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Chapter Text

“I’ve had a letter from the girl’s father.” Tywin Lannister lifted a piece of parchment from the desk. 

Jaime had been back in King’s Landing for what felt like mere minutes—still covered in dirt and stinking of horse, desperate for a bath and a decent meal—but had been summoned to the Tower of the Hand the moment he crossed into the Red Keep. He’d done little more than take notice of the new faces amongst his sworn brothers in the courtyard before he’d been hastily ushered away.

Standing before his father now, Jaime felt like he had been hauled up not for a reunion, but for an inspection. Tywin’s jaw had clenched at the sight of his son’s bandaged stump, and Jaime had told some lighthearted lie about his left being as capable as his right, before steering the discussion to Joffrey’s burial and Tyrion’s imprisonment. 

His father had been less than diplomatic about his youngest son, but Jaime hoped with more discussion Tywin could be persuaded to see reason. Tyrion was many things, but he would not have killed his own nephew. Jaime refused to believe it.

That’s when the conversation had shifted abruptly to Brienne. His father seemed very curious to learn about the woman his son had arrived with, and the circumstances surrounding their acquaintance.

“The Evenstar is most unhappy,” Tywin continued, placing the letter in front of his son. “He argues it will be nigh impossible to make a decent match for his daughter, now. She is his only child, his heir, and word will spread that she’s just spent several moons traipsing around the Riverlands with you—gods only know what became of her virtue.”

Jaime scoffed at such a ridiculous notion. “I never touched her. You’ve not yet seen the wench—I do not think our little voyage is what’s scaring away offers of marriage.”

“Be that as it may, he insists you wed the girl.”

Jaime snorted. “Do they only breed half-wits on that island? I’m a member of the Kingsguard, I cannot marry.”

“Oh, that. I imagined you’d already heard.” Without looking at his son, Tywin re-inked his quill and resumed his scribblings. “You were released from your vows some weeks ago.”

Jaime took an involuntary step towards his father, red hot anger washing over him. “By what right—”

“The king’s right!” Tywin slammed his fist to the desk, ink splattering from the force of it. 

But Jaime was equally seething, his voice equally forceful. “I swore this vow for life, and I am the only one who can unswear it!”

“You will find that is not the case. Gone for over a year, without knowing if you would ever return? You left your king unguarded, and he was murdered.” His father’s words stung as if he’d carved them into Jaime’s own skin, rather than hurled them across an oaken desk. “And now you will do your duty to your family and swear a new vow, to this Tarth girl.” 

Scrambling for something, anything to get him out of this nightmare, Jaime tried to change tack. “Lord Selwyn is plainly maneuvering this match for his daughter because he is unlikely to find one better, regardless of our misadventure in the Riverlands. The woman is homely as they come and insists on acting a knight—it’s no great wonder why she remains unwed!”

“And? This match is just as advantageous for us. The Lannister heir wed to the heir to Tarth? It will be a killing blow to the Stormlands alliances, and close off Storm’s End from the Narrow Sea. When her father dies you will take his place as Evenstar, and the Lannister name will bracket Westeros from East to West.” Tywin paused in his writing, glancing up to where his son stood gaping at him. “This is not a discussion. You will be wed this evening.”

“This evening?” Jaime sputtered. 

“And the sooner you get a babe on her, the better. Of course we are still in mourning for our king, so it would be inappropriate to make any great fuss, though I will instruct the kitchens to prepare a few extra courses for tonight’s meal. Here,” he handed Jaime the Evenstar’s letter, “bring this to the girl so that she may be made aware—she’s been given quarters in the Maidenvault.”

“You would make me tell her?” Jaime could not quell the hysterical edge to his voice. “She doesn’t even like me!”

“I thought it best she hear it from her betrothed.” Tywin bent to resume his work. “Now go.”

Dazed, Jaime stormed out of the Tower of the Hand. He’d lost his honor, his hand, and now his life’s purpose. He’d not even had a chance to see Cersei yet, and had no idea how he’d go about explaining this mess to her when he did. He’d no idea how to explain it to Brienne, either. They’d only just managed to forge an ounce of trust between one another, and now he’d be lucky if she didn’t try to gut him after learning the news. He grimaced. Mayhaps I should bring her a sword and let her put a swift end to this misery.  

His anger and disbelief joined forces to carry him, trance-like, across the middle bailey and into the Maidenvault, where he soon found himself standing outside Brienne’s room. He must have knocked on her door, else his stewing had been loud enough for her to come investigate the source, because suddenly she was standing before him with a puzzled expression and her hand still on the door. 

“Ser Jaime?”

“I’ve been relieved of my vows.” He shoved her father’s letter at her, stalking into the room uninvited. 

Brienne looked wary as she took the parchment. As she read, Jaime retreated further into her quarters. She’d been given a terrible room—almost insultingly small for a lady of her rank, with only a single window and no balcony. Instead of the sweeping views of Blackwater Bay afforded to most other guest rooms, hers looked directly onto a wall, providing her with a view of nothing more than bird-shit-splattered red stone. He would have to rectify that. 

But no, he thought, his stomach giving a queer flip, after this evening we will be made to share quarters.

She had been quiet for too long. Jaime turned to find her staring dumbfounded at the paper, all color drained from her face.

“Well?” He prompted.

Her wide eyes snapped up to meet his, almost like she had forgotten he was there. “I will write to my father. I will make him undo it.”

“Ah, but my father means for it to happen tonight.”

She cast her eyes about the room, as if a solution could be found in the stonework. “I know my father has had difficulty in making a match for me, but I did not think he had grown so desperate.” 

Jaime scoffed. “You think being wed to the heir to house Lannister reeks of desperation?”

Surely she couldn’t believe there would ever be a better offer made to her. Tarth was a small, if well-positioned seat, but Jaime knew it had no great wealth. No sapphires, at any rate. All the gold of Casterly Rock had been laid at her feet, and she was not even entertaining the idea of becoming Lady Lannister. He was almost offended by how quickly she’d tried to find a way out of it.  

“My lord, I only meant…I would spare you the indignity.”

The indignity to him. As if her own wishes had no place in the matter. 

“I know you could not want this,” she added, quietly. Her hands were trembling. 

Right. No. He didn’t want this. He did not want to marry anyone but Cersei, or leave the Kingsguard, or force honorable Brienne to tie herself to the Kingslayer until the end of her days. 

“You do not want it either.” He placed his hand over hers to stop them from shaking.

She looked away. “I want to find Sansa and Arya, and return them home.”

Jaime resisted rolling his eyes. Ah yes, the oath they swore to her dearly departed Catelyn Stark. But she had upheld the first part of their promise, having delivered him safely back to King’s Landing. In spite of himself, Jaime felt some little niggling voice in his head reminding him that he owed a debt. The voice sounded suspiciously like Brienne’s, come to think of it. Not that she’d ever be allowed leave to go find them, now. Although…

Well, her husband would certainly be within his rights to give her the necessary permission. If she was so desperate to fulfill the vow they’d made to a dead woman, he could let her, and if she was gone it would almost be like they weren’t married at all. His father would be displeased, but there was little else he could do to make Jaime’s life worse at this point.

“Mayhaps…” he began, thoughtful, “mayhaps there is a way to make this work to our advantage.” 

So together they made a plan. 

He’d bathed and had his dressings changed; he drank perhaps an inadvisable amount of wine, desperately wishing Tyrion was there with him rather than locked away in the black cells; wishing Cersei would come to him as she did on her own wedding day, and then simultaneously wishing she would not, fearing how she would react to the news. No, better to simply go through with it and worry about placating her after it was done.  

And then in what felt like no time at all, Jaime found himself leading Brienne to the marriage altar. Few guests were there to witness their union—the Tyrells, young Tommen, a handful of other nobles he did not care to remember. He felt Cersei’s eyes burning into him as he and his bride took their places between the Mother and Father, and could not look at her; if he looked at her, he wasn’t sure he would be able to go through with it.

Instead, he turned to look at Brienne. With his betrothed in slippers and he in boots they were of a height, and despite the firm set of her jaw the trepidation in her eyes was clear to see. 

She looked ridiculous, as ever; a rose-colored cape and ill-fitting blue gown had been acquired for his bride, he supposed as close to her house colors as could be managed at such short notice. He felt a twinge of pity for how uncomfortable she looked in the dress—better than the pink satin at Harrenhal, but still bad enough that he knew she must be unhappy. The fabric stretched tight at her shoulders but gaped loosely across her breasts, and even though the hem had clearly been let-out, the fabric still ended some six inches north of her slippered feet.

The septon began to drone through his prayers, and Jaime took the opportunity to lean slightly closer to Brienne. “My lady, you look well,” he murmured.

She drew her lips into a thin line, and he knew the holy setting was the only thing preventing her from rolling her eyes in response.

“The blue matches your eyes,” he added softly, because it did, and he was rewarded with a slight softening of her expression. In the candlelight he could just make out the ghost of the black eye she picked up in their travels, not quite-yet healed. 

