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Brienne keeps her gaze focused on the East Gate and the Kingsroad beyond. Behind her, Northmen work to repair Winterfell’s towers, armory, and smithy, which were burnt or turned to rubble by the Boltons. Snow begins to drift down from the grey clouds above, slowly at first. Flakes land on her cloak and in her hair, falling faster. The wind picks up, making Brienne pull up the hood which is draped around her neck and shoulders, tucking the ends of the cloth into the collar of the boiled leather she wears.
She volunteered to guard the tower because she feels guilty not being able to contribute to the rebuilding. Most days she does not mind the solitary post. She enjoys her own company, always has. Other days, her mind winds itself down paths she would rather not consider, and still other days she is bored and restless. Today is one of those. She shuffles her feet in an effort to keep warm.
As dusk falls, one of the Stark bannermen arrives to relieve her. “Did you see anything interesting, miss?” The young man is scarcely more than a child, and a lock of blond hair falls out from under his hood. It is rare to see a Northman with blond hair and she shivers, the iciness in the air cutting deep into her bones.
“Same as always,” she replies politely. “Hope you have some mulled wine in your flask to keep you warm.”
“Aye, I might.” The boy winks at her. “Good evening, miss.”
On the stairs which lead down to the courtyard, Brienne pauses to catch her breath, the weight of who the young man reminds her of hitting her full in the chest. Jaime.
Her duties here--to Sansa, to the North--keep her occupied, but she cannot deny she thinks of him often.
As she makes her way into the Great Hall, looking for something to warm the coldness in her bones, she finds Lady Sansa taking her meal by the large fireplace. “Sorry to disturb you, my lady.”
“No apologies needed. You may join me if you like,” the young woman replies, a soft smile on her lips. Brienne longs to do nothing more than retreat to her room for a soak in her tub, but she cannot deny the young woman.
“As you wish.” Brienne takes a seat across from her, the heat from the fire making her fingers and toes tingle.
Sansa asks one of the staff to bring more food and adds, with a sly smile, “And perhaps some of that mulled wine.”
“You know me well, my lady,” Brienne replies. Over the meal, they discuss the rebuilding and news from Sansa’s brother Jon. There have been an increasing number of sightings of the Others near the Wall. The thought causes Brienne to shiver. The threats here are still foreign to her and sometimes they make her deeply long for home, but with fighting breaking out in almost every corner of the kingdom, nowhere is safe.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Lady Brienne,” the young woman prefaces her question. “Why do you take shifts on the tower? Your talents could be put to much better use, I’m sure.”
Brienne shrugs. She worried the Stark bannermen resented her close relationship with Lady Sansa. They were suspicious of outsiders and she had not wanted to isolate herself further by refusing to do a job the rest of them did without thought. As it was, few of them would speak to her, even when she was only trying to exchange pleasantries. “I doubt I would be of much assistance to those rebuilding,” she answers. “So I wanted to help in whatever way I could.” Another reason Brienne places herself at the East Gate, one which she does not admit to Sansa, is from there she can see the road leading to the south, hoping that one day, she might spot Jaime’s destrier galloping towards Winterfell.
It’s been nigh on a year since their search through the Vale for Lady Sansa. After finding the young woman, a momentary victory in their long journey, they were parted once again. Jaime headed south to King’s Landing, while Brienne rode north with Winterfell’s remaining heir.
Being privy to Lady Sansa’s confidence, Brienne has gleaned a little of the events happening in the south--the grab for power by the Tyrells, the seizing of the city, and the disappearance of King Tommen and the Queen Regent--the more news they receive, the less likely it seems that one day Jaime would appear on the horizon.
She doesn’t know how to carry on without the hope of him in her heart.
*
A year prior
There is blood and dirt and pain, so much pain. A weight on her chest, crushing her. Biter on top of her again, the soft flesh of her cheek being stripped away until she is the same as Stoneheart, grey and papery skinned. Breath rattling in her chest. A name on her lips. Jaime.
Darkness is all around her, but she cuts through it easily. She is on a horse, one which blends into the blackness surrounding her. Her horse on Tarth, the one she named Promise, was black, she remembers. Ahead of her, a light, a tent. Renly’s tent. Only when she enters, her mail and armor clinking, the man who sits in front of the mirror is not Renly. A wicked cat-like expression stretches across his face. Jaime? She looks down at herself and sees she is wearing Lannister colors. The Kingslayer’s whore. Glancing back up at him, the shadow is there, choking him, just as it had Renly. Her cries are silent. A flap of the tent rises and she spins, expecting Lady Catelyn, but her eyes meet cold, black ones. Stoneheart stares back at her.
*
“She has been shaking all morning,” Jaime informs the brothers harshly. “Can you not do something to quell her fever?”
“Ser?”
Pod nudges his shoulder and it takes everything he has to not snap at the boy. “What?”
“Look.” He nods towards Brienne and Jaime directs his gaze upon her face, where her eyelashes are fluttering.
He leans forward, taking her hand in his. “Brienne?” Her blonde eyelashes blink slowly open, flinching at the light, and her brow creases with confusion. Jaime holds his breath, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. Slowly, she turns her head to look at those gathered around her, her eyes focusing on Pod, then Jaime. There is a glimmer of recognition, but mostly exhaustion and pain. The young boy has knelt on the floor beside him, his head near her knee, his eyes shining with tears. He wishes he could do the same. There is a tightness growing in his chest, but he pushes it away.
“Bring her water, please. And broth, if you have it.” Jaime instructs the brothers, never taking his eyes off of her. She opens her mouth to speak, tries to lift her head from the pillow, but he shakes his head at her, knowing she needs to save her strength.
Later, her head propped up to allow him to spoon broth into her mouth, he thinks of how she cared for him after he lost his hand, washing the sick from him in the Trident. She has barely said a word, but he is grateful to look upon her face, her blue eyes search his, his chest thrumming with relief. He guides the cup of water to her lips, letting her drink, until her fingers close over his, signaling she is done.
Her eyes droop, pale eyelashes fighting to stay awake. “You should rest, my lady.” For the first time since he has met her, she listens to him, her eyes closing, her breath growing slow and steady.
*
Darkness surrounds her again. But there is a hand on her shoulder, pulling her out of it, the shadows on the cabin walls flickering in the candlelight, Jaime beside her. She blinks, convinced he is a dream, too.
But the next morning, when she wakes, he is there, asleep in the chair by her bed. Sunlight streams through the small window, making him as golden as his hair, although she notices the silver and grey creeping in at his temples. His chin is lined with several days' growth, but it is hard to miss the shape and jut of his jaw, the part of him which looks as if it could cut you as deeply as his wit.
Her stomach turns as she notices how his cheeks look sunken, a dark pallor under his eyes. Exhaustion is written clear across his face. Guilt claws at her throat. He has stayed beside her these long days and nights, even though she knowingly led him into danger.
*
Knowing her as he does, Jaime prepares for a journey to the Vale, even though he worries about the winter conditions in the Mountains of the Moon and the likelihood of falling across the Vale’s clans. They’ve both had more than enough of outlaws. But he knows she will hear no arguments about going elsewhere. The hardest decision he has to make is what to do with Pod, for he can see how attached the boy is to Brienne, he spends nearly as much time by her side as Jaime himself. Finally, he decides to send him to Maidenpool with Hyle Hunt, a choice he does not relish. “He will be safer there than with us,” he tells her.
