are we not ready?”

Gilly glanced at Sam, a smile spreading across her face.

“Yes,” he declared. “I believe we are.”

Notes:

This one was the most difficult to write thus far. No, she doesn't hate Cersei. I don't think Brienne would have it in her to hate someone so broken. Not yet, anyway. ;)

(My favorite Harry Potter quote is partially responsible for the concept behind that, as well. "Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living. And, above all else, those who live without love." <------ Albus Dumbledore)

I couldn't resist the temptation for Sam/Gilly and Brienne/Jaime to share a moment as certain death marches upon Winterfell. :)

Next, the long-awaited Battle of Winterfell that everyone is saying will occur in episode three of the new season... But we'll be in Brienne's POV. :D

Chapter 14: Steel - Brienne VII

Summary:

The Battle of Winterfell.

(Or, at least, what I can imagine of it based on 'leaks' and common sense.)

“CHARGE!”

The wails of the Dothraki and the screams of Northern men, women, and Wildlings, all combined with the deep shouts of the Unsullied to sound like the rush of blood, boiling and confluent in their surprisingly molten constancy. Most of the horses they’d brought onto the field were lost already, along with a good deal of their army, but their efforts thus far had yielded more than a chink in the Night King’s plans, at least a quarter of his army thoroughly destroyed.

She swung Oathkeeper, listening out for the sound of Jaime’s sword close by as she cut down wight after wight. As long as she heard his Valyrian steel singing, she would know he was alive. How they’d managed to remain so for this long was an absolute mystery to her, and yet here she was, doing her best to fight by his side as she’d promised she would.

Thanks to the Stark boy, they had been forewarned of this battle, and as such had more than enough time to prepare. It had been decided at an early morning meeting that Jaime would lead the army alongside the King on the ground, while the Dragon Queen would rule the skies, as she was gifted in doing. The most disturbing news, however, had come from the revelation that the dragon the Queen had lost beyond the wall was now under the control of the Night King; Daenerys had not known this, and excused herself from the meeting at this information, devastated. Brienne knew she loved those dragons as though they were her children.

Her thoughts turned to Arya, who was out there somewhere, fighting with everything she had. She hoped Sandor was still alive. They’d wordlessly agreed that he would protect the younger Stark on the field, though she knew the young woman didn’t truly need any protection.

Jaime cried out, and Brienne immediately turned to see him struggling on the ground with no less than three wights. She was at his side in an instant, swinging Oathkeeper with all her might through one of them as he stabbed another through the neck, a Northern soldier taking care of the last one. Finally able to move, Jaime took the hand she offered to stand, turning his back to press against hers for support as more wights ran at them both, their fatigue heavily weighing on them.

He hadn’t slept well the previous night, tossing and turning beside her as his brow furrowed in his sleep, whispering words like ‘no more’ and ‘fire’ in an endless prayer for peace in the nightmare that consumed him. At one point, he nearly punched the wall with a shout, and very narrowly avoided kicking her as she had gently woken him. The look of shock on his face, followed by the look of horror as he reoriented himself to his surroundings, broke her; so she held him close, whispering assurances in his ear as he buried his face in her neck, his body shaking with sobs while his fist clutched the fabric of her tunic.

“I couldn’t save them,” he bit out. “They should have died fighting, not cowering behind their shields. Half of them were boys...”

She could feel him swinging his sword as his armor ground against her own, and she took down every wight that ran at her, remembering the way she had soothed him back to sleep, softly stroking his golden mane, noticing how it had become flecked with silver threads here and there. If they made it out of this alive, she’d be damn sure to sleep by his side every night and fight those nightmares away. She knew many soldiers had night terrors, reliving the battles they had fought, but of all people, he didn’t deserve them.

A familiar, colossal shriek rang out, and in a matter of seconds, Jaime had thrown her down, covering her body with his own, pressing them into the snow as fire scorched the air just above them. Daenerys destroyed as many wights as she could before soaring back into the clouds on Drogon, Rhaegal following closely behind, avoiding any way in which she might make herself or her dragons a target. Jaime pulled her to her feet, and they immediately looked around as more wights stumbled over the ashes and remains of the others, making their way toward them. They stood side by side, their swords raised together to meet their foes—

Suddenly, a horn sounded, and in the distance, she could see an army of nearly twenty thousand men in golden armor and matching cloaks, charging toward the fray on horseback beside another, smaller army comprised of maroon armor and blood-red banners—

“Shit,” Jaime murmured.

Her heart sank at the sight of Cersei’s forces. They had no time to determine whose side the Golden Company would be on, but she held out hope that perhaps the Lannister Army would see their commander and fight beside them, rather than tear them to pieces. Not that their steel would do much good, but they could at least hold off the army while Daenerys used her dragons to do the most damage.

Within moments, more wights were upon them, and despite the havoc Drogon had wrought on the Night King’s forces, it still felt like for every wight they cut down, three more took its place. She saw Tormund was close, fighting as best he could alongside the King. The first band of Lannister men rode into the fight, Jaime’s sigh of relief audible when every sword he could see was fighting the true enemy rather than living men. Kicking a wight to the ground before severing its head into two halves, she looked up to see the Golden Company waiting in the distance, their horses no longer riding hard. A figure in black at the front of their army sat on his horse, observing the scene in front of him. What were they waiting for?!

She heard a grunt she was accustomed to nearby, turning to see the Hound fighting a flaming wight that had flown at him, hands outstretched.

“Where’s Arya?” she demanded, turning her sword against one wight as it lodged in the rib cage of another.

“She’s gone back for her sister,” he shouted back at her, swinging his sword and abruptly knocking the wight to the ground. “I don’t know how much longer we can—”

An unnatural, gurgling cry came from the skies, and immediately every living being flattened against the snow as the undead Viserion descended from the clouds, hell-bent on destroying as many men as possible. Jaime was beside her this time, his arm across her back, holding her steady. The flash of blue flames was nothing compared to the screams and cries of the men burning alive, roasting in their armor and leather as their skin bubbled away from their bones. She pressed her eyes closed, suddenly too aware of why Jaime had experienced a troubled sleep the previous night. Silently praying to the Mother for mercy in that moment, she tried to ignore the artificially heated air that seared her lungs as she fought to catch her breath, taking the opportunity to inhale deeply, her sore cheek pressed into the freezing snow.

“We have to retreat!” a voice cried to them, and she and Jaime looked over to see the King, covered in snow and dirt as he cringed against another, closer streak of blue fire. “The Queen cannot lose another dragon!”

Jaime pressed his eyes closed at the onslaught, nodding.

“We make for Harrenhal!”

Almost as if she’d read their thoughts, Daenerys silently soared down with Drogon, who immediately attacked Viserion. The dragon corpse cried out, following its former sibling into the sky, allowing all the men on the ground to stand.

“RETREAT!” Jaime cried.

The cry of ‘retreat’ echoed amongst the men as Daenerys fought for their lives above them all, the dragons screeching and flying at one another, using talons and flame to buy them all more time. The mass of men slowly fought their way back toward the castle, unable to flatten themselves as Rhaegal joined in the fight above, breathing fire a little more closely than Daenerys had intended. Even with her help, how could they possibly buy enough time to escape south on foot? Surely the wights would catch up with them...

The same horn she’d heard before echoed more closely now, and she turned, noticing the Golden Company was riding for them all, and riding hard, but the black figure that had headed the army was no longer with them. She met Jaime’s eyes, and she could never recall seeing more fear there. The sound of their hooves was overwhelming, and for an agonizing moment, she held her breath, watching the enormous number of horses curving toward the castle to meet them head on—

But they turned further, riding beyond them and toward the wights, creating a barrier between the retreating soldiers and the Army of the Dead, the height of their horses a momentous advantage.

The retreating forces ran as fast as they could toward the castle, which was almost a league south of them now. Glancing to be sure Jaime was still there, she thought back to what the Hound had said about Arya. She turned to him as she sheathed Oathkeeper, Jaime at her side as they ran for their lives.

“Is the rest of the caravan already gone?” she shouted.

“It better fucking be!” the Hound responded. “I just hope the fucking horses are still there!”

She would have smiled at this attitude any day, but not now. They needed every horse they could find, and most of them would likely have to travel two to a horse. More than half their army was gone, but more than half of the Night King’s army remained, and those odds were too great a risk on foot.

They were a mass of gold, red, black, and brown as they made for the castle, and the horses were already waiting for them all outside the gates. Looking behind them, she noticed the Golden Company had also started to flee toward them, though they were a little over a mile off.

It’s not far enough, she thought frantically.

The dragons were still fighting, and the Queen was taking liberties to destroy what she could of the front line to buy them more time, Rhaegal replacing Drogon in the fight against Viserion.

Ahead, she saw Podrick holding a strong, sturdy horse for her, and Arya holding one of her own. She held out the reins to the Hound, who took them without question.

“Your sister—”

“She’s already a few miles south with Bran,” she assured him, and he climbed atop the horse with little effort, extending a hand to her to take her with him.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she explained, but the Hound grabbed her by the waist and heaved her up onto the horse in front of him, despite how she struggled.

“Put me down! I can’t leave—”

“Damn it, girl, there’s no time!” he responded, and the horse lurched south, taking them with it.

Brienne turned to Podrick, taking the reins as Jaime clambered up onto the steed with difficulty.

“Where’s your horse?” she asked him.

“Here, boy,” Tormund said, holding out the reins to his own horse. “I’ve got another one coming for me and the King.”

Podrick stared at him for a long moment, then nodded, taking the reins.

“Brienne,” Jaime pleaded quietly, “we have to go. Now.”

As she got up on the horse in front of him, she couldn’t help but notice how dangerously close the horses of what remained of the Golden Company were to what remained of their own troops. Making sure Podrick had gotten on his horse, she nodded at Tormund in gratitude.

“We’ll see you at Harrenhal.”

The Wildling nodded. As she turned the horse around, feeling Jaime wrap his arms around her to steady himself, she heard the agonizing screech of a dragon. They all watched in horror as Rhaegal crashed to the ground in a ball of blue and red flame, Viserion’s wings flapping wildly in an attempt to avoid hitting the ground with his sibling. Drogon immediately flew away, carrying Daenerys to safety, while Rhaegal struggled to pull himself back into the air.

Jaime tightened his arms around her waist, and she needed no further encouragement. She drove the horse hard toward the Kingsroad, never looking back, almost certain she could hear him praying as they galloped forward, the cold air cutting them through to the bone.

Notes:

WHEW! This was a WHIRLWIND to write. All the dragons, all the fire, all the armies, lots of characters. I mean, I feel like I just ran a marathon. Geez!

Hope you enjoyed it, because it was truly a BLAST to write this. :)

Also: In order to get inspiration for a battle involving dragons, I watched the Loot Train Attack, and then realized that Jaime would likely have some serious PTSD from that. I mean, his face as he sees his men dousing themselves on the edge of the river is just heartbreaking. So, I threw that in there for good measure, since we know they would sleep in his chamber together after the events of the previous day. No question.

Next, we continue our retreat south to Harrenhal.

Chapter 15: Gloves - Brienne VIII

Summary:

Brienne and Jaime reconvene with others following the Battle of Winterfell.

The sun had risen in the sky hours earlier, before the fighting was even through, so it came as no surprise when the poor excuse for light in the winter sky quickly faded, the temperature dropping dangerously low. Brienne had slowed the horse to a canter, Podrick slowing his to match hers, and she could feel Jaime shivering despite the fact that his body was pressed against her.

“Do you think they made camp?” he said against her ear.

She shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

His arms tightened around her, and she rested back a little further so he could try to use more of her body heat, slowing the horse to a gentle trot. Other horses passed them, galloping ahead, carrying soldiers like themselves.

“My lady...” Podrick called, pointing ahead.

A few leagues down the Kingsroad, she saw nearly fifty campfires, and the unmistakable shadow of a large beast among them. But there was only one.

They made it to the camp within an hour, eager for food, heat, and rest as a soft snow started to fall around them. Arya and Bronn met them as they arrived, grabbing the bridles to steady their horses as they leapt down. Without hesitation, Arya threw her arms around Brienne, and she held the young woman close, thanking the gods she was alive and unharmed.

“Lady Brienne.”

She turned to see Sansa, her face full of relief, walking briskly toward her, and she held out an arm to the young woman, pulling them both as tightly as she could against her chilled armor. They’d made it. They were still alive.

Looking over at Jaime, she noticed Bronn had wrapped his arms around him. He could argue he did everything for gold, or castles, or women, but he truly cared about the Lannister men; of that she had no doubt.

The Stark women stepped back after a long moment, Sansa quickly wiping her face before anyone could see. But Brienne had.

“There’s plenty of food, so be sure to eat,” Sansa said, glancing at Jaime. “Both of you.”

Jaime nodded at her thankfully before the two women left them, Bronn following close behind. Podrick looked on as they walked further into camp, hunger sketching its way through his features.

“Go ahead, Podrick,” Brienne murmured. “We’ll see to the horses.”

“But, my lady, your armor—”

“I’ll see to her armor,” Jaime told him. “Go. Eat.”

Brienne blushed, but Podrick just gave her a knowing smile and quietly took his leave. Jaime took the bridle of Podrick’s horse, and started toward the center of the camp, and she took the reins of their horse, following him.

The tents had been placed on the snow as a barrier to lie down upon rather than set up; most likely so that they could make a quick escape if the need arose. The Army of the Dead was less than a day behind them, and the break they were taking was more for the horses than themselves.

As they neared the center of the camp, she saw a larger fire, and Jaime slowed as they approached the people around it, two Unsullied soldiers coming to take their horses away. Jon Snow was there, Ghost curled up at his feet as he sat beside the Dragon Queen, who could only stare silently into the fire, her eyes red and her face stoic.

Ser Davos was seated near Jon, and beside him sat Tyrion, who walked to Jaime as soon as he saw him, the older brother falling to his knees as Tyrion practically tackled him in a strong embrace. Sansa, Bran, and Arya were sitting nearby, and Podrick was sitting next to Gendry, Arya quietly listening to the two men as they laughed and talked. Sansa sat beside Jon, silent except for a glance at the others now and then. Grey Worm and Missandei were huddled by a smaller fire that was off to the side, their bodies close as they shared an undoubtedly private conversation. Drogon was curled up behind the Queen, sleeping for the first time in days, while the Hound was lying in a bedroll on the other side of the fire, snoring softly; a just reward for his efforts on the battlefield.

Her heart soared at the familiar faces... But two were absent from their company.

The King stood, walking over to them both before they joined the group.

“What’s happened?” Jaime asked in a hushed voice, turning to face away from everyone.

Jon inhaled deeply.

“We lost them,” he elaborated quietly. “Ser Jorah and Tormund.”

Jaime’s eyes flew to hers, and she looked back at Jon.

“But Tormund said he had another horse coming for—”

“Aye, he did,” Jon said, offering her a kind smile. “And he fought beside me until I mounted it.”

Stealing a glance at Podrick, she realized she’d stopped breathing only when she inhaled sharply. It sounded like half of a sob.

“He wanted to die in the North,” Jon said in a soothing tone.

Brienne fought hard to swallow the knot that formed in her throat at this news.

“Ser Jorah too?” Jaime asked. “You’re sure?”

Jon nodded solemnly, and Jaime’s eyes were overtaken by a mixture of fear and sadness.

Brienne took note of the Dragon Queen, recognizing the icy stone behind her eyes as something she had recently experienced herself. The Queen had lost so much, and in such a short amount of time. At this rate, what would be left for her to rule?

“The Lannister army has pledged to follow you,” Jon told Jaime, who looked relieved, “but the Golden Company are not so easily persuaded by loyalty, it would seem. They’re returning to King’s Landing, then sailing for Braavos.”

The look of relief on Jaime’s face was suddenly gone.

“But they were paid to fight—”

“They were sent to fight us,” Jon explained. “After what they’ve seen, they’ve made it clear they have no intention of fighting any more wars in Westeros.”

Jaime looked down at Tyrion, who pressed his lips into a grim line.

“You should rest,” the King said. “We’ll be leaving in a few hours.”

Brienne nodded, glancing at her squire once more before walking to the closest wagon, taking a bedroll and two cloaks as Jaime followed Jon to the fire, gratefully accepting the bowl of stew he offered. Tucking the bedroll under her arm, she walked to take her own bowl of stew from the King as Jaime sought a quiet place for them by a nearly unoccupied fire.

They sat, huddled together, silently eating their stew, their thoughts more than occupied with the fact that they were alive, and so many others weren’t. Once their stew was gone, and they’d had some water to drink, she situated the bedroll atop the tent they sat on, and Jaime wordlessly started removing her armor as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He was the one who had it made, she reasoned. Of course it feels natural.

But what was more surprising was how easily he removed it with one hand. She helped him by steadying the plates, but she was rid of it much more quickly than she’d imagined she would be. Rather than verbalize her thanks, she turned to face him, working at the straps on his armor as he turned his back to her.

“It suits you, you know,” she said quietly. “The armor.”

“Why is that?” he asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.

She paused, gathering the words she wished to say.

“This looks natural,” she elaborated. “The other, it—it’s almost like...”

“It makes me look like something I’m not,” he confirmed, a hint of spite in his voice. “Like I’m Lord Lannister of Casterly Rock.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You are Lord Lannister,” she replied, removing the last plate, setting it down by the fire. “But that armor was garish. You can be Lord Lannister and still wear practical armor.”

He looked at her over his shoulder, a smirk crawling across his lips.

“As practical as that of Lady Lannister?” he asked, feigning seriousness.

Her face was hot in an instant, and she had to look away, busying herself with removing Oathkeeper’s belt, placing the sword near the fire. He chuckled at her response, slowly unbuckling the belt that held Widow’s Wail, handing it to her as she laid it beside Oathkeeper. A little irked that he could derive so much pleasure from her embarrassment, she felt him place his hand on her shoulder as he stood, and she stilled, all the irritation fading from her heart as she looked up at him in concern.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured, gently squeezing her shoulder to reassure her.

She nodded, and he made for the edge of the camp, near to the woods. They had been riding most of the day, and it was likely he had to relieve himself. She would do the same, but only before they left; it was no use to do so beforehand, especially if they were to ride for several more hours.

Curling up in the bedroll, she grabbed a cloak, draping it over herself, allowing the warmth of it to soundly engulf her as the snowflakes lessened. Her mind drifted to the way he had called her Lady Lannister, and she fought against a smile, failing as she felt it tug at her lips. She had just fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep when a hand on her shoulder stirred her from her slumber.

“Brienne...?”

Jaime’s sea-green eyes swiftly came into focus, and she sat up immediately, her heart starting to race as her mind jolted awake at the millions of possibilities as to why he might have woken her.

“It’s all right,” he assured her, taking her hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”

She frowned at first, hesitant to leave the warmth of the bedroll, before grabbing the cloaks that lay on the ground as she stood.  Fastening one around her, she draped the other across his shoulders, her frown deepening at the slight smile on his face as she secured it for him.

“Thank you,” he whispered.  

“Get on with it,” she grumbled, turning him around forcefully when his smile was too bright to look at anymore.

They walked toward the woods, not saying a word, the only sounds as he drew her further from the camp that of their boots as they crunched in the snow. She could feel his eyes on her, and when she met them with her own, she saw the excitement in what he had to show her glinting in them. He looked so much younger in the moonlight, its fullness easily allowing them to see in the darkness as they approached the edge of the forest. Their pace suddenly slowed, and he placed a finger over his lips, indicating their need for silence, before he offered the hand to her. She took it, allowing him to lead her further into the trees.

As Jaime stopped walking, hiding them behind a tree, she realized how far they were from camp, and she opened her mouth to speak—

A growl came from nearby, and she froze, looking around. Jaime squeezed her hand, nodding toward the other side of the tree. She heard another, lower growl, and peeked around the tree to see what creatures he had so recklessly followed into the forest.

She saw a few wolves tumbling around in the snow, tackling one another and nipping at each other’s ears as they played in the shadows. No, they weren’t just wolves...

“Direwolves...?” she whispered.

She could feel him smile close to her, his warm breath against her neck as she looked on. Indeed, the direwolf cubs were almost the size of ordinary wolves, and as she heard a huffing noise, she looked out a little further, noticing the parents sitting close to one another, guarding the cubs as they played. Resting a hand on the tree, she watched them in fascination.

“Have they been tracking us?” she asked over her shoulder. Jaime shrugged.

“Maybe,” he breathed, stepping so close her back came into contact with his chest as he watched them. “I think the female belonged to Arya, years ago.”

Her head whipped around to look at him, dumbfounded.

“Each of the Stark children had one, at one point in time,” he whispered. “You’ve seen Ghost, haven’t you? The King’s wolf?”

Nodding, she turned to look back at them.

“That’s the only one I’ve ever seen,” she murmured.

He smiled at this, leaning against the tree, snaking his hand around her waist to bring her close to him as she brought his cloak over her shoulders ever so slightly. He was so warm; much warmer than the bedroll. They watched the pack play for a few minutes longer, as she rested more of her body weight against him, and she sighed as the lull of sleep tugged on her.

At that moment, they heard the growls change from playful to menacing, and they immediately hid behind the tree, stealing a glance to see every direwolf looking at something a short distance away in the trees, guarded and frightened. She felt Jaime take her hand again, gently pulling her away from the tree toward the camp.

“We should head back,” he rasped, apprehension in his voice.

She nodded, and made to follow his lead when the monstrously loud crunch of snow behind them stopped them in their tracks. They stood, rooted to the spot as they watched Rhaegal stumble through the trees without uttering a sound, his massive form enough to startle the direwolves deeper into the forest in a chorus of howls as his wings clipped several branches off of the trees around him. The dragon turned to see Jaime and Brienne, and her blood froze through as it stared at them. She could feel Jaime’s heart thundering in his chest as he held her against him, staggering slightly in the snow, and she closed her eyes, the only thing convincing her she was still alive the sound of her blood pounding in her ears.

When nothing happened, however, she opened her eyes, and noticed the dragon had lain down in the snow, watching them intently. Their breaths eased slightly at the sight. He was injured, that much she knew, and if there was one thing you didn’t do, it was bother a wounded animal.

But there was something in the dragon’s eyes that spoke to her. Not anger, or fear, or a look of warning. It was sadness.

Something was wrong.

She pulled away from Jaime and, as gently as she could without startling the poor beast, she stepped toward it. Jaime’s hand shot out and took her arm, his grip as firm as iron.

“What are you doing?!” he demanded.

“Something stupid,” she said quietly, her eyes never leaving Rhaegal as she shook Jaime’s hand off her arm. “Get behind me.”

“No,” he almost shouted, “you get behind me!”

She ignored him, taking another step toward the creature, and another.

“Brienne—”

Suddenly, the dragon huffed loudly, his eyes narrowing. Jaime must have moved too quickly.

“Please, Jaime” she begged him, “trust me.”

Rhaegal blinked, his eyes meeting hers once more. Taking a deep breath, she closed the distance between them, removing her glove to offer her bare, outstretched hand. She held her breath as he smelled her, and jumped a little when he nudged his enormous head against it. Smiling with relief, she ran her hand down the side of his snout and over his jaw, fascinated at how smooth his skin was compared to the rough skin of her hands.

It was only then that she noticed the blood dripping from his neck to bless the pristine snow beneath him. He’d been bleeding for hours now. Meeting the dragon’s eye, she noticed how slowly he blinked at her. She looked back at Jaime for the first time since she’d stepped forward, his face twisted in shock and confusion at what she’d been able to do.

“Jaime, I think he’s dying,” she called softly, noting how the dragon almost crooned as she took off her other glove, running both her hands back down to his head.

At this, Jaime’s face softened into an emotion she’d never seen before, and she held out a hand to him. The surprise at her invitation visibly shook him, and from a distance, she saw him swallow hard before he carefully approached them, Brienne never taking her other hand from the creature’s jowl. It snuffed as Jaime got close, and he froze, his eyebrows soaring upward in surprise.

“It’s okay,” she said calmly. “He’s just smelling you.”

“Probably wondering what a lion tastes like.”

She smiled, reaching forward to take Jaime’s hand, pulling the glove from his fingers before ever so lightly taking his hand into her own, bringing it to the dragon’s jowl. His breath hitched in his throat at first, and after a moment, she felt him relax his hand under her own, allowing himself to feel the dragon’s skin.

A minute passed as Brienne stroked the beast with her free hand, Jaime looking into its eye.

“He’s magnificent,” he whispered, his eyes still on the dragon. “You’re magnificent.”

“He likes you too,” she murmured.

He chuckled, and the dragon rumbled.

“Even he knows I wasn’t talking about him, Brienne.”

Realizing what he meant, she felt her cheeks flush.

The next few minutes were spent in silence as they guided their hands down the creature’s snout, back to his jowl, and finally, as their hands met again, the dragon made a soft sound, his eyes half open.

“Rest,” she whispered. “Rest now.”

And with a final, shuddering breath, the dragon closed his eyes, and he was gone.

Filled with a despair that sat deeply in her gut, she felt Jaime pull her toward him, and she gratefully accepted the embrace, wrapping herself in his warmth.

They returned to camp in silence, their ungloved hands still warm from Rhaegal’s skin as they met with Jon Snow and the Queen to explain what they had seen, and what had happened.

“And you stayed with him?” the Dragon Queen asked, looking at Brienne.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied. “Until the end.”

The Queen’s eyes closed, and she tried to smile through the tears that were now streaming down her face.

“Tell me, Lady Brienne, are you a knight?” she inquired.

Brienne looked at her feet.

“No, Your Grace,” she answered.

“Then consider yourself one.”

Jaime’s eyes met hers, wonder and delight filling his features. She looked back at the Queen.

“Your Grace, in Westeros, women are traditionally not—”

“I don’t care about tradition,” the Queen said firmly. “You are more chivalrous than any man or woman I have ever met, and have done me a high honor tonight.”

The Queen stood, and offered her hand.

“Do you accept?”

She stood still for only a few seconds before taking the Queen’s hand, kneeling to bow her head to it as Jaime had done only a few days previously.

“I accept, Your Grace.”

Before the Queen released her hand, however, she squeezed it.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and Brienne nodded.

As a party departed to burn the dragon’s corpse in the forest, the rest of the camp fell quiet, so she took the opportunity to return to the bedroll, Jaime wedging himself in beside her. They stared at one another, his hand finding hers beneath the cloaks that covered them.

“How’s your cheek?” he asked.

She smiled.

“It’s healing,” she murmured. “It itches like Seven Hells, but it’s healing.”

He wove his fingers through her own, something dancing in his eyes that she didn’t have a name for yet.

“You jumped in front of a dragon for me,” he said, a smirk creeping across his face.

She scoffed.

“You jumped in front of a bear for me, half mad with fever and freshly maimed.”

“You’re not seriously going to compare a bear to a dragon, are you?” he teased, pulling her knuckles to his lips. “It was very chivalrous. No wonder the Queen knighted you.”

“The Queen decided to knight me,” she began, weakly attempting to pull her hand away from his lips, “because I stayed. That’s all.”

He frowned, pulling her hand close to him once more.

“Don’t do that,” he tenderly commanded.

“What?” she asked.

Jaime sighed.

“You always undervalue your bravery,” he explained. “There is such a thing as too much humility, you know.”

She pressed her eyes shut, knowing he was right, so she nodded, acknowledging it.

“Why did you stay?” he asked, genuinely curious. “How did you know it wouldn’t burn you alive?”

Shrugging, she positioned herself so that her legs were closer to his, weaving them together slightly.

“I didn’t,” she said simply, “but no one deserves to die alone.”

For a fleeting moment, she thought of her father, wondering if he was alone when Euron Greyjoy had pillaged the island, likely slitting his throat as Lady Catelyn’s had been done. Jaime gently moved his thumb across her index finger, and the sensation soothed her.

“You were with him,” he whispered, reading her thoughts. “Maybe not physically, but he knew you loved him.”

Gods, this man.  

“I wish you could have met him, Jaime,” she told him. “He would have liked you.”

Jaime smiled in return, but it was almost sad.

“I don’t know how my father would have felt about you,” he said honestly. “But if he hated Tyrion for being born a dwarf and blamed him for the death of our mother, can you imagine what he would have said about you? A woman, a knight, tall enough to look him in the eye and tell him she wanted to marry me and whisk me away to her island rather than Casterly Rock? He would have died on the spot! The Seven Kingdoms would have been yours.”

She laughed, properly laughed, at his joke, and he beamed at her.

They fell asleep shortly thereafter, resting for the hour or so they had left before the world moved on around them.

Notes:

Yes, this was a *LONG* chapter... But I wanted it to end in a very specific way, with the dragon event occurring by the end. Also: Daenerys would *totally* be the first person to knight a woman, especially for using what Brienne originally called 'a woman's kind of courage'. #trailblazer #literallyandfiguratively

I also couldn't resist using GRRM's 'something stupid' line here. As soon as I came up with the dying dragon idea, I knew I had to have her use it here. GAH!

Next, our troops continue toward Harrenhal in Jaime's POV. Y'all should be getting excited, but I won't say why. ;)

Really hope you all liked it! Thanks for continuing to read and enjoy my story, and especially thank you to those of you who leave kudos and comments! Thanks, y'all!

Chapter 16: Leather - Jaime VIII

Summary:

Tyrion and Sansa devise a plan with interesting consequences.

They stopped five more times over the course of the next two days to allow the horses to rest, as he and the King had agreed upon, before arriving at Moat Cailin. Each time they stopped, fires were lit, warmth was derived, food was eaten, and sleep was attained as watches were continuously rotated. When Brienne’s head would start to slump forward from her exhaustion, he would reach around her and take the reins, bracing her against him with his maimed arm so that she could doze off for a little while. They switched positions on the horse between camps, and he had to admit, when it was his turn to ride in front, and he was the one who became drowsy, he fit against her like a glove every time he let her take the reins.

Draped in snow and eerily empty, he noticed how the towers of Moat Cailin looked far less imposing in the lack of sunlight. The swamp waters were frozen over and gathering snow, making them far more passable than they were in the summer months. As the horses halted, and soldiers began to unload tents and wood, he gently squeezed her waist, and she groaned as she woke.

“We’re here,” he murmured against her ear.

Making sure she was truly awake, he hopped down, steadying the horse before she dismounted, taking the bridle from him. As they led the horse toward a wagon, Sam clumsily approached them, his face a little too exuberant for their circumstances.

“Ser Jaime,” Sam acknowledged with a bow of his head, “Lady Brienne...”

Brienne stiffly nodded in return.

“What is it, Sam?” Jaime heard himself ask, eager to rest rather than entertain any notions of conversation.

The young man smiled, reaching for the bridle of their horse.

“Your brother and Lady Sansa would like a word,” Sam said. “They’re waiting under the tree by the Gatehouse Tower.”

Her gaze met his, a look of concern flitting through her features. He shrugged in response as Sam stepped forward, taking the horse with him.

As they made their way through the camp and toward the tower, he realized he could see how tired she was, the white of the snow around them accentuating the dark circles that were starting to form under her eyes. Her hair, though usually smoothed back, had fallen into her face for the last two days, and he smiled at the slight curl he saw there, remembering how it had done the same thing on their journey south years ago. The steps she took were slower than usual, and her shoulders were hunched with the weight of her exhaustion as her hand rested on Oathkeeper’s hilt.

Even now, she was still more breathtaking than anything he’d ever imagined. He was suddenly overcome with the need to hold her until she could sleep, erasing the frown lines that battle and days of travel had carved into the softness of her face.

“I’m well aware of how awful I look,” she muttered.

He hadn’t realized she’d noticed him looking at her.

“You don’t look awful,” he assured her.

“You were staring.”

Suddenly, he realized that she’d been stared at by so many people in her lifetime, and not for the most honorable reasons. Granted, not every reason he’d stared at her had been honorable; in fact, they could occasionally be entirely dishonorable, especially when she stretched her neck as he removed her breastplate between campsites, or when she leaned over to feed the fire, the sparks it gave off flickering in her eyes...

“There’s more than one reason to stare at someone, you know,” he concluded nonchalantly, trying to keep his voice steady.

She stopped in her tracks to turn and look at him.

“And what was your reason?” she demanded.

Damn, she was prickly when she was tired.

“I was thinking about our journey south,” he admitted.

Her face softened, and he could have sworn her lips twitched into the semblance of a smile for a fraction of a moment.

“Why would you think about that?” she murmured.

She wasn’t that far away; he could have brushed her hair out of her face, the rebellious locks of which had reminded him of their journey. He could have kissed her too, if he wanted to do so. But they still hadn’t told anyone about what had happened between them since their time at Winterfell... And if he was honest with himself, he didn’t want to share the safe sanctity of those stolen moments with the rest of the world just yet. He only wanted to share them with her.

Tilting his chin down, he smiled up at her.

“No reason at all.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he started walking toward the tower once more. She followed, staying slightly behind him as they approached the tree. Let her wonder why.

A fire was burning beneath the monstrous tree, and from a distance, he could see Sansa and Tyrion, speaking of something that brought a frown to their faces. When they heard their footsteps, they turned to greet them with surprised smiles.

“Ah, Lady Brienne,” Tyrion greeted them. “My dear brother.”

“Is everything all right?” Brienne asked, giving Sansa a look of concern.

The young woman pursed her lips together in a forced smile.

“I am well, my lady. Thank you.”

“And thank you for agreeing to speak with us,” Tyrion continued for her. “We know that your time is valuable.”

Jaime glanced at Brienne, noting how she blushed at the comment, looking down at the snow beneath her feet.

“What is this about?” he asked wearily, frowning at his brother.

The formerly married couple looked at one another, almost as though they weren’t sure who should speak. Sansa inhaled deeply.

“Lady Brienne, you have served both our houses far more nobly than anyone else,” she began, “and we owe you more gratitude than we can ever repay...”

The young woman trailed off, uncertain of how to continue.

“And we are sorry to hear about Tarth... And the loss of your father,” Tyrion continued softly, his honesty causing Brienne to swallow hard. “He was a good man.”

Jaime blinked, surprised at the tenderness with which his brother was speaking to her.

“Thank you, my lord,” Brienne said, the fingers of her left hand clutching Oathkeeper’s hilt more tightly than it had previously.

Jaime’s eyes flickered back to his brother.

“I saw you frowning only moments ago,” he prodded. “What news, then? Surely it cannot be good.”

Tyrion sighed.

“It has come to our attention that the garrison of men at Riverrun might be a valuable addition to our numbers in this fight,” Tyrion suggested, glancing at Sansa.

Jaime immediately tensed at this.

“You want us to ride for Riverrun?” he asked bitterly.

Tyrion raised his hands in an attempt to pacify him.

“Not quite,” he clarified. “We would, however, have you write to them.”

Brienne looked at him then, concern written all over her face.

“The Lannister men may listen to me,” Jaime explained, “but the Tully Army will certainly not. Not after...”

He fell silent, recalling the words he’d said to Edmure Tully in the tent; how he’d threatened to dash the brains of his two year-old son against the walls of the castle with a catapult, knowing the man would believe he would do such a thing. At the time, he thought nothing of those empty words. He was merely attempting to take the damn castle without bloodshed, using his dishonorable reputation to his advantage, hoping to...

Gods, what would he do now? What could he possibly say to the man?

“Lord Edmure will not send the Tully army,” he said quietly. “Not at my behest, anyway. He’d die first.”

He held his breath at the way Brienne looked at him then, her face contorted in confused suspicion.

“Which is precisely why you will write them together,” Sansa said simply.

Revelation spread through his veins, and he saw Brienne’s posture change.

“You think the Tully army will listen to me...?” Brienne questioned. “My lady, I’ve never even met Lord Edmure—”

“But you swore your sword into the service of his sister,” Tyrion confirmed. “You swore to protect her daughters, and you have done so. Quite well, if I may add.”

Brienne was still hesitant to believe them. Jaime was certain that, despite the fact he couldn’t see her knuckles through her glove, the grip with which she was clutching Oathkeeper’s hilt meant they were gleaming whiter than the snow that started to fall around them.

“Lady Catelyn is dead,” Brienne countered. “Surely he will note that my protection of his sister was—”

“If you had been present at the wedding, you would be dead,” Tyrion bluntly said. “There is no question that your absence was more valuable to his family than your presence.”

Jaime felt his body shudder with an exhale, realizing how right his brother was. They had arrived in King’s Landing within days of the events at the wedding, and he could still see the look of pain on her face as he’d explained what his father had done, and how she had quietly wept for Lady Catelyn before she dismissed him. She hadn’t spoken to him for a week following that day, and he could still recall the relief he felt as they had finally walked together toward the godswood to watch Sansa pray, Brienne telling him that she didn’t blame him for Tywin’s actions.

It wasn’t until now, though, that he realized their journey south together had protected her from the fate that would have waited for her at the Twins. If getting captured by Locke and his men meant she had somehow avoided that fate, he would willingly lose his hand again.

“You have served my family well, Lady Brienne. But now you are the Lady of Evenfall Hall, and House Baratheon is gone. If you declare for House Stark, House Tarth will follow,” Sansa concluded. “My uncle would respond more to your request than mine, given your previous service to my mother. And if your houses were to unite...”

Sansa fell quiet when she met Jaime’s stricken look as he struggled to breathe in the heavy silence that followed her implication. She couldn’t mean...

“Lord Edmure might send the Tully forces without need of threat, if someone he could trust sent the letter requesting aid,” Tyrion said in a measured tone. “He may be a fool, but he’d do anything to protect his wife and son from the Night King. Your name carries more than a modicum of honor throughout the kingdoms, my lady. With your signature alongside my brother’s, the Tully forces might just meet us at Harrenhal alongside the Lannister forces, and if you signed in the Lannister name—”

“No,” Jaime said flatly.

Brienne looked at him, astonished.

“Not like this,” he said, more to her than his brother.

Sansa and Tyrion frowned, glancing at one another.

“Forgive me,” Tyrion began, “but... is marriage a topic that has already been discussed between you?”

Fuck.

“How long have you been planning this?” Jaime accused, before remembering the looks the two had given one another at the council meeting days ago. He felt like an idiot. “Of course,” he bit out. “You’ve been scheming since before we left Winterfell.”

“Jaime...” Brienne whispered.

He ignored her. She deserved better than this.

“How dare you,” he said darkly. “Of all the people in the Seven Kingdoms, you both know what it means to be arranged into a political marriage. How could you possibly think of it as a solution to any problem we currently face, when certain death is marching toward us all?” Neither Tyrion nor Sansa answered him. “How?!” he exclaimed. “I’m genuinely curious to know what could have put the same outrageous idea into your heads.”

“Do you honestly think no one else has noticed?” Tyrion asked, insulted. “Our friends know. We know. The council knows. Even our dear sister—”

“Don’t you dare speak of her,” he commanded warningly. “Not after what she’s done.”

“But she knew!” Tyrion exclaimed. “Actions speak louder than words, dear brother, or have you forgotten already? You saved her from being raped, you saved her from a bear, you sent her after Sansa... She may be the only person you’ve ever actually listened to in your life! I wouldn’t be surprised if half of Westeros knew that you—”

“Stop this,” Jaime demanded. “I will not be commanded into a marriage for military reasons, and especially not with the woman I love. I would see all Seven Kingdoms burned to the ground before I forced her to do that.”

Jaime’s chest was heaving, each breath rattling his bones with fury at this betrayal, his fist clenched so hard he could feel the calloused skin of his palm breaking under his fingernails as he grit his teeth. He looked at Brienne, and—

She looked hurt. Horrified. All the things he hated to see on her face were present there, clouding her eyes with their presence.

“Would you excuse us, my lady?” she rasped, giving Sansa a pointed look.

The young woman nodded.

“Come, my lord,” Sansa said, extending a ladylike hand to Tyrion, who took it with familiarity. “We have much to discuss.”

Tyrion nodded solemnly, acknowledging her, and within moments, they were gone.

“I said yes,” Brienne said resolutely, stepping closer to him. “Under the heart tree, before the Old Gods. I said I would marry you.”

He sighed, his anger slowly dissipating.

“I know,” he said shortly. “But I would rather we do it on our own terms, in our way, and in our own time.”

She fell silent, and wouldn’t look at him. It disturbed him more than the suggestion that their marriage serve another purpose than the one they’d originally intended.

“Isn’t that what you want?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes met his then, and he was surprised to see the discomfort there, as though he had stung her.

“I think it’s what you want.”