When it came time to exchange cloaks, his own father stood in for the Evenstar, swiftly removing the makeshift maiden’s cloak from her shoulders and only taking a step or two back, as if he feared his son might still decide to flee mid-ceremony. But he need not fear—in fact, Jaime almost felt a queer satisfaction in reaching for the Lannister cloak, knowing his father had no control over the agreement he and Brienne had made in private.

There were gasps and titters from the guests when Jaime lifted the cloak from where it had been draped over his right arm, for none had yet seen his injury. Despite the beauty of his scarlet and brocade doublet—one of this finest, though it hung about his frame looser than it once had—none in attendance could miss the way his right sleeve hung limp around his empty wrist when he reached up to fasten the cloak about his bride. 

Brienne’s hand flew up to catch his elbow before he could unthinkingly knock into the clasp with his stump. Her fingers gently closed above where she knew his bandages to be, and her other hand rose to help his left fasten the cloak. Gratitude swelled in him, even as whispers carried about the sept, knowing he surely would have cried out in pain had she not stopped his arm.  

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.” Her voice was apologetic as she held his gaze.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.” Something caught in his chest, and he quickly stepped forward to press his lips to hers. 

He thought he heard a small sigh escape her throat, and was halfway to raising his fingers to her jaw when the septon’s voice pulled Jaime back to himself. 

“…one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever—” Brienne was blinking at him, lips parted  “—and cursed be the one who comes between them."

Reality began to settle back over him at the feast. Brienne barely touched her food or drink and Jaime too, had little appetite, but every time his eyes swept the hall and met with his sister’s he felt compelled to drink. Doubly so when he would find Cersei watching Brienne; he misliked the way she looked at his new wife. What was that childhood friend of hers? Malena was her name. Or was it Melara? The memory of the girl sent a chill down Jaime’s spine, though he could not say why.

Surely his sister knew none of this was his choice. There would be time to speak soon enough, and, gods willing, Brienne would be well away by then. 

His eyes continued to wander over the rest of their guests. Many threw less-than-subtle looks Brienne’s way, ducking behind raised hands to whisper to each other. The Tyrells seemed uncharacteristically subdued—all but Ser Loras, gleaming in his white cloak, who looked nothing short of murderous. Jaime had almost forgotten that few were aware of the true circumstances of Renly’s death—the boy probably believed Brienne had murdered him.  

Luckily, Tywin’s wedding gift had been a magnificent sword—valyrian steel, reforged from poor Ned Stark’s greatsword, Ice. Brienne had looked upon its black and red rippled blade with awe when it was held out before them. It rested now on the table between husband and wife, and Jaime hoped she would draw the lion-headed pommel from its scabbard and protect herself from Loras if need be.

Gods, what an utter nightmare the two of them had walked into. He could not possibly keep her safe, here, but it felt unfair to expect Brienne to be able to shoulder the danger for the both of them. He glanced at her sidelong, sitting straight as a board beside him, her downcast eyes staring at an untouched plate.

Once again, he wished Tyrion was there. His little brother always knew how to lift the mood. 

Time seemed to stretch out dreadfully slow, until finally his father stood and called for the bedding ceremony. Raucous cheers were interspersed with barely-concealed sniggers, and husband and wife left the hall in a tide of ribald guests. Jaime found himself gripping Brienne’s hand in his own, hoping to keep her close.

They were thrust into their new chambers before long, and only a little worse for wear—it seemed the revelers at least had the sense not to try to liberate Brienne from her bridal gown. Jaime chuckled to himself as he barred the door, picturing the way his new wife would have bloodied their wedding guests had any of them attempted to lay a hand on her.   

But his smile faltered at the sight of Brienne standing beside the bed, her hands worrying a corner of the Lannister cloak where it spilled crimson over her shoulders.

He stumbled over to her, the drink catching up to him at last. “You have nothing to fear from me, Brienne. I would not dishonor you.”

“You are my husband, it is your right.” She refused to meet his eye. 

She did not seem to understand. “Yes but. I would not touch you, unless you wanted me to.”

“But your father will expect heirs.”

“We do not need to make one tonight.”

She smiled at him, cautiously. Barely a smile, really, just a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth, but she let him have it. Trusting him.

Bawdy laughter from the hall carried through the door as the men still outside made lewd noises, quickly wiping any happiness from her face.

“They will know,” she whispered.

Others take them, Jaime wanted to say. Instead he walked the length of the bed, placing his good hand on the headboard. He gave it an experimental shake, and grinned.

“Here, help me, take the other side.” 

Brienne looked at him quizzically, but did as he asked. 

He then began knocking the headboard into the wall behind it. A loud, rhythmic thumping—for if he was going to make a show of it, it may as well be a good one. Once Brienne understood his meaning her cheeks began to redden, but she nevertheless moved her side of the headboard along with him. How ironic it was, after so many years of secret trysts with Cersei, to be making such a loud show of doing absolutely nothing.

It was not long until whoops and shouts could be heard again from the hall. Jaime laughed quietly, increasing the pace. Brienne was by now blushing furiously and couldn’t quite look him in the eye, but she was mirthful, too, and had to press the heel of her hand to her mouth to stifle her own laughter. Had he ever heard her laugh? The noise that escaped her was incongruously girlish, and he thought he rather liked the sound.   

Minutes passed with the two of them at either side of the bed, shoulders shaking with silent laughter as the thump thump thump of wood hitting stone rang out between them. Brienne finally shot him a look as if to ask “are you quite finished?” and Jaime had to bite back a bark of laughter—would she have him earn a reputation as a hasty lover? He quirked an eyebrow and only shook the headboard faster. 

Brienne, not one to yield, reached for a pillow instead and chucked it at his chest with impressive force, causing him to grunt loudly and finally drop his hand. More cheers erupted outside their door for his supposed climax, and he had to hand it to the wench—they did make a good team. 

As the sounds of revelry slowly faded down the hall, Jaime watched the mirth slowly drain out of her face and fade into something he could not place, a familiar sadness returning around her eyes. He found his own smile slipping away as well, staring at her from across their marriage bed.

“You will need help with that,” Jaime said gruffly, indicating her dress. 

“I can manage,” was her quiet response. But he strode around the bed anyway. 

Once face-to-face she swallowed, and removed the Lannister cloak before turning to give him her back. It was difficult work one-handed, but he was feeling stubborn, and she was patient as he plucked the laces loose. She struggled out of the sleeves, and then the rest of it, until it pooled around her feet. Strangely, the simple linen undertunic she wore underneath suited her more than any gown. He almost said so, but his heart seemed to be beating very fast and his head had gone a little fuzzy as a familiar warmth pooled in his belly—the wine must have well and truly caught up to him now.

Wordlessly, Brienne turned back to him and began unfastening the buttons running the length of his doublet. She kept her eyes firmly on her work, dextrous fingers ghosting over his chest, not seeming to notice the way his heart hammered away below. His own fingers felt as if they wanted to tilt her chin up to look at him, and he quelled the impulse.

Jaime shrugged his left arm out of the fabric, and she was gentle as she helped with the right. “Will you need a fresh bandage?”

“No, Qyburn said it would not need changing until the morrow.” 

“How is the pain?”

“Much improved.” He looked down at his shirt sleeve hanging over the stump, because it was too hard to look at her face. “But still…there. Always.”

“I am sorry they did that to you,” she said softly.

He shrugged, emotion welling in his throat. Or perhaps it was still the wine. He began to unlace his trousers, the only part of dressing and undressing himself he could still manage on his own. He felt Brienne’s eyes on him still, and hoped his body would not betray him now.

“What? It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

She dropped to one knee, and suddenly he spied the glint of naked steel in her hand—she’d had a dagger stashed up her skirts this whole time.

“It was a jape, my shirt is long enough, I already told you I would not—” he stumbled back a step, trying to appease her.

And she did finally roll her eyes at him then, turning instead to throw the bedcovers back. She raised the tip of the dagger to the meat of her palm, and a small sliver of blood blossomed under the blade. She tilted her hand to let it fall to the clean linen below.

“Is that enough?” She asked him. “To be convincing?”

Something her septa warned her of, no doubt. In truth, Jaime could not remember, but he told her it would suffice.  

Together, they climbed into their farce of a marriage bed. They had slept side by side in the dirt many a night in the Riverlands, but never like this, with warm linens around them and a soft featherbed below. Brienne lay beside him, holding her palm to her lips until the fresh cut stopped bleeding. He felt a rush of affection for her in that moment, for her kindness and her willingness to go through with this.

“I’m sure this is not what either of us had pictured—”

“You need not say it.”

“Nevertheless—”

“Please, Jaime,” she whispered, giving him her back, and he realized she was crying. 

That for all her bravery, she was still a girl with a tender heart, who dreamed of a wedding night with a husband she loved—and it had been taken from her, given to a man who by all rights should be her enemy. He would almost not blame her if she stabbed him in his sleep.