*
She thinks taking action, moving forward in the search for Sansa, might make her feel more herself, but her head is already beginning to pound as they start off. The tide is out, which allows their horses to make the slow journey across the mudflats. Jaime warned her she might feel ill, having spent the past weeks taking Dreamwine and Milk of the Poppy for her injuries. Her cheek burns every time the slightest wind blows and she is shivering before they have even crossed the flats. Determined not to complain, she clenches her teeth and tightens her hand around the reins.
When they reach the north side of the shore, Jaime slows his horse to a stop, dismounting and pulling out an extra woolen cloak, which he hands up to her. A warmth thrums in her chest as it had when she awoke on the Isle and saw him sitting at her bedside. “It is a long ride, my lady,” he says easily. “We cannot have you falling ill when we have scarcely started.”
“How did you...you were in my cabin on the Isle,” Brienne speaks carefully. “Only men and women who are wed are permitted to stay together. How did you convince the brothers?”
He shakes his head. “You were…” he trails off, before mounting his horse again. “It seemed we might lose you.” The wind gusts, blowing his words away, but there is a slight quiver in his voice. “I knew the rules, but I could not leave you on your own. The brothers allowed me to visit during the day, as there were no other women in the quarters.” Jaime gently digs his heels into the side of his horse, guiding him slowly over the rocky shoreline. “At night, I could not sleep.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “So I snuck across the Isle to stay with you then as well. The brothers never knew.”
Brienne does not know what to say to acknowledge his kindness. After she lied to him and led him astray, she expected Jaime to be eager to return to King’s Landing, to no longer have to look upon her. Instead, he chose to stay with her those weeks on the Isle, scarcely leaving her side.
They have barely climbed into the foothills when it starts to snow. It is quiet and beautiful at first, the ground becoming covered, but then the wind picks up, blowing thick neverending gusts into their faces. They can barely see a few feet in front of them. Dread curls up in her stomach. If they are lost, there is no hope in turning around and finding their way back the way they came, as the horses’ prints are covered quickly by the falling snow.
The slash across her stomach throbs and her cheek stings in the icy wind. She can no longer tell if it is day or night, only as though they’ve been riding for hours and hours, when in reality, they’ve probably traveled a few feet. Jaime shouts something and she glances over at him, following where his hand is pointing to a dark outcropping of rock to their left. They approach it carefully, knowing the Vale’s mountain clans may have claimed what little shelter is available.
Jaime goes inside first and she has little strength to argue, staying on horseback, blinking against the brightness of the snow piling up in drifts against the rocks’ edge. He returns a moment later. “It’s empty.” The mouth of the cave is large enough to tie up the horses, but the interior grows increasingly smaller as it goes deeper into the rock. It is cold and dark but there is room for a fire and for their two bedrolls, scarcely more.
Brienne unpacks their bedrolls and the furs which the brothers gave them before they left. She stands, nearly knocking her head against the rocks, cursing herself, before turning to see Jaime struggling to start a fire with only one hand. “Let me,” she says softly, realizing he has not worn his golden hand all the time they were on the isle. His riding cloak falls over his right side, hiding his arm, but he has pulled the leather glove off his left and flexes his fingers, warming them over the fire.
“Depending on how long this storm lasts, we may have to stay here another day,” he says, glancing towards the cave entrance. “Perhaps longer.”
The last thing she wants to do is stay put when Sansa is out there. She thinks of Ser Shadrick, Nimble Dick, Septon Meribald, Pod and Hyle--all the times she pushed on, buoyed by her quest, her sworn oath to Lady Catelyn, her promise to Jaime. “If you wish to return to King’s Landing, I am capable of finding Sansa on my own,” she replies, her tone harsher than she meant it to be.
“I said nothing about King’s Landing.” Hurt flashes in his eyes, surprising her. Brienne expects a snarky comment in return, not the brief woundedness she glimpses. She swallows, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he begins to pull out provisions.
The brothers made sure they had enough food to get them through a long winter storm and she is grateful to them for it. Brienne doesn’t know who chose to take her to the Quiet Isle after felling Lady Stoneheart, but the choice no doubt saved her life. There is a carefully wrapped small crock of salve in her bag which the Elder Brother instructed her to dab onto the scar across her stomach to help it fade. Her cheek is beyond help, she surmises, and as it is, she can scarcely bring herself to touch it. It was not enough that people mocked me, called me ugly and brutish, the gods chose to mark me, making me even more unsightly to look upon. When she glances up from the oatcake crumbling in her fingers, she finds Jaime watching her, and she flinches. “What?”
“After I sent you off from King’s Landing, all I thought of was how I ought to have accompanied you,” he says calmly.
She regards him suspiciously, again waiting for him to make a jape. When none comes, she replies, “You had your Kingsguard duties.”
“I made a promise to Lady Catelyn as well and my duties in the capital did not excuse me from my oath.”
“If you only came because you thought I needed your assistance…” A part of her knows she is unfairly taking out her irritation with the weather and her frustration that she feels somewhat hampered by her injuries on Jaime. Yet she bristles at the idea of him thinking she needs his protection.
“That is not why I am here, Lady Brienne. I know you are capable of finding Sansa Stark on your own.” His reasoning sounds sincere. “You are more honorable than most true knights I have known.”
Something ruptures within her then. After Pennytree, she led him straight into danger and yet he still thought her honorable? Feeling as though she does not deserve his kindness, Brienne keeps her chin tucked to her chest, hoping Jaime will not see the emotion in her eyes. “You mistake me, ser. I am not so honorable,” she mumbles. “I need my salve.” Without another word from him, she rises from the fire and settles onto her bedroll.
*
The fire is beginning to burn down, so Jaime stokes it with a small stick, glancing over at Brienne’s outline under the furs. I am not so honorable, she said. The flickering firelight chases away the darkness in the corners of the cave. Jaime lies down carefully behind her, hoping to hear the soft rise and fall of her breath. He’d listened to it so intently for many weeks, watching her sleep, chasing away bad dreams.
A gentle hand on her shoulder. She stiffens and he drops his hand to the ground. “I am sorry. I only meant to say you are doing your best to keep your promise. It is admirable.”
“I am scarcely honorable,” she repeats. “Or admirable. I am certainly not an obedient daughter. I have faults the same as you.” Her voice catches in her throat before she proceeds, “I failed Renly and Lady Catelyn. I nearly let a young boy hang because I chose you.” He has rarely heard or seen her angry outside of the contempt she held for him when they first met. Perhaps it is an ire she saves only for him, because her voice rises to a snarl, “So do not speak to me about honor.”
It is not the temperature of the cave which makes his blood run cold. She sounds like him after he slew Aerys. The bitterness creeping into her voice is not her own, but his.
But Brienne is not him. He will not let her slip into the familiar darkness. “I have never expected you to be perfect. Gods know I am far from it,” he murmurs. “We can only try to do good, to be just, to protect others.”
Her shoulders hiccup in an attempt to conceal it, but her sniffle echoes off the stones. “Brienne.” He does not wish to fight with her. She does not turn towards him. “No one has ever chosen me. Nor given their life for mine without a second thought.”
“I did not do as you say.” The bitterness in her voice is replaced by a hollowness.
“You were willing to hang in my stead. No one has ever…” Jaime trails off, uncertain he can continue without confessing his heart to her. “And you have done it twice. When I lost my hand, I wanted to die, but you would not let me.” Even though he was her prisoner, he remembered the gentle way Brienne bathed him when he was half dead.
“You were the one who chose to live.”