He pressed his eyes closed tight, unable to believe he had so foolishly assumed she would want the same thing he did. She hadn’t even had the opportunity to speak as he had railed at Tyrion. Swallowing hard, he opened his eyes and stepped forward, taking her hand.

“I was only thinking of myself,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”

Her brow relaxed slightly, and he dared to stroke her knuckles with his thumb.

“What do you want?” he asked, waiting intently for an answer.

At this, she gave him the same look she’d given him years ago, when she’d named Oathkeeper; the yearning, steadfast look that always filled him with wonder. What on earth had he ever done to deserve that look from another human being?

“You, Jaime,” she breathed, squeezing his hand. “I just want you.”

His chest tightened at her words, and after he reminded himself to do something, he pulled her close, her chin resting on his shoulder.

“I don’t care if you marry me tonight, or tomorrow, or fifty years from now,” she whispered against his ear. “I’m yours, Jaime. I’ll always be yours.”

The echo of words he’d previously said to her rang through his head like a bell, igniting every fiber of his being. He smiled, pulling back far enough to see her face, her lips inches from his own.

“I wasn’t talking about the sword, you know,” he confessed.

She scoffed.

“Of course you weren't.”

He laughed, and her laugh followed as easily as the snow that fell around them.

This is what it feels like to dream of spring, he thought.

---

They had found Sansa and Tyrion soon after, and following a lengthy apology from Jaime, his brother took Brienne’s hands, offering his congratulations.

“It will be an honor to call you sister, my lady.”

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw tears in Tyrion’s eyes.

---

At the council meeting that afternoon, Bran revealed to them all that she was, in fact, a cousin of both the King and the Queen. The information came as a shock to everyone, but especially the Queen, who was delighted to know another blood relative after years of believing herself to be alone in the world. Jon simply smiled as Brienne stood rooted to the spot, trying to comprehend the fact that, after having suffered so much loss, she was not the only family she had left. Targaryen blood would certainly account for the way in which the dragon had behaved at her touch, as well as why her hair was so blonde.

But when Bran had explained that her great-grandfather was Ser Duncan the Tall, Jaime’s attraction to her honorable nature suddenly made complete sense. She was descended from both the most honorable and oldest houses of Westeros.

He smiled as he realized his father would likely have approved of their match after all.

“Who would you choose to give you away, my lady?” the King asked.

Brienne turned to Sansa, who smiled in return, stepping forward to take her hand.

“You needn’t ask, my lady,” she assured her. “We may not be blood, but we are family.”

Jaime noticed how, in the light of the campfire, Sansa’s smile resembled Lady Catelyn’s.

---

That evening, Jaime stood under the tree beside Tyrion, his heart racing more than it ever had during any battle he’d ever fought. He hadn’t had a bath in days, and his clothes looked more tired than he was. The cloak he held in his hands was the one she’d worn since her time in the North, but Sansa had taken it and fixed it earlier that afternoon with the help of a few Winterfell maids; at first glance, he wasn’t sure he could see the difference, but as he’d examined it closely, he noticed the fresh stamps on the wide leather at the top of the belt.

Below a shining star that was meant to represent her home, a lion was dancing in delight at the star’s rays. On either side of the lion, facing away as though they meant to protect it, he noticed the smaller stamps of the head of a direwolf and the head of a dragon. It was masterfully crafted, and ever so subtle. She’d love it.

The small group of people that had gathered at the base of the tower looked on, a few of them holding the torches that lit the winter night. Glancing around, he saw how many of them were the men they had fought next to in battle, and he smirked, realizing he had chosen the best warrior in all of Westeros as his bride.

The King stood at the base of the tree, and Daenerys stood beside Tyrion. There was no sept, or septon, but they had never been particularly traditional. After all, most men didn’t pay for their wife’s maidenhead with an appendage years in advance.

As the King looked up and smiled, Jaime turned to see Sansa walking toward them, Brienne’s hand firmly clasped in her own as she led her down the path between their witnesses. His cloak was draped over her arm, and he wondered how his groomscloak would look, since he’d never seen the likes of it before. It was something she’d insisted on.

“Wives can protect their husbands just as well as their husbands can protect them,” she’d said. And with that, Tyrion had taken his cloak from him, handing it to Missandei and a few of Daenerys’s Dothraki women. He hadn’t seen it again until now.

Brienne’s clothes were just as wrinkled and dirty as his, and her hair still fell in her face, the dark circles insistent beneath her eyes. The dressing on her face had been changed, and she took slow, measured steps.

But she was smiling her small smile, and she was smiling just for him. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and likely would ever see. No matter what happened after tonight, he would remember that smile for the rest of his life. He would live for it. He would fight for it.

His heart thudded more loudly in his chest, and he forgot to breathe for more than a few seconds as she stepped into place beside him on his left. He swallowed hard at the effort it took to inhale, and smiled at her ever so slightly.

“Who comes before the gods this night?” Jon asked.

It was not a heart tree, but Brienne had insisted on combining the vows of both the Old Gods and the Seven, as every other holy vow she’d ever taken had been done in the light of both. Sansa stepped forward at Jon’s question, raising Brienne’s hand as though she were some precious thing.

“Lady Brienne of House Tarth,” she announced, “Lady of Evenfall Hall, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, true born and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods.”

Sansa looked at Jon, who smiled.

“Who comes to claim her?” he asked, turning to look at Tyrion, who stepped forward.

“Ser Jaime of House Lannister,” he said, looking up at Sansa. “Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and Warden of the West.”

Jaime noticed Brienne smile at this. His title truly was ridiculously long. He shrugged, and she blushed, looking down at the cloak on her arm.

“Who gives her?” Tyrion continued.

Sansa took the hand she held, Brienne’s right hand, and offered it to Jaime.

“Lady Sansa, of House Stark, her liege lady, trusted friend, and ally.”

Brienne nodded at Sansa, and Jaime extended his left hand to take hers, allowing it to patiently wait in the air between them.

“Lady Brienne, will you take this man?” Tyrion asked.

His hand suddenly felt heavy as she looked at him, and he realized that she had far more power over him than he knew. But, without hesitation, she took his hand, clasping it tightly, her gaze unwavering.

“I take this man.”

His lips parted as he exhaled, and he smiled at her, squeezing her hand. They turned to face Jon, who bowed his head at them in reverence.

“You may now cloak one another,” he said, “bringing each other under your protection.”

Jaime lifted the heavy cloak, not realizing how difficult this would be with one hand. Reading his thoughts, she took one corner of it, helping him to place it over her shoulders as she turned her back to him. Using his stump, he held the heavy fabric out of the way as, together, they fastened the belt behind her back. He heard her inhale sharply as she noticed the detail on the leather, running her fingers over the crests before turning to look at him, holding up his cloak.

It had been freshly embroidered with two golden lions, one on the front of either shoulder, that, like her bride cloak, were dancing beneath a bright star. The detail was simple, and suited him. She gently swung it around his shoulders while he stayed facing her, fastening the straps, and the tenderness of the gesture filled him with the urge to pull her close. As she rested her hands on his chest for a moment, smoothing the material and running a few fingers over the embroidery, he took her right hand, holding it up to Jon.

The King pulled a simple leather strap from his pocket, binding their hands together lightly before stepping back.

“In the sight of the gods, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity,” he declared. “Look upon one another and say the words.”

They turned to face one another one final time, and his heart soared into his throat so quickly at the sight of her blue eyes in the torchlight that he nearly forgot himself.

“Father... Smith... Warrior... Mother... Maiden... Crone... Stranger."

“I am hers, and she is mine...”

“I am his, and he is mine...”

“From this day, until the end of my days,” they concluded.

Jon stood tall, looking at them all with his hands parted.

“Let it be known that Brienne, of House Tarth, and Jaime, of House Lannister, are one heart, one flesh, one soul,” he affirmed. "Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

The King and Queen were the first to clap, then Tyrion and Sansa, and before long, they were all applauding. He glanced down at the leather strap that bound his only hand to hers, and sighed with relief. Wordlessly, he met her eyes as she brought her left hand to his cheek before she leaned in, pressing a slow, temperate kiss to his lips that took him by surprise.

His wife. His knight. His lady.

His.

“Finally!” he heard a familiar voice shout over the clapping. He broke away to look over his shoulder; Bronn was standing beside Podrick, a shit-eating grin on his face as he elbowed the lad beside him.

“You can hit him later,” he heard Brienne say, and he turned to look at her, those blue eyes shining at him. For him. "I might even hold him down for you."

He chuckled before pulling her close, their bound hands resting between them over his heart.

Notes:

As usual, the characters ran away with me. And so you have (what I hope you see as) a beautiful, fluff-filled nugget to reprieve you of the loss of Jorah, Tormund, and Rhaegal.

Next chapter will also be Jaime's POV as we reach Harrenhal. :)

Thank you for reading, and I hope you're still enjoying the story! I've pretty much mapped out the rest of it, now I just have to finish writing it before the final season premieres. As always, kudos and comments are much appreciated!

Also: Shout out the the 1990s trilogy of 'Anne of Green Gables,' who accidentally put the 'I just want you' quote in my head as I wrote this.

Chapter 17: Scars - Jaime IX

Summary:

The first night at Harrenhal.

Notes:

SO HOW ABOUT THAT TRAILER, Y'ALL?! ;)

For the first time, I'm recommending music to accompany a chapter.

I listened to 'Repeat Until Death' by Novo Amor on repeat for the last bit of the chapter. It's the best way to musically describe the moment. The beginning of this bit is indicated by a *.

Highly recommend this band. Amazing vocals and lyrics. Enjoy!

“To Lord Edmure Tully, rightful Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident,

And to Ser Addam Marbrand, loyal friend and leader of the Lannister forces garrisoned at Riverrun,

The Army of the Dead has taken Winterfell, and has already commenced their march south. They spread like a disease, killing all in their path, only adding to their army.

We, the living, have retreated south, where we intend to recover at Harrenhal within the week before continuing our journey south to King’s Landing. Our numbers have suffered enormous losses, and the need for more men has become greater than the need for any other conflict between our houses. It is not for Lannister or Tully we fight, but for the right to live.

It is our great hope that the Tully forces and Lannister forces will ride for Harrenhal at once, where Lord Edmure, his wife, Roslin, and their son will be treated with as much hospitality as can be offered in such difficult times. Our new family, though a small one, would gladly serve you as though you were our own flesh and blood. My lady wife was devoted to Lady Catelyn, and remains sworn to House Stark, serving Lady Catelyn’s remaining children as faithfully as though they were her own.

With or without your aid, we cannot guarantee a victory in this war. Regardless of these odds, we hope that you will find it within yourselves to finally rally your swords together against our common enemy, and fight for the only cause worthy of such honorable men as yourselves.

With hope,

Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and Warden of the West

& 

Lady Brienne Lannister, Lady of Evenfall Hall, Lady of Casterly Rock, and Wardeness of the South.”

Jaime looked up at her as he finished reading it aloud, smiling.

“You transposed it well,” he said, stroking their signatures with his thumb.

“Do you think they’ll come?” she asked meekly.

He shrugged.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see for ourselves.”

She nodded, taking the letter and folding it. He watched her intently as she poured the wax, using the Lannister stamp Sam had found to press it into the tiny red puddle, the crate she’d used to write upon offering enough resistance.

“It suits you, you know,” he told her. “Lady Lannister.”

Looking up for a moment, she smiled her small smile, returning to her work as she scribbled on the outside of the letter.

“You said Lord Edmure would rather die than send his men at your request,” she said quietly, putting down the quill to give him her undivided attention. “Why? What did you do to him?”

He could feel the joyous smirk on his face slowly fall at her question, and she noticed.

“Jaime...?”

Rubbing his face slightly with his hand, he exhaled sharply.

“You remember what you asked of me at Riverrun?” he asked. “That I take the castle without bloodshed?”

She nodded, her brow furrowing.

“I waited until nightfall, but then I went to speak with him. He wouldn’t listen to me,” he said, giving her a knowing look. “You’re the only one who ever does. So, when I gave him my word that he would be properly clothed and fed, that his family would be well cared for at Casterly Rock... That his son would have tutors, and proper teachers so he could learn to ride, learn how to fight... All he did was sneer at me.”

With this admission, her face relaxed, and she took a deep breath.

“You threatened him.”

Jaime ground his teeth for a moment.

“I told him...” He closed his eyes for a moment. If he didn’t tell her, Lord Edmure surely would. “I told him I loved Cersei. That I’d do anything to get back to her. Even...” Gods, why had he done this? “Even if it meant launching his little boy into the walls of the castle with a catapult.”

He opened his eyes to see her staring at him in disbelief. It was the same look she’d given him when he’d told her of the Mad King’s final moments.

“And it worked,” she finished with finality.

He slowly nodded.

“It worked.”

“But you wouldn’t have done it...” she whispered, a hint of hesitation in her voice.

Something shook him to the very core of his being at this.

“What do you mean?” he asked, resentment attempting to break through his voice.

She leaned forward, taking his hand.

“It wasn’t a question,” she soothed him. “I know you wouldn’t have done it. I was merely trying to point out that you were tricking him. It was a lie, Jaime. A lie that saved hundreds of lives.”

“Only half of it was a lie at the time,” he murmured, afraid to meet her eyes. He felt like he was going to be sick.

Her grip on his hand loosened, and for a long moment, he thought she might stand up and walk away. But instead, she scooted closer to him, gripping his hand more tightly, covering it with her other hand.

“Jaime, look at me.”

It was painful to meet her eyes, but he did as he was told. She didn’t look angry, or disgusted, or whatever he had expected to see, but she was clearly disappointed in him.

“Cersei is your sister. You were born together, and she will always occupy some part of you because of your past history,” she explained. “I won’t pretend to understand that history, or what caused it, but you left it behind you, Jaime. You made a choice, and so did I.”

His eyes widened at this unexpected reaction. Was she real? Could she truly be his? And would she ever stop surprising him?

Her hand cupped his face, and he closed his eyes at the warmth.

“We can’t forge a future if we keep looking into the past,” she murmured. “Not when the steel we need is here.”

She squeezed his hand for emphasis, and his breath shuddered as it left him. Rising to her knees, she straddled him so that she could pull him close, and he clung to her for dear life. They stayed like that for several long moments before she pulled away, looking down upon him as she brushed some dirt from his face. How he wished that they were just like this, in a warm, firelit chamber where he moved beneath her, her head falling back as she—

“I should take the letter to the King,” she stammered, placing a hand on his chest as she made to move away.

Before she could get any further, he pulled her back to him.

“Jaime, we—”

His hand was behind her neck, pulling her mouth down to meet his, and he kissed her urgently, desperately wanting what he had seen in his mind’s eye only moments ago. He didn’t care that anyone could see them like this, he didn’t care that they were half frozen in the winter sun... He wanted her. He needed her to know that he wanted her and no other.

The small moan that escaped her throat as she allowed him to deepen the kiss made it even harder to pull away, and he tugged her body closer to him with his maimed arm, her cloak swallowing both of them as he moved beneath her ever so slightly. She wrapped her arms around him at the contact, bracing herself against him as he moved once more, unable to stop himself. Her lips left his, and she looked down at him then, her eyes as dark as the night sky.

The next time he moved, she met him halfway, and he groaned, nearly losing his self-control. The noise he’d made was louder than he imagined, and he was suddenly aware of the soldiers who were staring at them, uncomfortable looks on their faces.

“We have to stop,” he growled, pressing his face into her neck. “There are too many eyes here.”

Glancing around her, she must have realized that a few of the soldiers had been watching them, because she blushed as they all averted their gaze. He tugged her head down, bringing his lips to her ear.

“I’ll request a room be given to us at Harrenhal,” he breathed. “But until then, we have to be more careful. I refuse to bed my wife while an army of Unsullied looks on. It simply wouldn’t be fair.”

He felt her body shake against his as she chuckled. Releasing his grip on her, she pulled back to look down on him once more, cupping his face with her hands and kissing his forehead.

“I’ll take the letter to the King,” she said, moving to stand.

Nodding, he swallowed hard.

“My lady.”

She smiled down at him.

“My lord.”

Just like that, she walked away in search of the King and Queen, and he slipped into the bedroll, covering himself with the cloak as he tried to slow his breath and quiet his thoughts.

“This isn’t fair!” the young woman said in a raised voice, throwing the practice sword to the ground with a satisfying clatter. “I’m not some cow you can parade around in front of peacocks! I’m not a lady, I’m a soldier—”

“Jo, no one is contesting that you can—”

“No,” said Joanna with finality, her face hardening. “I will not go to court. Dunk can go without me.”

Brienne grit her teeth, and he could see her fists clenching ever so slightly.

“It’s only for a year—”

“Twelve months!” Joanna countered bitterly. “Twelve months of wearing repulsive dresses, attending disgustingly lavish parties, and making polite but mind-numbing conversation is my idea of the Seventh Hell!”

Duncan sighed, looking at him.

“Told you she’d take it well.”

Joanna frowned at her brother.

“You’re a boy,” she accused. “The son of a great lord. You could fart in the middle of the throne room, and no one would think twice about it.”

Jaime felt himself snort unconsciously, and out of the corner of his eye, Brienne bit her bottom lip, restraining a grin.

Duncan, however, openly laughed at this.

“That might be true, but did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, you’d enjoy being at court?” Duncan said, stepping toward her. “You could enter tourneys, train with some of the greatest knights of the kingdoms—”

“Our parents are the greatest knights in the kingdoms, you idiot.”

“But they’re not the only ones,” he explained, reaching out to take her hands. “You could learn so many other ways to wield a sword, Joey, just by sparring with the sons of other lords.”

Joanna sighed, looking down at the ground.

“We’re sixteen now,” Duncan said in a soothing tone, closing the space between them so that his hands rested on her shoulders, Joanna’s hands resting on his forearms. “I’m not always going to be here to train with you, and I certainly won’t be the only person you ever have to fight.”

The young woman opened her mouth to retort—

“Please, Joey,” Duncan begged her. “I don’t want to do this without you. Who’s going to sit with me at feasts and make fun of the lords and ladies? Or the way the band can never seem to stay on tempo?”

Joanna slowly started to smile.

“Twelve months, Joey,” he said simply. “That’s all I ask. Then we’ll come back to the Rock and you can kick my ass around the yard as much as you want.”

As he watched Joanna smile, Jaime took Brienne’s hand, and she looked at him as he leaned close to her ear.

“We’re going to have to go with them,” he murmured.

Brienne’s brow furrowed.

“Why on earth would you think that?” she whispered.

He all but grinned, looking back at their daughter as she hugged her brother, who towered over her average-sized frame.

“She’s about to burn tradition to the ground,” he said with a smile. “I’d like to be there to see it.”

Brienne’s lips curved with pride as she stroked the knuckles of his hand with her thumb.

“Jaime?” he heard her whisper.

Without entirely waking, he scooted his body back ever so slightly so that she could join him in the bedroll. Once she was settled, he pulled her back against him, burying his head against her neck.

“Did I wake you?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“Shh... Go to sleep,” he purred. “The dreams are particularly good today.”

He folded his maimed arm around her waist, holding her close as he fell back to sleep, reaching for the Rock in a way he never thought he would.

---

They rotated on the horse, as usual, and after five more days of riding hard and resting little, they arrived at Harrenhal.

Covered in the soft blanket of snow winter had provided, his breath hitched in his throat at how beautiful the ruined castle seemed. Memories of baths, blood, screams, confessions, and snarls all mingled together with the gentle flakes that fell as she pulled herself more tightly against his back. It wasn’t home, but of all the places he’d been in the last few years, it felt more like home than anywhere else.

Upon arrival, they moved in a rhythm that didn’t require words, helping everyone make a suitable camp that would last for a few days. They couldn’t afford more than five days here; Bran had said that the Army of the Dead was only ten days behind them, but that as they continued south, they were spreading themselves along the land, killing all in their path as they added to their army. It would take a little more than a month for the whole force to converge upon King’s Landing.

Despite the terror they all undoubtedly felt, he found his peace in the way that she silently unloaded the wagons alongside the other soldiers; how she gently helped Lady Lyanna Mormont from her horse, gladly accepting her request to be trained by the first lady knight in all Westeros; in the way she guided the women and children of Northern houses into the great hall, the little girls and boys looking up at her in fascination as they stood in line to receive their food; in the way she took her meal last, seeing to it every other woman and child had enough food before she took her own plate.

“Are you even listening to me?” Tyrion asked him, sounding irritated.

Jaime looked down at his brother.

“Truthfully, no,” he admitted.

Tyrion rolled his eyes, grabbing him by the sleeve and tugging him away from the yard and around the corner, where she would be out of sight.

“I was trying to explain to you that we received word from Riverrun,” Tyrion explained. “Both the Tully forces and the Lannister forces are on their way to Harrenhal as we speak. They should arrive tomorrow.”

Jaime felt his eyebrows gather in surprise.

“And Lord Edmure?” he asked warily.

“He is with them,” Tyrion confirmed, “along with Lady Roslin and their son.”

The way his body hunched in relief at the news must have alarmed his brother, who reached to take his hand.

“I’ve also managed to accommodate your request,” Tyrion managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “The baths will be yours for as long as you like, and a fire will be waiting for you in your chambers when you return.”

His brother had truly thought of everything.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Your help, it... It’s—I can’t...”

Tyrion nodded, his eyes full of what he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“It’s the least I could do.”

And with that, his little brother walked around the corner and out of sight.

---

Night was beginning to fall, and he was already so deep in his thoughts he felt like he might drown. The faces that passed in and out of the hall were never hers, and he was becoming increasingly aware of the eyes that were staring at him as he looked down at his plate, unable to cut the meat sitting before him.

She’d spent most of the day helping everyone else make camp, busying herself with settling others while he had been dragged to the longest council meeting of his life. Though his thoughts had been entirely occupied by the meeting, he found himself suddenly distracted by her absence when they mentioned her. Lady Sansa believed Brienne should be the one to greet Lord Edmure and Lady Roslin when they arrived, alongside herself and her sister. At first, Jaime was hesitant, but he agreed to it, believing the three women would be a more welcome sight than if he and Brienne were to greet them together.

They had also discussed attempting to arrange a meeting with Cersei upon their arrival in King’s Landing. After a lengthy, heated debate, the King believed that it would be in his best interest to speak to her himself, but had asked that Tyrion and Jaime be beside him when he did so. Tyrion had tried his hardest to explain that it would be reckless for any of them to speak with her, especially if Euron was, as they all believed, back in the city.

That was when the Stark boy had mentioned that news of his marriage to Brienne had spread to the capital, and had reached Cersei’s ears. Not only this, but Euron had discovered Cersei was pregnant with Jaime’s child, and was demanding she marry him, or else he would reveal the true father to the realm, unseating any claim she had to the Iron Throne. All eyes were on Jaime then, silently judging him, but none of them were the unwavering blue eyes he’d come to love. The only eyes whose judgement mattered.

It was, therefore, imperative that he and Tyrion stood beside the King as he tried to reason with Cersei. With Euron breathing down her neck, she just might listen to them. He’d pressed his eyes closed at the thought of her, forced to lie with another man the way she had Robert, except this time, he wouldn’t let her get him drunk. Jaime knew he’d make her suffer, and the thought made him sick with guilt that he wasn’t there to protect her.

What could I possibly do if I was there?

After they had planned their way into the city, and when they could catch Cersei without threat of Euron being present, he’d immediately made his way to the hall, hoping to find her here. He needed her presence like he needed air.

Instead, he was seated across from Grey Worm and Missandei, cold and miserable, with a thousand thoughts flitting through his head.

Refusing to eat his meat like a common beggar, he chose to busy himself with the potatoes and vegetables instead, thinking back to their failed dinner with Lord Bolton. It was the first time they’d been properly clean in months, and she was wearing that awful pink gown that was at least a foot too short and a size too small. He much preferred her in her tunics and breeches, the latter making her legs look even longer than they truly were.

“What is funny?” the Unsullied soldier asked him.

Jaime hadn’t realized he was smiling.

“I’m thinking about the last time I was brought here,” he said, stabbing a small bite of potato with his fork. “I was a prisoner.

“What had you done?” the woman asked.

He smiled at her.

“I was born a Lannister,” he explained, doing his best to sound falsely impressive. “It made me a valuable hostage in war.”

“Is this how you lose hand?” Grey Worm asked, looking at his stump.

Uncomfortable with the blunt question, Missandei looked down at her plate.

“It is, actually. I lost it defending the virtue of my future wife, if you can believe it,” he continued with a smile.

Grey Worm’s usual frown deepened at this.

“Your wife—she was prisoner too?”

Jaime nodded, taking the opportunity to eat the potato. Missandei met his eyes.

“Where did she learn to fight?” the young woman asked. “I’ve seen many things, but not even among the Second Sons have I seen a warrior as skilled with a sword as she is.”

“My father hired the best swordsman he could find,” Brienne said, sitting beside him as he almost sighed with relief. “I kept fighting the boys, and he grew tired of watching me lose. Before long, I started beating them.”

He watched as she silently switched her plate for his own, and opened his mouth to protest when he noticed that, on his new plate, the meat was already cut. She only glanced at him, smirking, as she reached over to stab one of his potatoes, dropping it on her plate. The ease of sharing a meal with her smoothed every rough emotion he’d had as he entered the hall earlier, searching for her.

---

*The ripples of water shone like diamonds in the light of the torches, and he smiled at the familiarity of it all; the calm, the quiet, the eye of the storm that rapidly circled them at the end of the world... It was all theirs.

He had no idea how the night would play out, but he knew one thing. A mantra he kept repeating over and over to himself.

I am hers, and she is mine.

She unbuckled the belt of her cloak, and he took it from her shoulders, draping it over his stump to lay it on the ground by the tub. He met her eyes as she unbuckled the straps of his cloak, and she swallowed hard as she took the heavy fabric from his shoulders, folding it in half and placing it atop her own.

The bandage on her cheek was gone, and he raised his hand to run a gentle thumb over the twisted skin that had started to form there. She closed her eyes at the touch.

“Does it hurt...?” he murmured.

“No,” she breathed. “It’s just sensitive.”

He started to pull his hand away, but she caught it, holding it against her cheek. The tenderness of the gesture took his breath away, and he stepped closer, letting their breaths mingle for only a moment before he turned her lips to his, claiming them.

I am hers, and she is mine.

As they stood like that, her lips moving against his, he felt her hand leave his to begin undoing the clasps of his leather jerkin, her fingers more sure of their intention than they had been a few days ago. His lips immediately missed the warmth of hers as she walked around him, tugging the jerkin down his arms and away from his torso. After tossing it onto their cloaks, she deliberately untucked his tunic, allowing her fingers to caress the skin of his back as she did so. He almost shuddered at the contact, reaching behind him for her.

She took his hand, moving to stand in front of him again before placing his fingers on the laces at the top of her jerkin, pressing his palm over her heart. The look in her eyes told him every word she wanted to say, and every word he needed to hear.

I am hers, and she is mine.

Though it took some time, he unlaced her jerkin, and she took it upon herself to shrug out of the sleeves, handing the bundled leather to him so he could drop it on the steadily growing pile of clothes. Grasping the edges of his tunic, she lifted it, dropping it where they stood as she firmly planted a hand on his chest. She smirked.

“You’re nervous.”

He rolled his eyes, exasperated at how quickly she could break the moment, before lazily pulling her hips to meet his, her torso following as his lips collided with hers, more forcefully this time. She moaned, taking the initiative to pull back and remove her own tunic, leaving her bare before him. Though he’d half-expected her to shy away from him, her naked chest was upon his own in a matter of seconds as she returned to the kiss, his mouth opening almost immediately, allowing her to deepen it.

He broke away and trailed his mouth down her neck, reveling in the way she gasped, a hand in his hair as he bent and kissed the place where her heart beat. Turning his head ever so slightly so that he could hear the sound, his mouth suddenly itched to do something she would surely find unspeakable, and yet, it was modest in comparison to the plans he had for her.

For them.

I am hers, and she is mine.

“We should bathe,” he whispered against her skin, standing to full height once more. Breathless, she nodded, stepping away so that he could slip out of his breeches while she did the same, her bare form descending into the water before extending a hand to him as he stood there, naked for the world to see. For her to see.

“You have more scars,” was all she said as he joined her in the warm water, and suddenly, he was overcome with a hundred memories as they stood there, her fingers lightly tracing a scar on his right shoulder.

“So do you.”

She smiled, taking his hand in her own as the other carefully explored his chest, running her hand along his arm to—

The touch of her fingers on the seam of his stump extracted a choked breath from his throat, though it was not the sound he’d have chosen for what he felt as she rested her head against his, her body leaning into his own as she felt her way around the hand he’d lost. Somehow, when he closed his eyes, he could feel her fingers weaving themselves through the fingers she’d never touch, and he swallowed hard.

I am hers, and she is mine.

They bathed one another in the silence, a thousand thoughts of confessions and screams flitting through their heads. He kissed her scars, and she traced his with a touch as sure as if she was the one who’d left them. Once they were clean, it hadn’t taken much effort to find their chamber.

As Tyrion had promised, the fire was already going, and he shut the door behind them, noticing the way she looked at the bed, then at him. Once they’d stripped by the hearth, kissing and touching one another in the firelight, he stepped toward the bed and held out his hand to her, offering her the choice. He would not do this unless it was her choice.

Wordlessly, she took his hand, and he raised his eyebrows at her.

“I trust you,” she whispered.

I trust you.

Here, in this ruin of a castle, they had made other choices long ago; choices that had led them back within these walls. As the snow fell silently outside, the wind whipped the curtains that covered the abandoned chambers nearby, their sound drowning her harsh whimpers, his guttural moans, as she moved above him, his chest against her own, his arms wrapped around her.

I am hers, and she is mine.

Notes:

I couldn't help but name her taller twin brother Duncan. It suits him too well. Also: I love that he calls her 'Joey', a kinder, more loving parallel to Viserys calling Daenerys 'Dany'.

The tone, as I'm sure you're starting to notice, is becoming darker as we approach the climax of our story. It will only continue to do so after this. And yes, I used Pijou's 'blackmailing Cersei' quote to my advantage, since it works nicely with some plans I devised before I even published the first chapter. :)

To be honest, I was so terrified to write a love scene, since so many have already been written, and simply because this site is teeming with them. I fought like hell to make it my own version, and hope you enjoyed it!

The next chapter will be Brienne's POV as they approach the end of their stay in Harrenhal.

Thank you so much for all your comments, your kind words, and all your kudos! They mean the world to me!

Chapter 18: Guests - Brienne IX

Summary:

The garrisons from Riverrun arrive at Harrenhal.

She was warm, she realized as she stirred, feeling the furs brush against her skin. Glancing at the heavy fabric that covered the window in the absence of shutters, she noticed the soft glow of winter light attempting to penetrate the chamber, whose fire had already been revived. She blushed at the knowledge that someone had seen them like this, though with pride or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure.

His left arm was draped across her waist, her hand clutching his against her chest as he held her close, the previous evening replaying itself in her mind. The baths, the way he’d taken her hand as he led her to the bed, how she had made him her own, every sigh, every breath... The way he’d held her after.

I am his, and he is mine.

She inhaled slightly as she felt his lips softly brush against her shoulder, bringing his hand to her own lips for a kiss as she exhaled, rolling over to face him. He brought his hand to her damaged cheek, and she let her eyes flutter closed at the contact, reveling in the way his calloused fingers felt against the sensitive scar developing there.

“How are you feeling?” he whispered.

Looking at him then, she saw a flicker of concern in his eyes that she immediately sought to soothe, covering his hand with her own, lightly pressing it against her face.

“Fortunate.”

She watched as the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile, and he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead before pulling her closer, resting his chin against her head. After they’d held one another for several minutes, she took advantage of their closeness, brushing her lips against his neck. He trembled at the contact, as she knew he would, so she lightly grazed the skin beneath his jaw in the same manner.

“My lady...” he breathed, pulling back far enough to see her.

His eyes were a deep, woodland green, and she smiled as she cupped his face with her hands, brushing his beard with her thumbs in answer to the question he silently asked. Releasing a breath, he leaned in and kissed her, long and deep, her hands tangling in his hair as she rolled onto her back, taking part of his weight upon her as he moved his lips to her collarbone, then over her heart, and her stomach...

---

They arrived late to break their fast, entering the hall together amidst only a few stares, notably that of Tyrion, who was smirking at them both. He nodded at her in acknowledgement, and she looked away quickly as a flush fought its way up from her shoulders to her neck. Jaime ushered her to the high table, where Gilly handed them their bowls of oatmeal with a knowing smile that told Brienne it had been her who quietly entered their chamber to prepare their fire that morning.

A surprisingly stout voice from beside her startled her from her thoughts.

“Lady Brienne.”

She turned to see who spoke, before glancing down to see Lady Lyanna Mormont staring up at her.

“Lady Mormont,” she said with a smile. “How are you this morning?”

The young woman pressed her lips together in a tight smile.

“Alive,” she asserted, “but no closer to defending myself or my people from our enemies than I was yesterday.”

Ah, so she wanted to train today.

“Would you have time this afternoon?” Lady Lyanna continued. “Lady Arya said she would also like to be present.”

Brienne smiled, peeking over at the young Stark woman, who nodded.

“Very well,” she agreed. “We’ll meet at the bear pit following midday meal.”

Lady Lyanna turned then, considering Jaime.

“I should like to see you there as well, Lord Lannister,” she said with confidence. “There is more than one way to wield a sword.”

Jaime simply nodded, and when Brienne felt his stump on the small of her back now that his hand was occupied, she smiled.

“It would be an honor, Lady Mormont,” Jaime said, meaning it. Brienne felt a warmth whose origins she wasn’t entirely sure of spread through her bones at how easily he spoke to the young woman.

Lady Lyanna nodded at his response, then walked away as Jaime leaned in closer to her.

“I can already tell she’ll be knocking me on my ass someday,” he whispered against her ear, careful to be sure only she heard him.

Brienne only smirked, shaking her head as she made her way over to Podrick, Jaime’s stump remaining against her back until she was seated.

---

The garrisons from Riverrun arrived shortly after she’d eaten, and while she felt like she could have had more oatmeal, she pushed her bowl over to Jaime, placing a hand on his right shoulder. She squeezed it reassuringly as she bent down, her lips near his ear.

“I’ll see you in the bear pit,” she murmured before drawing back to look at him. He reached up and covered the hand that rested on his shoulder with his own, deliberately meeting her eyes.

“Be sure to wield steel this time.”

She smiled at his remark; words that only she would understand. He stroked her knuckles with his thumb before she stepped away, following Sansa and Arya down the hall and through the doors as their cloaks blossomed in the wintry gust behind them.

The snow had started early that morning, though she’d been too occupied to notice. As they neared the yard, she could hear the marching footsteps of soldiers, their steadfast feet sounding almost like a dance to her ears. As the cacophony ended, the armies halting at the command of an older man, Arya and Sansa glanced at one another, and then at her, ready to follow her lead.

She took a deep breath, stepping through the gate, Sansa and Arya behind her.

The captain dismounted, walking straight to her and offering his hand.

“Lady Brienne,” he said with a warm voice.

She took his hand with a smile, remembering how highly Jaime had spoken of him as he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. Though he was nearly four inches shorter than she was, she was humbled by the gesture.

“Ser Addam,” she stated with as much grace as she could muster. “I hope your journey has not overtired you.”

He chuckled, taking her other hand into his own.

“Nonsense,” he declared, holding her hands apart as he stepped back, examining her. “Every bit the lady knight, you are. It’s no wonder he fell for you.”

Gods, had she ever blushed so deeply?

“Jaime has only ever spoken highly of you, ser,” she said, averting her gaze.

Ser Addam released her hands, smiling so warmly at her mention of Jaime, he could have melted the flakes that fell around them.

“Perhaps we could spar together,” he suggested, releasing her hands as he gave her a perceptive smirk. “I haven’t had a good fight in ages.”

“We’ll be training in the bear pit after lunch,” Arya’s voice offered behind her.

The knight’s face lit up at the possibility.

“Indeed,” he said resolutely, studying the young woman. “Then I shall be there.” He turned to look at Brienne once more. “It’s an honor to finally meet you, my lady.”

Nodding cordially at the knight, who stepped around her and through the gate, she turned her focus to the man at the front of the Tully army, who was helping a delicate woman dismount from her horse, a young boy standing beside him.

Edmure Tully.

She tried to ignore the sudden emotion that flooded her veins, sure that if she tried to identify it, she would only find grief. The boy was beautiful, his hair as red as Lady Catelyn’s, and his wife was just as breathtaking. What was more, they seemed genuinely happy to be together. Lady Roslin lifted the boy onto her hip, and Lord Edmure placed his around her waist as he approached, unable to trust his current company enough to let her walk even a little apart from him. After everything he’d been through, she couldn’t blame him for that.

“Lady Lannister,” he greeted her, a tone of artificial gratitude present in his voice. “So good of you to meet us at the gate.”

Brienne forced herself to smile despite his indelicacy; she’d expected him to be bitter.

“It’s an honor to meet you at long last, Lord Edmure,” she began, doing her best to sound genuine. “I never had the pleasure of meeting you when I serv—”

“Oh, the pleasure is mine, I assure you,” he ground out, “but my wife is weary with travel and would like...”

He trailed off as his eyes fell on Sansa, and his face softened, all hostility forgotten. She heard the young woman step forward.

“Uncle Edmure,” she said, extending a hand. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Spellbound by her, he took her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the glove.

“Forgive me,” he said, shaking his head a little when he realized he was staring. “I see the ghost of my sister in your face.”

Sansa’s face faltered for a second, but she recovered quickly enough, smiling pleasantly at the man.

“A compliment for which I am grateful,” she said kindly, though Brienne could see how much it hurt her to speak of her mother.

“She looks like a Tully,” Arya said with a smirk.

At this, Edmure turned to Arya, his eyes skimming over her.

“Arya,” he murmured, a smile creeping onto his face. “You grew up to resemble Lyanna. Your father would be proud.”

He returned his hand to his wife’s back as she smiled shyly.

“May I introduce my wife, Lady Roslin,” he said proudly, and the woman stepped forward, adjusting the boy on her hip before she extended a hand to Sansa.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” she said, her voice proving itself as sweet as her face.  Sansa took her hand, stepping forward to give her a light kiss on the cheek. Arya did the same, nodding at the boy.

“What’s his name?” she asked, taking the hand the little boy was holding out beside him.

“Brynden,” she murmured, gazing lovingly at the boy on her hip.

Brienne smiled.

“For the Blackfish,” she added to Lady Roslin’s statement, remembering the stubborn, honorable man. The woman nodded, stealing a glance at Edmure, who stared at Brienne, his gaze unwavering.

Though a few more words were exchanged between the ladies, she couldn’t break away from Edmure’s eyes as they studied her. He’d never truly trust her, not after all that the Lannisters had done to his family; and yet, she knew she must persist somehow. Lady Catelyn may be dead, but her courage was something Brienne could desperately use right now. What had she called it all those years ago? A woman’s kind of courage...?

It felt like she had so little of that now, as every choice she’d ever made was being judged in the eyes of a near stranger, simply because of whom she had chosen for a husband.

Perhaps the worst of it was that the man staring at her would not only never truly know the man she’d married, but Edmure’s gaze also made her feel like she’d never become the woman she wanted to be, as her courage began to dissipate in the sorrow that took hold of her. This was Lady Catelyn’s brother, and yet he seemed intent on remaining a total stranger to her and her new family.

Why was she standing here? Why was she pretending to be someone she wasn’t?

Without warning, she took a deep breath, starting to turn around—

“Lady Brienne,” Lady Roslin said, pulling her from her thoughts as she extended a hand. “It’s lovely to meet you. You were sworn to Lady Catelyn, were you not?”

Brienne stood, rooted to the spot, before taking her hand in both her own, nodding respectfully.

“Yes,” she confirmed quietly, glancing at Sansa and Arya. “I was. Now I serve her daughters.”

Lady Roslin smiled, releasing her hand to place her son on the ground. He was so small compared to Brienne, and he stared up at her in wonder as his mother kneeled beside him.

“She’s a knight, Bryn,” she told him, and the boy grinned up at her. She couldn’t help but smile back at the boy before meeting his mother’s eyes.

Lady Roslin was as kind as she was beautiful, her voice as good-natured as her intentions, though Edmure’s hard stare hadn’t lessened despite his wife’s attempt at civility. But he was her guest, as was his wonderful wife, and she’d be damned if she let him get to her now. She was a knight, and knights didn’t shy away from the things that frightened them most, even if it meant staring down their insecurities.

