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Hanging.
Screaming.
Rope.
Sword.
The scene flashed through her mind on a constant loop as she rode to Jaime.
She couldn’t un-see Pod struggling for air, couldn’t un-hear her own hoarse voice shout the one word that gave her a blessed reprieve, if only for a moment.
She hatched her plan on horseback, pushing the poor beast faster than she ever would under normal circumstances.
But this was life and death.
Life and death.
Pod’s life.
Jaime's death.
She couldn’t think about that, or she would lose her nerve.
Her face stung and her neck ached and tears threatened to fall from her wind-stung eyes, but she pressed on.
She slowed to a halt when she came upon two men on horseback. Two men in red and gold.
They said something to her, but she couldn’t hear it. Blood rushed in her ears. Her mind was clouded. If these were Jaime's men, Jaime must be near. She was that much closer to betraying him.
The men were yelling now. “What business do you have in Pennytree?”
“I seek an audience with Ja—Ser Jaime.”
The two shared a look before the taller one said, “Very well, we’ll escort you to him, but you’ll have to submit to his authority inside the village. No one’s to leave per my lord's orders.”
Brienne nodded, and the three set off.
*
Seeing Jaime again was both a dream and a nightmare.
The sparse lanterns around their makeshift camp illuminated him in an eerie glow, but no light could dim the brilliance of his golden armor.
He looked…good. Healthier than the last time, like he’d put on some weight, maybe even some muscle. His hair was longer, falling in golden curls around his ears and his eyes—his eyes were bright and clear and he seemed almost happy.
When Jaime saw her approaching with his men, he leapt to his feet and shot her an awed grin.
“My lady, I had not thought to see you again so soon.”
Then he noticed her cheek and frowned.
She had torn an adequate strip of cloth and secured it to the wound before she began her journey, but since she hadn’t stopped to change it, it’d surely grown heavy with blood and pus by now, the cloth no doubt stained an ugly color.
“That bandage…you’ve been wounded…”
She nearly recoiled, the vivid memory of her flesh rending a painful one to relive, but simply stated, “A bite,” before moving on to her practiced speech.
She palmed the hilt of Oathkeeper—an action which usually brought her comfort, though this time there was only unease—and took a measured breath.
Jaime had once given an unprompted lesson on lying during his time as her prisoner. You have to believe it, he’d said. If you believe what you say, so will the poor fool who hears it.
“My lord, you gave me a quest.”
That much was true, at least.
“The girl,” he said, understanding lighting up his face. “Have you found her?” He was hopeful, his smile nearly proud.
Believe what you say.
Believe what you say.
Believe what you say.
“I have.”
Please don’t believe me.
“Where is she?”
“A day’s ride. I can take you to her, ser…”
Brienne had rehearsed this part; she’d repeated it over and over again in her head so that she wouldn’t falter.
But that didn’t make this any easier.
“But you will need to come alone. Elsewise the Hound will kill her.”
Jaime was hesitant at first, and she wondered if he had seen through her ruse. She tried to put forth a convincing face—believe it—taking care not to let her eyes betray her. Jaime eventually accepted the terms, and she nearly sighed in relief at having accomplished the task, except for the fact that the task was successfully betraying him.
Gods help her, but she knew not what else there was to do. Not when Pod's life hanged in the balance.
He spent scant minutes in his tent gathering the necessary supplies. He also had a private conversation with his second-in-command before he returned to give general orders to the rest of his men. He left them on good faith with a promise to return.
Brienne wanted to scream. She wanted to warn him that he would never return. But in favor of that, she said nothing. She silently pleaded with her eyes, begging him not to follow her, begging him to ride as fast as he could in the opposite direction and save himself. But then the image of Pod came unbidden to her once more. And she remained silent.
She remained silent as they mounted their respective steeds.
She remained silent as they set off in the direction that would surely bring her heartbreak no matter the outcome.
She remained silent as Jaime recounted the tales of his peace crusade since they had last met.
