Chapter Text
Fuck loyalty. She stands there, glorious in her fury, stalwart in her declaration. Fuck loyalty. Like it is a simple request, like his loyalty is not the only virtue he has left. He might fuck his sister and try to kill a boy, he might kill a king to stop him from using wildfire and stand by when a queen does. He might be callous and sharp and rude, but he is loyal. And it means nothing to her, angry and righteous as she is, and worse still it reminds him that it is only a virtue if he is loyal to those who deserve it.
Fuck loyalty. It echoes even as he walks away, does not look back.
Speaking with Cersei is a bad idea. She won’t be convinced, he knows that, and with argument comes retribution. And yet he does. Perhaps it is only to quell that voice, to silence the guilt that he is not a better man, but he thinks it is because some fights are worth having, even if he loses. And he’s right, she won’t be moved, talks of usurping bitches and power and how only they matter, how they will rule the Seven Kingdoms as if there is no risk of being overrun by dead men, as if she has not promised herself to another man for power. He’s not even certain she hears him; she’s not listening if she does.
He’s about to leave the room, tell Tyrion that it is hopeless and they’d best run back north before she gets it in her head to take a swipe at them like they are naught more than a pesky fly within reach of a lioness’s paws, when she pauses.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.” She stalks towards him, fingers running along his jaw in a mockery of tenderness. “What is it, brother dear?” She pauses, tilts her head. “Or better yet, who? Don’t think I didn’t recognise that beast you once cavorted with.”
“Jealousy does not become you, Your Grace.”
Her slap stings, but only for a moment.
“Do not forget who carries your child,” she warns him, beautiful and cold.
Loyalty has always had its cost.
“Mine?” he asks. “Or Euron Greyjoy’s?”
She sneers. “As if I would allow that cretin to father my child. You’re not the man you once were, but you are still a Lannister.”
“And yet you favour that coward and hide me in shadows once more. Tell me, did he stop to say farewell before fleeing?”
Cersei laughs, a bitter, angry sound. “You believe him gone. It is a ruse, you fool. He has not fled, he has gone to Essos on my orders. The Golden Company awaits the arrival of his fleet to bring them across the sea.”
It is so staggeringly foolish a choice that he cannot begin to fathom it. He breathes deeply, does not allow himself to be distracted from his cause by questions of how and why.
“They’ll do you no good against an army of those creatures if they come for us, Cersei. Send men north, stop them.”
She steps closer, raises her hand to his neck, angles her mouth so close to his, the promise of a kiss; it is no more than a lie though, because her nails scrape against his flesh and she exhales sharply.
“Is it that cow?”
“What?” He won’t involve Brienne in this. He won’t.
“The ugly one. She’s so dour, Jaime, she can’t be fun to fuck.”
He grips her shoulder, growls. “It’s only ever been you, Cersei.”
Her smile is a sharp vicious thing; he wonders if the ones of their childhood were so cunning and he did not notice. He’s not certain he would have cared if he had.
“Then you will not mind,” she says, unaware of his thoughts.
“Mind what?”
She traces the shell of his ear. “Why, marrying her of course.” She pauses, and he waits for her next strike. “If I’m to send my men north, I must have assurances they will not be slain as they sleep.”
***
It is Tyrion who brings her the news of Cersei’s conditions, and for a moment Brienne simply stares at him. It makes no sense, and when she finds her voice to say so, the man only shrugs.
“Very little does, with our sister. But my brother would treat you respectfully, and there is no denying—”
“I will do it,” Brienne says. “I have no fear of your brother, and our need is great. I was simply surprised.”
She tries not to remember Jaime in the Dragonpit, the awareness of him that had hummed and prickled at her, the way he had not met her gaze. Not that she had tried in earnest, too afraid of what she may see; her own weaknesses reflected back at her, the impossible knowledge that no matter how long or how far she rides it is always to find that they have not changed, or worse still that they have and now she bears this connection alone.
Her only request is that she be allowed to write to Lady Sansa herself, so that she might know of Brienne’s reasons. Tyrion looks at her, eyes narrowed and assessing.
“You do not completely lack guile,” he says slowly. “Cersei will not approve. She means to hurt Sansa with this, however much she claims it proof of an alliance.”
“She cannot control every raven within a few hours' ride,” Brienne counters, jaw firm.