“Perhaps, but I would have let myself die if you had not told me to fight.” A long moment passes. “Brienne, please.” The cavern is dim, but when she rolls over to face him, it’s as if he is staring at the moon. Her skin glows like she is lit from within. Her cheeks glisten with tears. She tenses under his touch and it pains him to know there is still a part of her which does not trust him. Perhaps she expects him to mock her, to make a crude jape about her appearance, as he used to. I am sorry.
He imagines pressing a soft kiss to the small scar above her lip. So many of her scars she wears because of him. The fading ones on her neck, the fresh one on her cheek. He yearns to trace all of them with gentle fingertips, count each of her blonde eyelashes, and mark the trail of her freckles with his mouth. The right side of her face has scarcely healed. She has kept it covered in the cold, but he suspects the weather is only a small part of the reason she hides it. She does not want him to see. It is bare now, though. He brushes the back of his knuckles gently along her cheekbone, expecting her to pull away or cry out in pain. “Does this hurt?”
“No,” she whispers. Jaime shifts closer, making it easier to reach across her body with his left hand. Ever so slowly, he begins to smooth his fingertips over the puckered skin.
He pauses, surprised to hear the choked sob in her throat. “I am not--I only wish to comfort you,” he soothes, unsure whether to take her in his arms.
She nods, managing a labored breath and a strangled, “I know.” Brienne catches his hand in both of hers, drawing it into her chest. “Jaime.” The name is a whisper, a sigh, a shot as sharp as a sword’s blow to his heart.
They lie together, foreheads nearly touching, his left hand cradled in hers, over her heart.
In the morning, he slowly surfaces from sleep, warm under the furs. Warm nestled next to her, he realizes, his nose buried in her neck, the length of his body pressed into her back, his left arm curled dangerously low on her hip. Jaime carefully removes his arm, but Brienne stirs, her hand reaching for his, drawing his arm across her body once again. He relaxes against her, smiling into her neck, knowing that when Brienne fully wakes she’ll likely be too embarrassed to look him in the eye for several hours.
As always, she surprises him. He can sense her blinking awake and then ever so softly, her voice, “Jaime?” At the sound of his name on her lips, a pleasant feeling washes over his whole body.
“Yes?”
“You’re awake,” she whispers, the realization passing over her lips with a soft gasp.
“Yes,” he repeats, wondering if he should let her go, if she feels trapped.
“Is it still snowing?”
“Do you wish me to get up and check?”
Her answer comes swiftly, “No.”
Jaime chuckles against her skin, tightening his arm around her. “Whatever you say, my lady.”
*
Despite the chilliness of their shelter, heat rises in Brienne’s face once they uncurl from underneath the furs. The snowstorm is still blowing fiercely outside, deflating her hopes that maybe they would be able to move on. Continuing their travel would mean not having to sit in a cave with Jaime and puzzle out what, if anything, the previous night meant.
At first, she tries to proceed as normal, as if they are only traveling companions. They are traveling companions. Nothing has happened between them to change that.
The previous night’s fire had burned down to ash, so to busy herself, she strikes her dagger against flint until the damp wood catches. She glances up to see Jaime watching her. Instinctively, she crosses her arms over her chest, protecting herself, but he only smiles.
Last night feels very distant in Brienne’s mind. She was the maiden crying on his shoulder, as she imagined once. While his comfort brought her solace, she is not sure what to make of his kindness. She was used to his acts of bravado--yelling about sapphires or jumping into a bear pit with no weapon--but the tenderness he displayed last night was new. She was sorry for what she had done, leading him to the Brotherhood, to her--the monster that was Lady Catelyn--but from his actions, staying with her on the Quiet Isle, choosing to accompany her to the Vale, it was clear Jaime forgave her for what she had done, what she had put them both through. His understanding and softness are new to her, fragile.
“I do not wish to forget last night, if that is what you are worried about,” he declares as they finish breakfast.
“It was cold,” she replies, her face and neck splotched with blush.
“Yes, it was.” Jaime agrees, but his gaze lingers on her lips. She stands too quickly, the scar across her abdomen stinging with pain. Her hand falls to it and his eyes darken with worry. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” she snaps, walking towards their bedrolls to retrieve her salve.
His voice behind her. “I can do that, if you like.” Brienne turns to see a wicked smile cross his face. This is the man she remembers, who might let a compliment slip through a chink in his tall, sharp-edged walls, but diffuse it with a jape or an insult the next.
The woman who marches across the short distance of the cave, demanding he follow through on his promise, feels like a different person, and yet the same one who endured the Kingslayer’s sharp-tongued barbs all the way back to King’s Landing.
Her hands shake as she shoves the small crock at him. Jaime’s eyes widen with shock, quickly replaced by a lascivious smile. They are both wearing layers of clothing in an effort to keep warm. She shoves her wool cloak over her shoulders, only to look up to find him struggling to open it. “Here.” Her fingers close over his, remembering how gently he brushed his fingertips across her cheek. She opens the salve and passes it back to him.
Her hands fall to her waist, realizing she will have to work the fabric of her tunic out of where it is tucked into her breeches. Jaime is still perched on his seat by the fire, but he swallows thickly as her hands begin to tug at the fabric. He tips the pad of his finger into the salve and places the jar on the ground, waiting for her. She takes a deep breath and rolls up her tunic so it only exposes her scar and little else.
He does not hesitate, dabbing the mixture onto her scar. Brienne sucks in a breath over her teeth. “Does it hurt?” he asks, pausing.
“Stings a little,” she replies. Opening her eyes, she can see the top of his head. His hair has darkened slightly over the years, but even in the dim light of the cave, the gold shines through. Her fingers itch to run through it. Between the temptation of his hair and his soft touch along her stomach, a warmth rises between her thighs. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tries to quell it, but it’s impossible to ignore the whisper of his fingertips, his warm breath on her skin. Brienne nearly whimpers when his touch vanishes for a moment as he reaches down for more salve.
When she finally opens her eyes, he is standing in front of her, the hunger pulsing through her body reflected in his gaze. She drops the fabric of her tunic, intending to thank him. They are inches apart, the heat from his body overwhelming. He reaches towards her, his gentle fingertips tracing the scar above her lip on her left cheek. “When did you get this?” His voice sounds very far away.
Brienne tries to bring herself back, concentrating on his touch, the way his green eyes soften when she looks at him. “In the sparring yard,” she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I was young.” He makes a humming sound at the back of his throat before he drops his hand from her lip, instead hooking his fingers under her chin, tipping it down so his mouth may fit easier to her own.
His lips are warm and sure against hers, but Brienne’s mind reels, uncomprehending. It does not matter, because her body responds to his as if they have done this a million times before. As if she has kissed anyone before. She returns his kiss, tentatively at first, then catching his lower lip between her own, and Jaime opens his mouth to hers. A moment ago, she was only wishing she could touch his hair. Now her fingertips glide through it, making him murmur softly against her mouth. Brienne feels as if she is on fire, wonders if her woolen cloak has somehow caught in the flames, and realizes she would be fine if it had, because Jaime is kissing her. His stump presses gently against her waist and his fingertips dance gently along the nape of her neck.
“Brienne.” Her name on his lips is a sigh, a prayer. It makes her feel soft and delicate, a way she never thought she would. Her hands are trembling as he draws back to look at her. “Do you still believe I wish to return to King’s Landing?” She shakes her head, biting her lip. Jaime steps closer, his body pressing lightly into hers, his left arm circling her waist, as he tilts his chin up to kiss her again. Hesitantly, she places a hand on his chest, his heart pulses in time with her own. It’s as if they have unleashed a dam. They cannot stop kissing. Slow and delicate, more insistent and heated. Hands and fingertips exploring. Breathless, he rests his forehead against her own, chuckling. “My lady,” he murmurs, his low voice sending a warm tingle up her spine.