At some point during an undoubtedly exaggerated account of a conversation with the Blackfish, Brienne started to feel the effects of her weariness and hunger. She hadn’t eaten in a day and hadn’t slept in twice as long. Accompanied by the bone-tiredness of her body from the fight and the strain of the situation, she had little notice before she was tipping forwards, the only thing holding her upright being her death grip on the horse's mane.
“Brienne!” she heard from her left, and then the world went black.
*
When she came to, she was sitting slumped against a tree, a fire crackling not too far from her. Her armor had been removed, and for a long breath she felt that sense of utter dread. She was caught in a memory and stuck waiting for the inevitable.
But then she realized that her hands weren’t bound, and her sword was plainly within reach.
It was then that she saw the figure approach from beyond the edges of copse where the horses had been tied. A figure carrying an armful of loose branches, lodged between golden hand and gambeson.
Jaime.
The dread was replaced with instant relief—she knew he would never do anything to harm her.
Except.
She wasn’t the one who had grounds to be worried about personal safety. He was the one who had fallen into a trap, led astray by one he should have been able to trust.
She wondered if he had any suspicions, if his furtive glances were an indication of disbelief or concern. On the road, he had inquired once more about her face. She had planned her words carefully for when she met him again, but hadn’t thought to prepare any other remarks past the initial interaction. For all her skill with a sword, she was shit at lying. And Jaime knew that. So, when he had pressed for details about what exactly had happened—who had done this to her—she gave a vague remark hoping he’d accept it and let the issue lie.
The area in question stung more now that the adrenaline had faded. She brought a hand up to check the bandage and found it gone, fingers coming away sticky and red. She dragged her hand against the grass, smearing the bright color across her pale palm.
It was only fitting that she have actual blood on her hands.
“Brienne,” Jaime said, and she startled. She hadn’t realized he had moved closer until he was kneeling beside her.
“Brienne,” he repeated quietly.
She couldn’t bear to look at him, at the face of the man who had changed her life. The man whose death would be on her hands within a few short hours.
“I removed the cloth while you were out, it was—it was soaked through with blood.”
His hand approached her cheek carefully, cautiously, sussing out any sign of discomfort before touching the skin just under the bite.
“Have you cleaned this?”
“Only with water, I didn’t have anything stronger at hand.”
“Not to worry, I have a wineskin.”
He rummaged around in one of the smaller saddlebags and returned with said skin and a handful of clean white cloth.
Pouring some wine out on a single strip, he held it up between them. “May I, my lady?”
She didn’t trust her voice, so she only nodded her assent.
He gently dabbed at the wound. Brienne sucked in a breath when it smarted, but she knew it was a necessary pain.
“It seems to be infected,” Jaime said. “Would you care for some milk of the poppy? I always carry it with me now after…” He glanced down to where the gaudy golden hand was attached at his right wrist. “Well, since it was the only thing that helped me get a wink of sleep most nights.”
“I’m alright,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You’re very clearly not.”
“I’ll live.”
Her cheek was plenty painful, but she didn’t deserve a reprieve. Not when she was going to be responsible for much worse happening to Jaime.
He grabbed a new strip of cloth longer than the first and started carefully wrapping it around her head, tying it off at the top with his hand and mouth. “There,” he said awkwardly.
“Thank you, ser.”
“It’s just us, there’s no need for formality,” he goaded.
She paused for a moment, assessing. “Thank you, Jaime,” she said. She poked her tongue out to wet her cracked lips.
His eyes immediately flickered to catch the motion, and Brienne couldn’t be sure—not with the meager light from the fire—but she could’ve sworn a pink blush was forming on his cheeks. His eyes remained fixed on her mouth for one, two, three breaths, and then he leaned down to kiss her.
He was careful when his lips touched hers, gentle when he thumbed at her collarbone, and slow when he laid her down against the sparse grass.
Brienne had wanted—gods, had she wanted—this for awhile. But it felt…wrong. Tears pricked her eyes as she thought about the circumstances. This was not how she’d ever wanted it to happen. A pained noise escaped her throat.
Jaime stopped, pulling away. He hovered midair, hand frozen by her head.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, concern coloring his features.
His eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and for a moment she was reminded of the knights she used to dream of. Of the honorable, noble characters she would imagine fighting alongside. Though as she grew, she learned the truth—no one was ever truly good or bad, honorable or unworthy. Only children dealt in absolutes.
A young Brienne never would’ve thought she’d be making the choice she was carrying out now, but there was no other way. Gods, how she wished there was another way.
“I—” she managed through the beginnings of a quiet sob.
He shifted, laying down beside her. His heat seeped into her cold bones; his breath ghosted along her neck.
“I made a choice. It was the only one I could make,” she began, knowing he would understand. Knowing that if anyone would understand, it was Jaime. He who had been branded for his choice. He who held fast to his conviction. He who lived with it every day.
“I’m sure you’re doing the right thing,” he said, so earnest, so trusting, and it was that which broke her.
To others, it would be the right thing—an act of justice in bringing the Kingslayer to rights. He had made mistakes and even more enemies in the name of the crown. In the name of his family.
But Brienne had seen his heart. She knew he wasn’t only that man. That there was more to him than what everyone else saw.
For Brienne, there was no right thing. There was only Pod and Jaime, and her desire to keep both of them alive.
And so she told him.
She recounted her search for Sansa. She described the incident with Rorge and Biter. She told him about being taken by the Brotherhood and seeing Catelyn again. Except it wasn’t Catelyn, at least, not the one they had both known. She told him about the choice. About her refusal to participate in the twisted game. About Pod hanging there, feet kicking helplessly in the air before going still. About the single word she screamed with all the breath she had remaining.
He listened wordlessly to her story, to her confession, and all the while he gently stroked her hair, careful not to jar her cheek or move the bandage.
When she finished and finally looked up at him, tears once again brimming at the surface, he only nodded in acceptance.
“It’s okay, Brienne,” he said with every confidence. “It’s okay,” he repeated, but how could he hold such a sentiment when she had just detailed, very plainly and clearly, how much it was not okay?
“But—” she began.
Jaime cut her with a look. “Do you trust me?”
She didn’t have to ponder his question before she answered.
“Yes.”
He smiled then, bright and brilliant and blinding, the sun against a darkened sky. “Then trust that I mean what I say.”
“Jaime, I…” she sighed.
She knew there was no way around this, no way that they could go there together and both come out unscathed. But she wanted so badly to believe him. She wanted to see a future for the two of them.
“I trust you.”
It was strong and sure and full of all the faith she held in him.
Brienne didn’t see him lean closer before he was kissing her. She was taken by surprise but quickly mirrored his actions. Her whole world became chapped lips moving chastely against her own. She couldn’t see past Jaime. All thoughts were on the way he gently cradled her head with his hand, drawing her into him. They kissed for seconds, hours, years, and she was content to lie there forever, to let vines grow over both of them—the forgotten lovers.
It wasn’t until his hand shifted to the bottom of her grimy tunic that her senses returned to her and she pulled away, stammering.
“What—what are you doing?”
“I thought it was quite obvious,” he said, sly smirk in place, though she could see where it had started to fray around the edges.
“I don’t—I haven’t…”
“Do you…want to?”
She thought about every time her eyes had lingered just a little too long, every time she dreamt of his bare body, every time she imagined something exactly like this happening while chastising her traitorous mind.
Somehow, this infuriatingly stubborn Lannister had gotten under her skin and against all odds, she loved him.
“Yes, Jaime.”
She tasted his smile when he dove back in, tongues spelling out all the words they had yet to say. There was no way she could have planned this, no way she could have foreseen this outcome. All she had expected was grief and heartbreak and yet…here she was, so overcome with emotion that she wanted Jaime, plain and simple. She wanted him more than could be described. Nevertheless, she attempted to tell him through the press of her mouth, the arch of her back, the touch of her hand.
His own hand went back to roaming her body, sparking a heat rivalling wildfire everywhere it touched—her chest, her torso, her thigh. His was a welcome weight leaning over her, and he fit perfectly in the dips and bends of her body like he belonged there. When he braced himself on his golden hand and lifted her tunic up to her breasts, she sighed at the cold bite of the air as it hit her heated flesh. She had never imagined in all her fevered dreams, all the times she woke up alone with an all-consuming ache to feel his body on hers, that she would ever be in this position.