“Come, my lady,” Brienne said softly, looking back to Lady Roslin. “We have a fire and a chamber waiting for the three of you.”

Lady Roslin smiled at her, taking little Brynden’s hand with her own, her free hand taking her husband’s arm. Sansa and Arya excused themselves, leaving Brienne to do their work, but Arya’s face was troubled by something as she stalked back toward the great hall.

Brienne led the family through the yard and into the ruined castle, and as she turned corner after corner in its massive expanse, the three of them following her, she heard Edmure and Roslin speaking in hushed voices, occasionally catching snippets of a tense conversation they didn’t think she could hear.

“...Lost everything, everything, at the hands of these people—”

“...Are not the only ones who have suffered losses!”

“...In this shithole of a castle.”

“...Together, that’s all that matters.”

“...Married him. Of all people, him! It’s an insult to Cat, to...”

“...Married to me. We violated guest right, and your family...”

“...Trust him. Why should I? And she...”

“...Mean something. Your sisters’ daughters even seemed to...”

At one point, Brienne felt something brush against her hand, and looked down to see Brynden reaching up, trying to grab it. Initially, her heart leapt in her throat; she had no idea how to behave around young children, and she’d never been exposed to them enough to see how other adults handled them. But the boy’s red hair was brushing across his forehead, his smile growing across his freckled face like a weed, and she couldn’t refuse him.

Bending down slightly, she took his hand, his parents too engaged in their conversation to notice it, or see the small smile that tugged on her lips as she led them all down the corridor. His hand was so little in her own, and it comforted her almost as much as it seemed to comfort him.

---

Once she’d shown them to their chambers, assuring them their needs would be met if they only asked, she went to the chamber she had been sharing with Jaime, eager to fetch Oathkeeper and meet him alongside the ladies in the bear pit. She hadn’t realized what an anchor her sword had become for her until now.

As she closed the door behind her, she turned to see Jaime sitting on the floor in front of the fire, rising to his feet as soon as he saw her.

“You’re supposed to be—”

“I know,” he said, stepping forward to take her in his arms. “Arya told me what happened.”

They stood silently like that for some time, her hands on his chest, his arms around her.

“They’re safe,” he murmured. “That’s all that matters.”

She nodded, exhaling the breath she hasn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Have you eaten anything?” he asked mildly.

“No, but I’m not hungry.”

He didn’t press the issue, and after a few more moments, he handed her the belt that held Oathkeeper, and she took it, smiling as he took Widow’s Wail in his left hand, offering her his maimed arm.

They walked to the bear pit together as the snow gathered here and there throughout the castle, and she nearly blushed as they entered it, every pair of eyes that had gathered to meet them smiling at how she was holding his arm.

But Arya’s smile was the most sincere.

Ser Addam strode over to Jaime at once, and the two men hugged one another tightly before pulling apart.

“Nice sword,” Ser Addam said, noting the hilt of Widow’s Wail in Jaime’s hand. “What have you named it?”

Jaime looked down at the hilt thoughtfully.

“Joffrey named it ‘Widow’s Wail,’” he began, “but I think I prefer ‘Summer Sun.’”

He glanced at her then, and his eyes shone with something that made her blush as she smiled, turning to face Lady Lyanna and Arya, who held their swords at the ready.

“Shall we begin?” Lady Lyanna proposed, her practice sword in hand.

Brienne nodded, drawing Oathkeeper from its sheath, memories of the last time she was here filling her head as she slowly sparred with Arya, explaining every move to Lady Lyanna before allowing Arya to try it with her. Ser Addam sparred in earnest with Jaime during this time, and she would occasionally call out to them, asking them to repeat a parry, or a block, so that Lady Lyanna could see it. She was certainly gifted with a sword, able to immediately implement the corrections Brienne made as they worked together, but a little over an hour into their training, she could see the young woman tiring.

“That should be enough for now,” Brienne said breathlessly. “We can meet following dinner, if you like, my lady.”

Lady Lyanna nodded confidently.

“Thank you, Lady Lannister,” she said, her thin smile gracing her small face, before turning to regard Jaime. “Thank you both. My cousin Jorah had promised to teach me to wield a blade, but I—” the young woman looked down as she faltered, “I’m glad of your help.”

Jaime smirked at the young woman.

“He beat me at a tourney once, you know,” he said through heavy breaths. “He was one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen.”

Lady Lyanna’s smile returned, but only so, before she turned to walk toward the gate to return her practice sword, Arya following her. Ser Addam stepped forward.

“I believe we agreed to spar, my lady,” he teased, holding out a hand to the center of the pit. “I’m a bit out of practice, but perhaps we could put on a performance for your lord husband.” He smirked at Jaime, who shook his head with a chuckle. “Show him what a true fight looks like.”

She grinned, thankful that Jaime had such a loyal friend.

“By all means,” she said, stepping into the center.

---

After sparring for nearly an hour, the lauded knight was exhausted, and had yet to beat her. He held up a hand as she made to tap his armor under his arm, attempting to catch his breath.

“I yield,” he rasped, smirking at Jaime. “Damn, she’s good.”

Jaime beamed at her.

“Yes, she is.”

Ser Addam took her hand, squeezing it gently.

“Thank you for the fight, my lady,” he stammered. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I should rest. The Army of the Dead may not need it, but I sure as hell do.”

And with that, Ser Addam left them, his heavy breath visible on the chilly air. She found her crimson belt, sheathing Oathkeeper, before glancing up at the sky at the snow that continued to steadily fall. Above the pit, where the spectators had once watched her fight a bear with a wooden sword, she saw Lord Edmure staring down at her, an unreadable expression on his face. How long had he been watching them all?

“We should retire, my lady,” Jaime murmured in her ear as he reached her, clutching a sheathed Summer Sun in his hand, placing his stump on her back in a way she was growing to love before pressing a kiss to her unmarred cheek. When he followed her eyes, and saw Edmure standing above them, Jaime started to frown, but she wove her hand through his stump arm, pulling him toward the entrance of the pit.

“Come,” she said, nodding dismissively at Edmure. “We should eat something.”

Once they’d passed out of sight of Edmure, and they were alone just inside the entrance, Jaime turned suddenly, backed her against the wall and kissed her with a forcefulness she hadn’t experienced from him just yet. Her breath was knocked from her, and she moaned against his mouth at the harsh contact, his sword falling to the ground in its sheath as his hand moved to grab her hips, pressing his own against them. Her free hand moved to his hair, tugging it as he moved his hips against her, and she groaned.

“Brienne...” she felt him breathe against her mouth.

She pulled back to meet his eyes, their swirling green seas the only thing she wanted to see at the end of this war.

“What was that for?” she murmured.

Jaime smiled.

“You repeatedly beat one of my closest friends in combat for an hour,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to the scar forming below her jaw. “I’ve never seen anything so glorious...”

She chuckled.

They quickly made their way back to their chambers, and had hardly closed the door before they tossed their swords on the bed, belts and all, hurriedly undressing one another as their mouths tangled, each of them tasting of sweat from their training. Their fingers clumsily fumbled with their laces and cloaks as they fell into bed beside their swords, all propriety forgotten as they sparred with abandon in their own way.

---

The rest of the day had proven easy enough, with only a long, incomprehensible stare in their direction at dinner from Lord Edmure. They met Lady Lyanna once more following the meal, and curled around one another in the darkness of their chamber that night, memorizing every sigh and touch as though the Army of the Dead would reach them on the morrow. For all they knew, they might.

So, when she awoke alone in the middle of the night, naturally she dressed and set out to find him.

As quietly as she could, she searched nearby, thinking he might have sought out his brother, but she heard voices coming from the parapets above, and she stilled, listening.

“...Entirely devoted to her. She’s still determined to protect them, even though their mother is gone,” she heard Jaime say quietly. “You’re our honored guests, and she only wants to protect you and your family.”

A sigh that didn’t belong to Jaime bristled through the air.

“She fights well,” Edmure told him. “I hadn’t expected that. Not from you, anyway.”

“That’s the first compliment you’ve ever given me,” Jaime said, a bit of insolence in his voice.

“It was a compliment to her,” Edmure clarified. “I’d still murder you in your sleep, if it took my fancy.”

She could almost feel Jaime smile at this.

“Ah, but with her as my protector, how could you?”

To her surprise, she heard Edmure chuckle in a low tone.

“You love her,” he told Jaime. “Saw it in the bear pit. I don’t even know if I’ve looked at Roslin that way before. Our choices... They were made for us.”

“Choices or not, if you don’t think you love her, you’re a fool,” Jaime said carefully. “Her father slaughtered your family, violated guest right, and yet here you are, walking about with her on your arm as though you’ve never considered another woman in your life.”

Silence passed over them for a moment.

“I imagine it must feel the same way for her when she takes your arm,” Edmure considered. “Or stump, rather.”

Jaime chuckled.

“Ah, yes,” he said, and she could see him examining his stump in her mind’s eye. “The things I do for love.”

“Was it worth it, truthfully?” Edmure asked candidly. “You must wish you hadn’t lost it at least once...”

She heard Jaime fall silent for a moment.

“I haven’t,” he murmured. “I would not be who I am today without this. Not that I would want it to happen, but, given the same circumstances, I certainly wouldn’t change my choices, even if they led to the same consequence.”

She smiled in the quiet seconds that followed.

“It is late,” Lord Edmure said, and she could imagine Jaime’s nod. “I should return.”

“Rest well, my lord,” Jaime said. “I’ll see you in the hall to break fast.”

“And you as well.”

She moved when she heard Jaime’s footsteps starting toward the stairs, but—

“Lord Lannister?”

The footsteps halted.

“I may never trust you,” Edmure told him in a deliberate tone, “but I’d be a fool not to respect you. Both of you.”

Hearing his footsteps start again, she briskly walked back to their chamber and began to undress once more, only getting as far as her tunic before Jaime walked through the door, his feet halting as he noticed her taking off her boots.

“How much did you hear?” he asked, suddenly looking nervous.

She could have teased him, but she simply smiled instead as she climbed into bed, her breeches still on.  

“Enough.”

And for the first time since she’d known him, Jaime Lannister blushed.

Notes:

First of all, a HUGE thank you to everyone that has left kudos, is still reading the story, left comments, and just generally showered this story with love. It gives me great pride to know that you are all still enjoying my story, especially as we journey further south.

As I've mentioned before, I'm taking sophomore-level microbiology, but I also work 36+ hours a week at a hospital as a nurse aide, and it can occasionally become difficult to put words on the page as I tie my story together, which can often feel like it's own full-time job... Except the only payment I get are kudos and comments. So, when I say thank you, I truly mean it! It gets me through the rough spots.

Yes, the last few chapters have been kind of fluffy and planning-heavy, but you're going to thank me for it, I promise. We're to the point now where, unfortunately, I can't even tell you what happens in the following chapter for fear of spoiling big things. (*GASP!*) I can only tell you whose perspective we will be in as we begin to accelerate toward the finish line.

Next, we're in Jaime's POV. ;)

Chapter 19: Children - Jaime X

Summary:

Varys reveals disturbing news to the council. Plans are accelerated.

The following morning, Lady Roslin and Lord Edmure sat across from them as they broke their fast, little Brynden sitting beside his mother. At one point, the child was presumed missing, until Jaime felt a small hand on his thigh, and looked under the table.

“Ah,” he said with a smile, “found him.”

The boy clambered up onto the bench beside him on his right side, grinning as he sat back on his knees.  He saw the boy’s grin fade away when he spotted his stump.

“Where’s hand?” the boy asked, his mouth stumbling over the words.

Jaime blinked at this, but rather than refuse him, he held it out to the boy, who touched it with his little fingers, running them along the linear scar he saw there. He couldn’t name it, but the sight of this young boy, examining his stump with curiosity, filled him with a feeling that thawed him from the inside out. The boy’s soft, blue eyes met his own, his face laced with concern.

“Hurt?”

Jaime shook his head, smiling.

“Not now,” he explained, “but sometimes.”

The boy beamed at him, and seemingly satisfied, reached across the table for his plate, which his mother pushed over to him, an apologetic look on her face as she met Jaime’s eyes.

“It’s fine,” Jaime said, taking a pre-cut bite of his meat. “He’s young. He should ask questions.”

The boy started stabbing a piece of meat with his right hand, and Jaime stole a glance at Brienne as he chewed his own food, not realizing she’d been staring at him, her eyes full of pride as she smiled her small smile. After a moment, she raised her eyebrows in Brynden’s direction, and he followed her gaze, noting how the boy was suddenly struggling to use his fork with his left hand, studying Jaime as he took another bite of his meat. He met Brienne’s eyes once more, smirking.

---

Following breakfast, the council met, this time with Lord Edmure present. Brienne had already been filled in on the events of the previous meeting, and knew of their plans to journey south ahead of the army to talk to Cersei, but they walked through the plans once more, that way Edmure would be privy to the most current information. When he heard that Cersei was pregnant, he shot Jaime a look of stunned surprise, which Jaime grit his teeth against.

“I have received further word regarding Cersei’s usual routine,” Varys said in a cool tone.

The King gestured to the table, allowing him to speak, and Jaime almost held his breath.

“Her days are largely spent in the throne room,” Varys continued, avoiding Jaime’s stare, “though her plans to marry Euron Greyjoy have been, shall we say, postponed.”

At this, Jaime frowned. Something must have happened that he wasn’t telling them. He looked down the table at Tyrion, who regarded him solemnly.

“She spends her evenings alone, and...” Varys trailed off for a second, glancing warily at Jaime, “she has been consuming wine regularly with her meals, usually taken alone in her chambers.”

His stomach lurched. It couldn’t be...

“We have it on certain authority that she has, indeed, lost the child,” Varys concluded, looking down at the table as he finished his news.

Jaime felt the pressure of every eye in the room in the silence that followed as he tried to steady himself, pressing his eyes closed against the warmth that had swiftly risen behind them. He couldn’t breathe. His heart had stopped beating.

The babe was gone. Like Joffrey. Like sweet, brave Myrcella, and kind, loyal Tommen.

They were all gone.

It was then that he felt her cover his hand with her own under the table, squeezing it gently. He clutched it as though his life depended on it as the King started speaking again, though about what, he couldn’t be certain. Trying to inhale, a tear betraying his closed eyes as it fell, he felt Brienne lean in close as the table continued discussing whatever new topic the King had breached.

“Why don’t you go and get the fire started,” she whispered, stroking his knuckles with her thumb. “I’ll stay. The King will understand.”

He turned to face her before he opened his eyes, a few more tears breaking through as he looked at her, those blue eyes seeking to calm him, love him, and comfort him. Nodding, he stood mechanically, placing his hand on her shoulder and squeezing it gratefully before turning away, leaving the room.

---

He avoided the eyes of every person he passed, stopping only when he’d closed the door of their chamber behind him. Running his hand down his face, he wiped away the tears that had started to dry on his cheeks, becoming angry with himself as he felt more take their place.

What had he expected to happen? None of his children had ever known he was their father, save for Myrcella, but the brief moment that she had held him once she’d told him she knew still haunted him. Whenever he felt as he did now, the memory of her small frame wrapping her arms around him, a proud smile on her face at the knowledge that she was part of him, never failed to comfort him.

Until now.

Giving up on attempting to feel better, he took some wood from the corner and proceeded to revive the fire, sitting in front of the hearth as he watched the flames. He recalled the morning when he’d woken beside Cersei, watching her answer the door as he laid in her bed; how she’d told him that the Seven Kingdoms would know he was the father of the babe in her womb. He knew better than to hope, and yet, he’d gone and done just that.

And Brienne…

What had he ever done to deserve the way she had clutched his hand to ground him, or the way she’d looked at him, her eyes full of solace rather than pity as she told him she would stay on his behalf?

It was with this strange mix of emotions and another layer of fresh tears that he gracelessly removed his jerkin, climbing under the furs to curl into himself and stare at the wall. The words Varys had chosen rang in his ears as he dropped his head to the pillow…

“ ...Though her plans to marry Euron Greyjoy have been, shall we say, postponed...”

With a shudder that ended in a choked moan, he realized that Cersei had not lost the child at all; she had destroyed it to evade marriage, likely with Qyburn’s aid. He was going to be sick.

His body lurched over to the edge of the bed as his hand searched for the iron chamber pot beneath the frame, barely pulling it onto the bed and into his lap before he vomited his breakfast against its black, welcoming interior. After a few minutes, when either the sensation had passed or he had nothing left in his stomach, he stood, taking the pot and leaving it just outside their door before he closed it, slowly making his way back to the bed and under the furs.

Cersei was lost to him. Perhaps she always had been.

He pressed his eyes closed, forcing himself to remember the look of comfort on Myrcella’s face as he wrapped his arms around her, and the soft sway of the waves around them pulling them out to sea.

---

The creak of their chamber door opening and closing woke him from his deep, dreamless slumber, and he furrowed his brow as he remembered what had occurred in the council meeting, and the somber look on Tyrion’s face as Varys had relayed his information. It abruptly struck him that Tyrion had known all morning, and had deliberately withheld his news.

Why? Why wouldn’t he tell me?

Jaime felt the mattress shift as she sat down, the soft, familiar thunk of her boots hitting the floor almost enough to soothe him on its own. As she climbed into bed behind him, he felt the tension of his body unravel, and at the slightest touch of her hand on his waist, he rolled over obediently, burying his face in her neck as she pulled him close.

She didn’t say anything, and he didn’t need her to; she simply held him, her fingers gently stroking the back of his head.

“Have you had anything else to eat?” she whispered into his hair.

Of course she’d seen it. He shook his head with a sigh.

“I’m not hungry.”

At this, she fell silent once more, the last thing he remembered before he fell asleep the kiss she pressed to the top of his head.

---

Though he’d told her he didn’t care for food, she brought him a small plate as she returned from the midday gathering in the great hall, placing it on the bed beside them as she sat down.

“Eat.”

The vivid memory of a similar conversation passed through his mind, and he felt his lips twitch into the semblance of a smile.

“I’m not dying,” he murmured. “I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t care,” she said firmly. “You can’t command armies if you don’t have the strength to fight in one.”

She was right, of course. He frowned slightly, reluctantly sitting up and placing the plate in his lap.

“Damn,” she mumbled, suddenly taking the plate from him.

He looked at her in shock.

“Gods, wench,” he grumbled. “Do you want me to eat it or—”

That was when he noticed her cutting up his meat, her face focused and full of disappointment at the fact she had forgotten. He placed his hand on her arm in apology, brushing it with his thumb as she froze.

“Thank you.”

She looked at him then, her small smile tugging on her lips, before turning her attention back down to his plate, continuing her task with an almost ladylike grace.

“Everyone sends their regards,” she said quietly, “especially your brother.”

His thumb stilled, before he took a deep breath, moving his hand to brush his fingers against the bare skin at the nape of her neck, the soft wisps of hair that grazed them stirring something within him.

“Jaime…”

She was staring at him now, her sapphire eyes piercing him as she placed the plate back in his lap.

“Please…” he breathed, shifting his hand to skim his knuckles against her cheek as he leaned toward her.

As his nose came into contact with her cheek, his hand reaching around her neck to cup her face, she pressed her eyes shut, taking his hand in her own and holding it in her lap.

“Later, maybe,” she said with effort, opening her eyes to gaze at him. “But not like this. You… You mean too much to me.”

His breath was stolen in an instant at her words, recalling a similar situation in his chamber at Winterfell; recalling just how much he had loved her in that moment, and how he’d refused to defile their coupling with the grief she’d felt. The thought of her, loving him enough to do the same, grounding him in reality… It was the greatest of the waves she had sent him, lapping at the slowly dissolving shores of his sorrow.

He nodded, and squeezed her hand before he released it, turning his attention to the food in his lap.

As he ate in silence, he watched her busy herself around the room, reviving the fire when it flickered too low, sharpening their swords with a whetstone, polishing the pommels…

“I haven’t told you much about them, have I?” he wondered. “The children.”

She stilled, and wordlessly, she shook her head.

“Would you like to hear about them?”

He saw her hesitate, her brow furrowed, before nodding, taking his empty plate and placing it on the floor as she sat beside him on the bed.

For the next hour, maybe longer, he told her everything he thought she’d want to know about them; how Joffrey had never been wholly cruel as a young child, and the terror he’d felt as the boy turned purple, choking on his own vomit; how Myrcella had cried when she’d been sent away to Dorne, and how helpless he felt as she collapsed in his arms, blood spilling from her flawless face onto her pretty pink dress; how Tommen had reminded him of Tyrion when he was young, and how the sight of his sweet boy, his head bashed in and almost unrecognizable from his fall, had completely gutted him.

By the time he’d finished, he was under the furs, resting his head on his shortened arm, looking up at her as she supported her head on her hand above him. At some point, she had stretched herself atop the furs beside him, her hand reaching over to clasp his in the space between their bodies, allowing the silence that followed to wash over them.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered after what felt like hours.

He smiled at her.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, bringing his fingers to trace the new scar on her cheek. “Not if you don’t want to.”

She smiled her small smile in return.

“I can imagine how happy you must have been when they were born...”

His face fell.

“I’ll never forget how it felt to cradle them in my arms,” he explained. “It was the only time I truly got to be with them... To hold them, like they were my own.”

She scowled.

“They were your own—”

“No, they weren’t,” he said, his voice laced with misery. “By blood, perhaps, but that was all. And none of them ever knew.” That soft, sweet face... “Well, Myrcella eventually figured it out.” He smiled at the memory of that wonderful, kind child. “But she was nothing like us. Her sweetness, her strength... She was more our mother than anything.”

Brienne’s lips curved slightly.

“You’ve never talked about your mother,” she told him.

He shrugged, noting how her thumb caressed his knuckles.

“I don’t remember her very well,” he said thoughtfully, “but I do remember how much my father loved her. All the marriages he tried to arrange for us, and yet, he was the one who married for love, not gold.” He smiled. “Our maester told us that the only times he’d ever seen our father laugh were because of her.”

She squeezed his hand, smirking down at him.

“What was her name?”

“Joanna,” he said, marveling at how foreign the name now felt as it fell off his tongue.

“She must have been very beautiful to hold the affections of Tywin Lannister,” she mused.

He brushed his thumb across her lips as her blue eyes threatened to drown him.

“I don’t remember her face,” he whispered, “but her compassion, her love, her strength... That I can easily recall.”

A knock on the door broke him from his reverie, and he made to sit up, but she was already halfway across the chamber, her bare feet making no sound against the stone as she opened it.

Lord Edmure stood there, little Brynden beside him, clutching his hand, a piece of parchment rolled up in his little fingers.

“Lady Brienne,” he greeted her.

She turned to face Jaime, and he nodded at her before bringing himself to his feet, making his way to the door.

“Lord Edmure,” he said in a measured tone. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“My wife and I wished to give you our condolences,” Lord Edmure began. “It is not an easy thing, to lose something you love.”

The charity of the man’s words, combined with the genuine understanding he saw on his face, rendered Jaime speechless. He felt Brienne take his hand.

“Your words are a welcome kindness, my lord,” she murmured for him. “Thank you.”

Edmure looked down at his son, then, and the boy grinned.

“Brynden has something for you, as well,” he said, gently tugging the boys hand forward, forcing him to take a few steps toward them.

The child held out the piece of parchment to Brienne, whose face gathered into a mystified expression, a smirk growing on her features.

“What is this?” she asked the boy, but he just pressed his lips together, stepping back to bury his face into his father’s thigh, an arm around his leg.

As Brienne opened it, her smirk faltered, and she glanced at Jaime, handing it to him.

It was the outline of the boy’s right hand, messily traced with a quill.

He stood there, unable to speak or move, until Brienne cleared her throat, nearly startling him. His eyes met the boy’s blue ones, and he smiled, kneeling.

“Is this your hand?” he asked, pointing to the drawing. The boy nodded with pride, extending his hand and grabbing his stump.

“For you,” the boy said.

Jaime blinked, feeling the last vestiges of his grief wash away as the boy stepped forward, throwing his arms around him. He was so overcome by the gesture that he almost didn’t feel her place a steadying hand on his back as she murmured her thanks to their guest.

Lady Lannister, indeed.

---

As they ate their supper in the hall that night, Brynden sat beside Jaime, awkwardly using his left hand to stab his potatoes, and everyone, including Lord Edmure, watched him with a smile.

“Ser Jaime,” a rough voice came from behind them.

They turned to see the King, Tyrion standing at his side.

“Your Grace,” he nodded, noticing how his brother was smirking at the boy seated beside him.

“Might I have a word?” the King asked.

Jaime glanced at Brienne, who nodded. He placed his hand on her back as he stood, following his brother and the King out of the hall and into the yard.

“I was sorry to hear of your loss,” the King said steadily, “and I hate to ask it of you. Truly, I do. But...”

His chest filled with a chilling worry.

“What is it?”

Jon looked at Tyrion, who nodded.

“It would seem our plans to meet with Cersei have accelerated,” Tyrion explained. “We have to depart sooner than we might have expected.”

Jaime frowned, staring at the King.

“When?” he asked cautiously.

The King inhaled deeply.

“Tomorrow,” he affirmed. “We leave at dawn.”

His chest tightened, the cold rattling his bones with an unnamed emotion.

“We’ve only been here for three days...” he protested weakly.

“Everyone else will follow in two days’ time,” the King explained, “but it would seem our own window of opportunity is narrowing. Greyjoy has set off for Braavos with what remains of the Golden Company, and we have a better chance of meeting with Cersei while he’s out of the city.”

Jaime met his brother’s stare, watching him as he nodded in agreement.

“Again, I am sorry to ask you to leave, but we can’t do this without you,” the King finished, a sympathetic smile on his face as he placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “We’ll meet you in the yard at daybreak.”

Jon left him to his brother, who took his hand, glancing up at him, a troubled expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” he whispered. “I should have... I meant to—”

Jaime turned away with a wince, and his brother immediately fell quiet, releasing his hand.

“I’ll see you at dawn,” Tyrion said softly, following Jon.

Rather than return to the hall, Jaime found himself walking, but to where, he wasn’t sure. His feet carried him of their own accord as he focused on the snow that had started to blow in the wind that bit at his face. Eager to find relief from its teeth, he turned and hurried down some stairs to his left, his breath catching when he realized where he was.

The baths. He had sought refuge in the baths.

He struggled with the straps of his cloak, eventually ridding himself of the object, draping it over his arm as he leaned against the wall, sinking to sit on the floor.

“Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man without honor.”

He sighed, closing his eyes. One night. That’s all he had before he would be forced to ride south and speak to her. To Cersei.

Holding up the cloak with one hand and draping it across his knees, his fingers traced the embroidery the Dragon Queen’s Dothraki women had sewn into the fabric. He couldn’t be sure how long he sat there, memorizing the way his new sigil felt beneath his fingers, smiling at the way the lion danced in the starlight.

But the sound of footsteps on the stairs brought a hasty end to the worship of his cloak, and he stood—

Only to nearly knock her over as she turned the corner.

She gasped, grabbing his shoulders to steady him, leaving them there when she noticed the darkness in his eyes.

“Jaime...?” she breathed.

He looked down, unsure of how to tell her.

“Tyrion already told me,” she informed him.

His eyes met hers.

“Is there anything I can do?” she whispered, bringing her fingers to ever so sweetly brush his cheek.

For a moment, he allowed his eyes to search her own as her hand fell to the place over his heart, and the sound of his cloak hitting the floor didn’t even register as he pressed her against the wall, grasping her face and kissing her hard as though he’d been starved of her for a century, reveling in the way she gasped against his mouth.

“Jaime...”

He moved his mouth down her neck, their breaths quickening. There, alone in the same baths in which he had revealed himself to her, he fumbled with the tie of her breeches and she fumbled with his, her breathless laugh against his lips spurring him on as he reclaimed who he truly was once more with her, reminding himself of the person she made him want to be; that she, and she alone, saw in him.

“Ser Jaime.”

“Oathkeeper.”

“I know there is honor in you. I’ve seen it myself...”

He let her remind him once more as they returned to their chambers and readied themselves for bed, words he’d once said to her echoing through his head as she moved above him, his head falling back onto the pillow, his eyes closing.

“You’re the only person who never asked anything of me for yourself.”

Later that night, once the castle was well asleep, she reluctantly rose, wrongfully assuming he had also fallen into slumber. He opened his eyes, watching as she quietly packed his saddlebag, not a stitch of clothing on her strong, magnificent body.

“The only person who has ever truly believed in me. You’ve always seen something more.”

When she was through, she turned to look at him, and blushed from her toes to her hair as he openly marveled at her, a soft smile on his face. He held out his hand to her, and wordlessly, she took it, joining him in the bed, curling into him as sleep took them both.

A few hours later, as the castle slowly started to come to life in the darkness, she rolled over, her bewilderingly blue eyes meeting his in the dying light of the fire. They lay like that for what felt like hours, her hand clutching his, and as the faintest light started to intrude their chamber, she cupped his face, bringing her lips to his own. He shifted some of his weight onto her as she lay on her back, taking it upon himself to remind her that she didn’t have to be beautiful, or ladylike, or delicate to be wanted, or desired, or loved, as he worshiped the body below him with all his soul.

---

As they reached the yard, Podrick greeted them, taking Jaime’s saddlebag from his shoulder and fixing it onto his horse. The King was standing there, speaking with Sansa and Arya, the latter throwing her arms around her cousin’s neck. Tyrion was speaking with Bronn and Ser Addam, and Jaime was surprised when he saw Lord Edmure approaching him, Lady Roslin beside him, their son on her hip.

“Brynden wanted to say goodbye,” Lady Roslin said with a gentle smile, lowering the boy to the ground as he ran at Jaime, a tearful look on his face.

Without a second thought, Jaime knelt down on one knee, opening his arms as the boy threw his own around him.

“I’ll be back,” he said, pulling back to look at the boy, wiping a few tears away with his hand. “I promise.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and saw Brienne holding out the piece of parchment he’d been given the day before. Jaime took it, holding it between the boy and himself.

“I’m going to take this with me,” he said, doing his best to give the boy an encouraging smile as he folded the parchment, tucking it into his jerkin. “See? Now I’ll have two hands with which to defend myself.”

A grin gradually spilled across the boy’s face, mingling with his tears, and he nodded, running back to his mother and father. Lord Edmure nodded at him, an amiable smile crossing his sharp features.

“Safe travels, Lord Lannister.”

Jaime nodded in response, watching as the couple left the yard and Bronn approached him.

“Try not to get yourself killed,” the sellsword said, looping his thumbs into his belt. “It would be a shame to marry her and then die in some pathetic fucking way.”

He heard Brienne chuckle, noticing the smirk on her face before Bronn strutted away in his usual fashion. Ser Addam stepped forward, wrapping him in a tight hug.

“Take care of yourself, Ser Lion,” he said jauntily, patting Jaime’s shoulder. “We’re not as young as we used to be, you know.”

Jaime stepped back, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you when I return, Addam,” Jaime said, nodding in Brienne’s direction. “She doesn’t need protecting, but if you would be so kind as to at least keep an eye out for her, I’d appreciate it.”

Ser Addam glanced at Brienne, who smiled, shaking her head.

“It would be my pleasure,” said Ser Addam, smiling back at Brienne and patting Jaime on the back one last time before heading into the hall after Bronn.

Looking over his shoulder, Jaime noticed the King had mounted his horse. It was time.

He turned to face her, unsure of how to proceed.

“You’d think we’d be better at saying farewells by now,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

Her lips tried to curve upward, doing her best to look confident, but he could see the uncertainty in her eyes. His hand rose to her cheek, relishing the way the smooth, rippled scar felt against his hand, and her hand rose to circle his forearm. The fingers of her other hand flitted over their new sigil on his cloak, and she smiled, this time in earnest. Pulling her head down ever so slightly, he pressed his lips to her brow, replacing them with his forehead, watching as their breaths mingled in the bitter morning air. He was overwhelmed with the need to stay in this place, to stay with her. Was this how she’d felt each time they’d said goodbye?

Of course it was. But she had always been stronger than him.

“Brienne...” he whispered.

She moved her hand over his heart, pressing lightly.

“I know,” she murmured. “I know, Jaime... Me too.”

As he stepped back, he brushed his thumb across her face before turning to walk toward his horse, realizing if he didn’t leave now, he never would.

He mounted the steed easily enough, and as he did so, the King made his way out, Tyrion behind him. Jaime turned his horse to follow them, and as he reached the gate, he glanced behind. Sansa and Arya were standing on either side of her, and he saw her nod, the wobble of her chin barely discernible. He swallowed hard, ignoring the fresh sting he felt behind his eyes as he passed through the gate and out of sight.

Notes:

And here... We... GO!

Next: Brienne's POV.

This chapter was the hardest to write thus far, and the longest that we will see, so I *desperately* hope you enjoyed it.

Thanks for commenting, and kudos-ing, and showering this story with love, as usual. This story means the world to me, and I'm thrilled that you're still on the journey with me. :)

Chapter 20: Company - Brienne X

Summary:

Brienne falls into her new role as the retreat continues south.

She had no idea what to expect as she watched him leave, as she was the one usually saying goodbye.

It wasn’t that she felt incomplete as he rode away, or even lonely; the two young women standing on either side of her remedied her of that train of thought. There was no doubt, however, that she wore a heavy cloak embroidered with invisible threads of deeply-seated yearning draped across her shoulders as she turned, following the Stark girls into the hall for an early meal, willing the tears away as she always did.

Breaking fast was easy enough, with Gilly and Sam joining her, along with Lord Edmure and his family. Gilly’s boy, Sam, played next to Brynden on the bench beside her, where Jaime had seated himself for the last three days. Eating in silence as she usually did, she listened to Lady Roslin speak with Gilly about where they came from, and how their fathers had been less than kind to them. Noting how reserved his wife became as she mentioned her father, Lord Edmure quietly placed a hand on his wife’s waist to soothe her, meeting her eyes with a smile that immediately comforted her.

At this, the yearning began to echo a little more, and she excused herself, making her way to their chamber—her chamber—asking if she might have some fresh, hot water brought to her for a bath.

“But, my lady, I was told you prefer to use the baths here in the castle,” the girl said, surprised. “If I had known, I would have offered it to you.”

Brienne tried to smile, but failed.

“I do prefer the baths,” she assured her, “but not this time, I think.

The girl stared at her for a moment, disbelief on her face, before nodding.

“I’ll fetch it for you at once, my lady.”

---

The warm water was initially a welcome reprieve from her thoughts, and she savored the way it brushed against her skin as she scrubbed it, running her fingers over the new scars on her cheek and neck as her eyes fell to the bed, the furs askew.

“You do realize what people would say if they saw me in your bed, don’t you?"

She sighed, hugging her knees to her chest as she recalled the last few days. Their entire journey, if she was honest with herself. What was it he'd said to her...?

“...None of them were strong enough. I’m strong enough.”

Resting her forehead on her knees, she inhaled, allowing herself to surrender to the memories of campfires, sweat, mud, and blood; the ease with which they had always spoken to one another, even when she desperately wanted to bash the smug look off his face. She had, she remembered with a smirk, on the one occasion that he’d drawn a sword against her.

Those memories were soon replaced with those of goodbyes she’d never expected, and how he had regularly crept into her thoughts, entirely uninvited, as she searched for Sansa and Arya. She could hear every sneer at the lion’s head on the pommel of her sword as though it were yesterday, and could feel the anger that had risen in her throat each time people assumed they knew Jaime.

She could especially feel the patience that had kept her level-headed in those moments as she reminded herself that they didn’t truly know him. Not like she did, anyway.

Combing her fingers through her wet hair and noting its slight growth since their retreat from Winterfell, she stood, taking the towel from the nearby chair and stepping onto the cold, dusty floor. There would be a council meeting soon, and she should prepare. The Queen had named her Wardeness of the South for the time being, and as she was now married to the Warden of the West, it was her duty to take his place in every decision the council made.

Duty.

Even before Jaime, it had been a word she despised, its looking glass reflecting the embodiment of cynicism; it wore a gown that never seemed to fit, kept its eyes closed against the pain of a marriage bed, and abided by a set of rules the Warrior himself couldn’t cut with a sword, no matter how hard he tried. And yet, as she pulled on her breeches, her boots, and her tunic, smiling at the sight of their rumpled bed, she thought of another name for the sense of obligation she felt; a single word with which she had been acquainted some time ago, and by none other than Cersei herself.

She wasn't representing him out of duty alone, or because someone had commanded it of her. 

She was doing it out of love.

---

“My brother says the Army of the Dead is moving more slowly than he expected,” Arya told the council. “They’ve spread as far east as the Fingers, and as far west as Lannisport. The closest numbers are still at least a week away.”

Silence fell amongst them all, acknowledging the unspoken danger of these words.

“Tomorrow will mark our fifth day here,” Ser Davos explained, smoothly breaking the ice that had suddenly encompassed the room. “The King had planned to leave on day six, but I wonder if we shouldn’t leave tomorrow at dawn. It would be in our best interest to use this extra time wisely.”

Sansa shifted in her chair, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

“I agree,” she said confidently, “but we cannot forget the number of refugees we have accommodated during our time here. As we travel further south, we will likely encounter more. Women, children...”

“We don’t have enough supplies,” the Hound declared. “Not if we plan on fighting again. The armies—”

“We will not turn people away,” Daenerys told him firmly. “They do not wish to leave their homes, and yet they must. Everyone sitting at this table was once a refugee, and we will not limit the generosity we were once shown simply to feed our forces. The world that follows this war cannot thrive on armies alone, if indeed a world remains at all.”

Sandor grit his teeth at this statement, no doubt recognizing the truth in it. Forcefully, he leaned back into his chair.

“We can ration,” Sansa said thoughtfully. “And we discredit our people by assuming that every refugee will come to us empty-handed.”

Arya nodded.

“The people of the Riverlands are no stranger to unexpected circumstances,” she said defensively. “Many of them will have already planned their leave before the Army of the Dead began to approach their lands.”

Sansa smiled at her sister, giving her a small nod.

“And the women and children of the realm are not as weak as you believe them to be,” Lady Lyanna said harshly, shooting a glare in the Hound’s direction. He met it with a look of astonishment.

“We’ll do what we can with what we’ve got,” said Gendry, attempting to placate everyone. “If we expect nothing, and receive more than that, we’ll just be thankful and shut up about it.”

Ser Davos chuckled, and Arya smirked at the young man, who grinned back at her.

“Now that the issue of supplies is settled,” Ser Addam began, shooting Gendry a smile, “perhaps we should discuss where we set up our next camp. With more people joining us, we will move more slowly, and where we choose to stay will certainly affect the well-being of all who travel with us in this chill.”

Daenerys turned to Brienne.

“You know these lands as a refugee and a soldier, Lady Brienne,” she mused. “Where do you believe we would find ourselves at an advantage?”

She thought for only a moment, recalling a village she’d passed through with Jaime on their journey south following his return for her at Harrenhal.

“Brindlewood would suit our needs for a short period of time,” she said with certainty. “It’s only a three day journey, and the village could easily accommodate the women and children.”

“Is there nowhere closer to the capital?” Ser Davos asked.

“Hayford could work, perhaps, as a last resort,” Brienne explained. “It’s only a half day’s journey from there to the city, and if Cersei agrees to evacuate, we could use the castle as a defensive position to buy the refugees enough time to travel south on the Roseroad. Once King’s Landing is emptied...”

“We can draw them in,” Daenerys finished, her voice filled with determination.

Though no one spoke for a moment, Brienne could feel the pressure of a million unspoken thoughts passing through the heads of everyone present.

“She may not evacuate the city,” Ser Addam murmured. “Cersei rarely does what is asked of her.”

“In which case, we shall do our best to evacuate without her assistance,” Sansa said resolutely.

A few people sat forward at this, eyebrows raised.

“Euron Greyjoy will have returned to the city before the evacuation is through,” Ser Davos said warily. “We do not have the men to counter an attack from both the Night King and a madman.”

Sansa simply smiled.

“I’ve received a raven from Theon,” she told them, “and I do not believe Euron Greyjoy will remain a threat to us for very long.”

Gendry frowned.

“But he served Lord Bolton,” he said skeptically, glancing at Arya. “How can we trust him, when he—”

“I trust Theon with my life,” Sansa replied, a tone in her voice with which no one could argue. “I would not be sitting here if weren’t for him. He may be a Greyjoy in name, but he is as much of a Stark as we are.”