Jaime woke early the following morning. Still asleep, Brienne had turned to face him at some point in the night, though a gulf remained between their two bodies. He’d never had the opportunity to see her this unguarded before, so he took the opportunity to let himself look upon the woman who was now his wife. With her eyes closed he could not see the blue he knew to be astonishing, but he did take note of the white-blonde eyelashes that trembled ever-so-slightly with each breath. Between them sat her crooked nose, broken at least twice and poorly healed each time, freckles spilling over it and onto the rest of her face. And then above it all, a crease in her brow. She is cross with me even in sleep, he mused. Her large lips were drawn wide and slightly parted, pale in the morning light, and he remembered the sigh that escaped from them in the sept the night before. 

He would need to wake her, soon. Jaime had promised her his leave to look for Sansa Stark, wherever the search may take her, and she would need to depart before word of their plans reached his father. Then, once she had completed her quest and ensured the Stark girl’s safety, they would petition the faith to annul their marriage, and he would be free to reclaim his rightful place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Their plan was not without its flaws, he knew. Much could come to pass in the meantime. But he had faith in her, and she trusted him, so he supposed they could not hope for much more.  

Brienne stirred beside him. Her eyelids fluttered open, and he was greeted with that blue he somehow knew so well already, looking at him with a softness he found he rather liked. It was over in an instant, though, and it felt like a loss to watch her walls settle back into place. 

She had no belongings of her own left to her and there was no time to procure new, so he gave her a purse stuffed with gold and together they packed a bag with whatever garments of his that looked like they’d fit her. Next, a stop at the armory on the way to the stables, to piece together a suit of armor. Had they more time, he would have commissioned new plate to her measurements and called it a wedding gift. As it was, he only had one true gift to give.  

He’d had it brought down to the armory, after the feast. She took the sword from him with the same look of awe that had lit her face the night before.

She brushed a hand over the golden pommel, her large fingers tracing the inlaid rubies. “I cannot…this is a Lannister sword, it should be you who wields it.”

“It is wasted on me, and besides, you’re a Lannister now too,” Jaime reminded her. “I ask that you call it Oathkeeper, and use it in the service of our oath to Lady Catelyn. See if you can use it to find what is left of my honor.”

Sword in hand, her eyes lifted to meet his. “I will, Jaime.” 

Had he always felt so disconcerted under her gaze? He nodded his thanks.

In the stables he had a bay mare saddled for her, and stood watching as she double-checked the straps. She seemed to be stalling, and he could not quite bring himself to turn heel and leave. 

A thought occurred to him. “Will you write to your father and let him know you’re well? It would be a shame if he thought I sent you away and our newfound alliance crumbled before it was even underway.”

She agreed to send a raven from Rosby to reassure her father, then surprised Jaime by asking after Tyrion. “Will your brother truly face trial?”

“He stands accused of killing his king, I don’t see a way around it,” he replied bitterly.

Brienne contemplated this. “Three Kingslayers in one family now, that must be a record.”

“You are not—”

“I know that. And I know that your actions towards Aerys were not dishonorable, so it stands to reason that the truth of these matters is often misunderstood.” She stepped towards him, all sincerity. “I have not met your brother, but I imagine he is also innocent of the claim. If there is anything you can do to help him, you must do it.” 

Again, she had tipped him off balance. “Of course.”

Brienne nodded, satisfied. They had delayed their farewells long enough; she turned back to the horse. 

He did not realize he had reached for her until his hand closed around her wrist. She inhaled sharply, and faced him again with a searching look. Jaime stepped close enough to murmur against her ear, “Let us give Varys’ little birds something to whisper about, shall we?”  

He caught her lips before she knew what he was on about, kissing her deeply. He’d not meant to go at it with such gusto, but when she once again let out a quiet sigh he pulled at her lower lip and her mouth parted for his tongue. 

He didn’t know why he was doing it, but he certainly couldn’t blame the wine anymore. He tried to remind himself it was just for show, but his cock didn’t seem to know the difference as it began to stir in his breeches. Jaime broke away from her in alarm.

Pink-cheeked and well-kissed, Brienne blinked at him a few times before whirling away to mount her waiting horse. 

“Be safe, Brienne,” he managed to croak out. 

Her breath was still coming quickly as she looked down at him and nodded. “Goodbye, Jaime.” 

In an instant she had urged her horse into a trot and made for the gates. Jaime followed along on foot until she’d exited the Red Keep, and stood staring at the gates long after they’d closed behind her, the ghost of their kiss lingering on his lips.  

Chapter Text

Freys and Tullys, Brackens and Blackwoods, it mattered not to Jaime Lannister what their quarrels were. But quarrel they did, and it would not do to prolong any threats to King Tommen’s peace. So he had agreed to return to the Riverlands at the head of a column of Lannister soldiers, to do his duty to the crown and stamp out the remaining embers of war. 

In truth, life in King’s Landing had grown increasingly unpleasant since his last journey through the Riverlands. His forced wedding to Brienne had actually proved to be the bright spot, considering what followed. 

True to his word, he’d tried to come to his brother’s defense—and failed, wholly. Tyrion had been found guilty, and sentenced to death after a disastrous trial by combat. Had Jaime still been whole, he would have gladly stood as his brother’s champion. As it was, he’d not yet trained with his off hand and could barely disarm a squire at his present skill. So he’d done the only other thing he could do, and helped his brother escape instead. 

He could not have anticipated that Tyrion would murder their father on his way out of the Red Keep. No—apparently Jaime Lannister was destined to have every good deed chased by some terrible consequence.

So, with his father dead and his brother a fugitive kinslayer, the only family left to him in King’s Landing was Cersei—beautiful Cersei, the other half to his soul, who he had missed beyond measure and crossed what felt like all of the seven hells to return to. But she did not come to him until more than a sennight had passed since his return, and recoiled from his maimed arm when she did. She was furious with him for seemingly everything—getting captured, not returning quickly enough, losing his sword hand, and, most unforgivable of all, for obeying their father and marrying Brienne. 

What’s more, before he’d disappeared for good, Tyrion had confessed to Jaime that their sister had taken half the Kingsguard and their cousin Lancel into her bed in his absence. He wanted to believe it to be nothing more than a bitter lie from a man hurting, but he could not manage to brush it aside. His brother’s words followed him everywhere—she's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know—and the doubt spread through him like a sickness.  

Other things were difficult to brush aside, too. Her thirst for the throne had only grown with Joffrey’s death, and the closer she inched to power as Tommen’s regent, the more Jaime saw a glint in her eye that reminded him unsettlingly of Aerys.  

So the opportunity to put some distance between himself and the quagmire he was sinking into was surprisingly welcome. He did not know how to temper his sister’s ambition, but he could at least ensure the king’s peace was carried out in the war-torn Riverlands.

The days were trying and none of the decisions easy, but it was the first time he’d felt useful in a long while.

After settling matters at Raventree Hall they were due to return to Riverrun, and stopped in some village called Pennytree to make camp for the night. Peck had only just begun removing his armor when one of his sentries arrived with news.

“M’lord, a hedge knight was apprehended trying to enter camp. Says they have urgent news for you.”

“At this hour?” Jaime sighed. Peck’s hands paused over his greaves. “Put him under guard until morning, I will see to him then.”

“Yes, m’lord. Only…” The sentry flinched under Jaime’s annoyed glare. “Begging your pardon, only he said it has to do with Lady Lannister.”

His stomach gave a flip. “Have him brought to me. Now.”

Several long minutes passed before the hedge knight arrived, long minutes where Jaime did not allow himself to imagine what news might be coming. He had neither seen nor heard from Brienne since sending her away from King’s Landing, now many moons ago. He had thought on her—often, but always briefly—wondering where she may be, and if her quest had yet proved fruitful.   

He could not help but flinch when his guards arrived with the knight. The man’s face was covered in wounds old and new, his skin more bruise than unmarred flesh, with an angry welt encircling his throat.

“Speak, Ser. Who are you?” Jaime fought to keep his tone measured.

“Ser Hyle Hunt,” the man answered. “I was one of Randyll Tarly’s men.”

“I’m told you bring news of my lady wife. If it was she who did this to your face, I’m sure it was deserved.”

Hunt shook his head. “We were captured together by the Brotherhood Without Banners; this is their work. They brought us to their cave and put us in the noose, for the crime of allying with House Lannister. Only they gave her a choice—bring Stoneheart your head, or we’d all be hung. Well, your lady was ready to hang for you, but it was seeing young Pod hoisted up that changed her mind. They cut us down and gave her back that Lannister sword to go get you, but she circled back and ambushed them instead. The whole Brotherhood, against her with that sword.”

Bile began to rise in Jaime’s throat. “And where is Brienne now?”

Hunt paused. It was hard to discern a facial expression underneath his bruised and swollen flesh. “Your wife lies dying, on the Quiet Isle.”