Brienne isn’t sure how they will spend the rest of the day normally, not when they have just done that, but somehow they do. She puts away the salve, he tends to the horses, she stokes the fire, and they both watch the storm for awhile, standing close together near the mouth of the cave. Jaime tells her about the snow which fell in the Riverlands and how he watched the squires, stableboys, and pages having a snowball fight. “Has Tarth ever seen snow?”
“My father always told me we received snow in the weeks before I was born,” she says, a sadness in her tone. The winter of her early childhood had not been good to her family. They lost her sisters, her mother, and her brother. Even though she could not deny the snow outside was beautiful, her bones ached with sadness whenever she thought of them. “In the Stormlands, we rarely receive snow, but the storms are harsher, the tides more dangerous. We lost my brother during a storm.”
“I am sorry,” he says, reaching for her hand and raising it to his mouth to drop a kiss upon it.
They spend the afternoon talking about their travels, their families. She’s never confided easily in anyone, and a part of her hesitates, even with Jaime, but he never pushes her to tell him anything. Their travels together through the Riverlands built a connection between them. They depended on each other for survival then, but this spark is a hope for something new.
As evening draws near, they return to the fire. For warmth, for food. Brienne is concerned they are burning through their stash of wood too quickly, for they do not know how long they will be making their way through the mountains.
Jaime promised to accompany her to the Vale, but they have not spoken beyond finding Sansa. Her stomach sinks. Somewhere in his belongings is his Kingsguard cloak, possibly soiled with her blood. “You will have to return to King’s Landing at some point, won’t you?” she asks matter-of-factly. “Your Kingsguard duties…”
“I left my troops at Pennytree,” he shrugs. “I am not certain what has happened since I departed.” Brienne is clever enough to hear what he does not say. It is likely Cersei knows he has gone missing. “I chose to be with you, but I will face the abandonment of my duties when the time comes.” He sounds resigned.
Not for the first time since she awakened on the Quiet Isle, a wave of guilt washes over. She feels exposed, even more so than this morning, her shirt raised in front of him. Wishing she could curl into herself, she whispers, “I never asked you to.”
“No, you did not. I made that choice.” Jaime does not sound defeated now, his tone is firm, certain, but softens as he says, “I would not do anything differently, Brienne. And I will keep saying it until you believe me.” He places his hand on her knee for a moment, a reassurance. She nods, swallowing thickly.
They had spoken of Cersei, among other things, on the Quiet Isle. Brienne recalled Catelyn’s warnings about the Lannisters and was grateful she already knew. Jaime would not let her ignore it. He said he owed it to her. It was clear he felt unworthy of her in so many ways, but Jaime is the one person who accepts her as she is, who has put his life on the line for her without a second thought and would not hesitate to do it again. In him, she saw someone who longed to be loved, someone who was not so different from herself.
*
That night, when Jaime finally retires to his bedroll, it is Brienne who draws closer, pressing up against his back. Her arm moves tentatively across his waist, as if he might not desire her touch, but he grasps her hand in his own. She sighs gently, her breath rifling his hair. Jaime cannot recall a time when anyone has held him this way and he revels in it, willing himself to stay awake, even when his eyelids grow heavy, so he can remember the way their bodies fit together, how her arm feels strong under his, and how she murmurs softly sometimes in her sleep.
At dawn he wakes, reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth they have built, but if the storm has passed, they will want to start out as soon as possible. He glances back at Brienne after he pulls himself from the furs. Her lips are slightly parted and her blonde eyebrows, which are usually furrowed during the day, are relaxed. She looks peaceful. Soft.
He is grateful for the slow shift between them since the Quiet Isle. Brienne is often unfailingly gentle with him, even when he gave her little reason to be, but now, letting his mask of sarcasm fall, he is able to recognize her forgiveness, her acceptance of him. He is not used to such selfless kindness. There was always a debt to be paid, even with his own family. Not with Brienne. Jaime longs to lie back down and place soft kisses on her eyelids until she wakes, greeting him with those stunning eyes, but he forces himself to turn away and ready the horses. The world outside the cave is quiet and he revels in the silence, admiring the blanket of untouched snow, which they will disturb soon enough.
Returning inside, he finds Brienne awake, already fastening her riding cloak around her shoulders. “Morning,” he says, and even though he wishes to step into her for a proper greeting, Jaime hesitates.
To his surprise, she smiles, a soft laugh escaping her mouth. “Your cheeks are quite red from the cold,” she informs him, blue eyes sparkling with delight. “Come here.” She tugs his left sleeve, pulling him to stand beside her by the fire. Jaime reaches for her hand before she can move away again, their fingers tangling together, before he presses up onto his toes to kiss her.
“Good morning,” he says again, afterwards, Brienne studying him with disbelief.
“Good morning,” she replies in a whisper and bites her bottom lip to hide her smile. He lifts his hand from hers, his thumb reaching out to brush across the scar over her lip, hoping she will allow herself this small happiness without doubt. He moves his thumb down, running it across her lower lip, until her lips part and she steps into him, her hand on his shoulder clutching him closer, but he does not bring his mouth to hers. Instead he waits, wanting her to kiss him, to learn what it feels like. She is slow and reverent. A heat surges through him, his hand itching to wrap her strong thigh around his hip and boost her up into his arms in order to carry her over to their bedrolls. They are not there yet. Brienne is not there yet, but he smiles against her mouth, and lets out a soft sound when her other hand lands at the nape of his neck.
When she draws back, her eyes nervous, he smiles. “I’m well, my lady.” He clutches her hand over his chest. “More than well.” Placing a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth, his heart thrums as she smiles shyly at him. “Are you ready?”
She nods and they begin moving about the cave, packing up the furs and bedrolls, before they dampen the fire.
After the dim cave, the sunlight sparkling off the snow is bright, and Jaime has to squint his eyes against it. The horses’ hooves make a satisfying crunch through the unbroken snow. As they climb higher on the High Road, the path becomes slick with snow and ice, too much for the horses to trod through with riders on their backs, so they both dismount and walk their horses. The wind whips down the passage cut into the mountainside. He does not know how they will pass through the Bloody Gate, as it is usually armed with a guard. The road grows steeper and the mountains surround them on either side, with no means of escape. It makes Jaime uneasy and a glance back at Brienne tells him she feels the same.
The sun is high in the sky, already starting to melt some of the snow, when she notices a path cut into the mountains on the east side. They both know there is a greater risk of running into one of the Vale clans on a path such as that, but they might be turned away at the Bloody Gate and would need to loop back either way.
Brienne leads the way, walking her horse up the passage cut through the mountain slopes. Once they are off the main road, he feels safer, but he knows it will be an arduous journey, coupled with the possibility that they will be unable to find shelter and may have to make camp in the snow.
By late afternoon, they have led the horses over one rise and seem to be traveling down. The view would be beautiful if the trail was not so rocky and precarious, scarcely wide enough for them to walk beside the horses. They have barely spoken all day, so when he catches the sound of a voice in the air, Jaime knows it isn’t hers. On the trail ahead of him, Brienne coaxes her horse to a stop, having heard it as well. She glances back at him, but there is nowhere they can go.
His ears strain to listen, to catch the voice when it floats their direction again. Only this time when they recur, there are two distinct ones, and it sounds like they are directly behind him. Jaime whirls around, glancing up the path, but he cannot see anyone. The bare trees and rocks block their view of the trail winding through the mountains above them. He isn’t certain whether the voices came from above or below them, but it’s likely once he and Brienne start to move again, they might become visible to others--possibly men from one of the Vale’s mountain clans--on the trail.