Brienne smiled at this, remembering the way the young man had defended Sansa in the snow, half frozen, a fearsome look in his eyes.

“He saved my life,” Podrick said with a nod. “If he has given us his word, he will keep it.”

A few glances were exchanged, but nothing else was said.

“Then it is decided,” Daenerys said, glancing down at the map before meeting the gaze of everyone in the room. “On the morrow, we make for Brindlewood. Ready the armies.”

They all nodded, and as they broke into their own conversations, stood to leave.

“Lady Brienne,” she heard the Dragon Queen say, “I wish to speak with you.”

She turned to Podrick and nodded at the boy’s questioning expression before crossing to Daenerys, bowing her head.

“Your Grace.”

Daenerys looked up at her.

“I should like to explore the castle grounds,” she said genially. “Would you join me?”

Though the request puzzled her, she nodded, following the Queen’s lead as an Unsullied soldier walked a little distance behind them.

“I was sorry to hear of your father’s death,” the Queen said, genuine sympathy in her voice. “It was cruel and unnecessary, and I want you to know that if I could have prevented it, I would have.”

Brienne smiled.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she responded. “He was a good man.”

“And an even better father, from what I understand,” the Queen continued, giving Brienne a knowing look.

“Yes,” she murmured. “The best father a daughter like me could have asked for.”

Daenerys sighed.

“I should have liked to have had a daughter,” the Queen said, more to herself than her companion. “Perhaps she would have had silver hair like me. Or perhaps she would have grown to be a warrior, like you.”

The indirect compliment made Brienne chuckle.

“It would be easier if she were a silver-haired beauty, Your Grace,” she said. “The world we live in isn’t kind to women like me.”

Smirking, the Queen stopped in her tracks, staring up at her.

“Then perhaps we should create a new one.”

As they turned to walk through the gate, Brienne heard a recognizable cry from above, and watched in awe as Drogon soared overhead, turning to land on the ground in front of them with his thunderous feet. Her heart leapt out of her chest as he stepped forward, and Daenerys strode to meet him, but Brienne stood, rooted to the spot. She had not known she shared blood with the Queen until very recently, and the idea that ancient Targaryen blood ran in her veins still filled her with both apprehension and wonder as she stared at the beast, his eyes boring into hers.

“Come,” the Queen beckoned, stroking his neck. “You have nothing to fear from him.”

Brienne inhaled deeply before she stepped forward, bringing herself to stand beside the Queen. Drogon was larger than Rhaegal had been, and as she removed her glove, she saw him glance behind at her, daring her to touch him. She did so with only a little hesitation, noting the way his great, orange eye blinked at her touch. His hide was tougher than that of his brother, and Brienne smiled to herself as he crooned in pleasure at the attention he was receiving.

“They’re not entirely unlike us, you know,” Daenerys professed. “They’re loyal and fierce when it comes to protecting their own.”

She nodded in response, her lips curving upward as she grew bolder, applying more pressure to her strokes. She remembered the way she’d held Jaime’s hand against Rhaegal; how he had steadily relaxed under her touch, allowing himself to truly feel the skin beneath him. Briefly, she considered what she would do for that man as she ran her hand along the edge of Drogon’s neck... Or rather, considered what little she wouldn’t do for him.

Looking down at the Dragon Queen beside her, she noticed the understanding smile she saw on her flawless features as the dragon tilted his wing down. Daenerys stepped up for a moment, an eyebrow raised in question. Brienne shook her head.

“Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace,” she said gratefully, “but I’m due to spar with one of the younger ladies.”

The Dragon Queen nodded.

“Perhaps another time, then.”

Brienne stepped back, watching as her closest living blood relative climbed onto the back of the last living dragon. The creature turned, bounding a few steps away from the castle before hoisting himself into the air with a flap of his enormous wings, taking his mother into the sky and out of sight.

---

Training Lady Lyanna and Podrick had done well to quell her thoughts, and she beamed as the two of them danced about the bear pit, practice swords in hand. Their hour together was almost at an end, and it was nearly time for her to meet Ser Addam in the hall for midday meal; they had planned to discuss the command of forces as they made their way south.

“I yield!” Podrick shouted, staring up at the stone-faced young woman from the flat of his back.

She saw Lady Lyanna smile, lowering the point of her sword.

“You followed where I led you,” she said boldly. “You should have known better.”

Brienne watched with suppressed delight as the young woman extended a hand to Podrick, who took it and rose to his feet, brushing himself off. She truly was a bear in her own right.

“Ah, there you are,” a familiar voice said from behind her.

Brienne looked over her shoulder to see Ser Addam, making his way to stand beside her. She glanced at Podrick, who nodded, understanding what she meant to ask.

“I’ll see to the swords, m’lady,” he told her, reaching to take Lady Lyanna’s sword, but she pulled away from him.

“I’ll see to my own sword,” she grumbled, throwing him a glare as she walked away. Brienne felt Ser Addam nudge her with his elbow.

“Something tells me young Lady Mormont is fond of your squire,” he whispered.

She rolled her eyes with a smirk, and Ser Addam laughed as they turned to walk back through the yard. All around them, soldiers were busying themselves with packing wagons, horses, and carts with their supplies and weapons. The families that had started to join them all were moving about here and there, working alongside the soldiers as they prepared to leave the next day.

Lord Edmure and Grey Worm joined them in the hall, alongside Bronn and the leader of the Dothraki, as they discussed their plans for their armies for the better part of the afternoon. As the acting commander alongside Daenerys, she listened to their ideas, offering suggestions that had worked at Winterfell, and steering them away from those that they wanted to try again, but had failed them the first time. She had to acquaint them with the best way in which to defend King’s Landing, if it came to that, and Bronn offered his advice on how he and Tyrion had defended the city against Stannis’s navy, just in case Euron and his fleet became the threat they had the potential to be.

After much deliberation, they concluded the meeting, each going their separate ways. She busied herself alongside Podrick, who was doing his best to help the families that had sought refuge with them all. The children smiled up at her, and in their faces, she saw Jaime, wide-eyed and filled with tales of knights, damsels, and heroes; these children, however, would hopefully grow up in a world where they would learn that people could be all three. They would understand that boys could be softhearted, like Renly had been, or roughened heroes, like Tormund, giving their last horse to a squire. They would come to know how damsels could fight just as well, if not better, than the knights sent to rescue them, or how their gentle natures might lead them to become knights themselves.

That was what she was fighting for. Not glory, or honor, or houses; not even Jaime.

No, she was fighting for something far more precious: For the world he made her want to create.

---

As she sat with the Stark women at supper, she caught Arya staring at her, a smirk on her face.

“Yes?” she asked the young woman.

“I was just thinking about how it suits you,” she said, reaching for her ale.

Brienne felt her brows furrow in confusion.

“How what suits me?” she wondered.

Arya’s smirk bloomed into a smile.

“‘Lady Lannister.’”

Brienne sighed in mock exasperation as Arya sipped, and Sansa sniggered.

“Hear me roar,” Sansa teased with a straight face, raising her eyebrows at Arya, who burst into a fit of giggles, spewing her ale through her nose. Her sister followed her into laughter soon after.

As much as Brienne wished half the hall hadn’t seen her blush crimson at their remarks, she was glad the young women were enjoying themselves.

“Ah, there it is,” she heard Bronn call from a short way down the table. “The bannermen should have a look at your face, m’lady. It’s a perfect Lannister red!”

Everyone that heard him laughed heartily, and she simply shook her head in response, chuckling along with them.

---

As she blew out the candle in her chamber and crawled into bed that night, she noticed how the pillow still smelled of his hair, the scent of clove oil filling her head as she curled up under the furs. She’d applied the oil to his stump only two nights ago, when the pain had kept him from falling asleep after his moonlit chat with Lord Edmure, and the smell peacefully washed over her, soothing her to sleep.

When he'd left that morning, she had imagined she would feel alone, or worried, or sad; but never did she realize she would feel so loved.

---

Daenerys rode by her side on horseback as they led the company away the following day, the armies flanking the refugees. Brienne turned to look back at the ruined castle one last time, its lovely broken towers and the haunting shadows they cast in the velvet snow etching themselves onto the canvas of her mind as she eventually drove her horse forward, abandoning the ghosts that she could almost feel staring out after her.

 

 

Notes:

I know the length is different, but we've got a lot to cover, so there ya go.

That being said, writing SO many different characters in one chapter was the trippiest of trippy. Also: I just *had* to give Sansa and Arya a moment like the one they had on top of the battlements of Winterfell at the end of season seven, where they smile at one another. I also like to think that maybe, just maybe, Arya isn't just a killer robot at this point in the series.

Well, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. It was a fun one to write. I'm still completely flabbergasted by the amount of support I've received for my story in the last few days, and I'm so glad that it's striking a chord in so many people. I live to serve. :) As always, thank you for your amazing comments and kudos and bookmarks and general love. It is greatly appreciated!

Next: Jaime's POV.

Chapter 21: Kings - Jaime XI

Summary:

The trio travel south, getting to know one another.

The three of them traveled in nearly perfect silence the entire day, stopping only to water the horses and relieve themselves. He avoided riding near Tyrion, placing the King between them as they trotted down the Kingsroad, still resentful about the information his brother had kept from him. A silent snow started to replenish the heavy white cloak draped over the world, and Jaime succumbed to his thoughts, hoping to make the day go by quickly.

“You’re much uglier in daylight.”

Somehow, a part of him knew even then. The ease with which he had japed at her; how he had tortured her endlessly with his words. He could still hear the way those three Northmen had laughed at her for traveling a prisoner, and the way they’d choked on their blood seconds later. That, he remembered with a smile, was the first moment he had been impressed with her.

“One misfortune and you’re giving up?”

That night, by the fire, he would have been content to die, but she had called him a coward, and she was right to do so. Suddenly, this woman had garnered more respect than he had ever held for Cersei, telling him what he needed to hear instead of what he wanted to hear; holding him accountable. No one had ever done that before. No one had ever cared enough to do so. That was when she earned his trust.

But love was the one thing he could never assign to a look, or a conversation, in all the time he’d known her. It was an emotion that had steadily fed itself in the well of his heart, the roots slowly growing until the branches of its spirit bore fruit. Though it had taken foul words, a harsh look, and nearly losing her on the fields outside Winterfell, he eventually felt how deeply those roots had woven themselves into the very fabric of his being.

And if Cersei wanted to take that away from him now, she’d have to kill him.

“It’s getting dark,” the King determined. “We should make camp.”

“We’re not far from the Ivy Inn,” Tyrion suggested. “They would have more for the horses than we do.”

Jon glanced at Jaime, who nodded.

“The horses need rest,” Jaime agreed.

“And if they recognize us, who’s to say they won’t warn Cersei?” Jon asked warily. “She could have us slaughtered the moment we enter the city if she sees us coming.”

“She could, you’re absolutely right,” Tyrion said in a measured tone. “But I doubt it. Not if she suspects there’s something in it for her.”

Jaime fell silent at this, looking to Jon.

“It’s your choice, Your Grace,” he concluded, “but I would let the horses rest. We may yet find that they have much further to travel.”

Jon nodded, giving them his thoughtful smile.

“The inn it is, then.”

---

They had traveled for nearly an hour with only the light of the winter moon to guide them when he saw the flicker of candles in the distance, waltzing through the paned glass of windows and onto the stage with which the snow graciously provided them. His stump was aching from the harsh cold that greeted them in the darkness, and he cursed under his breath, knowing he had packed the clove oil so deep within his saddlebag he’d never reach it from atop his horse. He always did that.

But then he remembered that he didn’t have to pack his bag that morning; his lady wife had already done it for him. Curious, he lifted the flap of his saddlebag, and to his surprise, nestled in the neatly folded fabric that rested atop the belongings he brought with him, were his clove oil and lemon oil bottles.

Smiling to himself, he opened the bottle with difficulty, poured some onto the cloth, and massaged it into his stump, closing his eyes as the smell encompassed him like an old friend, the numbness it provided soothing his pain almost immediately. If she were here, he’d have kissed her for it.

Looking up, he noticed Tyrion eyeing him with skepticism as he placed the cloth back into the bag with the bottle, tossing the flap into place a little more harshly than he intended.

---

Having chosen to stay in the barn with the horses, rather than in a room, they had only seen a few faces. Since no one truly recognized Jon in these lands, he had been the one to enter the all but abandoned inn, asking that they take refuge with the livestock. Tyrion had initially protested, but Jaime had remained silent. The smell of shit and horse piss could be the sobering remedy he needed for a night spent under the same closed quarters as his brother.

“What did you tell them?” Tyrion asked Jon as he stepped inside the barn, the door closing weakly behind him.

“If anyone asks, we’re cousins,” the King said with a weak attempt at a smile.

Jaime chuckled.

“Are you sure you’re not Ned Stark’s son?” he asked, feigning suspicion. “Even when you attempt to lie, you somehow still manage to tell the truth.”

The King gave him a confused look.

“Technically speaking, we are cousins by marriage,” Jaime reminded him. “Through my wife.”

To his delight, his comment drew a chortle from Jon.

“And so we are,” he confirmed, walking over to sit on his bedroll. “Tell me, Lord Lannister, how did you come to love such a woman?”

At this remark, Jaime felt his face lose its light as a heaviness stirred in his chest.

“What do you mean?” he whispered, a tone of threat in his voice as he became aware that the remark had also been made to sound as though the King believed she was— “I know she may not be beautiful to men of less intelligence, Your Grace, but she—” 

“You misunderstand me, my lord,” Jon assured him. “I only meant that the two of you seem so... Different. I hadn’t expected that from the man who shook my hand some years ago.”

Jaime glanced at Tyrion, noting the expectant look on his face, before sighing, leaning his head against the post. He couldn’t avoid answering them, but what could he say?

He closed his eyes, placing his thoughts together.

“She made me feel like everything I knew before I met her was a lie,” he murmured. “She challenged me at every turn. Beat me with a sword. Held me to my word. Expected better of me. She made me look at the world around me, really look, and realize that I—that I...”

“That you knew nothing?”

His eyes met the King’s, and he saw a sadness there he hadn’t expected as he nodded in agreement.

“Yes.”

The ghost of a smile graced Jon’s lips as he looked down at the hay, deep in thought.

It was only as they ate some of the meager food they’d brought with them in silence that Jaime understood the King had been thinking of a woman, just as he had been thinking of Brienne.

---

He woke to the sweet smell of her wrapped around him, only to remember when he opened his eyes that her long body wasn’t stretched out beside him.

As he rolled onto his back, he noticed that Jon and Tyrion were still asleep in the winter darkness, but knew himself well enough to understand that sleep would not likely visit him again until the following night. He was overcome with memories of her; her small smile, the way a gentle touch from her hand could calm him, how the children had looked up at her in wonder as she’d unloaded wagons at Harrenhal, or the way she would gasp and moan as he loved her...

He quietly rose to his feet, eager to step into the cold for once.

The jaws of the brittle winter wind snatched him up instantly, chewing at his flesh as he stepped into the snow outside the barn door. He pulled his cloak around him as tightly as he could with one hand, breathing in the dry, boneless scent of the air around him.

In two days, he would have to face his sister. His twin. The one person on this earth that had known him before he’d even taken his first breath.

A shiver ran through him as he remembered what she’d done to the babe in her womb. Had she openly cried when she drank whatever it was Qyburn had given her, as he had done when he realized the meaning of Varys’s words? Or had she smiled, choking back her tears as she was so gifted in doing as she lifted a glass of Dornish wine to her lips? Likely the latter.

“We cannot forge a future if we keep looking into the past. Not when the steel we need is here.”

And so Jaime set his jaw against those thoughts. When the Smith had beckoned him, he had answered; he had traveled North, reforged himself, and had tested his newfound steel enough to know that he was stronger than he had ever been before. This meeting would determine the fate of everyone and everything he loved, and while he might not survive the war, he’d fight like hell for the world to come.

“Did I not say I was sorry?” a voice asked. “Or is the thought of sleeping under the same roof as me so repulsive you’re contemplating freezing yourself to death?”

He didn’t have to look at him to see the sad little frown on his brother’s face. All his life, he’d seen it when he apologized for something he’d done. Rather than respond, Jaime grit his teeth in perfect silence.

“I should have told you before the meeting,” Tyrion pressed quietly, his voice barely audible over the falling snow. “I never thought that—”

“Stop this,” Jaime pleaded. “Just stop—”

“I never imagined it would hurt you the way it did,” Tyrion finished, ignoring him. “After all you’d been through, I thought that a miscarriage would—”

“A miscarriage...?!” Jaime cut him off, looking down at him, his eyes searing holes into his brother’s skull as the shorter man stared up at him, bewildered, before understanding washed over his features.

“You think she terminated her own pregnancy.”

Jaime scoffed.

“You said yourself she nearly lost her head when father commanded her to marry Loras Tyrell,” he bit out. “The idea of being forced to lie with another man, let alone one she couldn’t avoid, or get rid of... Do you truly believe she would have kept a child for that? After what happened to Tommen?!”

His chest was heaving, his veins filled with equal parts rage, grief, and disappointment as he felt his eyes burn. He could practically feel the snow melting around him as he seethed with thousands of fiery words he hadn’t the patience to say. Tyrion stepped back, his lips parting slightly at the realization Jaime was right.

“I didn’t think—”

“Exactly,” Jaime finished coldly. “You never do.”

Tyrion pressed his eyes closed before looking at his tiny feet shamefully for a few moments.

“You know, brother, it’s rare that I find myself at a loss for words,” he murmured, tilting his head up to meet Jaime’s eyes. “Especially with you. Surely that must show you how sorry I am for this.”

Jaime closed his eyes, clenching his fist.

“You should have told me,” he whispered forcefully. “You should have left King’s Landing and never looked back. But you just couldn’t resist...”

“Jaime, I never meant to hurt—”

“But you did,” Jaime hissed. “You hurt me. You always hurt me. That woman is the best part of me, and you don’t get to stand beside me under a tree as I say those words to her, or set up a private chamber for us, only to do this to me days later. Do you understand?”

Tyrion was shocked, and a little afraid. But, perhaps worst of all, he was silent.

Jaime took a deep breath, steadying himself.

“I know you care about the realm,” he relented. “Truly, I do. But would it hurt to think of your own family now and then?”

Tyrion glanced down, crestfallen.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t...”

He couldn’t even form the words to finish.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Jaime said deliberately. “I want you to be better. To do better.”

Jaime held open the barn door, and Tyrion wordlessly obeyed, the taller of the two men entering last. The King was still asleep, and since a few hours remained until dawn, Jaime sunk into the bedroll once more, the warmth with which it enveloped him a welcome change from the chill.

“Remind me to thank her, by the way,” Tyrion’s voice said faintly.

Jaime rolled his eyes.

“For what?” Jaime grumbled.

He could practically hear his brother smile.

“For taking care of you.

---

The following day, they traveled even further, choosing to stay in a barn on the southern side of Brindlewood as the dim light of day faded; they didn’t want to draw more attention than necessary, especially as they moved closer to the capital, though as it was winter and many people had already migrated south at the rumors of dead men roaming the continent, the number of living beings they met with was considerably less.

Ever since their conversation about Brienne, the King had become more reserved, which, for a man who seldom spoke, led to a particularly silent day and night. It didn’t help that Jaime’s conversation with Tyrion had left them in an uncomfortable position, and that meant only speaking when the situation required words.

The flakes that made their way through the hole in the roof fell persistently, not caring for the beasts and people seeking shelter beneath the structure. It was in these moments, when he lay awake and the others were sleeping, that he would think of her. Pray for her.

He often wondered what she was doing throughout the day, when the snow became monotonous and the blasts of chilly air unforgiving. Was she training Lady Lyanna to fight? Or perhaps she was sharing her midday meal with Lord Edmure and his family. The memory of that little boy, his blue eyes shining, made him recall the dreams he’d had of other blue-eyed children, laughing and sparring in the summer sun. Those dreams seemed so far from him now.

The next morning, as they crossed the final leagues to the city, he allowed his horse to fall behind for a minute, managing to tug the piece of parchment from his jerkin before shaking it open to peek at it. The boy had surely not thought about the gesture as deeply as Jaime had; he was just trying to do something nice for someone he liked. But it had quickly come to symbolize a hundred other ideas to Jaime. Forgiveness, honesty, resilience...

Love.

“A letter from your wife, Lord Lannister?” Jon asked.

As Jaime looked up, he noticed Tyrion continuing on ahead, but the King had slowed his horse, joining his in stride. Jaime held the parchment out to him, and Jon took it, examining it.

“A gift, Your Grace,” Jaime explained, “from the Tully boy.”

The King smiled at the drawing.

“Apparently, he thought you could use a hand,” the King declared.

Jaime chuckled.

“Where we’re going, he may have been right.”

Jon handed him the parchment once more, and watched with curiosity as he folded it, placing it back inside his jerkin.

“They were yours, weren’t they?” Jon asked simply. “The children.”

Jaime blinked, then nodded.

“All of them,” he murmured.

Jon rode quietly beside him for a few moments.

“I’m sorry they’re gone,” he said kindly. “Children shouldn’t be made to suffer.”

At this, Jaime cocked an eyebrow.

“I hanged a boy at Castle Black,” the King elaborated, “and I’ve always wondered what his life would have been like if he hadn’t been forced to run to the Wall in the first place. And the children at Hardhome... I’ll never forget their cold, lifeless eyes staring out at me.”

Jaime’s own eyes fell to his horse as he considered how the King had come to know the innocence of children.

And it struck him with the force of a rock.

“Lady Catelyn was a fearsome woman,” Jaime said plainly, “but not the most welcoming adoptive mother, I take it.”

The King looked at him then, a somber smile on his face.

“She didn’t know,” he said evenly. “No one did. If she had, things might have been different, but I wouldn’t be the same man.”

“And yet, here you are, refusing to take your own throne and remaining King of the North,” Jaime clarified, raising his eyebrows in question. “Why might that be?”

Jon looked down for a moment, gathering his answer.

“The first time we spoke, you mentioned that the Night’s Watch was for life,” he began. “At first, I just thought you were being an ass.” He chuckled, and Jaime smiled. “But now I understand the importance of oaths, and if I claimed my title, I’d be forced to swear another to whatever kingdoms remain after this war. It’s a responsibility I do not wish to claim.”

“But you are a gifted leader,” Jaime continued. “You’re wasted in the North, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps,” Jon agreed, “but my duty lies with my family now. We’ve been torn apart for too long.”

“Ah, yes,” Jaime mused with a smirk. “‘The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.’”

Jon smiled one last time before nodding at him, allowing his horse to pick up speed once more to put him at the front. Jaime noticed how Prince Rhaegar illustrated himself in the way Jon rode his horse, and remembered the merciful nature he’d shown as refugees had begun to trickle into Harrenhal. Thinking back to that first meeting, where Jaime had indeed been an ass, he could recall how cynical he’d been about the boy taking his Night’s Watch oaths so lightly. He was surprised that his message had struck home.

And now, as he followed that same man into a city filled with vicious snakes, he entertained the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he had finally found a king worthy of his words.

Notes:

This chapter was one of the easier ones to write, though I'm starting to make myself dizzy with my timelines...!

As always, thank you for your kudos, your comments, and your love! I'm so glad you all are still on the journey, and I'm thrilled that next week is spring break, so I can churn out a few more chapters.

The next chapter will also be from Jaime's POV.

Chapter 22: Trust - Jaime XII

Summary:

Jaime, Jon, and Tyrion arrive in King's Landing to meet with Cersei.

As they walked through the city gate, leading their horses behind them, Jaime noticed how still everything seemed, covered in a thin veil of snow. There were no wagons, or merchants, or beggars in the streets, and the sound of crackling fires and hushed voices replaced the usual cacophony of shouts and cart wheels moving over uneven stone. He’d seen nine winters in his lifetime, five of which had occurred while he had called King’s Landing home. Each time the snow had fallen as it had during the previous winter, and each time the city had continued to whir with activity.

Now, there was a weight with which the flakes fell that troubled him, and he could practically hear the empty streets moan to be so deprived of the living.

Death was marching south, and he was surrounded by all the proof he’d ever need of that fact.

The three of them made to walk their horses to the stables themselves, but four soldiers in black armor stepped out of the shadows to bar their way, a smaller figure in black robes behind their hostile outlines. Jon was right; someone from their travels had indeed recognized them and sent word of their coming to Cersei.

“We’ve been expecting you, gentlemen,” Qyburn practically purred. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Jaime and Tyrion remained silent, but Jon handed his horse to a boy that had run out to meet them without a second thought.

“We’ve come to treat with Cersei,” he said wearily. “The North has fallen.”

The helmets of the Queensguard glinted in the moonlight as the soldiers stole glances at one another. Even Qyburn was visibly shaken by the King’s words.

“They are coming,” Jon concluded, “whether she wants it or not.”

At this, Qyburn threw a sidelong look at the soldiers, two of whom turned to march toward the Red Keep, the other two taking the reins of their remaining horses. He turned to face them again, his hands clasping themselves behind his back.

“Come,” the old cunt crooned. “I’m sure your journey has been tiresome, and that you’d like to rest beside a—”

“No,” Jon said curtly. “We speak to her now. The dead do not rest, and nor will we.”

Qyburn gave the King a long stare, and Jaime could see him considering something, but the man said nothing. With a nod, he turned, following the Queensguard soldiers as he led them toward the Keep. As Tyrion and Jon started after him, Jaime looked back at the gate, recalling the last time he’d felt this uneasy upon returning to the city.

But this time, that small smile and those blue eyes, filled with understanding, weren’t there to comfort him. Swallowing hard against the tightness in his chest, he followed them.

---

“You want me to order an evacuation,” Cersei said tonelessly.

The King nodded.

“Aye,” he confirmed. “It’s the only way.”

Cersei smirked, stepping to the table by the window to pour a glass of wine.

“Tell me, Lord Snow,” she began steadily, “did you really believe that I would abandon this city, send its people south, and leave the throne so easily that all you had to do was ask it of me?” She turned to look at Tyrion, and then her eyes fell to Jaime. “Surely my dear brothers advised you against it. I certainly would have.”

As she brought the glass to her lips, Jaime wondered how he had never noticed the way in which she used her words, her syrupy tone coating the true poison behind them.

“They weren’t the only ones,” Jon explained. “It would seem that your betrayal has yet to be forgotten by many of—” 

“Ah, yes,” she whispered nonchalantly. “My betrayal. Did you learn of it from your freak cousin, or from my brother?”

The ease with which she spoke of Bran had obviously made Jon uncomfortable, and not just because it indicated that she was aware of Jon’s true heritage.

“It was me,” Jaime said, refusing to flinch when he met her gaze. “I told them.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed.

“Of course you did,” she murmured, sipping her wine. “Ser Jaime, how is my new goodsister?”

She was trying to push his buttons, and he grit his teeth against her onslaught. He could feel Jon looking at him.

“We aren’t here to discuss—” Jon started to say.

“Oh, I know very well what you wish to discuss,” Cersei calmly interrupted him, her stare never leaving Jaime, “but I asked my brother a question. I intend to hear an answer.”

The entire meeting he had successfully ignored her piercing remarks, but the mention of Brienne stirred something in his throat that he could not control.

“You are less worthy to call yourself her sister than you are to be queen.”

He saw something flash through his sister’s eyes at this, and he felt his nostrils flare with satisfaction; it was not the answer she had expected. She drew her shoulders back, sipping her wine once more.

“Her father’s death was a tragedy, I must say,” she said effortlessly, turning to walk to the table and sit in a chair. “They said that he didn’t even beg for—”

“We are not here to discuss the atrocities you have committed,” Tyrion cut her off, raising his voice a little. “If you will not order an evacuation—”

“Of course I won’t, you traitorous imp,” she bit out. “What kind of fool do you take me for?”

The King moved forward.

“If you refuse to evacuate the city, then we’ll see to it ourselves,” he told her evenly.

“And I’ll see to it that every man, woman, and child that intends to walk through the city gates is slaughtered without question,” she countered, a peaceful look on her face.

The three men glanced at one another, disbelief written on their faces.

“You would rather stand by and watch half a million people die at the hands of your own men than accept that you cannot win this war?” Jon asked incredulously. “You know what those people will become, don’t—”

“Yes, of course I know, I’ve seen it,” Cersei snarled, leaning forward in her chair, “and I would rather burn this city to the ground than surrender it to the whims of a foreign whore!”

Jaime saw the King step back as though she’d struck him. Tyrion stepped toward her—

“Do not speak to me,” she commanded icily, glancing at Jaime as well. “Either of you. You killed our father, my children, the future of our house, and you expect—”

“Don’t you dare speak of those children,” Jaime said darkly, “not after all you’ve done.”

Cersei pressed her lips together in a furious muzzle at this, looking away. He could ignore his resentment no longer.

“I want to know, did you cry as you drank it?” he taunted, forgetting the other people in the room as she glared at him.

“Lord Lannister...” he heard Jon whisper. He ignored it.

“You did cry, then. Was it out of grief, or out of gratitude?”

His twin just sat there, drowning in her rage. For a fraction of a second, he thought he imagined tears straining against her eyes.

“Your Grace,” Jon said firmly, giving Jaime a look of warning, “if the Night King enters this city, and its people are not already gone, the world we know is lost.”

She remained seated, her gaze returning to the King.

“And why should I care about the world when I have no stake in it?” she asked bluntly.

A hush settled over the room as Jon was no doubt reconsidering the men he’d brought with him for this negotiation.

“Because you’re alive,” the King said simply. “With all due respect, Your Grace, there are other things worth living for.”

She smiled at Jon, an empty, bitter smile, as a tear finally made its way down her cheek.

“Name one.”

At this, the King furrowed his brow, unable to believe her response, or answer her question. Her face hardened in the wake of his silence.

“Guards,” she called coldly, rising to her feet.

At that moment, the same men that had greeted them at the city gates entered the room, Qyburn with them as they roughly grabbed the three men. She waved her hand at the guard accosting Tyrion.

“Leave my youngest brother. I wish to speak with him,” she said with a dangerous lilt to her voice. Tyrion looked fearfully at Jaime, who struggled against the hands on his shoulders at this remark. “Take the others to the coldest cell in the Keep.”

Jaime lurched forward before the guards could pull him away, placing his face mere inches away from her own.

“If you touch him—”

“What will you do?” she whispered scornfully, her breath tickling his face. “What can you possibly do to me that hasn’t already been done? Your words are nothing to me now. Our house is nothing to me. And if I have to hurt every person you’ve ever loved to assure you of how little this world matters to me, I will.”

Jaime’s anger was replaced with what felt like terror as he realized that she wasn’t going to hurt Tyrion; she was going to use him for another purpose entirely... One that likely involved ravens and a woman who was younger, and far more beautiful in his eyes, than Cersei.

His gaze met that of his brother’s, and the look of shock he saw there confirmed Tyrion had come to the same conclusion. Jaime struggled even more against the hands that began wrenching him toward the door.

“Cersei, please,” Tyrion begged. “This is not—” 

“Get them out of my sight,” was all she said in response before Jaime was taken from the room, the King alongside him.

---

The guards had chosen a cell on the corner of the Keep, with two small, shattered windows through which the moon occasionally shone and the merciless snow had been blowing in, stinging them with the chill. They hadn’t spoken since they’d been brought here, and had been wrapped up within their cloaks for hours, trying to keep warm.

“What will she do?” Jon asked all of a sudden, as though he had been holding the question back for some time.

Jaime shrugged.

“Something unspeakable, I’m sure.”

The King pressed his eyes closed at this, turning his head a little as though someone had physically hurt him. Jaime sighed.

“When the people of King’s Landing hear what’s coming for them, what’s really coming for them, they’re going to panic,” he explained. “Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, or a few weeks from now, but it will happen. Cersei is going to have a full uprising on her hands, and there won't be an army to protect her when it comes. Tyrion will know that.”

The King remained speechless for a few seconds.

“Hundreds of people will die...” he whispered.

“Thousands,” Jaime corrected. “Tens of thousands. And if she destroyed the Sept of Baelor...” He closed his eyes, willing the memories away. “She knows. She’ll destroy this city and everyone in it.”

Jon’s brow knit together in suspicion.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Jaime felt his blood run cold at the realization that he had said too much. He shook his head, trying to diminish the ominous tone with which he’d spoken.

“Let’s just say I hope Daenerys arrives sooner rather than later.”

But the King was staring at him, unwavering.

“You’re hiding something,” he said with certainty. "What is it?"

Jaime let his head fall back against the wall.

“I’ve never told anyone else,” he breathed. “Only her.”

Jon smirked.

“Your wife, you mean,” the King said, almost teasing him.

Jaime remained silent. The thought of her, especially now that she would discover he’d been captured by his sister, disquieted him. She would, of course, see through any ruse Cersei attempted, which gave him some degree of comfort; however, the idea that he was here, when an army of dead men were marching at her back, did little to quell his urge to protect and defend her, even if she was completely capable of protecting herself and countless others.

“Who was she?” Jaime asked, remembering the wistful smile on Jon’s face two nights ago. The King’s eyes became crowded as he tried to discern Jaime’s meaning. “The woman you were thinking about at the inn,” he explained, watching as the King’s stiff expression melted away in understanding.

“You knew.”

Jaime chuckled.

“Is there any other way a man can look when he loves a woman?”

The King huffed a laugh at this, his breath visible in the raw winter air.

“I’ll tell you about her,” he said with a nod, “if you tell me what you told your wife.”

The idea of revealing that memory to this man terrified Jaime, and yet, he deserved to know it. Jaime's face fell a little.

“My trust is not something easily gained, Lord Lannister,” Jon told him. “I would hate to learn it’s not returned.”

Jaime closed his eyes at this.

I trust you.

Even now, in this cell, she was with him.

“But do you trust me, Your Grace?” Jaime almost mocked, opening his eyes to tilt his head, looking at him curiously. “You may not want to once you’ve heard the truth.”

Jon thought for a moment, then nodded.

At this, Jaime took a deep breath, and slowly told him every detail that mattered; how Rhaegar had charged him with taking care of Elia and her children, and the nauseating guilt he’d felt as he watched his father’s men drop their small, bloody bodies at the foot of the Iron Throne; how Aerys had commanded him to retrieve his father’s head before giving the pyromancer the order that had enabled Jaime to single-handedly end the war, but at the cost of breaking his oath; how, though he was now approaching one and forty, he couldn’t ever remember feeling as old as he did that day, even if he was still little more than a boy.

When he was finished, Jon simply sat there in silence for a few minutes.

“I was still a boy when I joined the Night’s Watch, Lord Lannister. I know what it means to be faced with decisions and not understand how to make the best choices.” Jon smiled at him. “Like you, I broke my oaths. I killed one of my brothers to gain the trust of the Wildlings, even lay with a Wildling girl, north of the Wall.”

“Ah,” Jaime said, understanding at once, “so she was a Wildling, then. What was her name?”

“Ygritte,” Jon stated, the word falling off his tongue without any effort; as though it was some precious thing to him.

Jaime knew that feeling well.

“I bet she was beautiful.”

Jon tried to smile, looking down at the floor.

“Aye, she was,” he confirmed. “She had red hair, and a smile that could have warmed the coldest winter. Her cheeks were smothered in freckles...”

At the mention of freckles, Jaime closed his eyes, remembering the patches of freckles he loved to tease with his mouth along Brienne’s arms, her shoulders...

He cleared his throat, meeting the King’s gaze once more.

“What happened to her?” Jaime asked.

Jon’s all but glowing face fell almost immediately.

“She was killed when the Wildlings attacked Castle Black,” he murmured. “She died in my arms.”

Jaime's lips parted slightly in surprise, frowning as he attempted to exile the image in his mind's eye that suddenly threatened to overcome him. She was so far from here, and if anything happened, he wouldn't be there to—

“Lady Brienne is strong,” Jon said, reading his mind. “She’s a fighter. If anyone we know survives this to the end, it’ll be her.”

“Or your cousins,” Jaime said lightly. “She’ll die before she lets anything happen to those girls.”

To his relief, the King smiled and nodded.

The call of a raven echoed nearby, and soon enough they watched as it landed on the ledge of one of their windows. It cocked its head sideways at them before turning and flying away, and Jon stared after it, deep in thought.

“Do you think wildfire could kill them?” he asked. “The wights?”

Jaime shrugged.

“Wights, perhaps,” he thought aloud, “but not their commanders. You saw yourself how they evaded the dragon fire at Winterfell.” Jaime wrinkled his brow in question at the young man. “Why do you ask?”

The King paused, and when he turned to look at him, Jaime noticed the glint of hope in his eyes.

“Because I think we might be able to beat them.”

Notes:

And so the plot thickens! (*Laughs maniacally!*)

Cersei was surprisingly easy to write, which means either she's very predictable as a character or I need to go back to my therapist. (*Shrugs.*) Either way, I've been stressing about this meeting for weeks, and I'm quite happy with the way it turned out. I specifically didn't want Jaime losing himself in his thoughts in the meeting, because there's more at stake, and he's already realized that he is stronger than that now.

I do hope you all are still enjoying it, especially as the pace continues to climb. It's going to be a bumpy ride to the end, y'all! As always, thank you *SO* much for your comments, kudos, love, morning commutes, evening commutes, etc.! I hope the story is continuing to move you as much as I originally intended. I'm really enjoying the quicker pace of things. :)

Next: Brienne's POV.

Chapter 23: Memory - Brienne XI

Summary:

Decisions are made.

Their time on the road had been tiresome, and the weary looks she observed on the faces of the refugees showed just how far they had trekked in the last three days. Journeys this long were bearable, if one was traveling alone, or even in an army; but to do so while caring for your loved ones was an entirely different matter. Even she was beginning to feel the exhaustive effects of their migration.

“M’lady,” said a voice from beside her.

She turned to see Podrick had brought his horse alongside her own, offering her his flagon.

“I don’t drink when I’m astride a horse, Pod,” she reminded him. “You know that.”

The young man smiled.

“I know, m’lady,” he assured her. “It’s water.”

Brienne blinked for only a moment before taking the flagon and sipping from it, gratefully swallowing its contents.

“Thank you, Pod.”

She extended a hand to give it back to him, but then he shook his head.

“I brought two,” he said warmly.

She nodded, an appreciative smile reaching her lips as she watched him lead his horse away from hers and toward the armies. He had come so far in the last few years. Not only was he a capable swordsman, but despite how much he’d learned and seen, he remained kind and humble. Through their travels, he had become a little brother to her; as much a part of her newly formed, mismatched family as the Stark women themselves.

The memories of her older brother, Galladon, slipped into her mind uninvited and without warning.

Before Ser Goodwin had started to teach her how to use a sword, her brother had handed her a wooden one and playfully sparred with her. She could recall how much she stumbled, and how his strong arms would always pull her to her feet. How old had she been when they’d started knocking one another about? Three, perhaps? But she had been tall, even then, and more than capable of wielding the weight of the small wooden sword. When their father had found them at it one day, he told the boy to stop; that ladies weren’t meant to use a sword. But Galladon had continued to spar with her anyway, much to Selwyn’s dismay, encouraging her to beat the boys who made fun of her.

The day his body had been pulled from the sapphire sea, she had only been a little over five years old. She didn’t remember very much, but she could recall how small his corpse seemed in the arms of her father as he howled at the sky.

Suddenly, there was no one to spar with anymore.

The boys kept making fun of her, and she’d never forget the day one of the goat shepherds brought her to her father, beaten and bruised from a fight she’d lost only a few weeks after Galladon drowned. She had expected him to be angry with her, or disappointed. What she hadn’t expected was for her father to kneel before her, brush her tears from her cheeks, and send for the maester. That was the day he sent a raven to the capital, and within the week, Ser Goodwin arrived on the island. The only reason she’d eventually let her father drag her to the ball he’d planned years later was out of a begrudging thankfulness that, with her training, she could probably best every ridiculous boy in attendance with a sword, if sparring had been acceptable for a lady attending her own dance. Though the rest of that night had been filled with keen misery, the one moment when Renly had shown her a modicum of respect had made it bearable, and that was when she’d sworn to never let another man define her worth again without a sword in his hand, or truth in his heart.

Three failed engagements later, here she was, the wife of a man who loved her for everything she was and could be, riding as an equal alongside the best soldiers in the realm as they faced the greatest war they’d ever seen.