Jaime inhaled sharply. “If this is some trick—” there was a murderous edge to his voice “—perhaps you intend to deliver my head instead?”

Hunt stiffened. “No trick, my lord. The boy—he won’t leave her side, fancies himself her squire—he begged me to come find you. She was calling for you, in her fever. And I brought her blade, if you need proof…” Expectantly, he turned to the guards. One of them stepped forward to hand Jaime the sword. Oathkeeper. 

The lion’s ruby eyes glimmered in the firelight; dried blood had worked its way into the golden hilt.

“Come to the isle or not, it’s naught to me,” Hunt continued. “I’m only here because I owe her a debt. For saving my life.” 

The longer Jaime looked at the sword, the more blood he found. The red was everywhere, caked into every groove.

“How far is this isle?”

The first blush of dawn was beginning to seep over the horizon when they boarded the ferry. Distrustful of Hunt’s motives, he’d brought Ilyn Payne and a few other soldiers along, and his squire, Peck. They had ridden through the night to reach the Quiet Isle, but when the little ferry arrived the man who introduced himself as the Elder Brother would not allow Jaime’s men to board along with him—it seemed the faith’s hospitality only extended so far.

“This is a place of healing, not of war,” the man had said. 

So Jaime reluctantly left his men behind, directing them to stay and make camp nearby in case he had need of them. He doubted he had anything to fear on an island of apparently silent monks, but still—he did not particularly like the way Ser Hyle had been glaring at him all through the night. 

Tired of the knight’s disdain, Jaime leaned an elbow against the ferry’s rail and called out to him. “Something on your mind?”

Hunt jerked his chin towards Jaime’s maimed arm. “Bold, prancing around a countryside beset by outlaws with that gaudy bauble on your wrist.”

Jaime regarded the false hand at the end of his stump. Gaudy it certainly was, made of solid gold and inlaid with mother of pearl fingernails, and, in truth, exceedingly impractical as far as hands went. It was good for little more than reminding others of Lannister gold, and clumsily raising a goblet to his lips. But Cersei had presented it to him under the pretense of a wedding gift, so he wore it.  

“Need I worry about attacks from outlaws on this isle?” Jaime replied. 

Ser Hyle huffed, looking out over the water. “Only place in the bloody Riverlands you won’t find them. Your wife certainly met more than her fair share of them, out there.” He turned back to Jaime, derision writ clear on his swollen face. “I told her, same as everyone else, same as you should’ve; she ought to put this dangerous quest behind her and return home to her island.”

Jaime nearly scoffed. “That’s not who Brienne is.”  

His dislike for the man was growing by the minute. Hunt may have traveled with Brienne, but he plainly did not know her well at all. Luckily, the ferry journey was a short one and they docked before he could find any more blame to lay at Jaime's feet. 

The Elder Brother led them up a series of winding staircases, moving eastward into the rising sun until they came upon a cluster of little stone huts. Only one appeared to be occupied, a faint trail of smoke curling from a hole in the roof and a pile of furs roughly in the shape of a child beside the door. Roused by their arrival, a skinny boy scrambled up from where he had been sleeping within them. He gasped slightly as Jaime strode towards the door beside the monk, eyes growing wide with recognition. Hunt gave the boy a silencing look as Jaime and the Elder Brother entered the cabin without them.

Inside, two more cowled brothers stood stooped over a straw pallet. Brienne was laid atop it, stripped nearly bare save for some thin scraps of fabric to protect her modesty, and the men passed a basin of boiled wine and clean bandages over her unconscious form. Bruises of varying age colored her skin between the places where she had been sewn back together, painting her body a grotesque patchwork of red and pink, purple and blue, brown and yellow. Her face was shockingly pale where it was not bruised, and as Jaime moved closer he could make out the sweat beading at her brow and throat. 

He drew up short, taking steadying breaths through his nose. He’d seen countless wounded soldiers in his life, but it alarmed him to see her like this. She didn’t look small—that was near impossible, even now—but she looked more a corpse than the warrior woman he knew, and seeing Brienne so broken made his stomach lurch with something unfamiliar. It felt rather close to guilt. 

The Elder Brother fixed him with an accusatory stare. The words went unspoken, but Jaime could hear them all the same: what sort of husband sends their wife off to face such danger? Show me the man who could prevent pigheaded Brienne from charging into trouble, he wants to reply. And besides, what would a servant of the seven know of heroes made flesh? The faith may have their intangible gods, but Jaime’s was here in this room—flesh and blood and real; some beacon of honor and chivalry and truth that he thought could not possibly still exist in this world, all wrapped up in a woman with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen—and she was dying. 

“Will she wake?” He asked. 

“It is too soon to say,” the monk replied. “We have been feeding her milk of the poppy and dreamwine to ease her suffering—if she were to wake now, I fear she may not be able to withstand the pain. We will know more if her fever breaks.”

Jaw clenched, Jaime watched as one brother gingerly lifted Brienne’s limp form so the other could wind a clean dressing around her torso.

“She’s strong, she…” he cleared his throat, attempting to clear it of emotion. “Is there hope?” He glanced again at the man beside him, and found the accusation in his eyes had been replaced with something softer.

“There is always hope.” 

The men attending to Brienne finished their work a short while later, pulling a warm blanket up to her shoulders before leaving. Jaime noticed the boy was still outside, trying to steal a glimpse into the hut before the door swung shut again.

“They will return throughout the day to check on her,” the Elder Brother assured him. “I imagine you would like to rest, yourself. I must confess, Lady Brienne revealed to me the nature of your…arrangement, the last time we met. If you would prefer, there are spare beds in the cloisters—”

“I intend to stay with my wife.”

The Elder Brother regarded him curiously. “Of course. Then I will have someone bring a spare pallet.”

“The floor suits me fine,” Jaime replied, dropping his bag to the ground. He glanced again at the door. “The boy—why is he sleeping out in the cold?”

“Podrick? Squire or not, only family may share a roof on the Quiet Isle. But he wishes to stay near.”

Jaime considered this. “Well, I have need of him—I cannot remove my armor on my own, and you did not permit me to bring my own squire to the isle. Would it break your bloody rules if I asked for his help?”

“As you will, my lord.” The Elder Brother opened the door and beckoned the boy in, before leaving himself.

He was a scrawny, nervous-looking thing. Not as bruised as Ser Hyle, but his skin still displayed the signs of their recent struggles—a large cut was healing on his forehead, and he bore the same necklace of angry welts his companions sported. Who would hang a child? 

“Podrick, is it? I understand you are my wife’s squire.”

The boy nodded nervously, his eyes darting to Brienne. “Y-yes, my lord. And I was Lord Tyrion’s squire, b-before…before what happened.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Well, as long as we’re keeping things in the family, I could use your help taking this armor off—” the boy stepped forward dutifully, but Jaime stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. “No, not yet. I’ll get through what I can manage on my own first, while you sit with Lady Brienne. Make sure she’s comfortable.” 

Podrick hurried over to the pallet and took up one of Brienne’s large hands between both of his own. He spoke to her in quiet tones, thanking her, asking her to please get better, and other things not quite loud enough to catch. When Jaime had unfastened all the bits of armor his left hand could reach, he called the boy back over to finish the rest. 

“You care for her a great deal,” he said as Podrick freed him of his left pauldron.

“Yes, my lord. She saved my life.”

“Seems it’s something of a habit for her, saving lives.” Live, and fight, and take revenge—her voice echoed in his head.

“Ser—my lady, is a true knight. Even if she is also a lady.”

Jaime would not argue that point. 

Once Podrick had arranged Jaime’s armor into a neat golden pile beside Brienne’s mismatched plate, Jaime placed Oathkeeper in his hands. The sword was nearly as tall as him.

“Did my wife teach you how to properly clean her weapon?”

Podrick looked down at the blade, nodding reverently. 

“Good. Then I expect to see it shining again when you’ve finished.”

The boy left Jaime alone in the unsettling quiet of the little hut, and he found it difficult to make himself cross the room to Brienne’s bed. He spent several minutes leaning against the opposite wall, watching the rise and fall of her chest under the blanket. 

“What were you thinking, taking on the whole Brotherhood by yourself? I knew you were stubborn, but I thought you at least had some wits about you.”   

Inhale, exhale. A gust of wind howled outside.

“When you wake, we are going to have a conversation about the value of your life.”

It was suddenly very important to him that she wake. I do not want her to die.

It was not a surprising thought—after all, he had jumped unarmed into the bear pit to make sure she lived—but the intensity of the feeling was new. It was strong enough to finally pull him across the floor to kneel down beside her. 

“Wench. Brienne—” he squeezed her hand “—wife. Do you hear me? You will not die. You cannot. I do not grant you leave to die.”

All day he remained by her side. When he finally did sleep, it was with her hand still twined with his, as if he could tether her to life so long as he did not let go.

And perhaps it worked; her fever broke in the night.