“No,” Tyrion agrees. “Come to the west gate when the moon reaches its zenith, I will have arranged everything. Keep quiet until then; I cannot discount my sister’s spies.”
She nods, and waits. Stands guard and waits. Eats the evening meal and waits. If she were a more restless woman, she would grow uncertain, but she has long learnt patience. Has learnt not to ask for too much, that it is better to take only what is before her.
When the time comes, she slips from the camp as silently as she can, a too large spectre wrapped in furs. The hooded figure that waits for her is not Tyrion though, but Jaime.
“Lady Brienne,” he says, pushing back his hood, and even by moonlight she can see his amused smile, hear the gentle laughter in his voice. “I have, as you so eloquently asked, fucked loyalty. It has not had the outcome you would have desired.”
She swallows, the intensity of him, his words directed at her, are always stronger than she recalls. But she is here for a purpose and she will see it through.
“The Queen has sworn to send 7000 Lannister men,” she says. “That is the outcome we desired.”
“We,” he says with a nod. “But what of you, Lady Brienne? Another woman, I might think a good marriage a welcome development—oh, do not scowl so. I only mean that you have larger concerns than the depths of my family’s pockets.”
“We would be lucky to both survive what is coming,” she says tightly, the words bringing an odd burning to her throat. “I will not worry myself of vows sworn under duress.”
He softens, somehow, and it is so much worse. “I am sorry,” he says. “These games…. It is not you that Cersei seeks to harm.”
Brienne thinks of a wedding, the arch certainty of but you do love him, and wishes that she was anywhere near so certain.
***
When they see one another in the sept come morning, they will not acknowledge the night before. The care with which they had slipped through King’s Landing to the rookery off of Fishmonger’s Square where a small number of ravens were kept. How Brienne had ducked her head and chewed upon her bottom lip as she wrote, or that she had shown him the message as if to assure him there was no subterfuge.
My Lady, it had said, The Queen demands a marital alliance before she will send her men with us. Ser Jaime Lannister understands the pressing nature of our plea and has agreed to serve such a role, and we will be wed tomorrow. As we once spoke of, he has always treated me with the greatest of respect and care. My vows are still with you, as is my loyalty, and I hope you will understand that this is the only path before us. Yours, Brienne of Tarth.
It had been so earnest and pure he had very nearly laughed, but nodded and watched the raven fly north against the night sky.
“I thank you,” she had said when they had left the rookery, stiff and formal.
He had taken her hand, pressed a kiss against her knuckles with a bow. “It would be remiss of me not to treat you with—what was it? The greatest respect and care?”
Her lips had pressed together and he had sighed, ceasing to jape.
“We are friends, Brienne, or I like to believe so at least. It is no trouble for me to…” He would do a great deal more for her, and had in truth; what gift were marriage vows compared to steel, to safe passage over siege lines? “I will see you on the morrow.”
And now he does see her, dressed as she had been the night before. Cersei smirks at him, and for a moment he is furious—she has no right to involve Brienne in her games, Brienne who travels the length and breadth of Westeros to do her duty, who writes careful notes to assure her liege of her loyalty, who has done nothing but be near Jaime.
“Could you not find your entertainment elsewhere?” he asks under his breath, before excusing himself to greet Brienne. It is only when he steps away that he realises Cersei expected him to be amused too.
He tries not to think of it as he pledges himself to Brienne, a cloak laid over her shoulders and a crimson ribbon binding their hands. But it leaves too much time to think of other things; the calmness in Brienne’s eyes when the septon declares it is time to kiss, the slightly chapped feel of her lips as she ducks her head to meet his. He wonders if it is her first kiss, if he could at least give her the kindness of a good memory. Perhaps she does not want it.
Despite the oncoming winter, the sun is high and bright in the sky when they leave the sept, and he watches the way her face tilts up to greet the light, the tiniest smile curving the corners of her mouth.
***
It is agreed that Brienne will remain in King’s Landing and ride north with the Lannister army in a few days' time. Podrick stays as well, asserting that she will require her squire; she thinks he does not intend to leave her so entirely adrift amongst strangers, and wishes she could find the words to thank him for it.
Jaime introduces her to his commanders, and she does her best to remember their names: Ser Daven reminds her oddly of a better-mannered Tormund Giantsbane, Ser Addam is congenially charming in a manner she does not entirely trust (“Ignore him,” Jaime whispers later, “for he is a good man and a terrible flirt.”), Ser Steffon is plodding but steady. These are the men Jaime introduces her to first, the ones he trusts most, and so she will follow suit to the best of her abilities.