And yet.
That was Jaime's hand on her chest, callouses catching on her sensitive skin; Jaime’s mouth behind her ear, his voice low and real and right there; Jaime’s thigh between her own, the corded muscle grinding against where she needed him most. It was altogether too much and not enough.
She wrapped her hand around his neck and pulled his mouth back to her own. The kiss was messy and sloppy and not at all graceful, but Brienne didn’t care because she loved him, she loved him, she loved him . He was alive and he was there and he was kissing her back, and she didn’t have room in her mind to worry about anything other than his mouth on hers.
He palmed her chest again, molding the soft skin to the contours of his hand. Soon he was shifting down to bring a hardened nipple into the wet heat of his mouth.
“Oh gods,” she said, biting off a choked moan.
It was then that he swirled his tongue around the bud and applied the gentlest bit of pressure with his teeth. Brienne gasped, arching into him.
When she met his gaze, he wore a devilish smirk, one that said he was good and he knew it. Then, gods help her, he sucked. He moved to the other side, repeating his actions. She could do naught but sigh and grab onto his shoulder, digging her fingers into the soft padding of his gambeson.
She never thought her first time would be like this. Septa Roelle had taught her to expect a very detached coupling, performed solely for the purpose of conception. Her fellow soldiers in Renly’s camp had suggested she prepare for a lot worse. But this wasn’t like any of that at all. This was gentle kisses and deliberate touches. Not for any other reason except the sheer sensation of it.
And Jaime was unlike any man she could have dreamed up. He was careful. He was attentive. He was…
Unlacing her trousers and pushing them down her legs.
His smirk sat in place as he moved down the length of her body, his mouth hovering at the top of her smallclothes. He looked up at her, a question in his eyes. She nodded emphatically, not knowing what he intended, only that she trusted him implicitly. With her body, with her heart, with her whole being.
Jaime peeled the thin linen away reverently, worship in his eyes and a prayer on his lips when he looked upon her for the second time.
She had caught him staring at Harrenhal, but she was too angered to care about his reaction then. This time…well, this time she delighted in the quirk of his mouth, the twinkle of his eye, the caress of his hand on her thigh. He leaned in slowly and placed a kiss on her hip. He did it again on the opposite side before returning to the first and sucking a mark into it.
It was a secret, a promise, a claim.
Jaime sat up and divested Brienne of her boots and the material bunched around her ankles before settling back in between her bent knees.
His breath ghosted over her before he pressed his mouth between her legs. Jaime licked up her center once, twice, making her gasp. He hooked her leg over his shoulder, opening her up even more to his questing mouth and fingers.
Brienne buried her hands in his golden locks, needing an anchor lest she float away, up, up, up into the starry night sky. Her toes curled in pleasure, thighs squeezing around his head. She could feel Jaime's tongue roam around, exploring her most intimate places. She gasped when he found a certain spot and latched onto it, focusing his attention there as he eased a finger into her below.
No one had prepared her for this; no septa or soldier or scholar could describe just how good it felt, how right.
Brienne knew her emotions were heightened by the fact that it was Jaime doing this to her. No other man had ever made her feel the way he did—frustrated, challenged, respected. No other man had gone to the Seven Hells and back again for her. No other man had the power to take her apart with just his tongue and hand.
He added another finger and continued the ministrations of his mouth, and before long her stomach clenched, muscles seizing involuntarily. She moaned something that might have been his name when a burst of pleasure shot through her entire body. It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced, and she wanted more.
She wanted Jaime.
Brienne tugged at his hair, and he slowed down, coming to a gradual halt. He removed his fingers and took them in his mouth, sucking her juices off.
This man would be the death of her.
“Come here,” she said, a command and a plea all at once.
He moved up the length of her body and it was then that she realized he was still fully clothed while she was clad only in her rucked-up tunic.