A sennight passed, then another, and each day on the Quiet Isle passed much the same as the one before. With her fever broken, the brothers allowed for Brienne to wake long enough to get some food into her stomach before letting her slip back under. Jaime would cradle the back of her head as one of the silent brothers held a bowl of warm broth to her lips. She would grimace in pain, bleary-eyed and seemingly unaware of her surroundings. If her eyes did happen to chance upon him, the crease that appeared between her brows was the only indication she gave.

Aided by medicine from the monks, she continued to sleep and heal, and by virtue of being the only one allowed to stay with her, Jaime spent most hours at her bedside. He often found himself talking to her just to fill the stifling silence. 

“You must admit this was a rather extreme attempt to be free of our marriage,” he teased, resting his chin atop their clasped hands. “My father is dead, he could not have stopped us from seeking an annulment. Though I suppose your father would be none too pleased. I do not think I’ve ever met him at court—is he even taller than you? I’m not sure I’d like to face his wrath then, if it’s all the same to you.”

Would she want to be done with him, if she woke? Everything that had happened to her, every wound on her body, was a result of her association with the name Lannister. Obstinate wench that she was, she’d apparently been willing to die rather than betray her honor by handing her Lannister husband over to the Brotherhood, though she owed him no true loyalty.  

“It may surprise you to hear it, but I have been faithful to our marriage vows. If that factors into your decision.” He glanced sidelong at her; she did not stir. “Oh, do not think me noble—though I’m sure you would never make that mistake.”

When Brienne had departed King’s Landing, he’d initially thought things could go back to the way they’d always been with his twin. He’d been a fool. 

“I waited for Cersei to come to me. I had already waited so long, what was another few days? And she did come. To bring me my new hand.” He lifted the thing from his lap, as if Brienne could see it. “I had to be made presentable. And she was glowing as golden as the hand she’d gifted me. I had missed her so much, and I thought if we were together all would be right again.”

Brienne’s head moved slightly on the pillow. Could she hear him?

“Only somehow I felt more unsettled than ever. We were finally together, but I kept thinking of you standing beside me in the sept. Your silent tears that night in our marriage bed. When I waited too long to reach for her, I knew she could tell. I knew she would be angry.”

At the time he’d wondered if he’d lost his wits along with his hand—he’d spent a year or more dreaming of what it would be like to have his sister’s body pressed against his again, but when finally presented with the opportunity it was Brienne who filled the space between them. 

Jaime closed his eyes and could still see Cersei standing before him, as beautiful as she’d been in his dreams. 

“Why would you not come to me sooner?” He’d asked her.

Cersei’s laugh had been sharp. “And risk having to see that beast of a woman you agreed to marry? I had to be sure she wasn’t coming back.”

“You must know, neither of us wanted it. I haven’t touched her, I’ve sent her away—I belong only to you. Do not take your anger out on her.” 

“Oh yes, I’m sure a girl as comely as her was beating back suitors with a stick,” Cersei sneered. “No, that cow couldn’t believe her luck, having tricked her way into Jaime Lannister’s bed.” 

That was unfair. Brienne could be called many things—hells, he’d hurled enough insults her way himself—but Cersei had the wrong of it. “She is not what you think.” 

“All women are the same, Jaime.” His sister’s face had twisted cruelly. “Even great big ugly ones like her.”

Unexpected pity washed over him, though not for Brienne. Must everything be this way with his twin? Always looking for the scheme, the enemy, the plot against them? He was exhausted. 

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Cersei.”

He knew the strike was coming before she’d even raised her hand. It had always been easier to let it happen than fight her.

“I don’t even recognize you anymore—there is no lion left in you at all,” she’d hissed. 

He hardly recognized himself either, if he thought about it—but it did not distress him as it ought to have. Perhaps he truly had gone mad—what had he fought his way through the Riverlands for if not to get back to his twin? The stinging echo of her hand on his cheek kept him company long after she’d swept out of the room. 

He opened his eyes when Brienne mumbled something that sounded like his name. He watched her for a long while to see if she would wake, but she slept on.

“Mayhaps the Elder Brother has the authority to grant us an annulment, when you wake. If you wished it.” He studied her face, half obscured by the bandage covering one cheek. A bite, the monk had told him. But not from an animal—a man had been the one to ravage her face. “I would not blame you—it seems my name has not offered you the protection we had hoped for. Being forced to tie your life and honor to mine has nearly killed you. I may as well have driven the blade into you myself.” 

Jaime was not well-acquainted with the feeling of guilt. But every time the brothers came to change her dressings, he forced himself to watch. He memorized the map of wounds upon her body, and each one pricked unpleasantly at his conscience.

He struggled to understand the rest of what he felt. How sometimes, in the quiet of the night, he let himself think about what it might be like to have a real marriage with her. That he would imagine a future where he’d bring her to Casterly Rock; he’d teach her how to navigate its maze of tunnels, and show her where they could jump off the cliffs together to splash into the Sunset Sea below. And he would ask her to take him to Tarth, to show him the sapphire waters that would be as blue as her lovely eyes. Would they sit together on the shore, in the shadow of her castle? Husband and wife, her head in his lap and the sun overhead, quiet and content and without a care in the world. Sometimes he could hear the faint voices of children over the crash of the waves.

He brushed the hair back from her brow and leaned close, nose brushing her temple. “I’d never planned on being a husband,” he murmured. “But I think I could be a good one, to you.”

By the third week, much of the color had returned to her face, and her wounds appeared to be healing well. The Elder Brother seemed to think the threat of corruption had passed and finally began to wean her off the milk of the poppy. 

Podrick was permitted to visit with her daily, and Hunt came along with him on occasion. And when her companions and the brothers would leave, Jaime would settle down beside his wife and resume their one-sided conversations.

“I’d wager they’re not completely silent, these monks. All the mead they make here—surely they’re sampling their own wares,” he was musing. “Wouldn’t take much before they’re slurring their words and leading a chorus of ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair.’”

“Not everyone must needs talk as much as you.”

Startled, Jaime’s eyes swept to Brienne’s face. Blue eyes blinked up at him.

“You can hear me?”

“You are not very quiet,” she mumbled, voice hoarse from disuse. Her eyes slid to their linked hands, and she regarded them with a furrowed brow. “You’re really here?”

He squeezed her hand in confirmation. Suddenly his throat felt too thick, and he did not know what to say. “I should let someone know you’ve woken.” 

And though he should have stood and made for the door, he remained rooted to the spot. She was staring up at him with those eyes of hers and he couldn’t bring himself to look away, not yet, not after they had so long been closed in sleep.

Worry suddenly shaded her features. “Pod and Hyle, are they—?”

“Safe,” he answered quickly. “On the mend.”

She closed her eyes with a sigh of relief. 

“In fact, the boy is probably just outside, he’s never far—” Jaime turned his head to direct a shout towards the door “—Podrick, are you there?”

The door cracked open almost immediately. “Yes, my lord?”

“Pod?” Brienne winced as she tried to sit up.

The boy gasped and rushed into the room. “Ser? My lady?” 

Tears welled in her eyes at the sight of him. Jaime felt as if he was intruding on a private moment, and gave up her hand for Podrick to hold. He stood and let her squire take his place, slipping out the door to leave them to it. 

He set out against the glare of the setting sun in search of the Elder Brother. Several indefinable emotions coursed through him, coalescing together into something that could only be called happiness. He felt light as air as his feet carried him up the winding stairs—Brienne was awake! She was awake, and she was talking, and surely this meant she would live. 

Reaching the crest of the hill, he spotted the man he sought was already heading his way. Jaime cupped his hand around his mouth, shouting against the wind with the news.

“The Mother’s mercy has smiled upon her!” The Elder Brother called back as he neared. He clapped Jaime’s shoulder in celebration, and the two turned back down the hill to the women’s huts. “In fact, I’d been on my way to find you,” He produced a roll of parchment from the sleeve of his robes. “Your men sent this over on the ferry for you.”

Jaime took the letter after a moment’s hesitation and began to read as they walked. “My lord, a messenger has brought urgent word from King’s Landing…” it began, scrawled in Peck’s boyish hand. 

Sellswords had landed in the Stormlands, and it was anyone’s guess when they would make for the capital. The king needed the Lannister forces to return at once, should the city need defending. Of all the bloody bad timing, Jaime thought, pausing in Brienne’s doorway as the Elder Brother went in ahead. He could not ignore an order from his king.

Jaime rested his shoulders against the closed door and watched as Brienne spoke quietly with the Elder Brother. Her eyes would occasionally drift over the monk’s shoulder to seek out Jaime's, as if each time she was surprised to find him still there. Not for long, he realized miserably. The thought sank like a lead weight in his stomach.  

The Elder Brother set about to checking her wounds. “How do you feel?”

“Tired.” She winced as he gingerly peeled back a corner of the bandage on her cheek. “Like my head’s filled with moss.”

“To be expected, from the milk of the poppy,” he replied, smoothing the bandage back into place. “Will you eat? Your meal will be ready any moment now.”