“This is Lady Lannister,” he says, sprawled artlessly in a chair. She is not certain it is not a facade. “If you think she has no right to command, you are welcome to challenge her to a fair fight. Do try to yield before you are truly harmed though, we must travel quickly and cannot wait for wounds to heal.”
The men are wisely silent, though Brienne does not fool herself into believing that means they will truly believe in her command. If they do not seek to undermine her, she will consider it sufficient.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she says, the words polite even if her tone is flat.
Jaime nods as if they have greeted her warmly, then turns his head towards her. “Brienne, if you require anything and I am unavailable—”
“I can care for myself, Ser.”
“You would, you stubborn aurochs, but there’s no point traipsing across an army 7000 strong because you wish for a sliver of lye soap.”
“Very well,” she concedes, though she has no intention of seeking their aid. But one kindness deserves another, and she is not certain how long Winterfell’s carefully rationed supplies will last with so many more men to feed. “If I may— The journey north will be long and difficult, and much of the land has been scoured by war. I do recommend you bring as many provisions as you can manage. More than the march should require.”
“Of course, Lady Lannister,” says Steffon, who will be in charge of the baggage train.
“Are you familiar with snow?” she asks. “I can— I have been in the North some time now, I am willing to advise you on the best supplies.”
“Any knowledge you have would be welcomed,” Steffon says. “Perhaps at dinner?”
She agrees, and when the men have gone, Jaime rises from his chair, prowls towards her.
“I do believe you have charmed my men,” he says, droll. “Should I be concerned?”
“Lead them well and you will have no cause,” she says, and then, “I do— Thank you, Ser Jaime. I know this marriage is not what you would…” She tilts her head up. “It is not what you might wish, but you do not need to treat me so well.”
He looks at her for a long moment, studying her face as if looking for signs of deceit.
“Go,” he finally says. “Tell young Podrick the news, and I will see you again at dinner.”
***
She is infuriating. He had thought her stubborn on their last trek across the continent, but she is a hundred-fold worse this time. She shares his tent but not his cot, choosing to sleep upon the ground though the camp bed is more than large enough for them both. They could even fit Podrick on it, the nights he is not instead with one camp follower or another. And yet every evening she lays her bedroll upon the frozen ground and bids him good night, and come morning she finds some task to tend to. He thinks half his men would sooner follow her than him, and he would resent it only if it did not show an intelligence rarely seen in soldiers.
She is not charismatic, she has not changed in fundamentals, but she is a woman born for command without wishing for power and there is something soothing in that contrast, a certainty that draws his men to her. Not all of them—there are too many whispered japes about whether she was a lord or a lady, when the truth is that she is a knight, a better knight than any of them—but enough.
One night she takes refuge by a campfire within sight of the tent where he goes over the day’s travel, and as dusk falls he watches as people come to join her—Daven first, his laughter loud enough to reach even Jaime. A couple of soldiers barely old enough to hold a blade, and camp followers equally young. Podrick, fresh off latrine duties. She holds herself so stiffly, untrusting, but she takes an offered drink, inclines her head, courteous and seemingly unaware others have sought her out or why.
“You trust her,” Addam observes, looking up from his relaying of the outriders’ scouting to where Brienne sits.
“She is noble to a fault,” Jaime says rather than argue; he does trust her, has for years little though he likes to think of it. “It means nothing.”
It means something, even if he does not understand it. They ride towards the end of the world, and the Stranger awaits their arrival; he has no time for thoughts of Cersei and the babe, of what his sister might have done if she’d not seen a way to wound him and her enemies with one cunning strike, of what she has done for moons now, what will come if they survive…
It means something, to trust the woman who was made to be his wife.
“That is enough for tonight,” he says. “We’ve not seen signs of a settlement in three days, but we should come upon the river tomorrow. Time enough to replenish our water skins, and take a half day’s rest.”
He douses the lamp and stands, heading towards the warm light of the fire. She turns as he approaches, and the firelight catches the loose strands of her hair.
“Ser Jaime,” she says. She does not smile, but the tension in her shoulders eases and she shifts along the bench to make room. “Come, join us.”
(Later, in the darkness of their tent, he will sigh.
“Come up here,” he says to her shadowed form. “Lady Sansa will have my head if I allow you to freeze.”