She started in on the laces of his gambeson, deft fingers making quick work. She wanted to feel his skin on her own. She wanted to have all of him like he had all of her. Once she removed the padded armor, he was left in nothing but a soft linen tunic and breeches. It took no time at all to rid him of the last barrier between her mouth and his chest. She licked a stripe from his breastbone to his neck, tasting salt and musk and something that was distinctly Jaime, and she marveled in it.
He’d been patient while she undressed him, but suddenly he was on her again, leaving feather-light kisses on her face and neck.
“I owe the gods my thanks for returning you to me,” he said softly.
She wanted to say something, anything, but at that moment he pushed two fingers back inside her, taking away all other thoughts that weren’t his body touching hers.
Brienne continued her exploration of Jaime, tentative touches growing bolder over time. She kissed the line of his jaw, which turned into licking the apple of his throat, which became sucking marks into the expanse of his neck.
He delighted in her exploits, keeping up a constant stream of Yes, and Right there, and Gods, you’re amazing.
When the steady rhythm of his fingers brought her right to the edge again and suddenly stopped, she clamped her teeth down on his shoulder. Then his hand pulled out, pulled away.
Brienne groaned in frustration.
“Patience, my lady,” he said.
“I’ve been waiting for you a long time, ser.”
His fingers moved to the laces of his trousers, but he paused. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
It was strange at first, the pressure unlike anything she’d felt before, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Jaime was careful, moving slowly, slowly, so as not to cause her too much discomfort. After a few moments the initial ache dulled, and she began moving her hips in tandem with his own. She reveled in this new closeness, in the clench of her inner walls around him. He was hers, and she was his, and they were one.
It was then that he winced, halting inside her. He pulled away from her to sit on his haunches. She couldn’t help the gasp that escaped at the sensation, the sudden movement sending a jolt of pleasure up her spine even as she felt the loss of their bond.
“Are you alright?” she asked, already missing the warmth of his skin.
“Yes, I just…” He looked down. “It’s my arm. Sometimes it becomes numb and I can’t—I can't feel it.”
She sat up halfway, braced on her elbows. “What can I do?”
“No, it’s—”
“Jaime,” she intoned.
“Okay what if we…” He made a flipping motion with his hand.
It took her a second to understand the gesture. “Oh, you mean like…”
“Yes. Only if that’s alright with you?”
“Of course,” she said.
And then they carefully rolled over until Jaime was on his back.
She grabbed his golden hand and unbuckled the strap which fastened it to his forearm. Brienne threw the heavy metal to the side and brought the stump to her lips, kissing it. Jaime’s expression was one of shock but quickly turned to wonder.
She realized that no one had done this before. The usual reaction he received was most likely one of disgust rather than affection. She vowed to herself to always love every part of him, even the ones he wished to hide.
She wanted to continue lavishing attention on his right arm, but she also wished to be with him again. She reached a hand back to grab at his hardness, running it along the span a few times before positioning it at her entrance once more. He grunted when she pushed down onto him. Jaime shifted some, which only served to drive his length into her deeper, and she bit her lip on a moan.
She began to move her hips into him, slowly but steadily seeking out that rush.
It was different this time, the angle lending itself to new points of friction. The view was also an added bonus. Being able to watch Jaime from above—the way his mouth opened in a silent plea while gazing at her like she was the only other person in the world—was a picture she wouldn’t soon forget.
She braced herself on his chest and leaned down to kiss him again. He, in turn, settled his right arm against her waist and squeezed a breast with his hand.
It was a calculated dance, one in which both partners got to lead. It reminded Brienne of sparring, of the push and pull, the wax and wane of an evenly-matched fight. Blood sang through her veins just the same as when she wielded a sword. But this was altogether a different kind of duel wherein they both worked together, reaching towards the same goal.
When Brienne grew tired—a delicious ache settling in her thighs—Jaime took over, pumping his hips up into her from below.
Soon enough his movement stuttered, and he choked out, “I’m close.”
She was as well, but she was already way beyond words, chasing after that high once more. The build-up was even more intense the second time around in this position. She canted her hips down, searching, begging.
She reached the peak just as Jaime arched into her with one final thrust.