Jaime motions at her to go ahead. She looks uncertain, glancing around once more, before following his orders. All the way down, he feels as if they are being watched. Gooseflesh rises on his arms. Their passage is slow and he stops every few feet to survey the peaks above them, checking to make sure he cannot spot anyone or any weapons being brandished.
Finally, the path widens ahead of them. They are still high in the mountains, but the land flattens out here and it might be an appropriate place to camp, if they can find somewhere which might provide some shelter. “There,” Brienne whispers, pointing to a small grove of pines.
When they arrive at the line of trees, Jaime can see many more stretching out in front of them. They travel a little farther, the hair still standing up on his neck from their journey down the path, and he is content when he looks back and can barely see the trail through the trees. There is a small brook carving itself through the rocks to their left and enough light for them to set up camp.
While gathering kindling for the fire, Jaime notices plenty of fallen pine boughs. He begins to collect those as well, thinking he can layer them underneath their bedrolls, so the dampness of the ground won’t soak through as easily. He drops the kindling on the ground near a tree and gets to work laying out the pine, waiting to place their bedrolls so they will remain dry for as long as possible. The sun is sinking down through the trees and Brienne is nowhere in sight. Most tasks needed of a knight, he has been able to adapt to with only one hand, but he struggles with striking flint in order to start a fire. It would be easier if she was here. He’s already comfortable with the idea of needing her, wanting her.
Jaime wanders towards the brook, pausing as he nears the banks. Several feet away, the outline of her body curls forward, as she bends to splash water on her face. It has to be freezing, but the temperature does not deter her. She straightens, rolling her shoulders back, and even in her woolen clothing and cloak, there is strength in the taut line of her shoulders, her legs. It ignites something within him, even as Brienne turns towards him, sensing his presence.
The disappearing sun glints across the polished metal of her sword hilt. The sword she thought she lost. The matching swords which bind them together. Even though he does not believe in such things, he wonders if they are imbued with some power, some magic, which led them back to each other. As he approaches her, she smiles, a tenderness in her eyes. “Is it not cold?” he asks, nodding to the water moving beside their feet.
“It’s refreshing,” she replies, reaching up to blot the water from her face with her sleeve. A strand of hair is stuck to her forehead. Jaime lifts his hand, fingers soft against her skin as he tucks it back into place, her blue eyes trained on him. A blush creeps into her face when his gaze drops to her mouth, only for him to glance up and find her doing the same. He laughs, leaning forward to capture her lips, but it is not as gentle as the ones which have come before. Jaime steps into her hungrily and her hands slip inside his woolen cloak, tugging at his leather jerkin so he is even closer. Their bodies press together, adrenaline and heat mixing between them. He burns a path down her neck with his mouth, Brienne making a soft sound at the back of her throat. Jaime unclips her woolen cloak, which flutters to the ground as he pushes the shoulder of her tunic aside, needing to kiss the scars there.
She sucks in a breath over her teeth, as she murmurs his name, “Jaime.”
He thinks of all the things which might have happened today on the trail, all the ways he could have lost her, been separated from her. Remembers the weight of her in his arms on the Quiet Isle. He almost lost her once, he could not handle it again. He is only able to ease those thoughts from his mind by pulling her closer. “Brienne.” A whisper, his voice choked with emotion as he continues to kiss her, burying his fear against her skin. “I cannot bear to lose you.”
“I’m here.” Her hands stroke his back, comforting him. “I’m safe.” His tears soak into the shoulder of her tunic as she continues to soothe him. “Jaime,” her voice is tender as her hands glide gently through his hair. “I will not leave you.” She may not be able to soothe all of the worry away in one evening, but a gratefulness blooms in his chest.
*
Brienne guides him back to camp, the pine boughs spread on the ground. “What did you do?” she asks, unable to prevent her smile.
“I thought it might provide some protection between the ground and our bedrolls.” She presses a kiss to the top of his head before bending down to start the fire, crossing their campsite to unpack their bedrolls and spread them carefully over the pine needles Jaime so thoughtfully laid out. Brienne glances over at him, huddled by the fire, uncertain when he began to occupy her heart so fully.
His words and tears tonight unmoored her, as if vast oceans surrounded her and she was unfamiliar with their waters. Jaime knew pain, buried it in bitterness for years. Hid it away inside himself. Tonight, it broke free. Part of her felt guilty, knowing her sacrifice, her injuries at the hands of the Brotherhood were an inciting event. He had seen her at the edge of death.
Brienne cannot control what might happen to them as they search for Sansa, cannot control what events might occur in the kingdom, and how they may shape any future the two of them may have together. There may likely come a point in which they are forced to part, but she meant what she said. They have chosen each other, even as the world has pushed them together and torn them apart, but wherever she has a choice, she will not leave him. She will choose him, always.
Once she’s arranged their bedrolls, she returns to the fire, digging through the saddlebags for food. Getting Jaime to eat reminds her of their time in the Riverlands after he lost his hand. “Were you frightened on the trail today?” She asks, wondering if it might be the cause of Jaime’s emotional floodgates opening. He nods, but doesn’t speak. “Me too,” she admits. She was scared they might be found and separated, or remembering the Whispers, found and attacked.
They are sitting close together by the fire, barely an arm’s length from one another, but Brienne scoots closer. She reaches out and brushes his hair back from his face. The face which grows more grizzled by the day, but which makes her love it all the more. He leans into her touch and the vulnerability in his eyes nearly breaks her. She drops a kiss on his temple and slowly strokes a hand down his arm. When her fingers edge close to his stump, he tenses. Brienne has noticed his hesitancy to touch her with his right arm. “It’s alright,” she tells him. Slowly, she pulls back the fabric of his sleeve. He twists his body against her, as if he means to pull away. Brienne reaches across her body, steadying his right shoulder with her right hand. “Jaime, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know,” he whispers. “But you don’t have to do this.”
I love you, she nearly tells him. I love all of you. He has touched and kissed her scars. She whispers her fingertips over his stump, eliciting a sigh of surprise from Jaime’s mouth. Lowering her head, she raises his arm, placing a gentle kiss there.
“Brienne.” His voice as low as she’s ever heard it. She glances up at him, his green eyes burning with desire, and he reaches for her with his good hand, fingertips on her cheek as he kisses her, his stump pressed between them.
For the third time in as many days, it’s as if a wall between them has crumbled. Brienne lowers her head again to kiss Jaime’s stump as he watches, breathless, and he tugs her into his lap, wrapping his arm and stump around her waist. “Are you sure I’m not too heavy?” she chuckles, but worry colors her voice.
“I’m strong enough.” He tips his head back, and Brienne is grateful to see him smile again. Circling her arms around his neck, she kisses him. She tries not to press into him fully as there is nothing for him to lean against for support, not unless she pins him flat on his back. The thought makes her ache with want and she must accidentally move against him, because Jaime sucks in a sharp breath. They both freeze, his fingertips curling in her hair, his gaze heated. “Do it again,” he whispers.
Her face flushes, suddenly feeling embarrassed. She pauses for so long that Jaime is the first to move instead. It’s nearly imperceptible, fabric against fabric, but then there is the heat of him. She is not so innocent to be uncertain about the hardness pressing against her thigh and the mere thought of him feeling that way because of her makes her shiver. This movement from him encourages her and she rolls her hips against him. Jaime clutches the back of her neck, his eyes rolling back, a hiss between his teeth. Then he is moving against her, hips colliding, and Brienne lets out a soft cry, before their mouths crash together, nipping at each other’s lips, as their hips continue to move, teasing one another. It feels so good.