Podrick deserved the chance to feel that same sense of belonging more than anyone else she knew, and as she watched him chat with stern-faced Lady Lyanna ahead of the Mormont men, she thought that perhaps he could also find someone that appreciated his heart as much as she appreciated Jaime’s.

---

They arrived at Brindlewood that night, and the armies settled much as they had prior to their time at Harrenhal, stretching the tents out over the snowy earth and twisting themselves into their bedrolls atop them, the pop and crackle of firewood sparks mingling with the flakes of snow that fell. The village was nearly deserted, with only a few families remaining that would no doubt be joining them as they moved south on the morrow. Refugees poured into the cottages, multiple families to one room, huddling around the fires they stirred in the barren air around them.

She scooted into her bedroll, having chosen to stay outside with the soldiers rather than in the village. The thought of watching husbands and wives sharing cloaks as their children slept by the fire stirred an ache in her chest that she couldn’t bear just now.

“If you’re not careful, your face might freeze that way,” she heard a voice say.

Looking over, she saw Ser Davos staring at her, a knowing smile on his own face. Gendry chuckled from the opposite side of the fire as she rolled her eyes at the Onion Knight’s remark.

“We’ll hear word of them soon,” the young man said confidently. “You shouldn’t worry. Lord Lannister—”  

“I’m not worried,” she ground out. “I just...”

She trailed off, unable to even admit it to herself. It made her feel weak enough without saying the words.

“You miss him,” Ser Davos said for her.

With a sigh, she arranged herself in the bedroll, avoiding their eyes and yet denying nothing.

---

She sat on the edge of the bed, holding the deep blue blanket as though it were the most precious object she possessed, running her thumbs across it as she fondly remembered the day it had been made. It was embroidered with a golden star and a dancing lion, but, like her bridecloak, on either side of the lion a wolf and a dragon were facing away, snarling at whatever creatures would dare to hurt the happy beast. Though their own sigil was simply the Lannister lion under a starburst on a backdrop of crimson, the sigil of their family had been decided upon by Lady Sansa many years ago.

As vividly as though it had happened yesterday, the memory of draping it over the twins as they slept side by side, tucking it around them as they cooed at her soft words and sweet songs, brought a smile to her lips even now. She’d never sung for anyone before that day, not even Jaime; and yet, the first night they’d been laid together to sleep, her husband had caught her standing over their cradle, rocking them gently, a lullaby on her tongue. She could still remember the tears she’d seen on his cheeks when she had turned to see him leaning against the doorway, a smile on his face.

Jo and Dunk would never be that tiny and fragile again. Someday, they would wrap their own babes in blankets bearing the new sigils of their married houses.

“Brienne?”

There he was, lazily leaning against the doorway as he had sixteen years ago, another smile on his face. His hair had markedly more silver threads throughout it now, and his beard had gone almost entirely grey, accentuating the laugh lines that had buried themselves into the soft skin around his eyes and mouth. She tried to smile back at him, looking down at the blanket in her hands when she failed.

“They were so small,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the blanket’s sigil. “So small they could fit in one cradle.”

“And now they’re not.”

She didn’t have to see it to hear the soft smirk in his voice. Swallowing hard against the lump forming in her throat, she nodded.

“And now they’re not,” she echoed, trying not to choke on the words as she folded the blanket and placed it on the bed beside her.

He walked to her then, and she gratefully stood, turning to face him as he pulled her close, resting her chin on his shoulder. They stayed like that for a few moments, the silence in their chamber overcome only by the gentle roar of the waves beating against the Rock below them.

“Do you remember the night you first sang them to sleep?” he whispered.

She nodded, and he pulled back to look at her.

“You haven’t blushed that particular shade of red since, my lady,” he mused, slipping his hand from her waist down to her lower back. “Not even when we were at it in the kitchens of Winterfell a few years ago, and the boy who found us thought—”

“Jaime!”

He leaned in to capture her lips with his in a teasing kiss, and when he returned for another, she more than welcomed the contact, pulling him tightly against her as she deepened it. He moaned into her mouth, and she smiled at the familiar sound. As he pressed his hips into hers, she groaned, breaking the kiss to gasp for air as she let reality sink in for a few seconds; they still had to pack, as they would all be leaving for the capital early the next morning, and as he moved his lips down her neck, pressing her legs into the bed, she tried to catch her breath.

“Jaime, the door is wide open, and the children—”

“Jo and Dunk are still sparring in the yard,” he growled, “and if the servants don’t hear us, how will they know you still love me?”

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, pulling his hair so that his lips were on hers again.

He started clumsily loosening the ties of her jerkin, and she impatiently shooed his hand away, doing the task for him while he untied his breeches in between heated kisses. Within moments, her jerkin was on the floor, his breeches and smallclothes were at his knees, and she was tugging hers down as she lay back against the bed, his weight shifting above her as his hand tugged her tunic up to her chin so that he could—

“Lady Brienne?”

She opened her eyes to see Sansa, kneeling in front of her, an uncertain look on her face. Immediately, Brienne sat up, her hand reaching over to grab Oathkeeper.

“We are not in danger,” Sansa explained, but Brienne frowned.

“What is it?” she asked the young woman. “What’s happened?”

Sansa glanced around them as though she was worried they might be overheard.

“We’ve received news,” she said. “Come.”

Brienne clutched Oathkeeper close to her and stood, following Sansa through the camp and into a cottage in the village, where the Queen was sitting in front of a fire beside Arya and Bran. The boy’s stony face was flickering in the firelight, and when his eyes fell on her, he didn’t speak, but watched her very carefully. His gaze unnerved her.

“Lady Brienne,” the Queen greeted her, but she did not move to stand.

“Your Grace...”

Brienne sat next to Sansa in a chair by the fire, Arya beside them.

“Bran warged into a raven and flew to King’s Landing,” Sansa said slowly. “Cersei has taken Jon prisoner, and...” She looked down at her feet. “She’s taken Ser Jaime, as well.”

Brienne’s eyes went wide in shock, the silence that followed Sansa’s words suffocating her as she tightly clutched Oathkeeper’s pommel. Though she hadn’t expected Cersei to agree to evacuate the city, she also hadn’t anticipated this, and she desperately fought to hold back the tears she could already feel forming in her belly as her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.

“What of Lord Tyrion?” she asked, her voice wavering a little.

“Cersei will try to use him to manipulate us,” Bran explained. “She won’t leave the city, and she won’t evacuate it. She’s planning to use the Mad King’s caches of wildfire to put an end to King’s Landing and its people in the event of an uprising.”

At this, Daenerys face was overtaken by confusion.

“What do you mean?” the young woman murmured.

Bran’s eyes met Brienne’s, and she realized that he was asking permission to tell them a story that neither belonged to her, nor him. She shook her head imperceptibly at the unspoken request, and so he simply explained to the Queen that her father had placed caches of wildfire all over the city during his final years, hoping to squash a rebellion in the same way that Cersei now meant to do.

They all sat there, faces blank with shock, at this admission. But Sansa shifted in her chair.

“Do you think wildfire can kill them?” she asked, curiously looking at her brother. “The wights?”

Bran’s face contorted with uncertainty.

“I do not know,” Bran answered. “The Children used a similar substance on the wights north of the Wall, but I do not believe they are the same thing.”

“But if they are similar, and it can kill them...” Sansa continued, deep in thought.

Daenerys met Sansa’s eyes.

“Do you mean...?”

Sansa nodded.

“Maybe we don’t have to lure them into King’s Landing on the mere hope that one dragon can single-handedly wipe them out,” she said assertively. “If we can somehow infiltrate the city, slowly evacuate it, and lure them in as we had planned...”

“Boom,” Arya finished for her.

“And what of their commanders?” Daenerys asked. “The only thing we know of that can kill them is dragonglass and Valyrian steel.”

“We have four Valyrian blades left,” Arya said. “If we keep them in the hands of our best fighters, we can kill their commanders. The rest of our armies should be given dragonglass. Once the city is gone, the commanders that remain will be killed.”

“And what of the dragon?” Sansa asked. “Surely it cannot be killed by wildfire.”

The smile that had started to grace the Queen’s face fell instantly.

“We can ask Bronn,” Brienne murmured, and they stared at her, puzzled. “Jaime told me he used some sort of weapon that nearly brought Drogon down in battle.”

“Qyburn’s scorpion,” Bran said. “I saw it. If his aim had been truer, the dragon would not be alive.”

Daenerys pressed her eyes closed.

“He didn’t kill him,” she said with effort, “but he was able to bring him down.” She opened her eyes, looking at them all. “That may be all we need.”

“And the bolts should be made of dragonglass,” Sansa confirmed, “but I don’t believe we have enough dragonglass remaining to make weapons for our people, arrows for our archers, and bolts for the dragons.”

“Gendry can do it,” Arya said confidently. “The bolts and blades don’t have to be entirely made of dragonglass. Just the pointy ends.”

At this, Sansa chuckled, and Daenerys smiled.

“But how can we evacuate the city right under Cersei’s nose?” Brienne asked after a moment. “Most of our faces are easily recognized in the capital.”

Arya smirked.

“I know a way.”

Notes:

So, how about four women (and Bran), sitting around a fire, deciding how to save everyone and end a war, eh?! :D

Yes, it was one of the shorter chapters, but the next one will likely be longer, if all goes according to plan. I just couldn't *not* end the chapter with that little Arya tidbit. If it's any consolation, I have officially typed up the last sentence of my story before the epilogue. Now, I just need to finish writing the story itself.

As always, thank you so much for your support, your comments, and your kudos. Especially as I plummet toward the end of this story, it means the world to me that you're still on the journey and enjoying it as much as I am!

Next chapter will also be Brienne's POV.

Chapter 24: Sight - Brienne XII

Summary:

The war for the dawn approaches.

“You’re not coming.”

The serving girl stared daggers into Gendry’s eyes, her jaw set as Sansa sighed, leaning back in her chair.

“Ser Davos is right,” she murmured. “Our best option is to use the sewers.”

Gendry rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“I know those passages better than anyone in this tent,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “If you want to get them out, you’re going to have to take me!”

“You’re not coming!” the girl said in a raised voice. “It’s too dangerous. If even one of the guards recognizes your stupid hair and blue eyes—”

“Damn it, woman!” Gendry exclaimed, his patience waning. “Where do you think I was for the last few years? No one recognized me then!”

“Arya, he’s right,” Sansa said, looking at the serving girl. “He has to go with you. If you work separately, you can get more people out of the city.”

Brienne and Daenerys had been watching the exchange, amused smiles on their faces despite the dread of imminent death that hung in the air.

“The places where the sewers empty into the bay aren’t guarded,” Gendry said boldly. “We can land there with the boats, and take the people out of the city. The smiths I’ve been working with can take care of the dragonglass. They know what they’re doing.”

Though the eyes that glared at him weren’t Arya’s, what they wanted to say was crystal clear.

“Then it’s settled,” Daenerys declared, her steady voice enough to put an end to any further argument. “You will ferry people out of the city and deep into the bay. There will be ships waiting to take them to the edge of the Kingswood. From there, they can join us on the Roseroad and head south. You will leave for the capital tonight, and come to us in one month as we wait south of the city.”

Brienne nodded, as did Sansa. The serving girl scowled at Gendry for another moment, then turned to leave the tent.

“Well, this ought to be fun,” the young man said sarcastically, a smirk on his face. “I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t kill me along the way.”

At this remark, Brienne smiled, remembering another journey that had started in a similar fashion. Her stomach fluttered as she thought of that man, chained in yet another cell, nothing to eat or drink for days on end; how he was likely antagonizing the guards, taunting them and being punished for it. He’d always been a terrible prisoner.

Mother, keep them safe, she silently prayed. All of them.

---

The following day, the refugees were to start their southern journey on the Kingsroad, led by Lord Edmure, his wife, and their son. Sam and Gilly would travel with them, and Lady Lyanna had reluctantly agreed to go as well, but only when Brienne had told her that the refugees needed someone to defend them against any attack they might encounter on the road. In the few sparring sessions they had shared, she had proven her skill with a blade to be better than average, and it made her indispensable to those with whom she’d be traveling. Jaime was right; someday, she would be knocking men into the dust, like another young woman she’d once known.

Over the next two weeks, the refugees would hopefully reach Bitterbridge, putting a safe distance between themselves and the capital. Bran had remained behind with the soldiers, feeling that his presence with the refugees would hold less value than it would to those who meant to fight the commanders.

He had told them that the Army of the Dead was just beginning to converge at the Crossroads, and they only had a few weeks, a month at most, before the undead would strike King’s Landing in full force. The best fighters among the living had chosen to remain behind and rest as they awaited word of the refugees, then planned to travel south, so that once the city was decimated, they could strike the Night King’s commanders with full force.

Sansa had held her close in a tight farewell that morning, and Brienne had returned it with an equal amount of emotion. She shoved away the thought that it might be the last time she ever saw the young woman, and pulled back to look at her, memorizing the soft smile that reached her blue eyes the way Lady Catelyn’s had done. Sansa brushed away her tears when she mounted her horse, glancing behind her with grace.

“You love them like they’re your own.”

The young woman rode away, and for a moment, Brienne also allowed herself to remember the night she walked to stand under a tree, the woman that had become a daughter to her offering her hand to the man she loved. That was when she’d understood that family wasn’t necessarily formed by blood; it was born out of respect, and laughter, and love.

She quickly wiped the sudden dampness on her cheeks away, the winter wind lapping at her tears like an overzealous dog as she walked back into the camp, nestling down into her bedroll by the fire. Having met with a truly atrocious headache as she thought of what the days ahead might bring, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

---

The hours of light they had to operate each day were shortening in length, and the air grew colder as the dead marched south. Though the chill had little effect on her, she noted the marked toll it took on those around her, especially Podrick. Ever since the departure of Lady Mormont, and without Gendry to talk to, he’d said hardly a word to her, stirring their fire and removing her armor each night without speaking. So, she gave him important tasks to complete to keep his mind off things, like helping the smiths with the dragonglass, or giving Bronn a hand as he tried to recreate Qyburn’s contraption. The newfound sense of purpose Podrick discovered in these tasks worked like a charm, and before long he was smiling almost as much as he normally did.

She’d be lying, though, if she said that searching for things the young man could do was entirely meant to distract him; it also kept her thoughts away from Jaime.

Bran had said that Jon and Jaime were in the same cell, and she felt a sliver of comfort in the idea that he wasn’t alone, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Cersei was planning something. If she knew Bran had sight, each trick she might use could be veiled to them. No matter what Bran saw occur from afar, he could not prove that everything he watched wasn’t merely a meticulously executed lie, and they all knew it. The boy kept his visions to himself, attempting to sort through them for the sake of everyone.

Two weeks or so after the refugees had left, a council had been called for the remaining officers; Bran said Arya and Gendry had successfully emptied a little over half of King’s Landing, and due to the streets having been less busy as a result of winter, Cersei had thus far been none the wiser. But, with fewer people moving within the city, the Queen would soon learn of their betrayal. The refugees were beginning to arrive in Bitterbridge, as they had hoped, and had met with little in the way of peril on their journey. At this news, everyone sighed with relief.

But then the young man told them that the Army of the Dead had finished rebuilding itself, and was setting out from Darry with nearly twenty thousand more added to its ranks; not only this, but they were only a little over a week away from Brindlewood. Almost every person in the cottage shuddered.

“There was a time when wildfire was a fate we all dreaded,” Ser Addam mused quietly. “Now, it would seem it is our only hope.”

Silence fell around the room at his comment, and the meeting was concluded once Daenerys and Brienne had decided the armies must move south at dawn the next day. They all gradually stood from where they were sitting, leaving the cottage.

“Lady Brienne.”

She turned to look at Bran, who beckoned her with his eyes. Reluctantly, she approached him.

“Arya has found them,” he told her. “Jon and Ser Jaime. Soon she will take a new face. They are unaware of her presence, but she has seen them. They will join us south of the city.”

A wave of relief washed over her body, almost bringing her to her knees as she felt a steadying hand on her arm. She glanced down to see the Dragon Queen staring up at her, fire in her eyes.

“We will win this war,” she murmured. “Rest tonight, Lady Brienne. We have quite the journey ahead of us.”

Brienne nodded, the sickening sense of relief she felt slowly ebbing as she walked to her fire in the camp, Podrick smiling at her as he removed her armor.

---

At first light, Brienne led the army, while Daenerys rode behind them, Drogon soaring overhead. They now had about 37,000 remaining, compared to their original numbers of 20,000 following the Battle of Winterfell. The Lannister armies of King’s Landing and Riverrun had been a welcome addition, and though there were only a few thousand men remaining in the Tully army, it was better to have a few thousand living men fighting alongside them than a few thousand more undead wights.

They traveled for three days, stopping to rest very little as they made their way around the capital and south of its borders. With the Red Keep in sight, Brienne’s thoughts turned to Cersei. The very army she would have sent to meet them as they traveled south now marched at her back as Lady Lannister, and though the thought of little resistance as they moved their massive numbers down the Kingsroad quieted a few of her fears, she was suddenly overcome with pity for the woman. Surely she would try to flee when she saw the Army of the Dead at her doorstep, their dragon breathing flames that could destroy magic itself?

As they set up camp beside the Blackwater Rush that night, the commanders were called at once, and Bran told them that the Army of the Dead had reached the path to Harrenhal on the Kingsroad. In six days’ time, they would reach Brindlewood, as he had predicted. Cersei had seen the armies of the living traveling south, and had barricaded the city gates in response, making the work Gendry and Arya were trying to carry out more difficult.

“They have to be careful now,” Bran explained. “Cersei knows something is happening.”

Brienne found herself deep in thought for the remainder of the night, and not only from the fatigue she felt at how far they’d traveled over the last month and few days. Ser Addam tried to make her smile at dinner, mentioning a few humorous moments from Jaime’s youth, and Podrick did his best to cheer her up at the prospect that Gendry and Arya would soon be returning to them; but with only a few bites of stew in her unsettled stomach, she politely excused herself and retired to her bedroll, trying to swallow the fear that was deliberately eating away at her as she remembered the snow that fell in the godswood at Winterfell.

“I forbid you to die.”

---

A week passed by, and another was reaching its end, as the Army of the Dead approached. No sign had been seen or heard of Gendry or Arya, and Bran was intermittently having trouble seeing them; one day they were there, and the next, they were gone. If anything happened to that girl...

Everyone moved in near silence, as though they could feel the exhale of death in the wind, its claws in the gusts of icy air, its kiss in the snowflakes that fell relentlessly. It was unlike any winter they’d ever seen, and it was only just beginning.

As they all supped that evening, the feeling of nauseating fear returned when Clegane ran up to her, his eyes wide with terror.

“Tarth,” he said through wheezing breaths, “you better come. Quick.”

Normally, she would have smiled at the way he was insisting on using her maiden name, but the urgency in his eyes made her skin crawl. Without hesitation, she set her stew aside and ran beside him to the Queen’s tent.

She was pacing back and forth, her arms crossed in self-protection. At the sight of Brienne, she simply nodded, her mind filled with thoughts. Immediately, Brienne turned to Ser Davos.

“She knows,” he said hurriedly. “Cersei knows we’ve been smuggling people out of the city. Those who remain are starting to panic, and the barricade isn’t making things easier. She’s going to kill the King and Lord Lannister at dawn to squash any chance of an uprising.”

No. No...

“We’re infiltrating the city tonight,” Ser Addam said assuredly. “With any luck, we’ll find them.”

But if Jon and Jaime were still prisoners—

“What of Arya?” she asked brokenly. “She and Gendry were meant to get them out...”

They all exchanged dark looks. It couldn’t be...

“I haven’t seen her in two days,” Bran explained. “Cersei does not seem to know they are there, but somehow they are hidden from my sight. Either they are dead, or they are both using faces I cannot recognize.”

“And what of Lord Tyrion?” Daenerys asked. “Have you seen anything of him?”

At this, Bran fell quiet, before holding up a handful of raven scrolls.

“I have seen, and I have heard,” he murmured. “The Queen was forcing his hand to bring Sansa to the capital, where she planned on imprisoning and beheading her to hurt Lady Brienne. Ser Davos found these in the bag a refugee abandoned at Brindlewood just this morning.”

“Is she safe?” Clegane demanded. “Is she still with the refugees?”

Bran didn’t answer, staring into the flames for a moment as he looked for her.

“She is in the capital,” he finished in a hushed voice, watching something dance between the sparks. “A prisoner of the queen.”

At this, Brienne fell to her knees, a thousand thoughts racing through her head as she dug her fingers into the flesh of her thighs, desperately trying to breathe through the bile in her throat. Why would people among the refugees, with so little of their own, take Sansa to the Queen they all despised?

Of course. They thought they would receive money for the young woman. After all, everyone knew the Lannisters always paid their debts. But there was only one Lannister she was certain had ever lived up to those words, and he’d never paid those debts in gold.

“If Arya’s alive, Sansa is safe,” Clegane said, stepping closer to her. “But we better leave now if they stand a chance.”

“What of the armies?” Ser Addam asked. “Surely they cannot come with us. If Cersei sees them coming, she’ll tell Qyburn to give the order, and the city will be leveled.”

Daenerys shook her head.

“We should take a small number of soldiers tonight, nothing more,” she said, turning to face Grey Worm. “Take thirty of your best men. Her guards will be no match for you.”

“You’ll need more men,” Bran said matter-of-factly.

They all turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in question.

“They are coming,” he explained, his eyes never leaving the flames. “They’ll arrive at dawn.”

At this, everyone froze for only a moment before making themselves scarce, attending to their armies and readying them for what very well could be their last battle. Brienne struggled to her feet, the nausea at the information she’d learned refusing to subside as she hurriedly made her way to the fire, where Podrick was waiting with her armor. He made quick work of it, but she could tell he was struggling with the straps of her breastplate under her arm.

“Hurry,” she softly demanded, her mind too focused on anything but getting into that city and getting the people she loved out in time.

“I’m trying, m’lady,” he said defensively. “The strap, it’s not wanting to stretch far enough. I think it’s shrunk.”

“Well, try harder,” she said, raising her voice a little.

He did as she said, and noted the ache she felt in her chest as he roughly pulled the buckle to meet the hole in the leather strap under her right arm. As he made to bring the one under her left arm together, she gasped in pain as he yanked the strap tight, leaning forward as soon as he was through to vomit her dinner into the grass between her feet.

“I’m sorry, m’lady,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Are you ill?”

She scoffed.

“Of course not,” she ground out. “I’ve done nothing but sit on my ass or a horse for the last month. I’m bound to have gained...”

But that was when she remembered the fatigue. The headaches. The nausea that had become so prominent in the last week. How her breasts were swollen and aching.

Gods, she hadn’t bled in nearly two moons.

“M’lady...?” her squire asked gingerly.

Her wide eyes met his, and she couldn’t bring herself to speak. Men were scurrying about all around her, her squire was looking at her with concern in his features, and she could do nothing to stop any of it. She couldn’t stop the war; couldn’t stop the growth of the babe she now knew was in her womb; couldn’t stop fighting for the living. They needed her steel. Jaime needed her. And Sansa. And Arya.

But suddenly, someone else needed her. And the feeling terrified her more than anything she'd ever known.

Tears pricked behind her eyes as she stood, her hand briefly resting below her belly as she thought of it, before buckling Oathkeeper around her waist. If the babe managed to survive the fighting, she would be a mother. Jaime would be a father again. He’d get the chance to actually be a father.

But only if he lived to see the sun rise. Only if there was a future.

Fuck.

The tears were running down her face now; another thing she couldn’t stop. Angrily, she wiped them away as she walked toward the horses. They’d been so reckless at Harrenhal. Of all people, they should have known better.

“M’lady, you cannot mean to fight,” Podrick said quietly. “Not if...”

She stopped in her tracks and turned around, her mouth open in surprise.

“How did you—”

“I’m your squire, m’lady,” he said, a gentle smile on his face. “I can always tell when you’re... You know. And you haven’t for almost two months. I’ve suspected for a week or two.”

Frowning, she stepped toward him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered, feeling betrayed somehow.

The young man looked at the ground, ashamed.

“I didn’t want to make things harder for you.”

She felt her frown disappear, and only hesitated for a moment before she pulled him close instead. He went stiff at first, then softly patted her back as she leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone,” she said, her tone laced with intention. “Not even Jaime. If he knew, and something were to happen....”

She couldn’t bear to think of it, much less say the words. Not after everything he’d lost.

“You have to promise me, Pod,” she reiterated, tightening her grip on him. “Please...”

The lad said nothing for a few seconds, and then she felt him nod.

“I promise, m’lady.”

Attempting to smile, she backed away and turned to put a foot into her stirrup, but his hand grabbed her arm.

“Mount your horse,” she demanded, giving him a pointed look. “We’re leaving for the city immediately.”

The poor lad had never looked so distressed, but he did as he was told, mounting his steed and taking off toward the center of the camp. She trotted toward them all, unable to think of anything except the fact that if she didn’t fight, Jaime would have no chance. She wouldn’t have a chance. No one would.

No chance, and no choice.

She followed them toward the city, the Unsullied soldiers riding beside them, spears in hand, as she fought hard to swallow the tears that tried to fall.

---

They had found the opening of the sewers easily enough, though they only used the light of the moon in order to travel unseen. As silently as they could, they entered the tunnels.

Guards were waiting for them just inside, but five or six men of the City Watch were no match for the Unsullied they’d brought with them. The men were slaughtered, and their bodies were dumped into the mouth of the bay so as not to raise alarm. But, if the exit Arya and Gendry had been using to smuggle people out of the city was guarded, that meant—

“This way,” Ser Davos whispered, and the forty or so of them took off down the tunnel after him.

They split into groups as they emerged from the sewers and into the city, but had yet to stumble across anyone. In fact, the streets were eerily deserted.

“M’lady, come with me,” Ser Davos murmured, and together they took off toward the keep. Podrick and Clegane went with them as they moved in the darkness, their presence hardly noted by anyone. Somehow, though, as they hurried down the streets of the city, she still felt that they were being watched.

A raven cawed nearby, and she looked to see it blink at her, and tilt its head. She froze on the spot, the men running back to her when they noticed she’d fallen behind.

“What is it?” Clegane growled.

She tilted her head in the direction of the raven, and it blinked once more before flying high, up to what seemed to be the dungeon. The four of them exchanged a look, then nodded, taking off for the keep. If Bran was willing to lead them, they would follow.

They came upon Grey Worm, who was flanked by four other Unsullied soldiers. Davos beckoned to them as they made their way down into a passage, the former smuggler leading them into the cellars below the keep.

It was here that they lit a single torch and handed it to Davos, partially illuminating the room and the dragon skulls around them. Brienne thought of the babe in her womb, realizing that come morning, not only might dragons no longer exist, but all evidence of them would have likely passed into memory, as Old Valyria had. The idea brought fresh tears to her eyes as they hurried through the room, heading for the stairs on the far side.

There was a guard at the entrance to the cellar, who was quickly taken care of and hidden well enough out of sight. Davos led them as silently as possible down the corridor and through the Black Cells. As they passed the locked doors, the Unsullied looked at Davos and Brienne, waiting for permission. They nodded, and the soldiers broke open every cell they passed without hesitation, Podrick swinging the doors open and ushering the people out.

“Do what you can to free the others,” Davos told the prisoners. “Then take the cellars to the sewers, and get out of the city.”

The men and women nodded. Davos led them to the tower staircase, and as they ascended, they heard the rattle of keys. They stopped all movement as Davos brought half of a finger to his lips, indicating their need to listen.

As they stood there, the sound of keys unlocking a cell door on the next level urged them to continue up the stairs and onto the second floor of the dungeons. They expected to see guards escorting prisoners away, but instead, saw no one.

Then, as one of the cells opened from the inside, they saw a young man step into the light of their torch holding a ring of keys, and a young woman Brienne didn’t recognize. As the girl turned to see them, she smiled with relief, running to throw her arms around Brienne's neck.

“I knew you’d come,” she said in Brienne’s ear.

Instantly knowing the voice, she wrapped her arms around Arya, squeezing her tightly in response. For a fraction of a moment, she felt a flutter in her belly as she held the woman, thankful she was alive.

“We’ve been hiding in the cells,” Gendry said, removing the face that he wore to expose a smug smile. “Once they posted guards by the sewers, we figured the easiest thing to do would be to stay in plain sight until dark.”

Davos stepped forward immediately, pulling the young man close and patting him on the back. Arya backed away, removing her face.

“I’m sure Bran didn’t know where we were,” she explained, glancing at Gendry. “They were starting to notice him, so we both had to change our faces.”

“How many people are still in the city?” Brienne asked.

The two looked at one another, disappointment written on their features.

“About 75,000 are left,” Gendry told them. “The rest have made it to the Kingswood.”

Brienne pressed her eyes closed at this.

“It is too many,” Grey Worm declared. “Too many people.”

“The dead are arriving at dawn,” Davos said in a hushed voice. “We can’t save them all, but we can try.”

He turned to look at Brienne, Arya, and Podrick.

“Go find Lady Sansa,” he told them. “Take Grey Worm and two Unsullied with you. The rest of us will keep evacuating the city.”

The women nodded, but Clegane stepped forward.

“I’ll find the little bird,” he said roughly, scowling at Arya. “You go and get the King.”

Arya met Brienne’s gaze, and she nodded at the young woman, who faced the Hound at once.

“They’re keeping her in the Lord Commander’s chambers,” she told him, “but she’s heavily guarded. You’ll need more men.”

Clegane rolled his eyes, taking off down the corridor. Grey Worm gestured to two of the Unsullied soldiers, who jogged after him.

Arya turned to Gendry as Davos made to return to the cellars, taking the ring of keys out of his hand.

“Try not to get yourself killed,” she almost pleaded. “Use the face if you have to.”

The young man smiled down at her.

“I’ll do my best, m’lady.”

And with that, he followed Davos down the corridor and out of sight. Arya took a deep breath before turning to look at them.

“Come,” she commanded.

Brienne and Podrick obeyed at once, and Grey Worm fell into stride behind her, two of his men with him.

They made their way back to the staircase, climbing them two at a time as they hurried to the first level of the dungeon. All of the cells were seemingly unoccupied, their doors wide open.

All but one.

They could feel the chill of the winter air in the corridor as Arya donned her face again, running ahead to see if any guards had been posted. She looked back at Brienne, nodding her head in confirmation as she took the ring of keys, selecting the one she needed. Glancing over her shoulder just to be sure they were alone, she inserted the key and turned it, opening the door and stepping inside.

Brienne saw Jon first, who stood at the sight of them, his back against the wall as though he were expecting a blow. His hair was windblown, and he had lost a lot of weight, but other than a few scratches, he was fine.

He looked shocked as the young woman he'd never seen before wrapped her arms around him.

“Jon, it’s me,” she whispered.

Recognition flitted through his brown eyes.

“Arya...” he murmured, his arms slowly weaving themselves around her.

That was when Brienne saw him. His dark blonde hair was matted with blood, his face was bruised where his nose had been broken at least once, and his lip was split. He was huddled in the corner by the door, his thin body shivering violently in the freezing cell despite how his cloak was wrapped around him.  

But his sea-green eyes were staring up at her like he’d never seen her before, his pale face scrunched up in confusion as she carefully knelt in front of him.

“Brienne...?” he rasped.

Notes:

This chapter was by far one of the hardest I've written, simply because so much happens and so much time passes. I really hope you enjoyed it, because I put a *LOT* of my soul into writing this guy.

From the moment I started writing this story back in January (before I even started posting it), I read about the 'no chance, and no choice' moment Brienne has in the books, and I immediately knew how I wanted to incorporate it. I stand by how I used it, and credit GRRM for the amazing quote.

I might get some hate for making a pregnant female choose between fighting and her child, but let's be real; if Brienne wants any sort of future for her child, she has to risk losing it so that she can fight for that future.

As always, thank you SO MUCH for your comments and kudos! This story means the world to me, and I'm more than thrilled to see it through to the end in the next six or seven chapters.

Next chapter is Jaime's POV.

Chapter 25: Blood - Jaime XIII

Summary:

The company fight to escape.

Notes:

(If you want the true vision I had for the end of the chapter, start listening to 'You Know Nothing' from the Season Three soundtrack at the *. It's what I listened to as I wrote it.)

The first few days in the bitterly cold cell were easy; to conserve their strength, the two men had ceased any conversation, not even speaking when the guards brought them the little bread and water Cersei had made available to them.

Those days were simple. Despite how they shivered in the night, at least it was straightforward.

Things became complicated when, near the end of the first week, they had dragged him out of the cell, thrown him before his little brother, and beaten him bloody on Cersei’s orders. Tyrion begged them to stop, and tried to look away, but he soon learned that every time he looked away, they would only hurt his older brother more.

Cersei was trying to force Tyrion’s hand to write the refugees traveling south, among whom she’d already planted a few of her ‘birds’. At first, she’d thought about asking for Brienne’s head, but she easily steered from that prospect to another, more horrifying option.

Sansa Stark.

After everything the young woman had been through, Sansa could handle whatever cruelty Cersei threw at her, Jaime was sure of it.

“I don’t think you know many girls like her.”

To Brienne, however, it would be a blade to the heart. She’d see it as failure to protect someone she loved; her own version of the Seventh Hell. And Cersei knew it.

“Tyrion,” Jaime stammered, spitting a mouthful of blood against the floor in front of his knees, “you don’t have to do this. Whatever happens—”

“l’m not giving him a choice,” Cersei bit out.

Suddenly, he felt a rush of pain in his skull as Gregor Clegane’s cold, dead hand pulled his head back by his hair, forcefully pouring a vial of something down his throat. The Mountain released him as quickly as he’d grabbed him, and Jaime felt his eyes go wide at the realization of what had happened. Tyrion panicked.

“Please,” he pleaded, tears thick in his voice as he turned to his sister. “You don’t have to do this.”

“No, I don’t,” she explained calmly, pouring a glass of wine. “You could send a few ravens instead.”

Jaime could already feel his vision wavering as he fell on his side, trying to sit up as his breaths shortened, his dizziness promptly bringing his head to the floor.

“Cersei...” he struggled to say.

This was how it would end for him, he was sure of it. Just as he’d finally found where he truly belonged, and freed himself of his wretched sister, he would die on her orders.

His body felt like he’d been dipped in wildfire, and he screamed as he felt what had to be his flesh melting from his bones. It made the torture Qyburn had put him through at Harrenhal seem like child’s play.

In his pain, he remembered one single command as his world faded to black.

“I forbid you to die.”

---

When he came to, he was shivering fiercely against the icy floor of the cell, the King hovering over him.

“My lord...?”

Jaime could only moan, rolling over onto his side to face away from the King as he vomited his soul onto the stones beside him. Jon placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it ever so carefully before Jaime finished his assault on the floor and tried to sit up, his head swirling and his chest heaving.

“What happened?”

Turning to look at the King, he winced, trying to recall the last thing he could.

“She poisoned me,” he said breathily. Gods, his throat hurt. “She wants Tyrion to send for Sansa.”

Jon’s eyes filled with fear, his lips parted in shock.

“And did he?”

Jaime shuddered, pulling his cloak closer around his shoulders as he scooted himself over to the wall, away from the pile of his own making.

“If I’m alive, then yes,” he confirmed, “Tyrion did her bidding.”

Jon pressed his eyes shut at this. The silence was suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime said, guilt in his voice. “He should have let me die.”

“And what good would that do anyone?” the King asked, opening his eyes to frown at him. “You’re worth more to us alive than dead, Lord Lannister.”

Jaime chuckled spitefully.

“Not many people share the same opinion, Your Grace.”

Jon smiled a little.

“Then they’re fools,” he declared with pride. “I’d take a loyal man over a brave one any day.”

The honesty in the young man’s voice left him speechless, and for a long moment, Jaime simply sat there, looking at him.

“You’re not used to people saying good things about you, are you, my lord?” the King said with a chortle.

Jaime didn’t respond, pulling his cloak more tightly around himself as he leaned his head back against the wall.

“If any harm comes to Sansa...” Jaime closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, unable to finish his thought aloud.

“Sansa is a survivor,” Jon assured him. “Whatever Cersei plans to do to her, it cannot be worse than what she’s already been through.” Jaime noticed the way the King smirked slightly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Sansa somehow turned the situation in her favor. She’s certainly clever enough.”

At this, Jaime cocked an eyebrow.

“You care about her.”

Jon’s smirk fell, and he stared at Jaime for a few breaths.

“Do you think they’ll come?” Jon asked, changing the subject.

Jaime felt his face contort in confusion.

“Surely Bran has seen what’s happened,” Jon explained, bringing his knees into his body with a sigh. “It’s only a matter of time, isn’t it?”

The idea that Brienne would risk her life to rescue him hadn’t even crossed his mind until now.

“If they have enough sense, they’ll stay away,” he murmured. “But I doubt it.”

They sat in silence, but Jaime could hear the King’s thoughts whirring around.

“Do you think they know about it?” Jon asked. “The wildfire?”

Jaime shrugged.

“Bran probably knows about it,” he said thoughtfully, “but they’ll never evacuate the city in time. Not if Cersei has anything to do with it.”

The King bowed his head, his eyes shut tight against what must have been defeat.

---

The second week of their imprisonment had passed in much the same fashion as the first; they ate and drank what little they were given, kept mostly to themselves, and huddled together in the corner at night as they grit their teeth against the cold. His stump ached relentlessly, and he recalled words that had been said what seemed like a lifetime ago.

“You need to live. To take revenge.”

When Sansa was brought to the capital at the beginning of their third week, Gregor Clegane had thrown Jaime at the young woman’s feet, weak and half-frozen. He looked up at her, and though her beautiful face did not betray her, those blue eyes spoke to him, commanding him into silence.

“Why have you brought me here?” she demanded, her voice laced with fear he only recognized in the old Sansa; the younger, naïve, unblemished girl she’d once been.

Cersei smirked at her, holding a glass of wine.

“Oh, little dove,” she whispered, stepping forward to brush a finger across Sansa’s cheek. “How I have missed seeing your sweet face.”

Sansa glanced down at Jaime, a glint in her eyes. She knew why she’d been brought here, and yet proceeded to play Cersei like the sour violin she’d become. Jaime had no doubt that the young woman was already two steps, if not three, ahead of his sister.

“And how I have missed your kindness, Your Grace,” she said evenly. “You were always gracious to me. The Boltons... Ramsay, he...” She swallowed hard, false tears forming behind her eyes as she attempted to show a fresh wound Jaime knew had already transformed into an old scar. “He was a monster.”

Cersei froze, her eyes narrowing.

“Worse than Joffrey?” she asked breathily. “I find that hard to believe.”

The young woman smiled.

“It’s true, Your Grace,” she admitted, a little truth in her tone. “The girl who knew your son would never have imagined feeding him to his own hounds, despite all he did to me.”

He saw Cersei’s eyebrows lift the way they always did when she was pleasantly surprised.

“Is that how you killed him, then?” she asked, sounding impressed. “Not even I could have imagined something as brutal as that.”

Jaime watched as Cersei sipped her wine in quiet admiration. Sansa simply smirked.

“Years ago, someone taught me that the best weapon I could ever use was between my legs,” Sansa said, a hint of sweetness in her voice. “I’m a slow learner, but I learn. I watched and waited with patience, Your Grace. I had plenty of time to plan his death.”

Cersei all but grinned to herself, deep in thought. After a moment, she gestured to the Mountain, who brutishly pulled Jaime to his feet.

“Take Ser Jaime back to his cell,” she said, her eyes never leaving Sansa. “My plans have changed.”

Jaime’s eyes flew to Sansa, but the young woman didn’t look at him. She was too busy smiling demurely at his sister. He said nothing as he was dragged from the room, curious to know what plan the eldest Stark had in place for them all.

---

Toward the end of their fourth week being held in the capital, Jaime was brought before his brother once more, but this time, Cersei gave the command of his torture over to Sansa. As the Mountain kicked him in his already bruised ribs, and knocked his gloved fist across his face, Jaime bit back the pain as he blindly trusted the unknown plot Sansa was carrying out. He trusted her even as he could feel Gregor Clegane tearing his tunic in half and lashing him as she told him to do so, crying out only when the whip licked his skin from his back. Tyrion was begging her to stop, but if he was playing along or actually meant it, Jaime couldn’t be sure. Probably both.