*
Brienne laid there, sated and content, trying to slow her breathing. She was sure her face was as red as the Lannister sigil, but she was too happy to care. A wide smile sat on her face until her eyes caught on the hilt of Oathkeeper and a single word came to mind: Sword.
The glory of the moment faded to the background as she once again thought about what would happen come daybreak. She tried to forget, tried to wipe it from her mind, but it tinged the happiness of their coupling with a bittersweet aura.
Jaime otherwise had no care in the world than to lay his head on her chest, grinning like a fool. One of her hands came to rest in his hair—mussed from their actions—and he let out a sound of bliss.
“That was…” he said reverently, and she could easily imagine what he thought of.
“Yes,” she agreed.
He tilted his head to look up at her. “Brienne, I—”
It was then that her stomach emitted a loud gurgle.
“Forgive me, my manners seem to have escaped me; I haven’t offered my lady any sustenance. When did you eat last?”
“It’s been…a while,” she said.
He was gone and back in the time it took her to adjust her tunic into place and slip on her smallclothes, a few wrapped packages and the earlier wineskin in tow.
“There’s salted mutton, dried apples, and hard cheese. Take your pick of the feast,” he jested.
She dug in with abandon, unconcerned as to how she appeared when they had just shared the most intimate relation two people possibly could.
They supped together and after they’d eaten their fill, Jaime returned to his saddlebag and brought with him a thin blanket and small red cloth. Upon closer inspection, Brienne saw that it was a damp handkerchief.
“I thought you might want to clean…” He looked down to where he’d just been seated inside, where she still felt a pleasurable ache.
“Yes. Thank you.”
After she used and discarded the cloth, they settled down on the soft grass together, covering their entwined bodies with the blanket. Jaime sent her a warm smile. She moved across and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek—chaste in comparison to earlier, but no less significant. They dozed off with the promise of dawn on the horizon.
*
She awoke in Jaime's arms.
The sun was already nestled amongst the clouds, sending gentle whispers of warmth down upon them through the canopy of trees above.
Jaime was made for daylight, a golden child of the sun. Muted rays hit his face with all the care of a sculptor carving the Warrior himself. He slowly blinked to alertness when she brushed his cheek with timid fingers.
“Hmm?”
“We should make haste.”
Rubbing her shoulder, he said, “Can I not enjoy this moment a bit longer?”
“No.”
“You won’t indulge a man his dying wish? I’d rather not rush to my execution.”
She thumped his chest and pulled away. She’d just gotten him back, just claimed him as hers, and his talk of them being severed allowed all her fears to come rushing back in full force.
“Come now, Brienne, it was only a jape. I said it would be alright and I meant it. Do you still believe that?”
“Of course,” she huffed.
“Good. Then you can wipe that dour expression off your face.”
“This is just my face.”
“That wasn’t your face early this morn.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Brienne made to thump him again but thought better of it. If Jaime was wrong, if his magical solution didn’t work out, she did not want to leave it like that. So, she unabashedly drank in one last look at his body—and the marks she’d left on it—and leaned down to press a light peck on his lips instead.
She began donning her armor while Jaime still lay on the ground gazing up at her in awe.
“We really should be on our way.”
*
Their spirits turned somber as they approached the camp.
Her eyes kept flitting to him, checking for any signs of doubt or hesitation, memorizing his face. But Jaime rode confidently with his head high, so she followed his lead.
He whispered a quiet, “Trust me,” when the sentries spotted them, yelling to alert their fellows.
No sooner had she seen the tents than they were surrounded on all sides, various weapons pointed at their persons. They had the attention of nearly the entire Brotherhood, it seemed.
“Brienne the Beauty,” one of the men sneered. “You kept your word after all.”
Another spat at seeing Jaime in his golden regalia, the gilded picture of a lion through and through.
They dismounted and allowed themselves to be herded by the mob. Finally, they reached a tree that rose higher than the rest, next to which stood a hooded figure. Brienne might have tricked herself into thinking it a statue, if she didn’t dread seeing that grey cloak again.
“My lady,” a voice behind them called. “The Maid of Tarth has brought you the traitor, Jaime Lannister.”
Neither of those descriptors were true, Brienne thought, near giddy with hysteria.