His back must be aching, holding them both upright, so she whispers in his ear to come to bed. Every look between them heated, every touch between them a spark.
*
After enduring over a sennight of snowstorms, slow travel, and circling around the clans, they finally reach the Vale. They arrive south of the Eyrie, a large lake spreading before them. “If we find an inn, we may hear news of her,” Jaime advises as they ride towards the water, its surface glistening in the sunlight like a sparkling gem.
By evening, they’re nearing Ironoaks and come across the aptly named, Inn of the Oaks. “I’ll inquire inside,” Brienne says to him, knowing he is more likely to be recognized.
“Send out an ale,” he jokes as she dismounts her horse. He takes the bay’s reins, and Brienne can feel him watching her as she walks, the blush creeping into her cheeks cooled by the night air.
Inside, the inn is bustling. Brienne pauses in the doorway, surveying the guests, before stepping towards the bar, where a wiry looking woman with dark curly hair pushes out tankards to waiting customers. “Do you have a room? I have coin.”
“Only one room left. The bed has room for two, if you desire,” the woman winks at her. She places her coins on the wooden bar and slides it towards the woman. “Aye, it’s the last door on the left. Your horse need looking after?”
She doesn’t know how to explain away two horses, but she pays coin for the stables. As tired as she is and as much as she wants to fetch Jaime in from the cold, Brienne needs time among others to see if there might be rumors of Sansa. “What’s in the stew?”
“Goat, mostly.”
“That’ll be fine,” she nods. “A tankard of ale and some water, if it please you.” She stands, stretching her legs, and glances around, noticing the variety of colors worn by the groups of men. “You’re busy,” she says to the woman when she returns with her drink.
“There is a tourney day after tomorrow, up the road at Ironoaks.” She surveys Brienne carefully. “Figured that’s why you were here as well.”
“No,” she replies, taking a sip of water. “Passing through on the way to Gulltown. I’m going home.” As soon as the words are out of her lips, she wishes they were true, Jaime beside her on the deck.
After she eats, Brienne passes another coin to the woman. “I’d like another bowl of stew brought up to my room, please.”
The woman nods at her. “If you have need for anything else, let me know. A bath, perhaps? We womenfolk have to look after each other.”
Brienne is grateful for the woman’s sentiment, as she is normally stared at or mocked by other women. “We do,” she nods. She agrees to the bath, before stepping back out into the cold. Jaime has pulled the horses out of sight as best he could. Brienne informs him of all she gleaned inside and he waits for her to return from the stables before they enter the inn. “Keep your hood pulled up,” she instructs him, telling him the stairs are to the right. Inside, Brienne pauses by the door, surveying the others to see if anyone is paying them mind as Jaime makes his way upstairs.
The tub and stew are already waiting in the room, but Jaime is staring straight ahead. “There’s only one bed, my lady.”
“Then I suppose we will make do,” she replies as she brushes by him. Brienne reaches up to unbutton her winter cloak. She glances back at him, still frozen in the same spot, and she has to stifle a laugh. As if they have not spent several nights sleeping in each other’s arms. “You should eat,” she points towards the bowl with steam rising off it.
“I had hoped to change into fresh clothes.” His tone lilts upwards, as if he might be teasing her. She looks up to find him watching her.
Brienne tries to remain placid and unblinking as she states, “And I had hoped to bathe.”
One of his eyebrow arches and she cannot help the smile likely pulling at her cheeks. He crosses to her in what seems a single step and she rises to meet him, catching each other in a kiss. His momentum is so strong that it knocks her back against the bed. Jaime clutches at her hip to steady her, but she remains off balance, tumbling down onto the bed with him on top of her, both of them trying to stifle their laughter. “You should eat,” she insists between kisses.
“Maybe this is all I desire,” he replies, a cocksure smile spreading across his face.
“Jaime,” she says warningly, but she’s grinning like a fool. “We have time.” She marvels as she says it, because it is a luxury she never imagined.
He hooks his fingers under her chin, dropping another kiss on her lips before rising. “That we do.”
Jaime begins to change out of his riding clothes, arms stretching over his head as he lifts his tunic over his head, Brienne turning away when his abs come into view. He chuckles at her averted gaze, before sitting down in a fresh tunic and breeches.
The bathwater is delivered to the room by a skinny young boy who has the same dark curly hair as the barkeep and Brienne places it over the fire to warm. She sits at the small table next to Jaime, eyes focused on the fire, until he pushes his bowl aside, his warm fingers covering hers. Earlier it was easy to feign bravado, but when she thinks about undressing in front of him to bathe, a heat begins to crawl up her neck. He slowly strokes his thumb across her knuckles. “I will close my eyes if it’s what you wish, my lady.” His voice dips low, Brienne uncertain how he read her thoughts so easily. “But it is not the first bath we have shared.”
She thinks of how she held him then, naked in the Harrenhal baths. The heat rising in her neck now radiates across her face and her chest. Brienne squeezes his hand, unable to say anything, her heart pounding in her ears as she rises from the table. She balances herself on the mattress, slipping off her boots, and begins to reach for the laces at the top of her tunic. He watches her, eyes wide, silent. When her tunic is open at the top, she reaches for the stays on her breeches.
Jaime is beside her then, his voice a choked whisper, “Let me.” She has seen how he’s struggled with his own laces with one hand, but as he reaches for hers he holds her hip steady with his stump, while his fingers slowly untie the knot, loosening one side and then the other. He slips his hand under her tunic and his warm fingertips skim across her skin, making her draw in a sharp breath.
The pressure on her hip makes her inch closer to him, his eyes studying hers. She places a palm on his cheek and kisses him. Jaime exhales a satisfied sigh when they break apart. “You should take your bath, my lady.” His tone plays at seriousness, but the corners of his mouth quirk up into a smile.
“But there is a gentleman in my room,” she whispers.
“Less a gentleman than you might think.” A darkness crosses his face.
“That’s not so,” Brienne replies gently. He has been nothing but patient and gentle with her.
Jaime presses a kiss to her cheek. “Take your bath.” He returns to his chair.
Brienne takes the pot of water off of the fire and pours it into the tub. She slips out of her breeches first, pressing her thighs together against the dampness between her legs, before stepping into the warm water, then she removes her tunic over her head before sitting down in the tub. It is too small and short for her, of course, so she bends her legs, bringing her knees together to rest against the side of the tub. Brienne chances a glance over at Jaime, who is still turned towards the fire. She scrubs her skin until her fingers start to tingle with numbness, at which point she sets down the brush, and lets her head fall back against the metal of the tub.
Brienne imagines a million things she wishes she had the courage to do. Say his name, beckon him, tempt him, but she knows she isn’t the person to do all those things. Only knows she wants him so badly she aches.
After awhile, she rises from the tub, reaching for a cloth to dry herself. Brienne does not usually sleep in breeches, so she pulls on a nightshirt which billows down to mid-thigh and crosses to the bed.
Jaime joins her a moment later and it is strange how ordinary it all feels. His thumb traces her cheek before he kisses her, Brienne wondering the whole time if he saw her. “Are you certain?” he asks.
She nods, opening her eyes to see his green ones, darkened by desire. “Yes.”
“I do not take this lightly, my lady.” He says, his voice hushed. “I am not used to anyone choosing me. Allowing me…”
“Neither am I,” she replies quietly, stroking her fingers through his hair.