She nodded. “Yes, I think so.” 

“I’ll go get it!” Podrick declared helpfully.

She looked again to Jaime as her squire ran past him out the door. “Will you stay?”

“I—” He stepped forward, holding the parchment up. “King Tommen has called me back to King’s Landing. I’m afraid I must leave tonight—my army will need to march at first light.”

She blinked. He thought he could read disappointment on her face, but it might have been his own reflecting back at him.

“I hope you were not long away on my account.”

“No, not long,” he lied. The Elder Brother glanced his way. “I would stay, if I could.”

There were a thousand other things to say to her, all jumbled up inside his head with no clear way out. 

“You—” she began, clearing her throat—but nothing more followed. 

Having finished checking the rest of her bandages, the Elder Brother stood. “The tide will be with us for another hour, if you mean to take the ferry.” 

Jaime nodded as the monk exited the hut, and then it was just he and Brienne alone again. He felt inexplicably nervous, and began to gather his things rather than face her.

“I should not have sent you alone,” he said to the wall.

“I would have gone anyway.”

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. True. “Fine, then. But hear this: you don’t always have to be so brave. To always jump into danger without a thought for yourself.”

“I had to protect them.” She was quiet for a long moment. “And you.”

“Yes but—” he finally turned to face her. “You matter too, Brienne. Do not forget that.” You matter to me. “Do not let your honor be more important than your life. Do not make me deliver your bones to your father.” 

The smile that came to her lips was pained. “He would kill you, I think.”

“I thought as much.” He knelt again at her side. 

“I will find her, Jaime.”

“I know.” He believed her. Deciding not to fight the impulse that took hold, he reached out to tilt her face towards his. Brienne's eyes widened in surprise as leaned close. “Let’s call it tradition,” he said, and brushed his lips against hers.

He’d meant for the kiss to only be a brief, parting thing, but when he felt her fingers come up to rest on his jaw, something inside him shattered. He pressed closer, desperate, cradling her uninjured cheek with his hand, groaning when he felt the unexpected brush of her tongue across his lips.

A gust of cold air filled the hut as the door flew open, and they yanked apart as if burned.

“Oh! I’m s-sorry, ser, my lady,” Podrick’s eyes were darting rapidly between the two of them and the tray of food in his hands. Hyle Hunt stood behind the boy, eyebrows raised so high they’d all but disappeared into his hairline.

Jaime couldn’t bring himself to say anything to any of them then, least of all Brienne; everything he could think of sounded too final. Instead he stood abruptly, slinging his bag over one shoulder and gathering up his bundle of armor before striding to the door.

“Be safe.” He heard the strain in her voice as she echoed his words from their last parting back to him. 

He shrugged, smiling at her. “Only if you will.” Then he stepped out into the falling night.

Jaime made it halfway to the dock before he heard someone’s footfalls approaching from behind.

“You cannot be serious,” Hunt gritted out, falling into step beside him.

Jaime did not slow down. “What have I done to offend you this time, ser?”

“You’re insane, is what.” Hunt shook his head, mystified. “You’ve a wife in that hut, a woman completely devoted you, and you don’t even want to stay with her.”

“What I want, and where my duty lies are two separate things.”

“You’re a fool.”

“And you’re not the first to tell me so.”

Hunt’s tone rose to incredulity. “The girl is besotted with you, and you would leave her behind!”

Hunt clearly had the wrong of it. Brienne was simply loyal to a fault, even if the loyalties were not originally of her own choosing—and that loyalty had nearly gotten her killed. As for the kiss they’d just shared…well, that was Jaime’s own greediness, and besides, it was perfectly natural for a husband and wife to kiss farewell. 

“Forcing her back to King’s Landing with me would be a fine way to disabuse her of that notion, certainly.” Quite ready to be out of earshot of the knight’s opinions, Jaime stepped onto the waiting ferry.

“You’re sitting on a mountain of Lannister gold; there are countless other knights who would be happy to find the Stark girl in exchange for some. Why must it be her?”

Jaime pointed emphatically towards shore. “Because there is only one person I trust with my honor, and she is laying in that hut.”

“So you would let her stumble off into danger once more, all for the sake of the Kingslayer’s honor?”

Jaime felt his phantom fingers clench. If he hadn’t already boarded the ferry, he would have cracked Hunt’s face back open with the golden hand.

He looked down at the thing instead, and fumbled for the straps holding it to his arm. “It’s gold you want? Here’s your gold,” he said, tossing the hand to shore as the ferry pushed back. “For your service to my lady wife.”  

Hunt scampered down the slope to pluck it from the reeds. He stood there in the shallows, the ridiculous gold hand cradled in both of his own, the dumbstruck look on his face the last thing Jaime saw as the ferry drifted away.

Chapter Text

They’d been alerted to the army’s approach some ten minutes earlier. Brienne had rushed to the battlements when she’d heard the news, and from her position could just make out the column in the distance now—a growing mass of dark shapes against the white of the snow, slowly snaking their way up the faint outline of the Kingsroad.  

A group of riders broke apart from the front of the column to ride on ahead as they neared, crimson banners fluttering around them in the wind. The lion she knew to be upon them was no more than a gold smudge at this distance, but there was no mistaking the Lannister sigil by the time they reached the outskirts of the winter town. 

They had been expecting them, of course, but few enough had responded when Jon Snow put out the call for help that she had not let herself truly believe anyone would come.

Let alone Jaime.

Winterfell felt a world away from the last time she had seen him. At times she had convinced herself they would never cross paths again; had tried not to let herself imagine the moment she found herself in now: squinting across the snowy landscape, trying to discern which distant form might belong to him. 

She was startled back to herself by a touch to the arm. Brienne had not even noticed Arya approaching—a common occurrence with the youngest Stark girl.

“Jon wants you down there, to welcome them,” Arya said. 

Brienne swallowed as her stomach gave a queer flip; she was nervous, she realized, and was not hiding it well.

Arya smirked up at her knowingly. “What, not excited to see your Lannister husband?”

“He’s as much my Lannister husband as Tyrion is Sansa’s, you know that.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “Sansa doesn’t call out for the Imp when she has nightmares.”

Brienne reddened. She’d thought that had stopped with the fever dreams, long ago. “He is not your enemy, Arya, no matter what may have happened in the past,” she deflected.

“Lucky thing he was never on my list,” the girl replied distantly, turning her eyes back over the battlements. 

It had not been easy for any of the Starks to put aside enmity for the sake of the cause—Lannisters had brought more pain to the Stark family than she would ever fully comprehend, but they all knew the horrors they would soon be facing meant that new allies were worth more than old feuds. Jon Snow had already proven his understanding of this kind of diplomacy, having brought the wildings across the wall and with him to Winterfell to strengthen the numbers on the side of the living. Sansa, too, having survived King Joffrey’s court and Littlefinger’s machinations, had been a quick study. And though she would never forgive house Lannister, she would do what needed to be done to uphold the truce. 

That left Arya, who after much argument gave her word to not interfere with the peace, though she pointedly refused to pretend to be happy about it.  

Brienne left her on the walls, and hurried to join those gathering inside the East Gate. Jon stood at the forefront with Sansa to his right, his massive white direwolf sitting placidly between the two. Brienne tried to slip in at the back, but Jon motioned for her to come stand alongside them instead.

Silently, she took her place beside Sansa—who looked every bit the Lady of Winterfell in her charcoal dress and heavy fur cloak, with her auburn hair draped artfully about her shoulders and a dish with bread and salt balanced atop her delicate fingers. She freed one hand to give Brienne’s a gentle squeeze.

“You are safe with us, my friend. You’ve nothing to fear,” she whispered.

How to explain to her lady that it was not Jaime she feared at all? She understood where the girl was coming from, of course. Sansa had been forced into her marriage to Tyrion, and it seemed to her that Brienne’s marriage to Jaime had been much the same. And on the face of it, it was. Brienne had little choice in the matter—but then neither did Jaime. So he had not been unkind about it, and they had found a way to turn the situation to their advantage. All things considered, it had not worked out poorly. Besides, she had long understood she would never marry for love. 

Until, it seemed, she did.

So, no. Brienne did not fear Jaime. She could no more fear him than she could stop loving him.

It had taken her several months to realize she in fact did love her husband, unable to even recognize it for what it was until long after they’d first parted. Love for Jaime had been a thread she plucked at absently, and the more she examined it, the more she understood how deep her feelings ran.

How long had she loved him? Since Harrenhal, to be sure, when he jumped into the bear pit and told her he dreamed of her. When his secrets spilled like blood from a wound in the baths, revealing his honor, long kept hidden from view. Or was it even earlier, when he shouted “sapphires” and saved her from rape? It had not happened all at once, but over time, growing steadily until her heart beat only for him.

And when Stoneheart strung her up from a tree and called for Jaime’s head, Brienne made the only choice her heart would allow. 