He knew it was supposed to be a test; to see if Sansa truly did respect Cersei. He knew his sister well enough to know that if Sansa could hurt someone as she had been hurt, someone that mattered most to the person who was loyal to her, it would prove the young woman’s own loyalty belonged to no one... A feeling Cersei enjoyed herself.

As two of the guards lifted the arms of his beaten body to drag him away, Jaime looked at Sansa, and noticed how her face was filled with a stony bitterness he could almost taste, but her eyes were alight with a familiar flame.  

“A complication does not release you from a vow.”

He said nothing, but silently willed her to know that he didn’t blame her for this. For any of it.

Better me than her.

---

As he was dragged toward the dungeon once more, Jaime saw a serving girl inspecting him with curiosity, but could hardly think about it twice before he was dropped on his stomach in the cell, his cloak tossed unceremoniously onto the floor beside him. The King hurried over, inspecting his back.

“Gods...” was all the young man said as he covered him first with his groomscloak and then his own, heavier fur cloak. Jaime almost smiled when he remembered with some degree of comfort that the King had said Sansa had made his cloak, but the feeling passed as soon as he realized that both cloaks would likely have his blood on them by now.

He drew himself to his knees about an hour later, pulling his groomscloak around his shoulders with difficulty. Without a word, Jon knelt beside him, fastening the buckles at his shoulders.

“Your Grace...” Jaime mumbled, the beginnings of protest on his lips.

“I won’t hear it,” was all the King said, helping him to move to the corner behind the door. Jon had recently discovered it was the warmest place in the cell, especially once night had fallen.

When Jaime had told Jon of Sansa’s behavior, he’d smiled, nodding at him.

“Aye,” he agreed. “She has a plan, and she knows how to play the game better than anyone I know, even your little brother. Something tells me Euron Greyjoy won’t be returning to Westeros anytime soon, and she knows it.”

Jaime tried to smile back, but felt his strength fading. The last time he’d felt this atrocious he’d been in a bathtub, wrapped in arms whose touch was stronger, yet so much gentler, than Cersei’s.

How he wished he could feel those arms now.

---

The next evening, they came back for him, but they also took the King with them. Cersei explained that the people had seen the armies of the living pass by the city the previous week, and that they were starting to whisper about an uprising in response to the continued city lockdown. To kill those whispers, Sansa had counselled her to behead both men at dawn where the sept once stood.

Jaime saw the way Jon looked at Sansa from the moment they had been brought into the room, and couldn’t ignore that, though he was pleading for her mercy, there was something in the young man’s eyes that said something else entirely. At first, Jaime didn’t recognize it on the face of someone else, but he knew the emotion behind it well.

As the King put on a show for the guards, struggling as they brought him to his feet, Jaime discerned what Jon tried to convey to Sansa in his eyes; his trust, his pride, his hope. Jaime was too tired to fight against them, but based on how brightly those blue eyes burned at them, something told him he would still have a head come sunrise the following day.

What he certainly hadn’t expected was to be woken from his shivering slumber in the corner by another pair of blue eyes he knew so well.

“Brienne...?” he rasped.

She smiled her small smile, and he knew she was as real as the stones beneath him. She was kneeling in front of him, and as she cupped his face with her hands, he felt every wound, every festering cut on his back hush their protest as he threw his arms around her, her arms welcoming him with their gentle strength as he shuddered against her. He pressed his face into her neck, the salty smell that reminded him of the sea soothing him instantly.

“I’m here,” she crooned into his hair, bringing a hand to his head. “I’ve got you.”

All he could do was breathe her in, reveling in her warmth.

“They’ve got Sansa,” he heard Jon say. “She’s been planning—”

“We know,” Arya cut in. “That’s why we’re here. The dead are arriving at dawn.”

Jaime could barely make out the rest of the conversation as Brienne stood, bringing him to his feet, her arms never leaving him.

“Come,” Grey Worm told them all. “We find the others.”

As everyone else immediately followed him out, Brienne tilted her chin up to kiss his forehead, letting her lips linger there for a few seconds before she took his hand, leading him from the cell and after them all.

They were heading for the Lord Commander’s chambers when they were nearly knocked over by a small group of people, rounding a corner at breakneck speed.

“Shit!” he heard Clegane grunt.

Without warning, Jaime felt a pair of lithe arms fly around his neck, red hair brushing against his face.

“Forgive me,” Sansa murmured against his ear. “I had no choice...”

He held the young woman close, his hand going to her head as he stroked her hair with his thumb.

“I know, my lady,” he said, his breath heavy from running. “I know.”

Jon stepped beside them, and she let go of Jaime to wrap her arms around the King, who held her as though his life depended on it.

“I’m sorry, Jon” she told him. “I’m so sorry...”

“Found these on the way,” Clegane announced, holding up Longclaw and Summer Sun, which their owners gratefully took from him. Jaime let Brienne buckle it around his waist as he listened.

“Theon and his men should be here tonight,” Sansa explained. “He wrote to me before I was taken. Euron is dead, and they’re going to use all of the remaining ships they have to ferry more people to the Kingswood. Whoever you’ve sent to the sewers will be met with boats.”

Nearly everyone sighed with relief at this, but—

“Where’s Tyrion?” Jaime asked.

He was met with blank faces, which told him exactly where he’d find his brother.

“We have to take Cersei with us too,” Arya said, acknowledging their unspoken answer. “If we don’t, the city won’t be safe.”

Jon nodded at this statement.

“Follow me.”

As they made their way through the castle and to Cersei’s chambers, they came across only a handful of guards who met with merciful, quick deaths. They poured into the courtyard, the map Cersei had the city’s best cartographer paint on its stones covered in at least an inch of moonlit snow.

There, in the halls surrounding the yard outside Cersei’s chamber, were nearly twenty Queensguard. A gargantuan, foreboding shadow glinted in the torchlight, meaning the Mountain was among them.

Grey Worm and the Unsullied attacked first, followed by Clegane, and before Jaime was aware of it, he had drawn Summer Sun and was fighting with everything he had left in him. The sound of Oathkeeper meeting steel beside him gave him a little more strength, but only just.

Working together, they killed guard after guard, blood spattering all over the map as their dancing feet disturbed the snow upon it. The Hound and his brother were engaged in their own combat, a struggle of which neither one nor the other would likely see the ending. Out of the corner of Jaime’s eye, he saw Grey Worm fall to his knees, clutching his side as Jaime turned to thrust his sword through the back of the young man’s assailant.

They had slain every Lannister guard present, only the Mountain remaining, when—

“STOP THIS!” a voice shrieked.

They all turned to see Cersei bracing Sansa against her, a dagger at the young woman’s throat. Nobody moved, stillness immediately encompassing the room.

“Stop this now or she dies!” Cersei repeated, pressing the blade more deeply than necessary to make a point.

Sansa’s eyes were calm, betraying no fear as she raised her hands in the air, a sign of surrender. For a fleeting moment, Jaime looked at Brienne; not even when they had faced the Army of the Dead together had he ever seen that sort of terror in her eyes. The night air was suddenly colder than the blood of the men on their doorstep.

But then a pair of hands appeared from behind Cersei, wrapping around her pretty white throat as Sansa grabbed the hand holding the dagger, managing to only receive a small slice across her cheek as she escaped the blade. She stepped aside, and they all stood rooted to the spot as they watched Theon Greyjoy choke the life from Cersei.

“You should never have touched her,” he said softly, almost as though he didn’t want to kill her. “You didn’t have to...”

The Mountain made to step forward and swing his sword against Theon, but the Hound met his sword with his own.

“Not this time, brother,” he ground out, forcing the Mountain back. “You’re mine, now.”

Amidst the chaos, Jaime saw Qyburn emerge from the chamber behind Cersei, and he made to get away, no doubt to give the order to destroy the city—

But Sansa was quicker, wrenching the dagger from Cersei’s grasp and grabbing the old man’s robes as she sliced open his throat. He choked for a moment, clawing at his neck, before falling forward onto his knees. As his chest hit the floor, the red flowers that bloomed from his wound watered the map below him.

“Jaime...” a voice struggled to say.

He saw Cersei had fallen to her knees, Theon on his knees in front of her, her eyes red and bulging as she reached out to him, begging him to save her, but the fear in her eyes wasn’t enough to move him. Even so, he couldn’t look away. Surely he should do something. Why wasn’t he doing anything?

Out of nowhere, Sansa screamed as Theon glanced down to see the point of the sword that had been thrust through his chest. Cersei crumpled onto her side, unconscious, as Theon turned to see who had done it—

Only to see Tyrion standing in the doorway of the chamber, holding the pommel of the sword, tears streaming down his face as he withdrew it.

Jaime watched in horror as Sansa fell to her knees, holding Theon against her as one of the Unsullied soldiers restrained Tyrion. Brienne ran to Sansa, kneeling beside the young woman as she sat on the ground, cradling the Greyjoy lad’s head against her chest as she sobbed, telling the young man that he would be fine as she held him tight, snow gathering in her beautiful red hair.

He heard Jon’s familiar shout nearby, and turned to see a dozen or so more Lannister guards streaming into the courtyard as Grey Worm struggled to his feet—

Brienne stood to protect Sansa, wielding Oathkeeper as Podrick fought to defend the Unsullied soldier that had refrained from the fight to clutch Tyrion’s arms behind his back. The rattle of steel and the shouts of men and women echoed throughout the courtyard as every person holding a sword fought with whatever they had left. Jaime heard the Hound cry out as he stumbled to his knees, the Mountain about to swing the final blow, but his blade met that of a much smaller sword, Arya stepping between the two men so that the Hound could stagger back to his feet. Within the span of a minute or so, the number of guards that had come into the yard had dwindled to just a few men.

They had a chance, he realized. They just might make it out of this alive.

“Get the Queen,” Jon commanded, and an Unsullied soldier immediately went to Cersei, throwing her over his shoulder. “Take them to the sewers. We have to get out of the city!”

The Unsullied soldier carrying his sister did as he was told, and the one restraining his brother followed.

The Mountain roared as he fell to his knees beside his brother, their faces covered in blood, their chests heaving.

Jaime fought his way to Brienne’s side, turning to look at Sansa.

“Go with them,” he told her, and Sansa leaned down over Theon, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she choked back a sob, laying his body on the ground before standing and nodding at them both. She turned the corner and was gone.

Glancing around to see how they were faring, Jaime noticed Podrick doing his best to hold off one of the remaining Queensguard, but as Podrick lunged, the guard made to strike—

A blow that sung against Summer Sun, as Jaime leapt between the lad and the guard. He made quick work of the man, swinging his sword into the man’s shoulder and pulling it through to his neck, blood spurting as he drew his sword from the man’s throat. Turning around to face Podrick, who nodded in gratitude, he caught Brienne’s eye, and saw the small smile on her face.

*That was when he felt the sword enter his chest, the cold steel an unwelcome presence as it pierced his heart; he heard his wife scream his name; heard the monstrous grunt of the Mountain behind him as he withdrew his sword. Jaime turned to see Gregor Clegane fall to his knees, his head toppling from his shoulders as his body collapsed to the ground. The Hound fell beside his brother, his eyes glazing over as he smiled, greeting death like an old friend as his wounds finally took him.

Jaime felt her arms go around him, cushioning his fall as his chest begin to fill with warmth. In that instant, he vividly saw his mother’s face. Joanna. Her green eyes and dark blonde hair. He smiled as he heard her laugh, the sound mingling with the chimes she’d hung in the window of his chamber as she waltzed him around the room on her hip, her hair swinging softly in the breeze.

“Jaime...” he heard Brienne whisper.

His eyes met her blue ones. They were as breathtaking as the waters he could see around Tarth, swirling to greet his toes as he stood in the sand. He could taste the salt of the waves in her tears, reaching up to touch her face as she cradled him. The woman he loved.

The warmth kept spreading, but he could only see her. It had only ever been her.

“Brienne...” he began, choking a little as the pressure in his chest became overwhelming.

Suddenly, he could see them too. They were swimming around in the waves that were now lapping at his feet, their freckled faces and blonde hair shining in the sun, their blue eyes full of joy as they held out their arms to him, begging him to join them in the water. He tried to focus on her eyes. Her astonishing, exquisitely blue eyes. He could drown in them.

He would.

“Remember the first time we said goodbye...?” he asked with effort.

Brienne looked down at him, her face soaked with tears, nodding as she tried to smile. She swallowed hard.

“At Harrenhal,” she murmured, her voice trembling.

He chuckled a little, a gurgling sound in his throat as he felt the warm waves spread over his feet, saw the hands of their children take his stump, and his hand, pulling him into the waves.

“Say it now,” he breathed. “Say it for me...”

As the sun set over the sea, and he followed them out, now waist-deep in the tide, he felt her shudder against him, pressing his face into her neck as she rocked him in the torchlight. He heard her say it from a distance, the sound of her voice guiding him forward as the waves engulfed him, bringing him home.

“Ser Jaime.”

Notes:

...If you think you're crying, you should have seen me as I wrote it. And please, don't let his death scare you away from the rest of the story. It will all be worth it, I promise. :)

I owe GRRM for the 'stronger but gentler than Cersei' bit, and the 'Tale of the Three Brothers' for the 'greeting death as an old friend' bit.

As always, comments and kudos are the highest form of love for this story and keep me going, especially through chapters like this. It's an honor to be able to share the story my imagination has created with all of you, my readers, in hopes that you enjoy it.

The next chapter is from Brienne's POV. After that, we get a *mystery* POV. (*Gasps!*)

Chapter 26: Tears - Brienne XIII

Summary:

Losses are assessed as the Great War draws to a close.

Arya had been the one to separate them, grabbing her under the arms and pulling her to stand, the young woman’s shout immediately drowned out by a gurgling shriek above them. Brienne had barely registered any of it, watching as his pupils widened in the torchlight, darkness claiming him, the ghost of his familiar half-smile on his face.

She scarcely remembered the flash of blue flames that lit the night sky, watching as Jon lifted Jaime’s body up despite his smaller frame, draping it across his shoulder as they ran like hell for the dungeons. The undead dragon landed atop the highest tower of the keep, and they heard it cry out in the stillness of the city, felt the icy blaze of its breath begin to topple the structures around them—

And all she could think about was Jaime’s weight in her arms. The warm blood that had poured across his chest as he smiled up at her like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Death shouldn’t have made her feel so beautiful.

As they ran through the first floor of the dungeons, she clutched Oathkeeper’s hilt more tightly than she ever had, noticing the way Summer Sun glinted in Arya’s hand. King’s Landing would be demolished in a matter of minutes, and she had no time for grief. Not just yet.

They plunged into the cellar, but this time, she didn’t even think about the dragon skulls surrounding her, or legends, or songs. The ground beneath them shook violently as the keep was undoubtedly set ablaze above them, and they were forced to dodge chunks of the ceiling that fell as they ran for the entrance to the sewers. It was as though the gods themselves had traveled south for their day of reckoning.  

Ser Davos and Gendry were waiting for them at the mouth of the sewers, each of them holding a boat steady on the gravelly beach, their other hand outstretched and beckoning them to hurry. Sansa was waiting in one of the boats, the Unsullied with a still unconscious Cersei and restrained Tyrion in the other. There were a number of other boats out on the water ahead of them, heading for the ships in the bay that bore the sigil of House Greyjoy, but they were filled with only a thousand or so civilians, meaning tens of thousands were still inside the city.

A wave of nausea overcame her at the thought as she took Ser Davos’s hand, climbing into the boat and pulling Sansa close, who had thrown her arms around her the moment she was seated, her tears overcoming her. She felt the young woman pull back after a moment, and Brienne knew her sorrow was written on her face as she saw Sansa frown through her own tears, shaking her head.

“No...” she murmured. “It can’t be...”

Sansa looked past her in horror at something, and Brienne heard Tyrion cry out at what she was sure was the sight of his brother’s body being hoisted into the boat with him. She couldn’t bring herself to turn and see it, allowing the warmth behind her eyes to break through as she heard the clatter of a sword meeting the bottom of their boat. She turned to see Arya sit beside her, the young woman’s small arms reaching around her waist, her small hands fisting in the fabric of her cloak. Brienne saw the wet streaks streaming down the smaller Stark’s face before she buried it in her breastplate, and she let herself hold the young woman as she tried to catch her breath, feeling Sansa’s arms tighten around her once more. Using an arm to hold each sister against her, she rested her cheek against Sansa’s head as her own body shook with sobs.

That was all she could remember. She was later told of what happened as they had rowed away from shore; how the Army of the Dead had poured into the capital; how Daenerys used Drogon’s bright red flames to ignite the wildfire, the screams of the living and the dead filling the brittle air. The Night King had immediately gone after her, sending a spear through the Dragon Queen’s heart, and she fell from Drogon’s back and into the explosion, lost to them all. Following her death, Drogon had cried out, bravely attacking Viserion, their talons and teeth and flames dancing in the wintry sky as the Night King smiled—

Until a well-aimed dragonglass bolt launched from the scorpion just south of the city lanced his heart. Viserion screeched his last, his once again lifeless body tumbling from the sky, the Night King’s glowing blue eyes finally losing their ancient light as he turned to ice, his body shattering as it collided with the rubble below. Drogon had flown away, crying out at the loss of his mother, and hadn’t returned.

Rather than join the refugees on the Greyjoy ships, they rowed their boats south to meet the Blackwater Rush encampment, rejoining their armies. Ser Addam had already returned, and Brienne would never forget the way the man took her in his arms without question at the sight of Jon carrying Jaime’s body, her grief bringing her to her knees by the fire as he held her close, her shudders shaking them both.

“I’m so sorry, my lady,” he said soothingly against her ear, his thumb stroking her hair. “If you have need of anything...”

She groaned into his chest as her hands clutched at his cloak, and he did not move, letting her cry as much as she needed as the snow gathered in her hair. Once her sobs subsided, she pulled back, pressing her hands into her thighs as she tried to breathe, nodding at him gratefully. He stood, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder before he walked away, wiping the dampness from his own face. She, however, couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel... It felt like she was drowning in a pit, trying to claw her way out, scratching at the walls until her fingers bled, but she couldn’t seem to rise.

She was stuck there, in that joyless, hopeless darkness, and no fire could warm her.

Putting her gloved hands on the ground in front of her, she saw the blood that covered them, his blood, and promptly wretched into the snow, the soiled white blanket in front of her a reminder that she was...

Pressing her eyes closed against a new onslaught of tears, she choked against another wave of nausea, trying to take a deep breath but gasping instead.

“Take these, m’lady,” a gruff voice said.

Glancing up, she noticed Ser Davos standing in front of her, a pair of fresh gloves in his outstretched hand. Swallowing hard, she made to remove her own gloves, but her hands were shaking so badly, she could barely grasp them.

She didn’t have to; Ser Davos knelt beside her, avoiding the pile of bile on the snowy ground in front of her, and gently took her hands into his own, pulling the bloodied leather from her fingers. The gesture brought more warmth to her eyes as she thought about her father, and she fought against it harder than she’d fought any battle in her entire life. As she felt her chin began to wobble against her will, a sign of a battle lost, Ser Davos wrapped his arms around her from the side as she clutched his arms, resting her head against his as she sobbed.

“You know, m’lady, it’s easier to let them come,” he said quietly. “They’ll run out eventually. They always do.”

Inhaling deeply, she nodded.

“Thank you,” she said weakly.

He squeezed her shoulder and stood, and she brought herself to her feet, taking in the camp around her.

They had won the war, but had lost so much more. She thought of the tens of thousands of people they couldn’t save, and wiped her face as she realized she should have been rejoicing, like the soldiers she could hear throughout the camp, shouting and singing at the prospect of never having to face another wight again. Breath drew itself in, breath forced itself out. Before she donned the gloves, she ran a hand along her lower belly, a thousand despondent, troubled, and vengeful thoughts flitting through her head.

The crunch of her boots in the snow kept her grounded as she stalked to the heavily guarded tent, the Unsullied stepping aside for her as she entered. Inside, she noticed how Cersei and Tyrion, both of whom were sharing the tent as prisoners, were tied to the poles supporting the structure, their hands bound.

Tyrion stood as he watched her approach, his eyes filled with regret, his cheeks wet from crying. A long moment of silence passed as she stood there, staring down the remaining children of Tywin Lannister; the thoughtless, selfish, broken children of the man who had been the true power behind the throne for decades.

Her eyes flitted to Tyrion, who opened his mouth to speak.

“My lady, I’m so—”

“Theon Greyjoy saved Lady Sansa from a life you are incapable of imagining,” she bit out, tears beginning to pool in her eyes at the memory of how Sansa had held the young man as he choked on his own blood, “and you drove a blade through his heart.”

Tyrion looked down then, his eyes closed.

“I have never done enough for my family,” he explained. “I thought that if—”

“That boy was family to her,” she declared darkly, her cheeks wet once more. “You didn’t see what he was before, or how far he’d come. But I did. And now she’s lost yet another brother to another Lannister. You should be so very proud of yourself.”

The little man’s head tilted to the side as though she’d struck him, but she meant every word.

A rattled noise came from the other side of the tent, and she turned to see a bruised Cersei smiling at her, the laugh that came from her throat sounding more appropriately like the hiss of a snake than the roar of a lion. Brienne furrowed her eyebrows, giving Grey Worm a questioning look.

“Something happen to her,” he said, touching his neck. “She is broken. No speak.”

At this, Brienne strode over to her seated goodsister, kneeling out of arm’s reach of the pole as Cersei stared at her, daring her to say something. For a long moment, Brienne considered the words she wanted to say to this woman; the woman who had ordered her father dead; who had manipulated and used the man she loved; who had given him three beautiful children, and lost all of them.

“I pity you, you know,” Brienne began slowly, the faintest smile curling into her damp cheeks. “When I found out about my father, about Tarth, I told Jaime I didn’t hate you. I still don’t. If it weren’t for you, I’d have never realized I loved him.”

Cersei’s stare had transformed into a sickened expression, opening her mouth to speak, and yet only muted sounds came from her throat.

“I don’t know what happened to you when you were young to make you so cruel, Your Grace,” Brienne pressed on, taking advantage of Cersei’s almost perfect silence. “Children are so rarely born that way, you know. They should lead lives filled with hope and sweetness... Not bitterness and pain, as we have. I hope I can give this one,” she touched her womb, “the childhood it deserves.”

The recognition and fury on Cersei’s face at this news didn’t surprise her, nor did the way she suddenly struggled against the ropes that held her in place.

“But that’s no matter,” Brienne concluded, ignoring the way Tyrion was gaping at her. “I simply came here to tell you that I forgive you.”

Cersei froze then, searching for some sort of hidden meaning in her words. When she realized Brienne was being honest, a glassy sheen filled her eyes, shock crossing her features as Brienne leaned forward, placing a firm hand on her arm. Grey Worm stepped closer to them, anticipating Cersei would do something, but the former queen was too stunned to move.

“I forgive you for everything,” Brienne whispered, meaning every word as the teardrops clinging to the line of her jaw fell at last, “and I’m so sorry for all the pain you’ve had to endure. Truly, I am.”

And she watched as her husband’s twin, the woman who had seen so much from such a young age, had been through what she might have had to go through if she’d been born to a less forgiving father, started to cry. Brienne’s eyes moved to Tyrion then, who was staring at his sister like he’d never seen her before. As Cersei began to cough due to her injuries and her tears, Brienne reached around the woman, softly rubbing her palm in circles on her back until she was through. When she drew back, Brienne noticed the fresh blood that colored her lips and dripped down her chin. Looking around, she saw there were no rags or basins, so she reached beneath her hauberk and her jerkin to untuck her tunic, tearing off a small piece of it and wiping her goodsister’s cheeks dry, then wiping her mouth and chin clean.

The green eyes that were now gazing up at her in wonder were too familiar, and she had to close her own, exhaling as she tried to steady herself.

“Lady Brienne...?” a voice asked.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Arya standing there, Summer Sun’s pommel winking in the torchlight, a concerned expression on her face when the young woman saw the position she was in. Arya opened her mouth, as though to ask her what she was doing, but—

“I’d like to speak with you,” she said instead.

Brienne’s gaze fell back to Cersei, who was still watching her with those green eyes in a way she couldn’t stomach just now. Folding the cloth she’d made from her own tunic, Brienne stood, walking to stand in front of Grey Worm, handing him the cloth.

“She’s going to keep coughing,” Brienne told him, “and it will likely get worse before it gets better.”

Grey Worm nodded, and Brienne followed Arya out of the tent and into the night.

“They’re going to be executed soon,” Arya declared as they strode toward the center of the camp. “Sansa wants him dead.”

Brienne felt a tightness seize her chest at this information, and said nothing rather than speak through the lump that had formed in her throat.

“You don’t want him to die,” Arya said simply, as though she’d been expecting it.

As she walked beside the young woman, she sighed.

“It’s not for me to decide,” she said evenly. “I served your sister before I...”

The abrupt pressure behind her eyes effectively silenced her, and Arya looked at her perceptively.

“Before you were a Lannister.”

She stopped walking then, unable to move any further as her vision blurred, her eyes beginning to dry out from the number of tears she’d shed. As she wiped at them in a vain attempt to see, she heard Arya step closer, taking her right hand and placing Summer Sun’s pommel in her palm, closing her fingers around it.

“Come,” Arya quietly commanded. “You should rest.”

Holding Oathkeeper’s pommel with her left hand, her right clutching Summer Sun, she did as she was bid, too tired to protest as Arya led her into a tent with a fire ready. She wanted to smile when she saw Podrick step forward to remove her armor, the armor he’d given her, but couldn’t bring herself to do so, her emptiness consuming her. Sansa was curled up in a bedroll atop an unfurled tent by the fire, staring into the flames that made the wet paths that had been traced into her cheeks glisten. When Podrick had finished removing her armor, she sat on one of the bedrolls beside Arya, placing Summer Sun in the snow beside her as she unbuckled Oathkeeper’s belt, laying the sword beside its mate.

“It’s yours. It will always be yours.”

“Do you need anything else, m’lady?” Podrick asked under his breath, a knowing look on his face.

“No, Pod,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “Thank you.”

She turned to see Arya lay down next to her, pulling a cloak over her small frame, and she wordlessly followed, lying down to face the young woman as she saw Podrick slip into a bedroll nearby.

“I heard what you told Cersei,” Arya explained. “About the baby.”

Brienne felt her eyebrows rise at this, and half-expected more tears to fall, but Davos had been right; after so much grief, she could scour every bone, every drop of blood in her body, yet she doubted she would find another tear to shed.

She nodded, confirming the young woman’s statement. Arya smirked.

“A lion cub,” she murmured, her smirk becoming a genuine smile as her eyes fell halfway down the cloak that covered them. “Or will it be a wolf pup?”

“Both,” Sansa’s voice said from the other side of the fire. “It shouldn’t have to choose.”

She could hear the pain in the young woman’s voice, realizing that she was thinking about Theon, and how he’d always struggled to separate his Stark loyalties from those of his own house. Brienne sighed, allowing her exhaustion to pour over her as she closed her eyes.

“Both,” she agreed, feeling Arya take her hand into her own beneath the cloak as sleep finally embraced her.

---

They watched from the high table as Dunk partnered with nearly every young woman in the hall, taking full advantage of the first feast of the season. A tourney had been held to celebrate a return to yet another summer, and he’d won the joust; of course the ladies were clambering over themselves to dance with the hero of the hour.

Brienne noticed the way that he smiled his charming smile at the dark-haired beauty with which he was dancing, and couldn’t help the warmth that filled her chest as she turned to see the same smile on her husband’s face, his hand holding her own atop the table as he watched. He met her eyes and lightly squeezed her fingers, before catching a glimpse of something that made his smile fade.

“What is it?” she asked.

He tilted his head in the direction he was looking, and she saw Joanna standing in the middle of a group of young men, laughing with them all as she sipped her wine. No doubt many of them were the very boys she had bested in the melee earlier that day, judging by the way she had one of them hold her cup as she demonstrated a little sparring footwork to one of her new friends, hiking her skirts up almost to her knees. Brienne nearly spewed her wine through her nose at the sight, but Jaime just chuckled.

“She’s entirely too much like you,” he murmured, bringing her knuckles to his lips.

Swallowing what she had in her mouth, she turned to him, her eyes wide at this accusation, and he smirked.

“How many of those boys do you think want to ask her for a dance, but are terrified of what she might do if they stepped on her toes?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with delight at the spectacle.  

She hadn’t considered that, gazing back out over the room to see Jo take her cup back from the boy who held it and step away from them all, prowling toward a group of young ladies that had cornered a lad that might have only been two years or so older than her. Based on what she could see of his freckled face, they were saying less than considerate things to him, and he almost flinched when one of them reached out to touch his arm. Memories of her first and only ball crept into her mind, uninvited—

“What is she doing?” Jaime whispered as Jo stepped to the forefront of the flock of vicious hens, saying something with a smirk, an almost icy quality to her face that Brienne hadn’t seen in years, and had certainly never seen in Jo’s warm, blue eyes.

That wasn’t their daughter; it was the complacent glare of Cersei Lannister wearing Jo's face, staring down the young women as she took the lad’s arm, saying something that left the girl at the front of the group in complete shock and embarrassment before leading him to the center of the hall. She stepped in front of her new partner, curtsying more elegantly than Brienne had thought possible as the next song began to play. The boy didn’t move at first, a mixture of terror and bewilderment in his blue eyes, but she raised her eyebrows expectantly, and he immediately bowed, stepping forward to take her hand as the music started its tempo in earnest.

Brienne watched as they danced around the room, smiling to herself as she remembered how someone kind had once taken her hand as she cried, sweeping her into a dance that would forever change the way in which she valued herself. As the young man’s face broke into a smile, and Jo spoke to him, Brienne noticed how much easier their movement became; saw the look in Jo’s eyes turn to surprise as the lad with chestnut red hair said something that she obviously hadn’t expected.

“Fuck,” Jaime muttered under his breath.

She frowned, leaning into him ever so slightly.

“What is it now?” she demanded.

Jaime sighed.

“You do realize who that is, don’t you?” he said, meeting her eyes with a quizzical expression.

She focused on the dancing teenagers once more, and the realization hit her as soon as she saw a sweet face down the table from them smile, raising her cup of wine in their direction, hesitant delight on her features.

“Oh, gods,” Brienne said, her tone of dread contrasting with the gentle smile she gave Lady Roslin in return, raising her cup. Jaime chuckled, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.

“I would have thought you’d be able to spot a Tully from a mile away by now, my lady.”

Brienne opened her eyes to see Arya fast asleep beside her, and the memory of what had happened infiltrated her heart and her blood with a poisonous sting.

Careful not to disturb the young woman, she rolled over, her eyes falling upon their swords before she shut them against the world, hoping for the first time that she wouldn’t dream of them again as she drifted back to sleep.

Notes:

As always, I hope you enjoyed it! :) Out of every single chapter I've written for this story, this was the most difficult for me emotionally, and I was dreading writing it for ages, as I had to recall a very painful experience from my past in order to understand what Brienne is going through. At least I knew it would be the hardest chapter to put into words ahead of time!

I also finally came out of the Tumblr closet and proclaimed my existence to the known universe while also writing a post about taking pride in your work, be it fanfiction or what have you. The URL to that post is https://caffeinatedcna1.tumblr.com/post/183725099508/fanfic-pride. I'll be posting previews for the next few (and final) chapters on my Tumblr, as well as more in-depth commentary on the chapters once they're through. I may even open an ask box once I'm finished with the story. :) And yes, there will be another Jaime/Brienne story once this one is through, though it may take a little longer to write, and may be a bit shorter. It's AU, too!

Last, but absofreakinlutely NOT least, thank you SO MUCH for all your comments, your support, your love, your kudos, and your general amazingness. I have been floored by the support of this community, and I am absolutely thrilled that so many of you love this story. Thank you thank you thank you!

Chapter 27: Thought - Jon

Summary:

The end of the Great War affects Jon Snow in more ways than he imagined.

He’d been staring into the flames for what felt like hours, the first dawn following the war bringing a cold, unfeeling light into the tent. Suddenly, he was entirely too conscious of the body now resting on the table nearby that once held a map of lands now ravaged by death.

“...You are a gifted leader. You’re wasted in the North, Your Grace.”

Jon almost smiled to himself at the recollection of those words, said by a man who had every reason to doubt him after a lifetime of serving unworthy kings. But now he could only hear the truth in them, and there were no other leaders anymore. Only him.

He rubbed a weary hand down his face, thinking back to the hours he had spent in a freezing cell with Jaime Lannister. They’d talked of his grandfather, of Ygritte; he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly talked to anyone about her, not even Tormund.

And now Daenerys was gone. Apart from the fact that he had once thought himself in love with her, she was also his last living Targaryen blood relative next to the wife of the very man he’d brought back with them.

Ser Jaime Lannister. One of the few people he’d found he could trust. As much as he trusted Ser Davos, he knew he’d never accept his offer to be Hand of the King. The man had already refused him once, saying that he would gladly advise him as a friend and a knight, but he couldn’t take the heartbreak that had accompanied those moments when his advice fell on deaf ears, as they so often had with Stannis. It was an explanation Jon had accepted with a suppressed smile and an understanding nod, but the rejection had stung more than he’d let on at the time.

The unnerving fact still remained that he was so inexperienced when it came to being in a position of absolute power; he knew he needed guidance. He craved it like Northern air.

He needed the man on the table to not be dead so he could talk to him.

“M’lor— I mean, Your Grace,” a voice stammered.

Jon looked at the opening of the tent to see Lady Brienne’s squire standing in the dim light of morning, snow on the fur of his cloak, dark circles under his eyes as he bowed his head. Smiling at the young man, he nodded, gesturing to the empty space on the bedroll beside him. Podrick stepped inside, but tensed when he saw Lord Lannister’s body lying upon the table.

“You haven’t burned him yet?” he asked.

Jon shrugged, bringing himself to his feet with a groan.

“No need to burn them anymore,” he explained. “Besides, I keep hoping that somehow I’ll turn around and see him sitting there. I could use his confidence right about now.”

Podrick tried to smile at his weak joke, walking over to the table to stare down at him.

“He was a great man,” Podrick said confidently. “Loyal, like his lady.”

“I’d take a loyal man over a brave one any day.”

“You’re worth more to us alive than dead, Lord Lannister.”

Words he’d said to the man weeks ago, before everything had fallen apart. Jon pressed his eyes shut at this, forcing his depleted mind to rest.

“Yes,” Jon agreed. “A great man. A good one, too.”

He examined Podrick, and noticed how exhausted and sullen the poor man seemed.

“How is she?” Jon asked, unsure if he could bear to hear the answer.

The squire took a deep breath.

“I’d like to say she’ll be fine, Your Grace,” he began. “Lady Brienne is strong, and no one doubts that, especially me. But...” Podrick closed his eyes, almost wincing. “I don’t think she’ll be the same after this. And once the...”

He stopped himself short of what he almost said.

“Once what?” Jon asked him softly.

The lad grimaced, as though he carried a great burden.

“I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone,” he said hesitantly, “not even Ser Jaime.”

Despite Podrick’s grave tone, Jon felt a smile spatter across his face. The lad’s devotion to his lady was unyielding, and knowing her, he would expect nothing less.

Silence fell in the tent as Podrick’s gaze fell to the body.

“Why did you bring him?” he murmured. “You could have brought the Hound. Or Prince Theon.”

Jon’s brows furrowed as he realized he hadn’t actually thought about it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess it just made sense at the time.”

Podrick failed at another smile, his face gradually contorting into a frown.

“They say the Red Woman brought you back,” he said, the tone of his voice indicating it was more of a statement than a question. “Do you think... Is there any way that we—that you could...”

The younger man’s eyes met his own in that moment, and Jon shook his head, disbelieving that someone would suggest such a thing.

“I’m no priest,” he told him, “and even if I was, I’d never do that to this man. Not after what it did to me.”

“What do you mean?” Podrick asked, curious.

Jon sighed, uncertain of how to explain it, unused to the words.

“It changed me,” he elaborated, “turned me into something I never wanted to be. I had done my duty, fulfilled my oaths. I wasn’t happy with the way I was killed, but I was ready for it. When they brought me back—”

“‘They?’ You mean there was more than one?” the squire asked.

Jon nodded.

“My friends,” he said with a fond smile, remembering the way Edd and Tormund had hugged him later that day. “They were all there before I...” Had he woken? Was he born? He wasn’t sure. “They all wanted it for me.”

Podrick frowned.

“But you didn’t.”

Though Podrick’s conclusion wasn’t untrue, Jon said nothing, his mind and eyes returning to the man on the table instead.

“He’s going to be a father, you know,” said a steady voice.

Surprised by the statement alone, Jon turned to see Arya standing in the opening of the tent. She was smiling at a shocked Podrick.

“You made a promise,” she told the squire, walking to stand beside Jon. “I didn’t.”

Still shaken by the information he’d learned, Jon turned to Podrick.

“She’s pregnant...?” he questioned.

The young man sighed, nodding slowly.

Bracing himself against the edge of the table, Jon closed his eyes as his body tensed. That was something he hadn’t had when he’d been killed.

He let his mind drift to the place from which he’d always steered away; back to a snowy night at Castle Black, as he’d held a young woman with red hair in his arms, her soul kissed by fire, her heart pierced by an arrow. The woman he loved.

“And if we die, we die. But first, we’ll live.”

A shuddering breath went through him at the memory, warmth beginning to prickle at his closed eyelids. Her words, however, were soon replaced by those Maester Aemon had once said to him a lifetime ago, before he’d known the man was family.

“What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arm?”

He wiped his face as a few tears escaped, looking down on the man in front of him.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Jon breathed, “and I can’t make that decision for someone else. It wouldn’t be right.”

Arya smiled up at him.

“But there’s someone who can.”

---

She didn’t move, or speak, or do anything, really; he’d expected her to do something, even if it was as simple as clenching her jaw, or holding back tears. Instead, her piercing sapphire eyes were fixed on him, as though she were trying to translate what he had said.

“Who told you?” Lady Brienne asked after a moment, a hint of fear in her voice as she warily looked at Podrick.

Jon smiled, glancing at his cousin.

“Arya,” he told her. “Your squire remains loyal to you, my lady.”

Though his words were intended to bolster her a little, his heart sunk as he watched her stand from where they were seated by the fire, walking to lean forward on the table at which Sansa was seated, her back to everyone but her liege lady.

“It can’t be done, Your Grace,” Lady Brienne whispered, and Jon watched as Sansa reached across the table and covered her hand with her own.

“But if it could... If there was a chance it could work, would you want it?” she asked her.

From where he now stood, he saw Lady Brienne shake her head, wiping at her face with her free hand.

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” she told them all, the despair in her voice indicating how badly she herself wanted it. “It is not my decision to make.”

“Would he want it, then?” Jon said, trying to soothe her with his voice. “If he knew...?”

She only slouched further over the table, her shoulders shuddering as Sansa stood, circling the table to pull her close. The sound of Lady Lannister’s quiet sobs made him acutely aware of the old wounds that hadn’t entirely healed in his heart, and he turned to Arya, who nodded at him dimissively. Perhaps she needed time to think about it.

Jon walked out of their tent and into the falling snow, stopping for a moment to stare up into the sky above him, taking in the sounds of friendly chatter all around the camp. They were all alive, and he had so much to do, to decide...

To create.

He started toward the edge of the camp, eager to walk along the river as it joined the bay. Soldiers nodded as he passed, murmuring their acknowledgement, saying ‘Your Grace’ with genuine smiles on their faces. As he approached it, he heard the waters churning, and found comfort in the constant sound it provided as he stood there, looking out over the bay, the skies beginning to clear ever so slightly. By mid-morning, the snow had slowed to only a few flakes now and then.

Seven Kingdoms, all unified under one person. How could he possibly do this?

Jon stood there until he could no longer feel his toes, his cheeks stinging from the bitter wind that chewed at them. His stomach growled in protest, but he ignored it, staying there until well past noon. Eventually, he heard the crunch of snow beneath boots behind him.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he heard her ask behind him. “The bay.”

Smiling, he nodded, seeing her red hair out of the corner of his eye as she stepped to stand beside him.

“It’s about the only thing I like about this place,” he confessed.

Sansa stared out into the water, yearning carving its way into her features.

“I never realized how much I appreciated it when I lived here,” she reminisced, “but now I can’t remember a time when the sight of it didn’t soothe me. When the world was falling down all around me, it was the only thing that gave me hope.”