But there was no time to dwell on the irony of the man’s statement as Lady Catelyn approached them. Her skin was just as wrinkled and pallid, the gash on her neck just as grotesque as when Brienne had first set eyes on her.
Jaime stared for a few moments, no description enough to convey how very wrong Catelyn looked now. Then he whistled loudly and said, “My, Lady Stark—”
“Lady Stoneheart,” one of her devotees corrected forcefully.
“Lady Stoneheart,” Jaime amended, voice dripping with false sincerity. “Death has not treated you well, I see.”
Catelyn emitted a noise like a low growl, garbled from the strain of her wound, but he prattled on.
“It’s a shame they couldn’t have found your body before you resembled a crude mimicry of the Crone.”
Brienne wondered what he was playing at, taunting those who had them at a disadvantage, jesting in the face of death. Was he really so careless about his own demise?
She tried to meet his eye, silently ask him what in the hells he thought he would accomplish, and it was then that she saw it. His tells were nearly imperceptible, but she knew him well enough to see the tension in his mouth, the flicker of his eye, and recognize that he was afraid.
A man wearing the faded colors of a Northern house lifted his sword to Jaime's chin. “You’ll take care how you address the leader of the Brotherhood,” he said.
“The leader now, is it? What has the organization come to, taking orders from a dead woman hells-bent on petty revenge?”
The man lowered his sword and pulled back his fist to swing at Jaime's face, but he was halted by the raise of Lady Catelyn's hand.
Brienne was thankful for her intervention, if only to stop Jaime from being struck, or worse.
One of the more solemn men standing around them neared Lady Catelyn, putting his ear almost to her mouth.
“The lady says you gave her a word. Now you must follow through.”
Brienne immediately looked to Jaime, fear paralyzing her body, heart pounding in her ears.
One of the men pushed Jaime to his knees while another drew Oathkeeper from its scabbard and placed the hilt in her hand.
“He dies by your hand, with this sword. Oathbreaker for the oath breaker,” said the solemn one.
She shook her head, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, hand heavy with the weight of the command. There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to run, no way out. This is exactly what she had been afraid of. This is exactly what Jaime had told her not to worry about. She could punch him right now for his lies. Why would he do this? Why would he make her do this?
Her grip on the sword loosened, just in time for two more men came out of a tent nearby, a weakened Podrick in tow.
“Thought you might need some incentive to keep your oath,” one said, pulling a dagger on Pod's throat.
Her head swiveled between Jaime and Podrick.
Podrick and Jaime.
Podrick, the boy who she thought of like a brother, looking up to her skill as if she was a true knight.
Jaime, the man she thought of as…something more. Something only the gods could name, for they alone knew the depths of their bond.
Podrick, his face ashen with fear.
Jaime, his lip curled in the facsimile of a smirk.
Others take her so she didn’t have to choose.
She was shoved forward again, closer to Jaime. Closer to his death. He looked up at her with soft eyes—how could he be so calm?—and nodded. Gods help her, she didn’t know how or why, but she could feel him saying it again: Trust me.
“Now then,” the Northerner snarled. “Any last words, Kingslayer?”
Jaime moved his lips but instead of uttering a word, he whistled.
Immediately, Brienne heard them. Hooves, dozens of them, approached, and before long all those who had gathered to watch the spectacle were surrounded themselves.
Understanding donned on her as she realized what had just happened. He had planned this from the start. Her body sagged in relief. She wanted to drop Oathkeeper and run to Jaime, gather him in her arms and never let go. But it was then that a fight broke out all around them.
The men who held Jaime had released him to turn and face the attackers. Brienne saw that he was on his feet and fighting adequately enough with his left hand.
He must have been practicing, she thought.
She made to close the gap between them and cover his right side, but three Brothers came at her, swords raised. When she beat them down, two more were at the ready, mace arcing above and axe swinging below. She narrowly avoided a gash in her leg, pivoting just as the curved blade slashed through the air. The two put up a decent fight. They timed their attacks in unison with the other, taking care not to give her a reprieve, but ultimately, she bested them as well.