But like their lady mother, the Stark girls held no warm feelings for Lannisters—so Brienne had not yet corrected Sansa’s assumptions. It had been hard enough gaining her trust in the first place.

Besides, even if Sansa learned the truth and was somehow able to forgive Brienne her foolishness, she would surely pity her instead, and she did not think she could bear that either.

Because for all anyone may fault him, Jaime Lannister was still known to be one of the most handsome men in Westeros, and what a cruel jape it must be for a man like him to be married to the likes of Brienne of Tarth. What would Jaime think of her, his hideous wife, now that she was even more deformed than when he’d set eyes upon her last?

He had known about the bite, of course, but it had been covered and he had not seen how poorly it had healed since. It was not as if much could have been done to improve her looks anyway, but it still felt like unnecessary cruelty from the gods to mar her further.

For a long time, Brienne thought of it as some kind of punishment. Punishment for her foolish dreams, or for failing everyone she had pledged herself to. The gods decided it was not enough for her to be freakish tall and ugly, now she would be grotesque, too; forced to watch as people decided whether to recoil from her in pity, or in fear. 

The rest of her scars were safely hidden below her clothing, but she would never be able to hide the discolored flesh that cut across half her cheek any more than she could pretend it never happened, so she began to wear her hair pulled back from her face in defiance instead. Let them see it, she would tell herself, pinning two limp braids across the back of her head, tucking the stray hairs behind her ears. I will not cower. 

The gates opened and Sansa gave her hand one last squeeze. She felt her heart catch as Jaime rode in first, flanked by two standard bearers and his officers following close behind. Beautiful as ever, he wore a simple crimson surcoat over his golden armor, and a fine fur cloak draped over it all. A beard once again covered his chiseled features and his hair was longer than she remembered, the burnished blonde curls just grazing his jaw. 

His eyes still possessed the same sharp glint she remembered so well, the green locking with hers almost immediately as he surveyed the small group waiting to greet him. All memory of courtly manners abandoned her then, unable to do anything other than blink at him dumbly. It seemed to amuse him, and he smirked to himself as he dismounted his horse.

“Lord Lannister,” Jon said in greeting, stepping forward. “The North thanks you for answering our call.”

“My wife’s letter was persuasive.” Jaime inclined his head towards Brienne, a smirk still playing at his lips.

Jon followed his eyes and smiled at her as well. She could feel her face begin to flush under their combined attention—Jon’s kindness, and Jaime’s sly teasing—and hoped the cold air would be enough to disguise it from view.

“Bread, my lord?” Sansa asked, diverting their attention. 

With a wry grin, Jaime reached for the proffered bread and salt. “I am pleased to see you safely back in Winterfell, good-sister.”

“I know of your oath, my lord.” Sansa did not return his smile, but she held his eye as he chewed. “As thanks, I hope you will trust that guest right still holds sacred in the north, even if it holds little meaning elsewhere.”

“And I hope you will trust that my father is long dead, and I have no appetite for further animosity between our two houses.” He gestured to the officers gathered behind him. “The Lannister forces are at your disposal—we intend to fight for the living.”

He began to make introductions of his men, and Sansa stepped forward to offer each one guest right in turn. Brienne forced herself to stop staring at Jaime, tearing her eyes from his profile to scan the yard for any sign of Arya. The youngest Stark girl was startlingly good at hiding in plain sight, and Brienne hoped she’d at least witnessed the sincerity of Jaime’s welcome. 

As such, she was distracted and squinting towards a darkened archway when a low voice tickled her ear. 

“You look well, Brienne.” 

She tilted her chin to find her husband standing before her. A roguish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he regarded her. After all this time he was almost too much to look at, this close. And despite her earlier fears, his eyes did not dart to her cheek the way so many others’ did when looking upon her. Love for him swelled inside her chest at that, even as she tried to shove it back down. 

“And you, my lord.”

Jaime snorted. “Oh now, none of this my lord nonsense, or I’ll have to go back to calling you wench.” 

“Jaime,” she said quietly, and his smile grew. “Thank you, for coming.”

A pleasant shiver stole its way down her spine as she held his gaze, wholly unrelated to the cold, and she could not help but return his smile.

He looked like he about to say something more, when Jon Snow interrupted.

“My lord, if you will—it would be best to bring you up to speed before tonight’s welcome feast,” he explained, motioning for the newcomers to follow.  

Jaime gave her an apologetic little shrug. “Save a seat at the feast for me, wife.”

She watched Jon lead Jaime and his officers away. Her hand absently brushed over Oathkeeper’s pommel, something she often found herself doing when in search of courage. She turned, thinking she might search out Pod and distract herself by having him run drills, and finally spotted Arya. She was up on the covered bridge between the Great Keep and the armory, an eyebrow raised as she smirked down at Brienne with an air of victory. 

The welcome feast was not as opulent as it once might have been, in another time—no one knew how long this winter would last, or how soon they might find themselves besieged by an army of wights, so Sansa had only permitted as much as they could spare from Winterfell’s larders without causing insult. 

If their new guests minded the understated meal, they did not let it show. Their march north had been long and cold, and the serving platters before them were piled high with roasted venison and enough wine and ale to satisfy their thirst. The glass gardens had been put to rights, and so there were also heaping trays of boiled parsnips and steaming tureens of spiced carrot soup. The Great Hall had not been this full of warmth and life in all of Brienne’s time at Winterfell, though the mood was still somewhat subdued as the northerners adjusted to the reality of having invited their once-mortal enemies to dine amongst them.

Jaime apparently had no trouble embracing the spirit of their endeavor, and had taken the seat beside her on the long bench. Every fiber of her being seemed to be aware of this nearness; his leg was pressed flush against her own, from knee to hip, and he seemed to take no notice of the frequency with which their shoulders bumped together. The last time they’d been this closely touching was as prisoners of the Bloody Mummers, tied together on a horse, and certainly neither had any choice in the matter, then—but Jaime had not made any effort to draw away now, so she did not either.

She felt foolish, anyway, for thinking his proximity meant anything different at all—the benches were crowded everywhere she looked. They were allies in arms now, after all, and he likely saw her as such, so it was not so strange. She was the one with the secret yearning for their marriage to mean more than it was, and as such would always be foolishly searching for meaning in the smallest things. 

It had been a comfort to her, on the nights when sleep would not come, to try to remember the exact feel of his hand in hers, or the look on his face when he left the Quiet Isle; the press of his mouth on hers in place of a goodbye, twice now; the sound of his voice when they spoke the words to each other in the sept. She could close her eyes and just as quickly conjure up the sound of his feet hitting the dirt beside her in the bear pit; the shape of him walking through the steam at Harrenhal; the way her blood sang as their swords clashed on the road to Duskendale.   

And there were other things she would think on, too; things that hadn’t happened at all. Things that would find her slipping a hand beneath her smallclothes in the midnight hours—things that a lady was within her rights to think about her husband, but also made it very hard for her to look him in the eye and forget she had thought them. 

“Seems like Snow’s done well for himself,” Jaime said, leaning even closer to keep his voice low.

She forced herself into some semblance of composure. “What do you mean?”

“Last time I was here, he was not even permitted to dine with his family on the dais. Now, not only does every man in this room look to him to lead, he has their trust to do it as well.”

Jon had once confessed to her that it still felt strange—the bastard son, sitting up there on the dais with his sisters. She could understand it, in a way; though where Jon had been denied a seat beside the family who raised him, Brienne had never felt worthy of her own seat, back home beside her father. But Jon Snow had certainly proven his worth, and he now shared a closeness with his siblings that made Brienne’s heart ache with grief for her own brother and the few memories she had of him.

He’d addressed the hall with some brief words of welcome, gratitude, and the shared purpose of everyone gathered. But when Sansa stood to offer her own words of welcome and Jon found his seat, the haunted look that so often graced his features settled back into place. It was a look that made plain how much he had already seen—the dark shadows under his eyes never seemed to fade, growing deeper as he struggled with the weight of the coming war and all that had already come before.

“It weighs on him,” Brienne responded. 

Jaime hummed in agreement. “And despite his best efforts, it sounds like we might all die up here anyway if more do not answer the call.”

“There is hope that once word spreads that Stark and Lannister have set aside the past to fight together, more will reconsider.” She lowered her voice to a murmur. “I know he is glad to have you here.” 

“And you, Lady Lannister? Are you glad I am here?” His eyes were sparkling in that teasing way of his.

“Yes, I—I—” she stammered, flustered. “I am grateful to be able to thank you in person, for the aid you sent to my father. Tarth would have suffered much more at the hand of the Golden Company without it.”

He waved her off. “You need not thank me for that—Lord Selwyn is my kin. Of course I sent aid.”

He made it sound so simple. Did he truly feel that way about her father? Brienne had never considered Tywin Lannister to be her family, brief though he was.

“Regardless, I thank you. I know my father greatly appreciated it.”