Jon glanced at her, thinking about everything she’d experienced in that city, so far from home; from Winterfell. Not that he hadn’t had his own share of troubles during his time in the Watch, but somehow, he knew those years had been harder for her. He’d at least had people he could turn to when he needed them.

Without thinking, he took her hand in his own and laced his gloved fingers through hers, reveling in their warmth, watching the way the water waltzed before them.

“You can do this, you know,” she said plainly. “Granted, you’ll definitely need better advisors this time,” she pressed with a smirk, “but you won’t be alone.”

He squeezed her hand.

“Aye,” he agreed. “I won’t.”

They stood there for a few minutes, saying nothing more as a few snowflakes blew past them in the winter wind, the bay an intimidating yet resplendent blue in the mild sunlight.

“Your Grace,” a tired voice said behind them. “Lady Sansa.”

Jon reluctantly let go of Sansa’s hand, turning to look at Lady Lannister, a sad smile tugging at his lips. The pallor in her cheeks was more apparent now, and the dark circles beneath her usually alert eyes had dulled their light in the few hours since he’d seen her.

“Lady Brienne,” he greeted her. “What can I do for you?”

He saw her steal a glance at Sansa before she set her jaw, swallowing hard, fixing her gaze on him.

“If I were to say yes for him, what would happen?” Lady Brienne asked, her voice laden with suspicion. “What would you do to him?”

That was certainly not what he’d expected. He blinked for a second, wrapping his mind around her words.

“We wouldn’t do anything to him,” he assured her, trying to recall what Ser Davos had said the Lady Melisandre had done. “Well, we might try to clean him, but apart from that, there isn’t really any nee—”

“Could I clean him?” Lady Lannister inquired, her brow knitted with a longing he’d never seen in her.

Jon looked at Sansa, who was already stepping toward her sworn sword, placing a supportive hand on her arm.

“You needn’t ask, my lady,” Sansa told her.

Lady Lannister’s chin began to wobble imperceptibly before she bowed her head, taking her leave of them both. Jon raised an eyebrow at Sansa, starting toward the tent as she fell into stride beside him.

---

It had been Bran, of course, who looked into the past to find the words he needed. None of their soldiers were followers of the Lord of Light, but Jon knew the ritual itself would be nothing without the prayer. He’d quickly scribbled them down as Bran said them, Ser Davos spending the better part of an hour helping him memorize them. If he was honest with himself, he doubted anything would come of it. He wasn’t a priest, and he had no power over death; the circumstances of his life had made that abundantly clear.

Later, as the sun sank over the bay, Jon was the only one inside the tent as Lady Lannister silently bathed the man, running the blood-stained rag across her husband’s chest as she cleansed the wound that had killed him. She rinsed the cloth in the basin he’d brought her, bringing it to Ser Jaime’s face as she scrubbed his beard, his cheeks, the cut below his lower lip. In her eyes, he saw all the love he’d once seen in eyes that challenged him from within a freckled face framed by red hair. He wondered briefly if his true mother had looked at his father that way, the same hazel eyes as Arya filled with nothing but love and devotion.

Lady Brienne took the pitcher and poured water through the dark blonde locks that decorated his head, threading her fingers through them as though they were made of golden silk, a sweet smile on her face.

Then it struck him.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve done this.”

Though she didn’t stop her ministrations, her eyes did flicker up to meet his, a thousand confessions making themselves known as she shook her head almost indiscernibly.

He pulled the rigid body toward him so that she could clean the cuts the whip had licked into her husband’s back, observing the way she carefully traced the marks with her fingers, a frown on her face.

When she was through washing those wounds, Jon eased him onto his back, taking the folded groomscloak on his side of the table and holding it out to her. He could almost feel the sorrow within her deepen as she slowly took it from his hands, running her fingers along the sigil as her eyes glistened with tears. Taking a deliberate breath, she unfurled the fabric, covering its owner before ever so tenderly brushing her knuckles across his cheek as a few tears made their way down her own. The vulnerability of the gesture, combined with the strength he knew this woman possessed, nearly brought a smile to his face.

“Would you like to stay?” he asked, trying to offer her something, at the very least. “To be part of it?”

She only shook her head, and he didn’t press the issue further.

“He won’t be alone,” he told her, “no matter what happens. You have my word.”

To his amazement, she smiled through her tears; not a half-hearted smile, but the small one he’d only ever seen her give the man lying before him.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

She met his stare then, and he bowed his head to her, watching as she reluctantly left the tent.

---

“We ask the Lord to shine his light, and lead a soul out of darkness,” he began.

“We ask the Lord to shine his light, and lead a soul out of darkness,” they repeated.

Sighing a little, he laid a hand on the right arm in front of him. Stepping forward, Sansa took hold of the same arm beside him.

“We ask the Lord to share his fire,” he continued evenly, “and light a candle that has gone out.”

Glancing across the table, he saw Arya had a hand on the man’s left arm, looking down at the unmoving face, in deep thought. Ser Davos was next to her, a hand on Ser Jaime’s shoulder, while Podrick had his head bowed at the end of the long table, staring at Ser Jaime’s feet.

“We ask the Lord to share his fire,” they said after him, “and light a candle that has gone out.”

Bran was sitting in his chair at the head of the table, concentration written into his features. Ser Addam stood on the other side of Arya, resting a hand on Ser Jaime’s chest.

Inhaling slowly and deeply, Jon thought back to their time in the cell; to their first meeting; to the day Lord Lannister took an oath for the living; the night he swore before the old gods and the new that he was Lady Brienne’s, and hers alone.

His musings suddenly traveled to another time, in a far greener, warmer climate than the winter they now faced. He closed his eyes, and he could see her red hair as though it were more real than the people standing around the table. Her cheeks were covered in freckles, her furs doing nothing to cloak the burning flame within her beautiful eyes.

“I am yours, and you are mine...”

The warmth of another hand enveloped his own, and he turned to see Sansa smiling at him. He smiled back.

“But first we’ll live.”

“From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life,” Jon concluded.

“From darkness, light,” everyone else chanted. “From ashes, fire. From death, life.”

They all waited for a long moment, hoping for a sign of something. But in the stillness of the snow that had begun to fall outside once more, nothing happened.

He should have known it wouldn’t work, but what hurt more than anything was watching all the hopeful faces that had surrounded the table become solemn again, one by one walking away and leaving the tent.

Jon needed this man. His child needed him.

As he made his way to the tent opening, watching the flakes fall, he thought back to his adopted father, recalling so vividly what it was like to grow up without ever knowing one of his parents; the heartache that had claimed him in every moment he needed the mother he never had. He grimaced at the thought that Lord Lannister’s child would never meet him, or know the loving arms of his father.

Spare them that fate, Jon thought. Spare them. Spare them all. Please.

He took one step toward the falling snow, and whirled around instead as he heard a sharp inhale of breath behind him.

Notes:

Work became insane due to critically low staffing levels, so I apologize for the long wait for an update. After today, I don't work again until Friday, so I should be able to churn out two more chapters by the end of the week.

I TOLD YOU HIS DEATH WOULD BE WORTH IT! ;)

Yes, I totally had this planned the whole time. Also: I like the idea that it was Ser Davos who somehow brought Jon back, combined with Melisandre's teeny-weeny 'please'. I've wanted the Starks to help with it for literally ever. Credit to the original Redditor/GOT fandom for translating Melisandre's prayer from High Valyrian to Common Tongue. It's all over Google, and so much prettier than the version Thoros uses. ;)

As always, your kudos and comments are fueling me, especially as I tie up all of my loose ends. Thank you for reading, and I hope you're still enjoying it! :) Next chapter will be from Jaime's POV.

Chapter 28: Life - Jaime XIV

Summary:

Unexpected deeds breed unexpected favors.

The brief, excruciating pain he felt in his lungs as they filled with dry winter air was nothing compared to the terror he suddenly felt as his eyes flew open, his breathing harsh and ragged as his vision cleared enough that he could make out his surroundings.

He was lying flat on a table, a tent over his head. The smell of campfire smoke filled his nostrils, and he immediately began to shiver against the cold wood beneath him as his body realized he wasn’t clothed.

Afraid that he might fall back into the darkness if he remained there, he slowly sat up, looking down at the cloak that fell to his lap, tracing the wound he saw over his heart with the fingers of his left hand as he recalled everything; the pain in his chest, the feeling of priceless blood spilling into his body...

But other memories were far more powerful; he could see her eyes, those sapphire waters, the children reaching out to him, the way she had rocked him as the dark waves claimed him...

How could he possibly be here? How?!

Turning his head, he saw the King standing at the opening of the tent, utter shock written on his windblown features. The younger man only hesitated for a moment before he stepped forward, grabbing one of the furs from a nearby bedroll and throwing it around Jaime's shoulders. His body continued to shudder from the cold and the sheer trepidation he felt as the sting in his lungs started to subside, Jon placing steadying hands on his arms when he moved to sit on the edge of the table.

“Easy,” the King murmured. “Easy now.”

Jaime searched the brown eyes in front of him, pressing his own closed as his mind struggled to form words.

“Why?” was all he could say through his shivering, staring hard at the King. “How—?”

He saw the corner of the King’s lips curve upward.

“There’ll be time for questions later,” he told him. “Besides, I’m not sure the answers are mine to give.”

At this, Jaime swallowed, noticing how brightly the fire nearby burned. Jon followed his gaze over his shoulder, and stepped aside.

“Come,” the King said, taking the cloak that covered him and draping it over his arm. “It’s a cold business, coming back to life.”

Jaime tried to smile, knowing that the King was the only one who could understand how he felt, but it was all he could do to keep from vomiting with the effort as he stood, his bare feet freezing as they submerged themselves in snow. Clutching at the fur with his hand, he reached his stump across Jon’s shoulders as the King placed a strong arm around his torso, leading him to sit on a bedroll by the fire. He sighed as the warmth of it trickled into his bones, his breath beginning to even out.

“You’ll want to eat something,” Jon advised him, and Jaime half-nodded, his eyes never moving from the fire while he listened. “It’s the only thing I wish I’d had when I was brought back.”

As the King moved to rifle through a bag nearby, Jaime’s thoughts turned once more to Brienne. He could all but taste the salt of her tears on his tongue.

“How is she?” he rasped.

He watched as Jon turned back around, a sympathetic look on his face as he held out a fresh tunic and pair of breeches to him. Wordlessly, Jaime took them, waiting for an answer.

“As well as can be expected.”

Jaime grimaced at the thought of her in pain as the King leaned against the table.

“Sansa and Arya have been taking care of her,” Jon assured him. “We all have.”

At this, Jaime nodded gratefully, standing as he dressed himself. Only then did he think of—

“The wights,” he said fearfully, turning to look at Jon as he tucked in his tunic, reaching down to pick up the boots beside the fire, clumsily tugging them onto his feet one by one. “Did we—”

“We prevailed,” the King said with a nod. “The Night King and his army are gone. I’ve sent Ser Bronn and a few of our men into the city to search for any survivors.”

A sigh of relief Jaime had never quite felt before left him, and he tightened the breeches, moving his hand away as the King graciously moved forward and tied them for him, draping his groomscloak over his shoulders.

“Queen Daenerys is gone,” Jon whispered as he fastened the buckles of his cloak over one shoulder, unable to meet his gaze.

Jaime frowned, though he was less surprised by this news than he’d thought he would be.

“And the dragon?” Jaime asked thoughtfully.

The King merely turned to the other shoulder, his fingers pulling on the leather straps with ease.

“He hasn’t been seen since we left the city.”

As Jon stepped back, Jaime let himself examine the man standing before him.

“Have you decided, then?” he questioned the young man. “Will our next ruler be a Targaryen after all?”

Jon chuckled, glancing at the ground.

“Perhaps not in name,” he said, a tone of levity in his voice as he looked up, “but in blood, aye, he might be. If...” Jon trailed off for a brief moment, “if it’s what the people want.”

For the first time since he’d woken, Jaime smiled.

“They would be fools to want anyone else.”

At this, Jon’s face fell slightly, overcome with deep thought, as though he were stringing together his next sentence with great care.

“Lord Lannister, I have no right to ask it of you, and believe me, it’s not why you were brought back...” Jaime watched as Jon grounded himself in a breath. “But I need an advisor. Someone I can trust to tell me when I’m mucking things up.”

Jaime’s heartbeat started to quicken. Surely he couldn’t mean to—

“If it is the will of the council that I become king, I won’t refuse them,” Jon explained, “but if you were my Hand, I would feel a lot better about saying yes.”

At first, Jaime blinked, unsure of how to respond to this statement. Only a few minutes ago, he’d been surrounded by darkness, and now, a man he truly believed in was asking him to serve him not with his sword, but with his words. Staying near the King would make her happy, since she’d be so close to Sansa and Arya, but what if she wanted to rebuild Tarth? What if she wanted to live at the Rock?

His thoughts were so overcome with her, and the fact that he was alive to be by her side, he hadn’t noticed the King step close until the man was resting a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t need your answer now, my lord,” Jon told him. “For the first time in a long while, we have time. But I wanted to ask you because I know you would make the right choice in my stead if need be, not the easy one.”

Jaime chuckled at this, marveling at how far his honor had come in just a few months. What had that woman done to him?

“If it please you, Your Grace, I would speak with my wife about it first,” Jaime said, a smirk gluing itself to his lips. “My decisions regarding the future affect more than just myself these days.”

To his surprise, the King chortled, patting him slightly before releasing his shoulder.

“Aye,” Jon agreed, “they certainly do, my lord.”

Perplexed by the King’s enthusiasm, he furrowed his brows for only a moment, watching as the young man walked over to the fire, taking something else from within the bag before holding the piece of parchment out to him. Jaime took it, unfolding it to see it was the little hand Brynden Tully had drawn for him.

“I didn’t think you’d want to lose it,” Jon said with a smile, “especially if you said yes to my offer. I reckon the King’s Hand should have two of his own.”

It was Jaime’s turn to chuckle as he folded the parchment up, clutching it in his hand.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, “but again, I should speak with—”

“Yes, yes, your lady,” Jon finished for him, nodding. “So what are you waiting for? You want her? Go get her.”

And so he did, nodding at the King before walking out into the night, the air outside as new as life itself to him.

Notes:

Thank you all so much for your comments, kudos, and general love. I broke 10K hits today, and literally cannot believe people have clicked that button over 10,000 times. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I hope you're enjoying the story, and have *loved* reading your comments. It makes me so happy to know that this story is so loved, and has affected so many people.

I've had the headcanon, like many others in the fandom, that Jaime will be Jon's Hand if they both survive the show for some time. I'm sure some of you noticed me setting this moment up almost three weeks ago, when Jaime had to leave Brienne behind to go to KL. I just don't see the Jon and Jaime we now know *not* being friends and trusting one another. It's the ultimate bromance.

Also: Credit to GRRM for the 'You want her? Go get her. So he did' bit. I wish they'd said that in the show SO MUCH MORE than what D&D put in there. So, you get to enjoy it here.

Admittedly, the next few chapters are going to be a little shorter than the longer chapters, simply because I don't want to drag out moments for the sake of length. The integrity of the story, especially the characters, is so important to me, and will only enhance your enjoyment of the ending. We have three chapters left, I think, including an epilogue. Next chapter is Brienne's POV. :)

I listened to 'Anchor' by Novo Amor and 'The Old Gods and the New' by Ramin Djawadi a LOT while writing this short beast. If you'd like to see the full 'Chemical Bonds' Spotify playlist, visit https://caffeinatedcna1.tumblr.com/post/183756793243/chemical-bonds-spotify-playlist.

Chapter 29: Love - Brienne XIV

Summary:

Brienne adjusts to her new circumstances.

How she had wanted to stay in that tent.

Leaving him lying there on that hard, unforgiving table was the most difficult goodbye she’d ever said to him. She knew the King had good intentions, but nothing in life had ever been easy for her. Deep down, something within her knew it wouldn’t work.

And yet, here she sat on the bedroll, methodically cutting the meat on the plate she had planned to set aside for him. Just in case.

She had hardly been able to keep her own dinner down, the babe disagreeing with anything she wanted to eat, and now her stomach was turning again as the smell of meat tickled her nostrils. Lifting her chin up to stare at the ceiling and draw a steadying breath, she closed her eyes, wondering just how long she’d have to deal with the nausea. Having never really known her own mother, she had no one to guide her in what to expect on this journey. Sansa and Arya wouldn’t know yet, and the soldiers in the camp were likely just as knowledgeable. Lady Catelyn would have known, but...

Gods, why did she suddenly feel so alone?

Exhaling, she looked back down at the meat, making a few more cuts before placing the plate on a crate by the fire, resting the cutlery on the edge. Sansa, Arya, and Podrick had been gone a long while, having accepted the King’s invitation for supper, but Brienne had declined, wanting nothing more than to sleep. Between the pregnancy and the events of the last few days, exhaustion was gnawing at her more than it ever had before, so she lay atop the bedroll, her back to the tent opening as she watched the fire flicker in the darkness, the nausea beginning to relent.

Covering herself with her bridecloak, she recalled the way she’d bathed him with the King’s help, his golden mane brushing between her fingers as she combed through it. It reminded her of the time she’d sat him up on the edge of the bath at Harrenhal, washing him in preparation for supper as he swayed in and out of consciousness; the same soft hair she had felt during their second time in those baths as they washed away the blood and dirt of war on the night of their bedding...

---

The sound of hushed, familiar voices woke her, and she pretended to stay asleep, listening intently.

“It should have worked,” she heard Arya whisper. “It isn’t fair. Not to her.”

Brienne felt something within her seize at this, and she struggled hard against it as Sansa sighed.

“Perhaps we should find another tent,” she mused. “I don’t want to wake her. She needs the sleep.”

“I’ll search for one immediately, m’lady,” Podrick mumbled, the sound of his footsteps crunching in the snow soon following his statement.

“What will she do now?” she heard Arya ask.

For a moment, there was utter silence, and Brienne fought back tears at the thought that the girls were trying to protect her as much as she protected them. How she loved them.

“She’ll do what she’s always done,” Sansa responded simply and quietly. “She’ll fight.”

As the soft noise of their footfalls in the snow moved further away from her, she allowed the tears to flow freely, her gaze falling beyond the fire and onto their swords, the gold pommels winking in the flickering light.

“They say the best swords have names. Any ideas?”

She allowed herself to think of the babe, a hand moving down to rest upon her lower belly. Would it be a boy, as tall as she was? Or a girl, with his green eyes and charming smile? What name should she choose? The tears stilled themselves as she considered that, in her grief, she had forgotten that he had given her so much more than just a sword, or armor, or a name; he’d gifted her with the greatest part of himself, and she smiled as she realized that she was the one privileged enough to carry it. The most honorable man she’d ever known had chosen her for this task. She knew it would not be without challenges, and would require far more of her than the battlefield ever had, but the fear she’d initially felt began to give way at the thought that she wouldn’t be on her own in this unexpected path, not with the new life she had inside her.

It hardly mattered that the King hadn’t succeeded, as much as she wished he had. Jaime had already ensured that she would never feel alone or unloved again. Her cheeks grew damp once more, but this time, it was not due to sadness.

She had finally found her courage off the battlefield. A woman’s kind of courage.

Sleep had just started to reclaim her as she felt someone lift the cloak that covered her, settling onto the bedroll behind her. Smiling, she opened her eyes, a soundless exhale on her lips at the thought of Arya’s need to watch over her as the young woman curled up against her.

“Arya, I’ll be fine,” she murmured over her shoulder, trying to sound sure of herself. “I’m not dying, I’m just pregnant.”

At this, Arya tensed, but she didn’t move to leave. Sighing heavily, she sat up, turning to face the young woman—

Only to see his sea-green eyes staring up at her, full of wonder and disbelief.

She darted to her feet, her hands stifling a scream, her breath stolen from her as she backed away from him. His gaze was unwavering as he slowly rose from the ground, crossing the distance to stand before her, his own breath uneven. Shaking her head, she realized she was trembling, a hand rising in an attempt to keep the space between them. The bewildered look on his face as he reached out and took it betrayed how affected he was by what she’d said.

“Brienne...?”

All she could do was shake her head, squeezing her eyes shut, fresh tears escaping. She was dreaming. It was all a dream. It had to be.

“You’re not real,” she whimpered. “You can’t be. It didn’t work. I heard them say...”

The sensation of his bare chest beneath her fingers brought more fluid to her eyelids as she felt him guide her hand through the unlaced neck of his tunic, moving her fingertips over the wound on his chest; the wound that had killed him.

“Look at me,” he begged. “Brienne...”

She sobbed at this request, shaking her head once more in refusal as she felt him bring his forehead to hers, pressing the palm of her hand against his firm chest, his racing heart steadily drumming her to the core.

He was real. He was alive.

Warmth fell on her wrist, and she opened her eyes to see he was crying. She didn’t protest as he moved his hand to cup her scarred cheek, tears and all, keeping their foreheads locked against one another as he took a shuddering breath.

“Is that why?” he rasped. “Is that why I’m here?”

She inhaled sharply, her own breath trying hard to return to her.

“I don’t know,” she told him, “but it’s why I said yes.”

His eyebrows raised at this as his mouth fell open slightly, and she tried to smile.

“You deserve the chance,” she said softly, her hand traveling from his chest to rest on his face, wiping his tears away as his lips gingerly caught hers, as though she might shatter if he kissed her too harshly. She relished the tenderness of the gesture.

He was alive. Hers.

When he pulled back, she took the hand that cupped her face and turned a little so she could place it against her abdomen, right over where she knew it was thriving, and he made a noise between a chuckle and a sob.

“How long?” he choked out.

“I don’t know exactly... Our first night at Harrenhal, maybe?” she guessed, wiping her tears away with her other hand as he reached his stump around her, tugging her back against him as his hand stayed over her womb, resting his forehead against the back of her neck. She could feel the warmth of the fresh tears he was crying as they fell below the neckline of her jerkin, trickling down her back, and she brushed her thumb against the back of his hand, trying to soothe him, her other hand resting just above the stump of the arm that held her.

They stood like that for a long time, until his tears ebbed and she was thoroughly convinced that he wouldn’t disappear. When he turned her around to face him again, he pulled her in so impossibly close, she wasn’t entirely sure where she ended and he began. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she burrowed her face in the flesh where his shoulder met his neck, breathing him in.

“I thought you were gone,” she mumbled against his skin, bringing her hand to the other side of his neck.

She felt him smile against her hair, placing a kiss to her head.

“You forbade it, my lady,” he managed to say through a roughened exhale. “I wouldn’t dream of disrespecting you.”

A quivering breath that sounded like an almost-laugh passed through her lips, and she pressed a kiss to his neck before she stood at full height, taking his hand and leading him back to the bedroll. Standing in the snow beside it, she went about removing his cloak, her fingers easily unbuckling the straps as she took the fabric and folded it over her arm. When she noticed the way he was staring at the plate of food on the crate nearby, she blushed.

“What is that?” he asked, smirking.

“I didn’t know if it would work,” she admitted, sighing as she sat on the bedroll, placing the cloak at the top as a makeshift pillow, “but if it did...”

“You thought I’d be hungry.”

She smiled shyly at him, but he just beamed at her, squeezing her hand before stepping forward to take the plate, sitting beside her. She pulled her own cloak over both of them, watching the flames dance as he ate. When she saw he was almost through in a matter of minutes, she felt a pang of jealousy at the fact that she could barely keep a meal like that down, much less eat one so quickly.

“Frowning at me already?” he teased around a mouthful of food.

She didn’t realize her face was so unguarded. Looking at her lap, she shrugged.

“It’s not you,” she declared. “I’m just...” How did one discuss something like this? “I could hardly keep my dinner down.”

It was his turn to frown as he swallowed, thoughtfully staring at her.

“It’ll get better, you know,” he said matter-of-factly. “The nausea. It doesn’t last.”

Oh.

Glancing up at him, her face softened as she realized she hadn’t considered that he would actually know what she could anticipate from her pregnancy. The idea that he would know more about this than her made her chuckle. They always had been unconventional in their own way.

How she’d missed him.

“What is it now?” he demanded, a hint of offense in his voice as he leaned forward to put the empty plate on the snow beside them. “What’s so funny?”

She smiled to herself, saying nothing as she lay down atop the bedroll, pulling the cloak over her. He nestled in behind her after a moment, and she inhaled slowly, reveling in his warmth. The feeling of his body so close to her own, his breath on her neck... Only a day ago, she had dreaded living the rest of her life without those things. And now, by some miracle, he was here.

Just as fatigue made her eyelids heavy, she felt rather than heard him exhale shakily, and she rolled over to look at him, noticing the fresh tears on his face. Knitting her eyebrows together in question, she reached up, brushing his tears away with her knuckles.

“Jaime...” she murmured.

He pressed his eyes closed, shaking his head.

“I don’t want to sleep,” he breathed. “If I do... I’m...”

The fear in his voice nearly broke her.

Without hesitation, she unfurled her fingers against his cheek, caressing his lips with her thumb as his green eyes met hers.

“It’s real, Jaime,” she assured him. “You are real. We are real.”

His body shook a little with the force of a sob, and she took his hand, holding it over her womb.

“This is real,” she said resolutely, her stare piercing him, begging him to believe her.

New tears trailed down his nose as he scooted his body closer, burying his face into her shoulder, his hand staying beneath hers at the place where their child grew.

“We’re not going anywhere,” she promised, bringing her other hand up to stroke his hair. “You have my word.”

She rested her cheek against his head, praying that she was right, and that it hadn’t been a cruel trick of the gods that it was all a dream. Closing her eyes, she felt his breath even out, and as a dreamless sleep began to embrace her, she could faintly feel his thumb stroking the leather of her jerkin beneath the hand that rested on her lower belly.

---

The sound of men and horses moving around outside the tent woke her, and she groaned, pulling the cloak more tightly around her.

When she heard a chortle, she opened her eyes to see him smirking down at her, the dim light of winter day illuminating the gray hairs of his beard, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. The tiredness she felt disappeared as she blushed under his affectionate gaze, sheepishly smiling back at him at the thought of how she must have appeared, grumpy and exhausted as she was. His smirk only became a smile at this, and his smile an almost grin. How could he possibly find her so endearing in these moments, when she would mount a dragon without a second thought and burn the world to the ground for a few more minutes of sleep?

She sighed, tentatively moving her hand to his face, tracing his features with wonder as she always did when she couldn’t quite believe he was hers. He nuzzled into her calloused palm, placing a kiss there that caused something within her to flutter, before looking back down at her, a question filled with desire pooling in his darkening eyes.

Moving her hand into his hair, she pulled him in, bringing his lips to meet hers as his hand moved to her hip, tugging her weight onto him. The urgency behind the moan that escaped him seared her as her knees fell to either side of his hips, her mouth deepening the kiss. His hand held onto her tightly, as though she might vanish into thin air, and she was suddenly overcome with the need to show him just how real it all was, and how she wanted all of it; his life, his child, and whatever else might come. She broke away and shifted her lips to his jaw as she reached down, untucking his tunic, their breath growing ragged with want as she pulled the fabric over his head.

Her fingers found the fresh wound on his chest as they had the previous night, tenderly tracing the mark it had left over his heart. She soon replaced her fingers with her lips, and his breath caught in a groan that she could feel beneath her mouth. The warmth of his fingers against her lower belly made her gasp, and he sat up, wrapping his stump around her as he inelegantly loosened the laces of her jerkin, holding her steady as she pulled it over her head, her tunic immediately following it.

Their fatigue and their doubts were banished from the tent, forced to join the ever so faint snow that fell from the sky as they whispered promises into one another’s ears, kissed them into one another’s bruised skin, and moved them through to light the darkest corners of one another’s souls.

---

“The King has asked me to be his Hand.”

Her fingers stilled only for a few seconds from their work on the clasps of his jerkin as her eyes widened, her jaw slackening.

“And what did you tell him?” she inquired, stealing a glance at his face.

“I said I needed to speak with you first,” he explained, bringing his hand to rest on her shoulder, his thumb grazing her neck.

She felt a smile tug at her lips as she looked back down at the last clasp, continuing to work at it.

“What would it mean?” she said, surprising herself with how practical she sounded.

He blinked, apparently as shocked by her tone as she was.

“Well, we would have to stay close to the King,” he said thoughtfully. “Wherever he chooses to reside, we’d have to live there as well.” She met his eyes, and he tilted his head, adding, “For a time, anyway.”

At this, she squinted suspiciously.

“For a time?” she said, a little bewildered. “Why would you leave?”

She watched as his features, which had been twisting into a smile, fell into uncertainty.

“I thought you’d want to rebuild Tarth,” he said with difficulty. “Or even... I don’t know.”

But she did. He was thinking of Casterly Rock; of what would be best for their family as a whole.

He stepped away from her when she didn’t say anything.

“Jaime—”

She reached out, grabbing his arm and gently turning him to face her; he did, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Leaving her hand on his arm, she brought the other to his face, tilting his head up, forcing him to look at her.

“The last thing you should worry about right now is us,” she said firmly. “Do you hear me? I can be a knight anywhere. We can raise a family anywhere. But this...” She trailed off, frowning at him. “You can’t tell me that after years of serving kings unfit to lick the shit from your boots you’re thinking of turning this down? Not when you so obviously believe in the man? Not when he believes in you?”

He was giving her that half-smile, lips slightly parted, wonder-filled look he always gave her when she said something good about him. She felt his hand go to her waist, and she rested her forehead against his.

“Your honor means something,” she said mildly, bringing her hand to his neck, stroking his beard with her thumb. “Someday, we will rebuild Tarth. We can even live at the Rock, if that’s what you want. But you deserve this, Jaime. There is no worthier man.”  

He brought his hand to cup her face, pulling her head forward a little so he could press a kiss to her forehead before he crushed her to him.

“Mine,” he lovingly growled against her ear. “You are mine.”

She smiled into his shoulder.

“And you’d better let His Grace know that you belong to me, not him.”

His chest shook against her own as he chuckled.

“I believe everyone who means anything to us already knows I am yours, my lady,” he told her, placing a kiss below her ear.

---

“Then you’ll accept?” Jon asked, a smile beginning to blossom on his face that Brienne could see from where she was seated.

Jaime looked beside him, meeting her eyes, and she bowed her head in encouragement. He turned back to the King.

“If it is indeed the will of these leaders that you become King,” Jaime professed, “then my counsel is yours, Your Grace, for as long as you have need of it.”

Brienne stole a glance at Sansa and Arya, who were smiling at Jaime, to Ser Davos, who proudly nodded in her direction, to Ser Addam, whose face was beaming so brightly at her husband he could have lit the wintry sky on his own, sun be damned.

“Good,” Jon agreed, “for I have great need of it.”

Brienne’s face fell a little at this, noticing how Sansa shifted in her chair to lean forward, grabbing the attention of everyone at the table.

“Lord Tyrion and Queen Cersei have been our prisoners for nearly two days,” she began coolly. “Both have committed murder, and both have committed treason. Should they stand trial, they will be executed.”

She could feel Jaime’s body tense at these words, and she grasped his hand under the table, out of sight of the others, hoping it would encourage him somehow. The other faces around the table looked just as shocked as she did at this statement.

“Queen Yara will demand justice,” Arya said thoughtfully. “She will not easily forgive the murder of her brother.”

“Nor will I so easily forget it,” Sansa said, her voice laden with bitterness. “I respect Lord Tyrion, probably more than most of the people at this table. But what he did cannot go unpunished.”

Though her heart ached for the young woman, she didn’t release Jaime’s hand, stroking his knuckles with her thumb.

“He was attempting to save his sister,” Ser Davos defended. “Let us not neglect the fact that the lad was in the act of murdering someone himself.”

At this, Sansa sat back, unwilling to argue against it.

“Perhaps exile would be the best course of action,” Ser Addam suggested. “Rather than execute him, hold a trial. See if he admits to his crime and shows remorse. If he does, strip him of all titles and send him to the Free Cities.”

Several heads nodded in agreement with this option, but Sansa remained silent. Brienne squeezed his hand at this, and she felt it relax a little as she gave Ser Addam a small smile for his mercy. He nodded at her.

“And what of Cersei?” Arya asked. “Surely we won’t hold a trial for her?”

“From what Grey Worm tells me, she likely won’t survive the wait for a trial, unless it’s tonight,” Ser Davos said gravely. “Her wounds are killing her.”

This time, he squeezed her hand.

“Regardless of her guilt, she should be offered a trial,” Brienne said evenly, raising her eyebrows at Arya. “It would not be fair to only offer a trial to one of them.”

“Her death should not be a mercy,” Arya said, her hazel eyes filled with vengeance.

“No, it shouldn’t,” Brienne agreed, noticing how Arya’s face relaxed, “but if we want to rebuild this world, we cannot start it in the same fashion as the previous one.”

Sansa placed an authoritative hand on the table.

“I agree... With Lady Lannister,” she said slowly, and Brienne watched as Arya whipped around to face her. Sansa gave her a stern look. “We are not the Joffreys, or Ramsays, or Cerseis of the world. We have to be better than that. Do better than they did.”

At this, she saw more agreeable nods, and she felt Jaime lace his fingers through her own, clasping her palm against his in wordless gratitude. The King bowed his head, his first decision as acting monarch proving to be a difficult one.

“I would speak with my Lord Hand alone,” he announced. “We will meet again at dusk.”

With somber nods, everyone stood, pushing their chairs in. Brienne made to do the same, but Jaime tightened his grip on her hand.

“Stay, my lady,” Jon said with a smile.

She winced.

“Your Grace, I do not believe I—”

“I’m not a fool, my lady,” Jon said, glancing at Jaime. “I’m well aware that while the Hand may counsel the King, it is you who counsels him. You have every reason to be here.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jaime smirk slightly, bringing their entwined hands up to rest atop the table in plain sight, meeting her eyes.

“And what would you have me do, my lord?” Jon asked Jaime.

Brienne saw a thousand thoughts flit through Jaime’s features, and he closed his eyes after a moment, taking a deep breath.

“If it were possible, I’d have you send them both to Essos...” Jaime began.

“I’ve already been to see her, Jaime,” she asserted, ignoring the baffled look he gave her. “Ser Davos is right. She cannot sustain her injuries.”

At this, she watched as a mixed emotion somewhere between restrained fear and love walked across his face. He hid it well as he turned to face the King.

“A trial,” he managed to say with a nod, letting his eyes fall back to their hands. “Exile for him. And...” He exhaled unsteadily. “Death for her.”

The King nodded.

“Then it is decided,” he told them. “We will hold the trial tonight.”

Jon stood then, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder.

“I am sorry for this,” he told Jaime, and Brienne saw Jaime’s face slacken in defeat. “It is not what I would have asked of you first, if I could help it. This war has already taken too much from you, and I only hope I still have your trust after this.”

Jaime looked up at the King, a pointed expression on his distressed face.

“Their choices were their own, Your Grace,” he assured the young man, “as were mine.”

Jon smiled and patted Jaime on the shoulder one last time, satisfied with his answer, before leaving the tent. As soon as he was gone, she stood beside Jaime, placing a hand on his back as he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her abdomen. His soft sobs echoed throughout the tent, and she bent over, holding him close as her fingers combed through his hair, whispering comforting words into his golden mane.  

---

They went to visit them together, explaining what had been decided for them once the initial shock of seeing him alive and well had worn off. 

While Cersei had almost looked relieved as her fate was revealed to her, Tyrion had fallen to his knees in despair.

“If exile is what they want,” he stated simply, “then they might as well kill me.”

Jaime knelt in front of his brother, tears in his eyes as he placed his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder.

“I would rather know you’re alive and never be able to see you again than see you dead, little brother.”

To her astonishment, Tyrion smiled.

“And what of you?” he asked. “I hear you’re going to be a father.”

Jaime’s eyes fell on her, his eyes filled with a devotion that had always succeeded in making her blush.

“Yes,” he confirmed, turning back to his brother, “I am.”

Tears began to fall from Tyrion’s eyes.

“You’ll do so very well at it, you know, now that you can,” he declared, his eyes looking past Jaime and at her. “Both of you.”

She smiled to herself, recalling the words she had said to him in her grief as she stepped forward, kneeling beside Jaime.

“I am sorry for killing the Greyjoy prince,” Tyrion told her. “You know I never would have if he hadn’t—”

“I know.”

Tyrion closed his eyes, a smile gracing his scarred face.

“Perhaps you should tell Sansa the same before you go,” she said, a soothing tone to her voice. “She still respects you, my lord. It would mean a great deal to her.”

The shorter man nodded.

“Of course,” he stated. “Of course I will.”

Jaime struggled to his feet, wiping his face with his hand, before turning to look at his twin. Brienne glanced back at Tyrion, who wore an apprehensive expression on his face.

She stood, noticing the way he walked toward her, kneeling in front of her as though she were some monster to be gaped at.

“I don’t have it in me to hate you for anything you’ve done,” he whispered, examining her features. “I never have. I wish you’d spared Lord Selwyn. I wish you’d spared Tommen. That sweet boy didn’t deserve what happened to him...” Brienne heard the tears rising in his voice, and she swallowed hard, biting back the harsh reality of what she was hearing. “But more than anything, I wish that our mother hadn’t died.” Cersei choked at this, her eyes shutting as her body trembled, betraying her. Jaime reached out and touched her face with his hand, wiping her tears away with his thumb. “I wish she could have been there. For all of us. The best parts of you died with her, just like they did for father.”

Cersei was sobbing now, and she opened her mouth to speak, but as when Brienne had visited her two nights ago, she made no sound. When Jaime reached forward, holding her close, Brienne didn’t feel any sort of jealousy, or rage; she only felt pity. There were no complications anymore. A brother was holding a sister as they both cried, and Brienne realized as her own tears broke through that they had likely never been able to mourn her.

Lady Joanna Lannister.

What a beautiful name, she thought. What an amazing woman she must have been.

---

Jaime had asked the King if his presence would be necessary at the trial and execution, and Jon had graciously agreed to his absence from the event. Brienne had offered to represent him instead, and he’d held her for so long she practically had to pry herself out of his grasp, heading for the edge of the river as night fell.

Tyrion had, as expected, shown his remorse for killing Prince Theon, admitting his wrongdoing to Sansa, asking for her forgiveness. Though she gave it, his sentence remained the same: Exile to Essos, for which he would immediately depart. As he was escorted by them all, he only nodded at his sister, but he stopped in front of Brienne.

“My lady, I know it doesn’t... If it was possible, I’d like to...”

Brienne tried to smile as she knelt in front of him.

“You’re both idiots, you know,” she scolded.

He frowned at her, curiosity written into his face.

“Send us word of where you are, and we’ll write to you,” she said, exasperated at how she would have to spell it out for them both. “It would be better than nothing.”

A smile flitted across his face.

“Indeed,” he conceded. “It would.”

He placed a small hand on her broad shoulder, his smile fading somewhat.

“Goodbye, Lady Brienne.”

And with that, her goodbrother walked away, his back straighter than it had been.

Cersei’s trial, led by Sansa herself, was mercifully short due to her condition, though in her list of crimes against the realm and the gods, Brienne was relieved to hear that her relationship with Jaime and the children born of their wrongdoing had been carefully omitted. When asked if she denied any of the charges, she shook her head since she was unable to speak, and her eyes flew to Arya, who withdrew her dagger.

In that moment, Brienne felt something pull her forward, and she walked to stand before the kneeling woman who looked up at her, her green eyes filled with awe. Brienne extended a hand, and she’d expected the woman to sneer at her, or swat it away, but she took it, grasping it tightly and releasing it only when the blood that poured from her open throat slowed to a halt, Brienne leaning forward to ease her onto the crimson snow.

“...No one deserves to die alone.”

Words she had once said to Jaime darted through her mind as she knelt beside the woman. On the morrow, they would send her into the bay on a boat, letting the Narrow Sea claim her.

As they carried her body away, Brienne’s hand fell to her lower abdomen, and she realized that this child would be born of blood, and death; of war, and peace; but most importantly, of love. It would be able to withstand the harshest winter and the warmest summer sun.

Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at the wintry night sky, a smile on her face as the fresh snow that began to fall stuck to her nose and eyelashes.

                                                                                                                                               

 

Notes:

So, remember how I said this chapter wouldn't be that long? Yeah... My bad. :) This was the longest chapter in the story, but it's also the last we'll have from Brienne's POV. It may also be one of the longest (if not *the* longest) Brienne/Jaime one-on-one streak in the entire story, but I couldn't shorten those moments. They were necessary.