Her eyes frantically searched for Jaime and caught on his golden curls a few paces over. He met her gaze and smiled right before one of the Brothers swung at him, knocking his sword from his hand. Jaime scrambled for it as Brienne rushed forward to his defense.
Catelyn—who had been observing the brawl from the outskirts—picked it up, examining the blade. She ran a hand over the steel, the dark grey ripples unmistakable as anything other than Valyrian. Her sharp, black eyes turned on Jaime.
He was no more than a sword’s length away from Catelyn. She swung with a feral rage.
The sound of steel on steel was all around them and yet when Widow's Wail clashed against Oathkeeper, it was distinct. Brienne might’ve even called it a song—harmony and melody meeting in the middle to form some long-lost symphony.
The intersection of the two swords was mere inches from Jaime's face. Brienne kicked him out of harm’s way and drove Catelyn’s sword back with her own.
She parried another blow, not wanting to truly fight her former lady. Taking a defensive position, she only blocked and evaded the swings, ceding ground as necessary.
“Lady Catelyn, please,” Brienne pleaded.
But she persisted. She didn’t have much skill with a sword, but the blade was light and her anger drove her to keep attacking. Sooner or later, she might land a blow on Brienne through sheer luck. But the thing about fighting from anger was that one was too overcome with emotion to think clearly.
Brienne had learned this lesson early on from Ser Goodwin. Fight with your head, he’d told her, touching his forehead. Not your heart.
Catelyn wasn’t anticipating any of Brienne’s blows or planning any of her own; she swung with the unforgiving ire of the dead, seeking the solace of blood on steel.
This was no longer the Catelyn that Brienne once knew. Lady Catelyn fought for her family. Lady Stoneheart fought for retribution. But not Brienne. She fought for her life, for Jaime's, for Pod's, for every other innocent bystander caught in Lady Stoneheart’s warpath.
Brienne now used her full force and pushed back against the other woman. She switched to the offensive, aiming strike after measured strike until one of them was successful, the flat of her blade having landed against Lady Stoneheart's torso. She was sent sprawling to the ground. Widow’s Wail laid just out of her reach.
Brienne aimed Oathkeeper at her chest.
“I won’t allow you to continue harming innocents,” she said, thinking of Pod. “I won’t allow you to kill a man for something he had no part in.” She looked towards Jaime, who had pilfered a blade from one of the slain and rejoined the fray.
She couldn’t hear the words Lady Stoneheart uttered, but she saw in her eyes that she would never cease, so blinded by revenge as she was.
And so Brienne ran her through with the sword.
*
In the aftermath, as the Lannister bannermen rounded up the survivors and any supplies worth taking, Jaime found Brienne.
She was sitting on a felled tree overlooking the casualties.
Her gaze kept returning to Lady Stoneheart's lifeless body.
One of the prisoners, a rather robust man in faded pink robes, had stated that she couldn’t be revived—whatever gift she had been given by the Lord of Light was eternally revoked. But that didn’t lend Brienne any comfort.
“I killed her,” she said, in lieu of a greeting.
“You didn’t. She died a long while ago.”
He gingerly sat on the trunk next to her. His hand reached for her own. They were both stained red.
“The dead should remain dead. You only carried out the justice of the gods.”
“Justice?” she scoffed. “That was the lady I had once sworn my life to, and I just killed her with her dead husband’s blade.”
“No one killed her but the Freys, assisted by that godsdamned Bolton and my father’s coin.”
Brienne was quiet a moment before she said softly, “I failed her.”
“You haven’t failed anyone.”
His kind voice and honest eyes were too much to bear. An unwitting sob rose from her throat, bubbling to the surface and spilling forth. She tipped forward onto his shoulder. He rubbed her back in small, soothing circles until her tears dried enough to speak.
“What are we to do now?” she asked him.
“We continue the quest. We keep our promise.” His eyes went to the corpse of a woman they both once respected. A wife. A mother. A leader.
Brienne wondered if he felt the same ache in his chest, that gnawing pit which whispered, Oath breaker. But she knew that she wasn’t. And neither was Jaime.
“Now we find Sansa,” he said. “Together.”