“I am perfectly well,” she replies, and quickly falls asleep.)
***
The longer they ride, the colder it becomes. A few weeks in the south should not have been enough to lower her tolerance for the cold, but perhaps it is that the true depths of winter are still digging their claws into the air. The day they must stop by midday because of heavy snow, she is grateful for the protection of Jaime’s tent. He has gone to ensure all men are quartered away from the howling winds, so it is Brienne and Podrick who raise the tent, shovel the worst of the snow from the ground, lay a small fire in a brazier.
“Ser Jaime treats you well?” Podrick asks, when they are done. She has crouched before the flame to warm her hands. “I know I have not been here as I should.”
“He does,” Brienne says. “He is a good man.”
It is the truth, if not the whole truth. He has not harmed her, nor will he. But it is hard to be near him some days; he has grown a beard to counter the cold, and it reminds her of another journey. He is so exceedingly kind to her, when he has no reason to be. If she thinks on it too long, all sorts of fantasies would take root and so she excises each new sapling with ruthless efficiency for both their sakes. He treats her well, and is the greatest danger in the camp; the two are not incompatible.
“Good,” Podrick says. He smiles at her, and she knows what it is he wants. “I should see if more assistance is needed with the tents.”
“I’m certain the camp followers will appreciate your diligence,” Brienne says dryly, and waves him away. “Don’t drink to excess, if you wander off in weather like this we will never find you. Keep your head clear and your sword within reach.”
“Of course, my lady.”
He leaves, and Brienne takes the chance to spread her bedroll upon the ground, near to the brazier. Her back is to the door when she hears footsteps. She rises. “If you’ve forgotten something— Ser Jaime.” He stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the driving snow. She clears her throat. “I did not expect you back so soon.”
He nods and steps inside, looking at her belongings upon the ground. “You cannot be serious, Brienne. It is colder than a witch’s teat, and windy to boot. I’l not besmirch your honour.”
She clenches her teeth. “I do not think you would, and I would kill you if you tried.”
“Perhaps not the best thing to say surrounded by 7000 Lannister men,” he observes, amused. He crosses the tent, taking off only his cloak and boots before climbing beneath the furs on his bed. “Come here to warm up and I will tell you a secret.”
“I don’t need your secrets.”
“Of course not,” he replies. “But this will serve your Lady Sansa well, so come here.”
She hesitates for a moment, annoyed that he can play her so well but unwilling to go without the promised information. She trusts him, she does. And so she crosses the tent, taking off the layers of clothes damp with melted snow. The bed is large enough for them to lie without touching, and much more comfortable than the frozen ground.
“Better?” he asks, just as she begins to properly feel her toes for the first time in days.
“Yes.” It is more of a concession than he deserves. “Now what of your secret?”
He audibly swallows, and seems to take a moment to gather his thoughts; it is not a common reaction from him, and there is a niggling knot in the pit of her stomach.
“Cersei…” he begins, clears his throat. “Cersei has hired the Golden Company to defend her claim to the throne. Ten thousand men.”
“Oh,” she says. He did not need to tell her, his loyalty to his sister should preclude him telling her, and still he has…. “Do you think she will send them North?”
”I do not think so. I cannot… she will want to fight well rested and fortified, I believe, but she is no tactician.”
Brienne is silent for a long moment, listening to the crackles of the fire and the wind outside, the slightly ragged breathing beside her.
“Very well,” she finally says. “We will tell Lady Sansa when we get to Winterfell.”
***
Armies move slowly, even at the best of times, and these are not the best of times. The days grow ever shorter, until they both camp and decamp in the dark, unable to lose so many hours of travel. Jaime has not seen the sun in more than a fortnight; he is not certain whether it is clouds or that the sun that does not rise far enough to be seen, but the sky remains grey and dreary. It is a ceaseless, unvarying rhythm—rise, eat, pack, ride, tend to duties, eat, sleep, rise.
Brienne has not returned to sleeping in her bedroll, so at least he does not fret that he will wake to find her frozen on some particularly cold morning. They often eat together in the evenings, though they speak little; he uses the time to go over scouting reports and provision lists and maps, and she shares her opinion only if he asks. There is a quiet companionship to it though, their odd friendship comfortable in spaces it has no right to be.
One evening, after a particularly gruelling journey and a late meal because he was needed to settle a dispute on the far end of the camp, the words are particularly jumbled upon the parchment. He rubs his eyes, squinting as he lifts it nearer the dull lamplight, and still the letters refuse to stay still long enough for him to parse them.