“I do not want you to think it is only desire.” He takes a breath. “For it is more than that.”
“Jaime,” she whispers.
“You know me as no one else has and I wish to know you as no one else has.”
Brienne nods. “You do.”
He kisses her softly then. She returns the kiss, fingers sliding into his hair, and opening her mouth to his.
*
Brienne in the bath is nearly too much for him. He’s only seen her body in half light, the long legs which stretch on forever, the taut muscle of her shoulders. A glance is enough. The way her head is tilted back, the pink of her nipples bright against her pale skin.
Even though he is already pulsing with desire as he climbs into bed with her, Jaime tries to make it clear how important this is to him. The trust in Brienne’s eyes nearly makes him come undone. Any other idea he may have had about love before now rings false in her eyes. He has never felt love like this, pure and without conditions.
Jaime attempts to remove his tunic one-handed. She smiles at him, helping to lift it over his head, her hands exploring the thin patch of hair on his chest, the taut muscle of his stomach. A groan rises in his throat as her fingers inch lower and lower, which makes her giggle, a sound which he muffles as his mouth meets her own.
He leans forward, pressing a long line of kisses down her neck, returning to nip at the soft spot which he knows makes her groan. Her hands smooth over the planes of his back making him shiver against her as he plants soft kisses along her jaw. As much as he does not want to be parted from her, he falls back onto the pillows once again, this time trying to undo the laces on his breeches. “Come here,” she instructs, her voice husky. Brienne unties his laces and when she glances up to meet his gaze, he finds he cannot breathe.
Her fingers brush over the strain of his cock against his breeches. He bites his lip. “Please,” he murmurs. “I want you.”
A flush rises in her cheeks, but she nods, and he cups her cheek with his hand, kissing her, before shimmying out of his breeches under the bedclothes. Jaime smiles at her, hoping to soothe any trepidation she may be feeling. He coaxes her towards him, the upper half of her body pressed against his, so he can trace his hand up her thigh and find the edge of the thin nightshirt she wears. Not for the first time, Jaime wishes for his right hand, so he can hold her the way he wants to. His heart pounds in his chest as he works the nightshirt up over her hip. There are lingering kisses mixed with breathy, searing ones as his hand snakes under the fabric, thumb tracing the outline of her breast.
Brienne sits up, him helping her take off the last garment between them. On their travels, underneath the furs, they remained partially clothed, mostly because of the cold, so the heat of their skin pressing together for the first time is overwhelming. Her body is miles of muscle and creamy white skin dotted with freckles. Soft and strong. He drops a gentle kiss to her shoulder. Brienne widens her legs and Jaime settles his body between them, hovering over her, before allowing the weight of him to press against her. Every point where their skin meets, a jolt goes through him. They both let out sighs at the sensation and he laughs, nipping at her mouth.
He quickly shifts down her body, tongue darting out at the hollow of her throat, tracing her freckles with his lips. His mouth closes around her breast, first sucking, then biting her nipple gently and Brienne lets out a soft whimper as she arches against him, her hand falling to the back of his neck. He repeats his movements on her other breast, only now her hips are grinding against him, and he lets out a moan against her skin.
Jaime shifts further down her body, dropping his lips to the scar across her belly, eliciting a hiss from Brienne. “Are you alright?” he asks, pausing.
She pushes the bedclothes down so she can see him, her blue eyes wide with desire, and nods her head. He returns his mouth to her stomach, kissing along the scar ever so gently. “Jaime, I want…” It is clear in her eyes but she does not know how to voice it. Jaime shifts his body up hers, pressing the length of him against her thigh. Brienne lets out a groan and captures his mouth fiercely with her own. She may be shy but she is not meek and the acknowledgement of her desire, even unsaid, is incredibly alluring. He dips his hand low, fingertips tracing the newest scar on her stomach. “Please,” she whispers, blue eyes opening.
He bites his lip, reminding himself to breathe, and moves his fingers lower, through the thatch of hair between her legs. As his fingers slip between her folds, she is warm and slick, and a surprised groan escapes him. Brienne presses a kiss to his jaw, a soft sound rising in her own throat as he begins to move his fingers slowly. He does not know how to explain to her what this should be, how to define her own pleasure. There will be time for that. For now, he knows he can make her feel cared for, loved. He watches her face flush: Brienne biting her lip, her breaths dipping to low moans, her hips grinding against his hand as her body shudders, arms clutching around him.
Her whole body is flushed pink and Jaime does not think he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight as her stretched out underneath him. He places soft, gentle kisses along her neck and shoulders as she recovers her breath. Finally, he murmurs her name, unsure whether it is asking permission or merely a prayer.
“Yes,” she replies in a strained whisper. Her big blue eyes watch as he guides himself into her, a gasp falling from her lips, her head falling back, and he bends forward to drop a kiss at the hollow of her throat, allowing her a moment to adjust to him.
Jaime tries to control his movements, but when Brienne’s hips begin to respond to him, he moves faster, almost every thrust eliciting a soft cry of pleasure from her. He hooks her leg over his hip, pushing even deeper into her, their moans mingling together at the sensation. As they move together, he nips at her mouth, her neck, his eyes hardly ever leaving hers. He knows he will not be able to last long, nearly there himself, and he wishes he could coax her over the edge with him.
Jaime does not know how to warn her, but she seems to understand, nodding at him, her arms curling around his shoulders as his thrusts become less controlled. Her mouth opens in surprise, both of them breathless and panting, her name said over and over as he comes.
Afterwards, he kisses her and holds her close for a long moment, before rising to fetch the cloth she dried off with after her bath, using it to wipe her legs clean and then himself. He returns to bed then, his left arm drawing her close, her back resting against his chest. “Are you alright, my lady?”
She sighs happily against him. “Yes.”
His fingertips stroke along her hip. “I love you.”
*
Winterfell - present day
Brienne is in Lady Sansa’s small counsel chambers when word comes that a rider has approached the East Gate. They are holding him in the Great Hall.
Even with the length of the hall between them, she freezes when she sees him. The rider stands with his back to her, but Brienne recognizes the slope of his shoulders, the line of his neck, chin tilted slightly upwards as he speaks to the guards. Lady Sansa gives her a strange look but Brienne resumes the long walk down the hall.
As he turns, she sucks in a breath, the sight of his bearded jaw and the familiar ridge of his nose nearly bringing her to tears. Her hands are shaking and she grips Oathkeeper’s hilt so tightly it feels as if the metal is cutting into her palm. Her left hand balls into a fist. If she opens her mouth to greet him, she will shatter.
Lady Sansa is speaking to him--Jaime was there when they rescued the young woman and Sansa would treat him as well as any guest--but he is focused on her, his green eyes sparkling in the dim light, shining for her. My love. Brienne remembers the way he whispered those words in the dark.
She gives him a small nod, the restraint of it making every muscle tense, while her mind is screaming to cross the space between them and jump into his arms, manners be damned.
The only thing which brings her comfort is that Jaime must feel the exact same way she does, for he gives her a small, polite nod in return, finally tearing his eyes to Lady Sansa. Brienne pivots away from them, rushing back to her room so she can staunch the tears into her pillow.
A few minutes later there is a knock on her door. She drags herself from her bed, her heart hammering in her chest. Jaime is standing on the other side, his eyes as tense as her own. She allows herself a moment to search his face. He looks much the same, other than the dark and heavy bags under his eyes. Her fingers itch to trace every plane and line of his beautiful face.