To be honest, I think Tyrion is going to die in the series, but his death didn't fit the narrative of my story as I wrote this chapter, so I changed my mind. Surprise, surprise! The Cersei/Brienne moment as she was killed was always in the works, even back when I had no idea how Cersei would die at the very beginning of the story; it never mattered though, because she always died with Brienne right there, either holding her, clutching her hand, something.

This chapter was, though long, actually kind of easy to write, especially as I ventured into Hand of the King territory. Also: I love that even Jon ships them. Cutie. :)

Next is Jaime's POV, as well as the last chapter in the series before the epilogue, which will have another mystery POV. (*Gasps!*) I hope you all are enjoying it as much as I am enjoying writing it! Comments, kudos, and general showering of love is most appreciated, especially since I should have been studying for a microbiology lab test tonight, but was doing this instead. ;)

Chapter 30: Happiness - Jaime XV

Summary:

Jaime witnesses crucial moments of his new life.

He felt her weight on the bedroll behind him, wrapping an arm over his waist and taking his hand, and he pressed his eyes shut, knowing it was over. Having already spent his tears on the matter, he brought her knuckles to his lips, relishing the way the calloused pads of her fingers felt beneath his own, their familiar texture a comfort to him.

“Have you decided...?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

Taking a deep breath, he cleared his throat.

“At dawn,” was all he managed to reply.

Her fingers squeezed his own, and she shifted her weight to be closer to him as he sighed.

“You can write to him, you know,” she murmured against his shoulder. “I told him to send us word once he’s settled.”

He smirked, pulling her arm more tightly across his torso.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” he wondered.

The warmth of her lips above the neckline of his tunic pacified his embarrassment, her thumb stroking the back of his hand.

“You’ve had a lot on your mind,” she replied, something in her tone reminding him of the present, and how grateful he was for what he had gained, despite what he’d lost.

Still, his thoughts turned to Cersei and how awful she’d looked as they left her; her neck had been painted black with bruises, her lips bloody, her face more white than the snow surrounding her due to her declining condition. He could feel his body tense as he tried to shut out the memories of stolen moments they should have never shared together, of the children he could never hold or claim...

But the most painful were those from his early youth, when she had been his best friend and playmate. He was the only person alive now that could recall the way she would insist on brushing her maid’s hair when she was sick, or her contagious giggles as they swapped clothes so she could try her hand at his sparring lessons, though he now thoroughly enjoyed the fact that he was able to mend any hole that appeared in his clothing thanks to those sewing lessons.

The memories of that Cersei would forever remain embedded in his soul; indeed, he was loathe to be rid of them.

It was then that he realized Brienne had fallen asleep, her chest rising and falling smoothly behind his own. He smiled as he stroked her strong fingers with his thumb, delighting in the way she sleepily nuzzled her nose into the nape of his neck at the contact, her level breath against his skin prompting him to remember the possibilities he had to live for as he drifted to sleep himself.

---

The sound of feral cries and metal screaming against metal drove them from their paperwork in the study to the corridor, where Brienne looked at him in fear.

“The yard...?” she questioned.

Placing his hand on the small of her back, Jaime followed her as they jogged through the castle and to the edge of the keep to see Jo, all twenty-four of her years behind the swing of her practice sword as she struck it against the frame of the formerly assembled mannequin. It was pouring rain, and the sapphire seas surrounding the island swelled with the storm, as unable to contain its fury as the young woman fighting within it.

“Jaime—”

He was walking toward her in an instant, the cold rain beating against his head like a hundred knives as he took a practice sword from the barrel, keeping a safe distance from her as he approached.

“Jo?”

She froze for a moment, then ignored him, continuing to hack away at the iron, chipping the blade and knocking the last remnants of weeping straw innards and ripped cloth to the ground.

“You know, if you wanted a maimed partner, you could have just asked me.”

Her gaze turned on him them, her blue eyes ablaze with pain and rage as she saw the sword he was holding.

“What are you doing?!” she accused him.

“I could ask you the same.”

The rain ran in rivulets down her face, her drenched dark blonde hair almost brown as it plastered itself to her cheeks, the storm hiding all evidence of her tears except for the redness around her eyes. He watched as she threw the practice sword to the ground, standing in the rain and staring at him.

“He’s accepted it.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows in question, and the fire in her expression burned anew.

“Lord Blackmont’s offer of marriage to his daughter!” she cried . “Brynden’s accepted the terms. He’s going to... I can’t...”

Without another word, she briskly walked back toward the keep, barely glancing at her mother as she stalked indoors. Jaime watched her walk away, and Brienne turned to look at him, worry and hurt carved into the developing lines around her mouth and forehead.

With a sigh, he picked up Jo’s sword and went to the barrel, dropping both blades back inside before pulling Brienne close as soon as he stood beside her.

“It would seem Lord Brynden has accepted an offer of marriage,” he explained.

The revelation that dawned on her face was immediately followed by a smile.

“I know where it is,” she declared, taking his hand and leading him toward the study.

The next moment he was inside his daughter’s chamber, holding out a piece of folded up parchment to her as she sat on her bed.

“What is that?” she breathed.

When he didn’t answer her, simply holding it up a little higher, she took it, cautiously unfolding it in her lap, staring at the poorly traced outline of a tiny right hand. She didn’t say anything, as thoroughly confused as he had expected her to be.

“I don’t underst—”

“That was given to me some years ago by a boy who thought he could give me a new hand,” he told her, recalling the memory of that day so many years ago as he sat beside her. “I had just lost what I thought was my last child, and then this boy appears out of nowhere, holding this out to me like he can fix everything.”

She smiled a little, the pink splotches on her cheeks beginning to fade.

“Of course, it didn’t fix anything, but he made me feel like I could keep going. He gave me hope,” Jaime concluded.

He watched as her fingers traced the tiny drawing, her smile deepening.

“It’s so small,” she said softly, meeting his stare. “How old was he?”

Jaime furrowed his brows, trying to remember.

“Two, maybe?”

They didn’t speak for a little while, listening to the rain as it fell outside her window.

“I’m such a fool,” she sighed, her eyes never moving from the drawing. “He’s been my best friend for years now. Even if we weren’t at court, we would write one another, or ride along the river at night when we would stay at Riverrun on our way to visit the Hall. But now...”

She pressed her eyes closed, fighting more tears.

“Who did you say he’s meant to marry?” he asked, curious.

“Lady Lynessa Blackmont,” she bit out. “‘The beauty of Dorne.’”

He chuckled at her tone.

“You’re just like us, you know,” he teased, elbowing her arm.

Frowning, she stood to face him, placing the drawing on the bed.

“But I’ve always known,” she whispered. “From the very first dance, I knew. There hasn’t been any other person that has understood me so completely. He knows things that I haven’t told another human being, not even Dunk. He challenges me, and makes me laugh, and...” She took a deep breath. “Gods, the way Bryn is with the soldiers he cares for... He’ll hold their hand once he’s removed a limb. He can ease them through the worst sort of pain, through some of the worst injuries I’ve ever seen on the battlefield. He makes me want to be better. To fight harder.”

And in those few seconds, Jaime realized his daughter not only loved the boy he’d once threatened to catapult into the walls of Riverrun itself; she was devoted to the man.

“So write to him,” he said simply.

She opened her mouth to protest—

“Jo, do you really think that boy doesn’t love you?” he jabbed. “Your mother and I have known it for years.”

At this information, she gaped like a fish.

“That’s impossible,” she murmured. “You can’t have known—”

“That man has adored you ever since you rescued him from that awful flock of hens at the tourney feast eight years ago,” he told her, reaching forward and taking her hand. “And if you don’t do something about it now, you may never get another chance.”

Her frown didn’t budge, but she didn’t argue with him, so he stood, heading for the door.

“Papa...” he heard her say, and when he turned around to look at her, he didn’t see a grown lady, but his little girl, her sapphire eyes wide with uncertainty. “If I write to him, do you think...”

“He’ll say yes, Jo,” he said with a smile, answering her unfinished question. “Now get on with it.”

She wrung her hands with nervous excitement, unsure of what to do first, then grabbed the old piece of parchment, holding it out to him.

“Keep it,” he told her. “Besides, now that you have it, you can finally return it to the person who drew it for me. And he doesn’t have to ask me for your hand, not when he gave me back my own.”

He hardly had time to appreciate the shocked look on her face at his comment before she flew at him, jumping up and throwing her arms around his neck as he caught her, her shorter stature causing her body to dangle a foot off the floor.

His little girl. His fierce warrior.

How he loved her.

---

The golden hand shone in the small boat beside her, its color blessedly brightening its surroundings.

Brienne had left to prepare her body for the boat while he slept, and she had done a splendid job of making his twin look like she was at rest. The skirt of her crimson gown was splayed out in a manner that reminded him of the Mother’s statue he’d always neglected to pay tribute to in the Great Sept of Baelor; she wore no crown, but her short hair had been carefully washed, the gold of it resembling its own sort of halo.  Her fur had been fastened around her long neck, hiding the bruises and fatal cut he was sure he wouldn’t be able to stomach, and he was so thankful for it he could have wept.

Her fingers wove through his own, and he looked at her, noticing the question in her features. He released her hand to pull her close in answer, wondering how he had come to be so loved by this astonishing woman.

“Thank you,” was all he could say, pulling back to see her face.

She nodded dutifully, a solemn sheen in her sapphire eyes as she glanced at the bay.

Together, they stepped forward, her hands on one side of the vessel, his left hand on the other as they guided it into the water, the freezing tide lapping at their knees as they let go, the bay readily accepting her. As the waves pulled her further away from them, he didn’t move, watching the water he had always sought for comfort in times of need fulfilling one last task for him as the sun steadily rose in a clear winter sky.

---

From the way she easily dismounted after a long day of riding, one would never have been able to tell she was nearly six months pregnant.

Jaime watched with a smirk on his face as Podrick rushed forward to take her saddlebag, suppressing a chuckle when he saw the way she had to physically shoo the lad away as she situated the strap of the lightweight bag over her shoulder, emphatically waving her hand toward the heavier supplies she had tethered to her horse instead. Even Jaime had learned not to take the lightly packed bag from her; the first time he had done so, she had complained for nearly half an hour about how it had made her feel completely useless to see him carrying two bags instead of one.

He was still beaming at her when she turned around to face him, and the blush that crept up her neck as he stared at her filled him with so much adoration he thought he might choke with the force of it.

She hooked her arm through his right as they walked through the gates of Horn Hill together, Sam walking ahead alongside the King and Lady Sansa as they were all greeted by Lady Melessa Tarly and Sam’s sister, Lady Talla, who threw her arms around her brother the moment she saw him.

Since he was the last of his line, Sam had dutifully accepted the title of Lord Tarly with a shrug and a kind smile, as though inheriting it would change nothing, and as Jaime watched Lady Melessa pull Gilly into a warm hug, he realized that perhaps the lad was right after all. He’d offered the castle to Jon and the remaining Starks while they decided where they might reside, since more than half the continent had been destroyed by wights and war. Of course, the King knew Brienne wanted to keep Gilly close, having already asked the young woman if she would aid her in the delivery of their child, and having no other true option from which to choose, Jon had readily agreed.

A young man stepped forward to take their saddlebags away as Sam introduced his family to the King and Lady Sansa, and Jaime couldn’t take his eyes off her as he watched the way she tiredly rubbed her lower back, exhausted from their journey. He stepped closer to her so he could place his stump against the spot that was nagging her, gently applying pressure there as she sighed, grateful for the gesture.

“Lady Brienne!” Lady Melessa exclaimed, startling him from his ministrations. He only saw genuine happiness on the woman’s face as she took Brienne’s hands, holding them out to the side as she examined her. “Well, isn’t this a surprise!”

His lady wife smiled her small smile and bowed her head in response, unused to such attention.

“I’d expected to finally meet you, my lady, but to see you like this...” Lady Melessa couldn’t take her eyes away from the way the babe was obviously showing through the knee-length navy blue dress Sansa had made for her, their house sigil decorating either side of the high neck, her boots and breeches visible beneath the hem. “I am so very happy to know you will be with us when the time comes.”

“Goodness, me,” Lady Talla marveled, stepping forward to take one of Brienne’s hands from her mother. “It’s so wonderful to meet you at last, Lady Lannister. And your dress is simply magnificent! Did you make it?”

Brienne’s eyes widened as she shook her head, glancing at him.

“No, my lady,” she politely answered. “I’m afraid I was never as gifted with a needle as I was with a sword.”

Jaime stepped forward.

“Lady Sansa made the dress especially for her,” he told them, taking the hands they offered and pressing chaste kisses to their knuckles. “The babe beneath it, however, was entirely my doing.”

Brienne turned bright red at this remark, the flash of irritation in her eyes indicating that he would be scolded later, but he couldn’t care less. He just smirked at her as Lady Talla and Lady Melessa’s light voices broke into giggles. Within moments, she was whisked away by both the ladies and maids, who were saying ‘how tired she must be’ from such a long journey, and how they could bring her to the hall, where a meal was already waiting. Oh, what a hungry business it was, ‘eating for two’...

Despite the way they were doting on her, she didn’t refuse their attention, turning to look over her shoulder at him, giving him the reserved smile he loved so much. Later that evening, he made it a point to show her just how much he appreciated her effort to be a lady by prying some rather unladylike sounds from her mouth, their sheets a tangled mess for the remainder of the night.

What he wasn’t aware of until the next morning, however, was that Lady Talla’s chambers were just down the corridor from their own; a fact he immediately gathered from the way she blushed scarlet red as they entered the dining hall to break their fast.

---

With one moon left until the babe was due to be born, Brienne had taken to moving around the castle a minimum amount, eating her meals in the hall with everyone, but otherwise keeping herself occupied in their chambers, or watching the others spar in the yard. Her back was beginning to ache more with each passing day, and Sansa was starting to enlist the help of Lady Talla's maids as she tried to accommodate the rate at which the babe was growing. Gilly checked her progress each week, assuring them they had nothing to fear, for the baby was growing as expected.

Therefore, it was quite a shock as she stood from the dinner table that evening, fear in her eyes as she told Jaime her chair was wet. Gilly immediately ushered her away and to their chambers, a slightly panicked feeling leaping into Jaime's throat at the thought that the baby wasn't due for four more weeks.

The pains had come on far more quickly than he’d ever seen in Cersei’s three pregnancies, and to both his delight and chagrin, she’d refused to get on the bed, standing before them all with her feet apart, naked from the waist down as she tried to breathe through her contractions. Her tunic was soaked through and her nearly shoulder-length hair was falling around her face, sticking to cheeks damp from both tears and sweat.

Standing in front of her, his stump at her waist, his hand cupping her face as she pressed her forehead to his, he realized that every time he had ever thought she was beautiful paled in comparison to the strength he was witnessing as she fought like hell to bring their child into the world.

“I can see its head,” Gilly told them confidently, gently stroking Brienne’s thigh. “Sam, get me a blanket. Quick!”

The Tarly lad did as he was told, but Jaime hardly noticed. He couldn’t stop smiling at her, pressing a kiss to her drenched forehead.

“We’re almost there,” he murmured.

Brienne made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh before Gilly placed her hands just below her pelvis, a clean blanket ready and waiting.

“Now, the next time you feel something, I want you to push,” Gilly instructed. “You need to breathe...”

He could feel her tired pants against his collarbone as she no doubt was silently thanking the gods that her twelve-hour labor would soon be at an end, just in time to see the winter sun rise. How she’d managed to stay on her feet this long, in this condition, was beyond him.

As she fisted her hands into his jerkin, he heard a harsh groan tear itself from her throat, steadily transforming into a scream filled with the effort of her push. The moment her cry ended, another began, and his heart fluttered in his chest as he wrapped his arms around her at the sound.

“It’s a boy,” Gilly announced, and he felt Brienne shake against him, a sob escaping her as his own eyes filled with tears.

“A boy,” he said against her head. “We have a boy...”

“Congratulations, my lady,” he heard Sam say.

She pulled back to look at him, leaving a hand against his face as a few of his tears fell down his cheeks.

Gilly rose to her feet, cradling the infant in her arms as she offered him over. Brienne didn’t hesitate at all, reaching over to take him, securing him against her chest as Gilly knelt back down to work on the afterbirth.

“He’s so small,” she mumbled in wonder, brushing her fingertips across his little face. “How could something as small as you take so long?”

He chuckled, reaching up to touch the tiny fingers the boy was opening and closing. Brienne smiled at him then, holding their son out to him. His eagerness to hold him immediately vanished when he realized he couldn’t do it without help, not when he was missing a hand. She, of course, had anticipated this, placing the child’s head in the crook of his right arm so his left hand could support his body.

His son. His child.

Brienne’s hands held his arms steady as he tried not to cry, and when he failed, she moved a hand to the back of his head, pulling his head down toward hers.

“He’s yours, Jaime,” she whispered, her lips grazing his forehead. “He always will be.”

He shuddered with the force of a sob, smiling at what she’d said as her fingers and eyes moved back down to the puffy little face in his arms—

All his happiness was torn from him as she gasped in pain, her eyes pressing closed as his gaze flew to Gilly. The frightened expression on the young woman’s face shook him to the core.

“What’s happening?” he demanded.

Gilly shook her head.

“I don't understand,” she declared quietly, looking up at Sam. “I’ve delivered the afterbirth. I don’t know what’s—”

A blood-curdling shriek echoed throughout the room, and with it, Jaime’s heart rent itself in two.

Not again. Not her.

Please...

“Podrick!” he called, knowing the young man would be right outside the door.

A second later, Podrick burst into the chamber, and Jaime frantically held the boy out to him.

“Take him,” he commanded, and Podrick took the infant without question as Gilly moved Brienne to sit on the edge of the bed, her skin white with pain.

Jaime climbed onto his knees on the bed behind her, bracing her against him as she moaned, every sound she made causing his heart to beat faster. Gilly settled between her legs, trying to find the source of the pain, but Brienne could only weep, her exhaustion getting the better of her.

“Jaime,” she whimpered. “Jaime, I’m so afraid...”

He closed his eyes against the onslaught of terror that gripped him at her words.

“Shh...” he told her, kissing her head as she leaned her back into him, his arms clutching her against him more tightly than they ever had before. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Looking down at Gilly, she gave him a grave expression that, as she apparently felt something against her hand, turned to one of shock.

“What is it?” he all but shouted.

She smiled up at them both.

“There’s another one,” she explained, withdrawing her fingers. “Another baby. I can feel its right hand.”

His heart leapt into his mouth as the horror that filled him was overcome with joy.

“Twins...?” he rasped.

Brienne’s eyes flew up to his, the tired smile that broke over her face almost instantly erased as another excruciating cry caused her to grasp at his arms as he held her, and the panic he’d felt before began to rise again.

“Something’s not right,” he told Gilly. “It shouldn’t be hurting her like this...”

Frowning, Gilly examined her again, and gave Sam a worried look.

“It’s sideways,” was all she said, and Sam immediately knelt beside her as they tried to decide how to proceed.

Jaime heard the words ‘shoulder’ and ‘arm’ being used, but the helplessness ate away at him as another contraction wracked her body, more of her weight resting against him with every breath.

She couldn’t last like this.

“Is there nothing you can do?” he begged them. “Please...”

“Can’t you turn it?” Podrick asked, the babe in his arms completely oblivious to the ordeal they were all witnessing.

Gilly glanced at Sam, who shrugged uncertainly, then grasped Brienne’s thigh.

“I’m going to try,” she confirmed, and Brienne nodded, gritting her teeth against another wave of pain, her screams having quickly degraded to groans.

As Sam stood back, Gilly moved forward, her hands lost between Brienne’s legs once more.

“I need you to breathe,” Gilly said coaxingly. “Can you do that for me?”

He felt her nod her head, panting as she had done earlier while Gilly shifted her arms a little—

Gods, never even on the battlefield had he heard a cry as brutal as that. She squeezed his arms so hard they would certainly be bruised to the bone later, and he bowed his head to rest his cheek against her hair as she tried to breathe like Gilly told her to do, crying when her eyes fell on Podrick, holding their boy.

“Jaime...” she wept. “I’m not... I won’t—” 

Another anguished scream ripped through the room, and he saw Gilly acutely flinch at the sound, shaking her head in disappointment with herself as she drew back.

“I’m not sure I can—”

“Keep going,” Jaime directed, lifting his head to glance down at Brienne, noticing how she was growing heavier against his chest. “Please...”

Gilly looked at him fearfully, but she nodded, repositioning her arms and taking a deep breath as she closed her eyes to see better with her hands, her shoulders shifting with her arms one final time as Brienne wailed in absolute agony, her fist grabbing his thigh. Jaime pressed his eyes shut, silently and frantically praying to whatever god would listen as tears of complete powerlessness fell from his eyes, a choked sound escaping his lips.

If he lost her, after everything—

“I can feel the head,” he heard Gilly say, opening his eyes to see her beaming at Sam. “It’s already on its way down.”

His relief shook his body as he cried, resting his head against Brienne’s, feeling the way her body eased into his a little. As Gilly carefully pulled one hand out, she smiled up at Brienne.

“This one won’t need much help,” Gilly clarified. “It wants to meet us. Here...”

Brienne let Gilly take her hand and place it out of his sight, but the way she half-laughed through a sob told him she could feel the head.

“Only a few more pushes,” the younger woman told her, “and remember, only when you feel movement. Sam, get me another blanket.”

Jaime accommodated himself so that he was sitting directly behind her this time, his legs straddling her hips, giving her more room to lean back and push, his arms supporting her against him as her muscles tightened.

“That’s it,” Gilly encouraged her. “Just like that. One more time...”

He felt her entire body tense up as her moan gradually became a roar—

Another, smaller cry mingling with hers the moment her body relaxed back into his. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles as Gilly wrapped the babe in the blanket Sam gave her. Her fingers opened to cup his cheek, and he bent his chin over her shoulder, watching Gilly place the howling child in the crook of her right arm, his whole arm reaching around her to support its back. When he gave Gilly a questioning look, the young woman smiled, resuming her position.

“It’s a girl.”

Brienne’s thumb stroked his cheek before she moved her hand down to cover his, her arm supporting them both. The love and devotion with which she looked at the girl brought fresh tears to his eyes, and he met Podrick’s nervous stare, tilting his head back a little, beckoning the lad to step forward and join them as he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, slick with perspiration. Podrick sat beside Brienne while Jaime simply readjusted himself as he sat behind her, more than happy to support her weight and height as she recovered, leaning into him.

“Joanna,” she said decisively, her voice scratchy. “I want to name her Joanna.”

He breathed into her neck at this, wordlessly nodding in agreement.

“And this one?” Podrick added, gazing down at the boy in his arms, his face filled with barely restrained joy. “Duncan, perhaps. For your great-grandfather?”

Brienne looked over at the baby, a smirk on her face.

“Duncan...”

“A name worthy of a king’s respect,” Sam added. “Aegon named one of his own children after him, you know.”

Everyone in the room looked at him, a vacant expression on their face. Sam flushed slightly.

“Well, his father is the Hand of the King,” he continued. “I’d say it makes the name more meaningful.”

Brienne was the first to smile.

“Jaime...?” She searched for his face over her shoulder, and when he met her blue eyes, he smiled back.

“Duncan,” he nodded.

At this, Podrick was practically radiant, grinning down at the babe in the morning light. Seeing him like this, Jaime never would have guessed the lad had been knighted by the King himself only a few months previously.

---

Throughout the day, she had numerous visitors, from servants that had been taking care of them since their arrival to the King himself, but when she had nodded off in front of Sansa, he knew it was time for her to rest. He watched from their window as the sun set beyond the snowy hills of the Reach, his mind retracing its way to the woman lying asleep in their bed, their babes beside her.

Leaning his shoulder against the wall for a moment, he felt a smile tugging at his lips as he memorized every detail of the scene before him. Her hair was still damp from sweat, locks of it lying across her scarred cheek. He’d insisted on her changing her soaked tunic so she wouldn’t catch a chill; knowing full well he couldn’t touch her for a few weeks, she’d chosen a blue one of his she knew he liked to see her wear out of playful spite, which was a little shorter on her than her own shirts. Her naked legs and bottom were now on full display where she had kicked the blankets back as she was wont to do when she became too hot, and he smirked, knowing the full strength of each muscle that lurked beneath that soft skin.

She was stunning.

The two babes resting on their backs next to her were just as breathtaking. When he’d heard about what happened to Tommen, he was certain he’d never have another child again, and would likely never know what it meant to be a father, despite how terribly he had suddenly wanted it. Now, he had not one, but two chances to fulfill those hopes, and with her beside him...

What on earth could he have possibly done to deserve all this?

She sighed in her sleep, her fingers reaching out to just barely touch Duncan’s chest before her breathing evened out once more. He walked to the other side of the bed, his bare feet padding soundlessly across the floor as he eased himself down onto the mattress, carefully pulling the blanket over himself. He laid his head on his right arm, looking down to see Joanna’s bright blue eyes wide open, staring up at him.

A dozen visions he’d had of the four of them came to his mind, each happier than the one before, but Jaime only reached his finger down to her tiny, outstretched right hand, smiling as she grasped it.

“I dreamed of you,” he whispered.

 

 

Notes:

... And there you have it, folks! A brief epilogue in a mystery POV to follow.

For three months, I have been DYING to tell y'all I had the last sentence of the story figured out because of this, and yet I couldn't do it because I knew *somebody* would figure it out if I wasn't careful. As soon as I read that line in the books, I *immediately* knew how I wanted to use it. :)

Fun fact: I am eventually going to be a midwife, so looking up complications for twin pregnancies was REALLY cool. Shoulder presentations (transverse presentations) are actually as painful as described here, and normally require a C-section, or the mother's body eventually kills her... BUT, with the second twin, a shoulder presentation can be turned whilst labor is occurring so that vaginal delivery is actually possible. Though normally an OB would grab baby number two's feet in this situation so it would be born breech, I figured if anyone could fix it so that the head would be born first, it would be Gilly. (Sorry if that's TMI, but hey, it's Game of Thrones.)

I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it! Epilogue will be posted on Wednesday night. If you loved this story, please leave a comment below. It took so much time and effort to write this guy, and I've already got my AU fic in the works, so comments are encouragement! Again, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! :)

Chapter 31: Epilogue - Joanna

Summary:

The peace continues.

Notes:

If you want a song to listen to as you read this, 'The Winds of Winter' by Ramin Djawadi (from the Season Six soundtrack) is the overall feel of the entire chapter. Thanks, and enjoy our final glimpse into the universe of this story!

Thirty-Five Years Later

“But I want you to stay, mum,” the young girl said, tears filling her river blue eyes, her small hands resting on her mother's cold breastplate as she knelt before her. “Please...! I promise I won’t tease him anymore, or play too roughly. Please don’t go. I’m so afraid...”

As the child’s tears overcame her, Joanna welcomed the lithe arms that were thrown around her neck, pulling her daughter close, burying her face in her fiery red hair as she fought back tears of her own.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” a deep, soothing voice lulled beside her. “Your mother and I are needed at the front, sweetling. You know this is the way of war for our family. It always has been.”

As Catelyn moved back, her cheeks red and swollen, Joanna rubbed her face wearily, turning to Brynden, who placed his reassuring hands on the little girl’s shoulders.

“We will return, Cat,” he told her. “Both of us. But while we’re gone, we need you to take care of your brother. Can you do that for us?”

Joanna saw the way her daughter frowned at her little brother at this statement; he knew exactly how to push all her buttons, despite only being four years old compared to her six. Even as he grinned at her, his golden head shining in the summer sun, Catelyn winced. Giving him a pointed look, Joanna took one of his hands in her own, relishing in its softness against her own rough palms as she covered it.

“Selwyn, you must listen to your sister until we come back,” she instructed firmly. “She needs you, just as you need her. Do you understand?”

The boy’s grin faded into an almost pout as he nodded slowly, his emerald eyes brimming with sadness.

“I need you to be strong,” she pressed on, taking Cat’s hand. “Both of you.”

Their chins began to wobble, and she held out an arm to each of them as they hugged her goodbye, Brynden wrapping his resilient arms around them all.

This was her family. This was what she would be fighting for.

She pulled away to kiss their foreheads, rising to her feet as she realized they would not be so small when she and Brynden returned from the war; the thought was a twisting dagger in her gut. Her husband placed a hand on the small of her back so that she could feel it below her armor, the warmth of his palm steadying her as he guided her to where her mother and father stood, leaving her side only to bid goodbye to his own parents.

Her father was already offering his arms to her, and she immediately hid her face in his chest as he tugged her tightly against him. For a blessed moment, she could almost be forgiven for forgetting he was nearing his eightieth nameday, such was the strength of those arms.

“They’ll be fine, Jo,” he promised her, his voice rumbling in her ear. “Besides, your mother and I haven’t sparred in ages. We could use the challenge.”

Joanna chuckled at this, stepping back slightly to see the loving, proud look she’d grown so used to as a child, his wrinkles unable to dampen the glint in his sea-green eyes.  

“I’m sure you could,” she teased, turning to her mother. “But you’re certain it’s not too much? I mean, Bryn’s parents, our children, Dunk’s family—”

“Don’t worry about us,” her mother commanded. “You’ll have enough to worry about on the field. Take care of one another. That’s all we ask.”

She noticed the way her mother swallowed hard, and suddenly Joanna was struck with the thought that her mother had said the same goodbyes to her as a child. The pain, the heartache... She’d known all of it when she’d rode away with their father to squelch the odd raid of the Westerlands, or to fight beside the King against foreign invaders.

A newfound respect in her heart that hadn’t previously lived there made her wrap her arms around the woman.

“They’ll be waiting here for you,” her mother whispered. “Remember that. It doesn’t sound like much, but it will get you through the rough days.”

Joanna exhaled into her cloak, nodding as she squeezed her arms a little more before shifting her feet to stand before them both.

“Thank you,” was all she could manage to say.

Her mother gave her a knowing smile that shone through her weathered face, and Joanna turned to Brynden, who extended a hand to her.

“Shall we, my lady?” he proposed, a smirk on his lips.

As she glanced over her shoulder at the children, she saw her father was already kneeling on the ground, scooping Selwyn up and playfully nibbling at his belly with a wild roar; the only true way he could tease any child with one hand to hold them. She’d been the victim of that sure grip so many times in her youth, and as Selwyn’s delighted giggles echoed through the yard, the pain that had overwhelmed her became more bearable for the time being.

Joanna took Brynden’s hand, stepping beside him to return a warm embrace from her goodmother, Lady Roslin. When she turned to part with her goodfather, she realized he was already far too busy lifting her daughter off the ground and onto his hip, his face shining in the wake of her bright red hair and Tully blue eyes. Lord Edmure’s pleased gaze found hers after a moment, and she smiled, reaching out and grasping his arm.

“Goodbye, goodfather.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment, his countenance still bright as he walked away, Catelyn on his hip.

Once they had mounted their horses, they led them beyond the gates, where Dunk was already waiting for them. Joanna gave him a skeptical look as he brought his steed into stride with hers.

“What?” he demanded. “I always was shit at goodbyes. Just ask my wife.”

“Speaking of the great beauty of Pentos, where is she?” Joanna pried.

Duncan smirked.

“You used to loathe her, and now you’re calling her a ‘beauty?’” he teased.

“You spent years at court only to fall in love with a woman you met while we were in Essos visiting our uncle for our twenty-first nameday,” she defended. “I’m your sister. I’m allowed to judge people that show a certain interest in my family, especially when it’s as sudden as that.”

At this, he laughed.

“So, you do like her,” he confirmed, and she scowled at him. “Goodness me, whatever led to this change of heart?”

“Any woman who would be willing to laugh at your awful jokes for a lifetime and bear you three children is a woman who truly loves you,” she jabbed.

His laugh only deepened.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she accused. “Where was she?”

Joanna watched as his face fell a little, his mood suddenly sobering.

“I said goodbye to the children last night,” he explained guiltily. “Loraena and I said our farewells this morning, but I asked her to stay in our chamber until we were gone.” Duncan took a deep breath. “I’ve never been gifted at goodbyes, especially with her. They’re too painful.” Surprisingly, he shot her a half-hearted grin, tilting his head in Brynden’s direction. “But you’ve never had that problem, have you, dear sister?”

She let her eyes wander to her husband, who was riding a little ways ahead of them.

“No,” she mused quietly. “I haven’t.”

As their steeds carried them toward the front of the armies, she saw the King, flanked by Lord Gendry and Lady Arya, who drove her horse forward to greet them all, throwing her arms around Joanna the moment they were next to one another.

“I’m glad to know you’ll be riding with us,” Arya proclaimed, pulling on the reins to turn her steed around.

“So am I,” Gendry concurred. “Perhaps you can help me convince her that her gray hairs are a respectable sign of experience in battle, not her age.”

Joanna chortled at this, especially when Arya reached over and punched him in the arm. As she turned to greet the King, she bowed her head in respect.

“Your Grace, what news of the Northern armies?” Joanna asked.

“The Stark forces are already being led south,” he told them with a subtle smile. “Sansa is staying at Winterfell, as we expected.”

“And what of Bear Island?” Lord Gendry questioned. “Are Lord and Lady Mormont with us?”

“Bear Island will be left to their eldest daughter while Ser Podrick and Lady Lyanna lead the Mormont and Stark forces to the Kingswood,” Jon explained. “We’ll meet them as they start on the Roseroad and march to Dorne from there. We have the numbers, and the council believes we will win.”

“Have they decided then?” Duncan inquired. “Are we to have a new King?”

They all fell silent, looking to Jon for an answer. He inhaled deeply.

“No,” he stated simply, his stare focusing directly on her. “We are to have a new Queen.”

Why was he smirking at her? Why were they all suddenly smiling at her? He couldn’t mean...

But he did.

“No,” Joanna almost pleaded, shaking her head. “I couldn’t. Your Grace, I am grateful for the thought, but I can’t—”

“If you turn this down, I’ll tell your mother about it,” Arya said darkly. “You’re the best warrior in the kingdoms, and the best leader. Don’t be stupid.”

As Lord Baratheon nudged her with his leg, Arya huffed, remaining silent.

“Lady Tully, my reign has lasted thirty-five years,” Jon began. “As long as you have been alive, I have been King, but I have no sons or daughters. I was chosen by the generation before you, and now those of your own generation have chosen you to lead them.”

Joanna pressed her eyes shut, bowing her head.

“There must be a better choice...”

“You are the best choice these men and women have to keep the peace so many have died for, whether you believe it or not,” the King continued, moving his steed close enough to take her hand, placing a folded piece of cloth into her palm as she opened her eyes.

Joanna pulled the corners of the fabric back to reveal the golden pin that had laid on her father’s bedside table every night since she could remember. Her gaze crept back to the King.

“You told them,” she murmured.

Jon only smiled, an expression that lightened the shadows and creases age had carved into his face.

“After the feast last night,” he admitted. “I sought his counsel one last time, and he willingly gave it.”

The thought of her parents knowing she had been chosen for this... Her parents, who had fought so hard and so long to build the world she lived in; a world where she could bring up her own family, where she could marry the man she loved, and dare to be the warrior and mother she wanted to be...

In that moment, she looked at Brynden, whose eyes were so full of love for her, shining with tears of satisfaction. She raised an eyebrow in question, and he nodded.

Ignoring the sudden warmth in her own eyes, she gripped the pin firmly, setting her jaw to meet the King’s hopeful stare.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I’ll do it.”

The King beamed, his delight matching Lord Gendry and Lady Arya’s unabashed smiles, and for a fleeting second, Joanna could see the younger versions of the leaders who had helped raise her before they steered their horses toward the front of the line.

Brynden pulled his horse to her left side and Duncan moved to her right. She took Brynden’s hand, but held the pin out to her brother, who immediately shifted his weight away as though the object might burn him, curse him, or worse.

“Dunk, it can’t be anybody else,” she spoke calmly, as though she were trying to tame a wild stallion rather than ask a favor of her brother. “You’ve been advising me since we could walk, and you’ve yet to lead me astray.”

Duncan shook his head, much as she had done moments ago.

“Joey, I can’t...” he rasped.

She only held the pin up higher, leaning closer to him.

“Just because you’re shit at following your own advice doesn’t mean I will be,” she said, exasperated. “Take the damn pin.”

After a long glare in her direction, he sighed, swiping the object from her hand before examining it in his own.

“You’re the only person I’ll listen to, especially when I’m wrong,” she begged. “I can’t do this without you.”

Her twin smiled to himself, then looked up at her with his enchanting green-blue eyes.

“And here I was beginning to think that after thirty-five years, you’d grown tired of me.”

Joanna felt her lips skirting into a brief smirk.

“Perhaps someday, dear brother,” she assured him. “But not yet.”

She watched as he deftly fixed the pin to the front of his cloak before patting her on the shoulder, a grin on his tanned face as he tugged the reins of his horse.

“Your Grace,” he nodded.

With that, the Hand of the Queen rode forward, his flaxen hair shimmering in the daylight, Summer Sun hanging from his waist.

“The Golden Lion,” Brynden joked, squeezing her hand. “So glad to know our families will have to tolerate one another for years to come. Who knows?” Now her husband’s voice was shifting lower; a sure sign he was about to tease her. “His wife might even teach you Valyrian, if you’d listen to her instead of giving her menacing looks from across the dining—”

His remark was cut short as she fisted her hands in his jerkin, quickly drawing him toward her as she gave him a searing kiss. When she pulled away, his face was still contorted in pleasant surprise, and she bit her lower lip almost innocently as he opened his eyes, the blue waters of the Red Fork River hungrily staring into her soul.

“That was...” he began, his face breaking into an ecstatic grin.

“Not quite what you’d imagined?” she finished for him, cocking an eyebrow.

“I was going to say better than I expected.”

Joanna smiled, adjusting her weight in the saddle.

“As if I’d hit the Queen’s consort,” she said playfully. “But I’d certainly race him to the crest...”

She urged her horse forward immediately, not even waiting to know if he would follow her. Based on the shout that chased her through the summer air, she could tell he’d accepted her challenge.

They raced beyond the soldiers and past King Jon; sped between Lord and Lady Baratheon, who cheered at the sight; beside her brother, who knew better than to join them in their competition. It was a tradition she and Brynden had begun years ago, during their first night ride together at Riverrun. Her mother and father had decided to spend several months in Tarth, and they had all stopped at the castle as they traveled east to pay their respects to Lord and Lady Tully, since Brynden and Joanna had met the previous year at court. As the wind whipped a few strands of her dark blonde hair loose from her battle-ready braid, she could vividly remember those discreet nights and riverside conversations no one had ever known about at the time, the cool night air that had welcomed her heart as she gradually lost her grip on it to the man who was now struggling to keep his steed alongside hers.

She made it to the edge of the crest first, but Brynden was barely behind her, and as they reduced the gallop of their horses to an even trot, letting them cool down, she took his hand. Her attention was suddenly drawn to the armies as they thrust their swords in the air in response to her win, their chanting voices thundering through the air.

“The Queen of the West! The Queen of the West! The Queen of the West!”

A queen, she thought, born of roaring lions and a sea star; one that bore traces of Old Valyria within her veins; who had been raised alongside snarling wolves that had defended her all her life; whose throne would be a horse, her crown the glinting blue eyes of the man beside her, her scepter the sword resting in its belt around her waist.

The soldiers ceased their shouts and began to march out of sight of the Rock, and Joanna released Brynden’s hand so he could rejoin King Jon and the Tully forces. As she turned to look back over her shoulder one last time, she smiled to herself, knowing they would all be expecting her to do it, waiting eagerly at the highest parapets.

She drew Oathkeeper from its sheath and thrust it into the air, its blade blushing Tully and Lannister red in the morning sunlight as it reflected the rays of a new day.

 

 

Notes:

And so, we have reached the end of my first-ever multi-chapter fic journey.

Thank you so much for following this story, and for giving me encouragement; for leaving comments that tell me how much you love these characters, and how the story has affected you emotionally; for your kudos; for your very valuable time; and for your willing eyes. It has been my absolute pleasure to write this story for all of you, and I cannot wait to start the next one. Keep a weather eye on that Jaime/Brienne horizon; the first chapter should be up by the end of the month! Head over to https://www.tumblr.com/blog/caffeinatedcna1 for updates on the upcoming story, its Spotify playlist, and fun reblogs.

Happy final season to all! :)