“Ser Jaime?” she says softly from across the table, her long fingers reaching out to touch the page in his hands. “Should I… should I read this aloud?”
He is grateful, and irate, and if it were anyone else he would reply cuttingly. Instead he releases his hold, and she begins to read the message to him. It is nothing of particular note, but her voice is low and steady, and absurdly he wonders if this is the longest he has ever heard her speak. When she is done, she sets the parchment down.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You mentioned once— I am happy to do so again, in the future,” she replies, then glances away. “If that is all, I should retire for the night.”
“Please, do,” he replied. “I plan to sleep myself, tomorrow will no doubt be difficult.”
“We will arrive in Winterfell soon,” she says, extinguishing the lamp and leaving only the light from the brazier to fill the space.
She stands and crosses the tent and he follows, and there is something in the low light, the exhaustion, the unspoken camaraderie as they undress. She is so careful as she removes her sword from her waist, as she folds her cloak and lays it over the edge of the bed, then unbuckles her armour. His hand pauses on the laces of his jerkin as he watches her, meticulously removing her armour and setting it aside to clean and don come morning.
She bends over to remove her boots next, and then from beneath her gambeson she extracts a small dagger, lays it aside. There is no artifice in her motions, no uncertainty in exposing her every defense to him. It is… humbling, an unfamiliar sensation he is not quite happy to bear, and for a moment he only watches her.
She is ready to slip beneath the furs when she turns to him, nodding at the laces still gripped between his fingers; he has pulled them taut without realising.
“Do you require help?” she asks. “The cold does not make it easy, I know.”
It would be wisest to say no, but his mouth cannot quite form the words in the face of her kindness, in the unwavering strength of her vulnerability.
“Thank you,” he says, knowing he means it to be for more than laces and words.
***
It is nearly two moons after the meeting of the Dragonpit that they arrive in Winterfell, exhausted but still prepared to fight. Queen Daenerys is not pleased—there are snide words about Jaime’s loyalty, his reasons for travelling so slowly. Brienne cannot claim she understands the subtleties of the woman’s insinuations, or why—with only a single confirmation from Brienne they could not have arrived sooner—Lady Sansa is so willing to defy the Queen and warmly welcome the Lannister army to Winterfell. Space is found in the barracks for the men, and it is only when Daenerys leaves the room that Sansa drops her lady-like demeanour.
“Unfortunately, ser, there are no quarters within Winterfell for you. If you cannot bunk in the barracks with your men, the inn at Wintertown likely has a pallet available.”
“My lady,” Brienne objects. “Ser Jaime will share my quarters.”
Sansa presses her lips together firmly. “Brienne, it is one thing to marry him, but I would not ask that. You cannot be certain he would not slit your throat as you slept.”
“He has not yet, and his men would rightfully see his banishment as an insult. I know you spare no love for Ser Jaime for what he did to your family, but the soldiers are good men who have come to fight for you.” She hesitates, not because she does not know what to say but because she does. “Ser Jaime is a good man. Perhaps he was not always so, but he armed me and armoured me so that I may seek you and Arya both. I would not be here without him. He will share my quarters.”
Lady Sansa draws herself tall. “Very well, if you are certain.”
“I am.” Brienne risks a glance over her shoulder to where Jaime stands, silent. “And there is another thing…”
She tells Sansa of the Golden Company, and Sansa questions Jaime about the details. He answers honestly, if not a little sarcastically, and when Sansa is satisfied she nods.
“We will not speak of this to Queen Daenerys yet,” she declares. “It will do her no good to have her attention divided when she has already lost one dragon.”
They agree and await their dismissal, and later—when they are in Brienne’s quarters that has become both of theirs—Jaime pauses in his unpacking.
“There is more to it than that,” he says.
“Very likely,” she replies, not needing him to explain. But it is not her place to speculate, and there is much to be done. “Get some rest, we must begin training come morning.”
For a few days, the men recover from their march and then are set to learning Winterfell’s defences, to training with the other soldiers. Brienne tends to her duties, old and new both, and sees Jaime at war councils and meals and very rarely otherwise. News of the marriage spreads through the castle, but most recognise it for the necessary political manoeuvre it is and save their japes. War is coming, but it is not here yet.
And then night falls, and the sun does not rise again.