Finally, he is here. Solid and warm and unharmed in front of her. Unable to greet him properly minutes before, now she throws her arms around his neck, murmuring his name, her shoulders shaking as she cries. He soothes her as best he can, his hand smoothing up and down her spine. She should be furious with him, mad that he never attempted to contact her after they had parted in the Vale, to let her know he was alive, that he was safe. Even feeling the weight of his body pressed against hers, it doesn’t feel real. It’s a dream and at any moment she will wake, her heart aching when he is not beside her. “Jaime,” she sobs, burying her face in his shoulder.
“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I am sorry.” He keeps repeating those words, even as he begins to press gentle kisses to her forehead, her cheek, her hair.
“I thought you were dead,” she whispers, releasing another wave of tears. He wraps his arm around her waist, nudging her inside the room, so he may close the door behind them. His arm tightens around her and he somehow lifts her off the ground, her legs wrapping around his hips, so he can carry her to the bed. Jaime sets her down gently and she moves across the mattress, making room for him, her heart aching to see him lying beside her. It’s all she’s wanted these long months, the weight of him beside her, to hear his voice and feel his touch.
“I thought of you every day.” His eyes brim with tears, and he is stroking her hair.
“And I of you,” she sniffles, reaching up to smooth her fingers along his jaw, slowly bringing her lips to his. A soft moan falls from him, heat licking up her spine. Her mouth aches, burns for his. He is air, he is water, and she is unable to get enough to satiate her. Their sighs and cries mix together as they revel in the heat and touch of each other. It feels as if it will never be enough, though she knows they will make up for the nights they were parted. They will have time for explanations, apologies.
He breaks apart from her for a moment, a wide, proud smile stretching across his face, “My lady wife.”
“Lord husband.” Her voice is hushed in return.
Every night as she settled into bed, her fingers found the plain metal band which was strung around her neck on a dark red thread, and prayed for Jaime’s safe return. She has often thought of how they stood together in that wood in the Vale, stifling their giggles, delight and surprise clear on their faces.
Epilogue
Her fingers scarcely leave his hair all evening, stroking and scratching gently along his scalp as he tells her what happened, their legs and bodies tangled together. “You never told Lady Sansa,” he states. Her greeting and distance in the Great Hall made it clear, even as he could see how she longed to be in his arms as he wished to be in hers.
“No,” she shakes her head. “It was only for us.”
“I wish to tell everyone now,” he smiles at her. “For I have always been proud to call you my wife.” Brienne kisses him gratefully and they lie together peacefully for awhile, the only sound the fire flickering.
“You did not return to King’s Landing,” she says simply. “I sent ravens to find you.” His heart breaks, thinking of all the strife he put her through.
He’d wanted to return to the capital for Tommen, but unsure of his own status as a member of the Kingsguard, he tried to remain anonymous on his journey south. “No,” he answers. As he neared the Crownlands, he heard news of the siege on the city. He should have returned North then, but he thought of their promise to Lady Catelyn, only half fulfilled. Taking a boat from Maidenpool, he sailed to Essos, thinking a Lannister might have a better chance of survival far from King’s Landing. “I did try to reach you, my lady.” He had, in letters in which he poured his heart out to her, requesting her to join him if she could. “If I had known--I am sorry.”
“You are safe,” she whispers. “That is all that matters.” But he can see the pain in her eyes, the hurt of the time they lost, of the grief they both suffered.
“I went to look for Arya Stark.” Her eyes widen at that. He’d spent months traveling through Essos, the only hope had been the news of a girl fitting her description spotted in Braavos. He traveled there, weeks in the city, but he could not find any further information about her or where she might have gone. “On the way back, my ship got blown off course by a storm.” He cannot suppress a grin.
“Why are you smiling?”
“You will never guess where we ended up, my lady.”
“Where?”
He reaches up to stroke his fingers through her hair. “An isle which is famous for the color of its waters. The color which matches your eyes.”
“You went to Tarth?” Her features show surprise, but also hurt.
“We did try to write to you. Your father has been sending letters, but it is wartime.”
“My father…” her voice is colored with longing. And then, realizing what he has just said, “You met him?” Her voice lifts as high as he’s ever heard it and Jaime cannot help it, he laughs. She presses a soft kiss to his lips. “Tell me everything, good husband.”
“I shall, my lovely wife.”
The Vale - a year before
The day before the tournament is spent in bed, wrapped around each other, Jaime nuzzling her neck, when he says, “I wish to serve and stand beside you for the rest of my life.” He senses her hesitation. “Do you wish me to swear it?”
Brienne rolls over, the shocked look on her face softening when she sees him. “How can you be so certain all of the time?” He takes her shaking hands in his. “I am no prize, I know that. And you are…” she trails off.
He does not let her finish. “You are kind-hearted. And strong. You see the good in people, often when they cannot see it in themselves.” Jaime can feel every jump of her pulse where his fingers curl at her wrist. His throat is thick with emotion.
“No one has ever wanted me, only wanted Tarth,” she whispers.
“I am sure Tarth is as lovely as you say, but I would choose you over lands, titles, sapphires.” He is grateful they’ve been given this time together. On the Isle, he was not sure she would ever open her eyes again and yet she is here in his arms. Neither of them know what awaits them, if they will be able to rescue Sansa as they planned, if they will have to part yet again. The one thing he does know is what he feels for her and what he hopes for his future. He slips out of bed then, grabbing his sword from its hilt. He bends down on one knee, and holding the sword in his hand, places the tip of its blade against the floor. She scrambles, sitting up against the headboard, an astonished gasp on her lips. “I am yours, my lady,” he says, his eyes fixed on hers. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”
Tears shine in her eyes and she gives him a watery smile, before clearing her throat. “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor.” Her voice wobbles on the last part, but she takes a deep breath, continuing. “I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise, Ser Jaime.” He drops his sword to the floor with a clang and embraces her, whispering sweet words into her ear.
They dress, Brienne bundling him into her blue cloak so he can pull the hood up to hide himself. From his saddlebag, he draws out a fine crimson doublet. “You should wear it, my lady.” He helps her dress, his hand brushing down the soft velvet. “You’re so lovely,” he murmurs, drawing her in for a long, soft kiss.
As soon as they are outside of the inn, he takes her hand. They walk up the road through the center of town until they’ve nearly reached the castle gates. There is a sept set off to one side, as if it has grown out of the pines. Brienne nods at him, sure and strong, and pride swells inside him, eager to call the woman beside him his wife. As is tradition, Brienne should be wearing her house clothing, so Jaime pushes down the cloak’s hood, unfastening it for her to wear. “Do you think the septon would marry us here?” she asks.
“In the woods?”
“I always thought it might be nice. To get married out of doors.” Jaime watches the woman before him as she fastens the blue cloak around her shoulders. The contrast of his crimson doublet with her navy breeches makes her eyes sparkle like the ocean. He pictures a young Brienne, playing along the shores of Tarth, listening intently to the stories of knights and maidens, and wanting both paths for herself. They are still learning about each other, but he has no doubts about the woman standing beside him. He will gladly listen to and learn from her until his dying day.
“I wish you to have whatever you want, Lady Brienne.”
She cups his cheek with her hand and kisses him softly. “Thank you.” Her father, at least, should be here, but they agree, in their giddy excitement, that one day they will do all of this properly.
Today is for them. They do not know what the rest of the war will bring, but they are husband and wife. To bind their love together, to have each other.
“I take you for my lord and husband.”
“I take you for my lady and wife.”
“From this day until the end of my days.”