“Well, you’ll recall you instilled some lingering fears with regards to his desire to have me killed, should any harm come to you. Given your propensity for danger, it seemed wise to hedge my bets and attempt to get on his good side.”

How was it that everything he said drew a smile from her? She attempted to bite it back, but he had already noticed.

“So it worked! Has my good-father been singing my praises?”

“He may have spared you a kind word or two, in his letters.”

Jaime laughed at that, a low rumble that spread from his chest and reverberated across the places where their limbs remained tightly pressed. Still chuckling, he reached out to hook a wine jug with his false hand and refilled his cup with ease. She had meant to ask him about it—the change had surprised her.

“The hand—” she nodded towards it. 

“Ah, yes.” He rapped the knuckles against the table. “I’m getting better with it. This one is made of wood—the golden one was terribly impractical.” 

“Gold seems more fitting for a Lannister.” 

He contemplated it for a moment. “Perhaps. It was certainly very pretty, but it was not…true.” He raised his gaze to meet hers, his eyes shining with warmth from the drink. “I prefer this one.”

“I confess, I was taken aback when Ser Hyle showed me—”

Jaime cut her off, looking around the hall. “Yes, where is the chivalrous Ser Hyle hiding? I haven’t yet seen his insipid face about.”

Brienne’s brow wrinkled in confusion at the change in his tone. “Ser Hyle remains in the Vale, in little Lord Arryn’s service.”

He grinned at that, though she could not imagine why. “And you continued on to Winterfell with your little collection of Stark children,” he said, looking towards the high table. “You’ve made yourself a home here.”

Home. She sighed, thinking instead of Tarth. 

Yes, she loved the Starks, and was grateful beyond words for the place they had made for her. But she would never feel like a northerner, not truly; every day she missed the sun on her face, the grass under her feet. She missed the water, the rough sea and the placid stillness; she missed looking out at the horizon to count the ships passing by, and the smell of rain hissing off the castle walls after a storm. 

She glanced at the high table as well—Jon and Arya were sharing a laugh as Sansa sneaked Ghost a bit of meat off her plate. She looked up to catch Brienne’s eye with a questioning tilt of the head, which she answered with a small smile of her own. 

“They have welcomed me with more trust and kindness than I had ever expected,” she explained, turning back to Jaime. “And I will stay as long as they wish me to. But I do not know if I will ever stop thinking of Tarth as home.”

“In which case, you must tell me the truth, Brienne—I require complete honesty from you.” His tone shifted, gravely serious. She held her breath, anxious for whatever his next words might be. “Do you ever get used to the cold?”

That finally drew a loud laugh out of her, and he grinned wide—victorious.

They did not suffer for topics of conversation as the hours passed, each with plenty to share about what had come to pass since they’d last met. Brienne told him of journeying to the Vale and finding Sansa hiding in plain sight as Petyr Baelish’s natural daughter; how Pod was the one to recognize her and help earn her trust; how they fled together once word spread that Jon Snow had retaken Winterfell. She told him of the the day they arrived, how heartening it had been to see the siblings reunite, and knowing she had kept at least part of their promise to Lady Catelyn. How she had been planning to go back out in search of Arya in order to keep the rest of it, until the girl turned up at Winterfell one day, all on her own, taking them completely by surprise. 

And Jaime spoke of his journey back to King’s Landing with another war brewing on the horizon, of a boy who sailed across the Narrow Sea and proclaimed himself to be Aegon Targaryen; how he’d tried to hold the city against the boy’s forces, and the moment he knew they could not win; how he once again found himself in the throne room, pleading with a mad ruler to surrender, only this time it was his sister who would not listen; how he’d been forced to imprison her and sent her to live out her days at Casterly Rock in order to save Tommen, the king he could protect, finally, wrenchingly, and ordered the Lannister forces to give up the city and fall back to the Westerlands.

Brienne’s heart broke for him, for the impossible decisions he had been faced with, and for having to make them, again and again—but it swelled with pride, too, for he had saved the life of his son and called the retreat before the city could be destroyed, saving countless lives from what would have been a butchering. 

As the night wore on, she felt more at ease with him than ever before, forgetting all her usual awkwardness and her guarded smiles. Their conversation flowed easily, continuing even as their plates were scraped clean and the hall began to empty around them, until finally Jaime stood and offered to escort her to her room.

It was the proper thing to do, a lord offering his arm to a lady, so she took it after only a moment’s hesitation. It was certainly less proper for a wedded lord and lady to be residing in entirely separate parts of the castle—Brienne in the Great Keep and Jaime in the Guest House—but that had been Sansa’s doing, another kindness she had thought to bestow upon Brienne. 

She enjoyed the weight of his arm under her hand, the familiarity of it as they walked side-by-side to the Great Keep. Somehow she did not feel too big around him, though she was slightly taller, and he treated her with the same respect any gentler lady would be afforded. She was surprised by how much she appreciated this gesture, for it was something she had long ago learned not to expect.

Nor had she expected the deference he’d paid to her, in front of all those gathered in the courtyard earlier. My wife’s letter was persuasive. Surely she had not been the reason he’d accepted Jon Snow’s appeal where no other houses had?

It was the question that had been playing on her mind ever since she’d learned the Lannister forces were truly on their way, and perhaps she had overindulged more than she had intended at the feast, for she did not stop herself from asking it.

“Why did you come north? I know it could not have only been my letter.”

“Is that so?” He cocked his head to look at her. “Brienne, I have known you to be honorable to a fault. You kept me alive in the Riverlands even when you hated me, because you’d sworn a vow to see me home. You fought the Brotherhood and your revenant liege lady rather than deliver them my head, out of loyalty to a wedding vow you’d only made under duress.” She felt the blush begin to creep up her neck—was that really how Jaime saw it? He plowed on. “You risked death countless times to uphold our oath to Catelyn Stark and bring her daughters to safety, and against all logic you succeeded. Other houses may have dismissed Jon Snow’s plea as nothing more than mad ramblings about snarks and grumkins, but I would be a fool to dismiss such a plea from you.”

She had come to a halt as they reached her door, breath caught in her lungs and completely unmoored by his sincerity. 

“Is this your room?” His voice was strangely low as he eyed the door.

“Y-yes.” She released his arm as if burnt. “It is connected to Lady Sansa’s chambers on one side, and Lady Arya’s on the other. For their safety.”

He seemed almost disappointed to hear it—perhaps he thought Lady Lannister should have been offered more extravagant lodgings.

“It suits me fine, I swear it—they have been nothing but courteous to me,” she tried to reassure him. 

“Yes, I have no doubt.” He shook his head with a rueful smile. “Would that I had stayed on that isle.”

Brienne did not see how one had to do with the other. She was about to say as much, but her mind went suddenly blank when Jaime’s fingers found her own. 

“Sleep well, wife,” he said softly, and bent to place a kiss upon her hand. 

She did not know if she managed to squeak out any words of parting in response before slipping into her room and shutting the door. She rested her forehead against the hard wood, straining to make out the sound of his retreating footsteps over her wildly beating heart.

This was what she had feared, each time she had given into weakness and allowed her mind to wander to him. Because the more she thought on him, the more she loved him, and the more impossible it all became—and the harder it would ultimately be to keep her foolish heart at bay.

She glanced at the door leading to Sansa’s room, sending her lady a silent word of thanks. Had they been guests anywhere else, she would have been expected to share chambers with Jaime as husband and wife, and it would have been a torture too sweet to bear. 

He would be chivalrous, she knew—he did not force her into their marriage bed on their wedding night, and he could not possibly have any interest in doing so now. Even if…even if she thought she would let him, if he wanted it. 

She shook the thought from her head, bending over the wash basin to splash cold water over her face. How could he want it? She had seen the unconcealed laughter of their wedding guests, the way no one could believe the insult of the beautiful lion of Lannister being wedded to the likes of her. The most derisive glare of all came from the Queen Regent, Jaime’s twin—Jaime’s lover. What a horror it must for to him, to have been forced to wed such a creature as Brienne when he’d known only Cersei’s beauty his whole life. 

Cersei, his true wife, the one he would have chosen for himself if the gods had allowed.  

No, Brienne would never be the one to hold that place in his heart. 

And if he came to her for the annulment they had agreed upon, she would grant it, no matter what ludicrous notions her dreams whispered to her in the night.

In the meantime, she could be a friend to him, as he was to her. 

It could be enough. 

It would have to be.

Jaime sought out her company in the coming days, insisting she join him to tour the Lannister encampment—he hoped it would inspire confidence in the soldiers to know that both their lord and lady would be fighting alongside them. After, he brought her around to meet his officers and introduced her as Lady Lannister to each man in turn. 

She had been uneasy about all of it, remembering her time in Renly’s camp—how at best the men only took her seriously when they’d been trying to get in her good graces to win the bet, and at worst had openly sneered at and belittled her. 

But Jaime’s men trusted him, and greeted her with respect. Addam Marband had seen her sparring and complimented her skill with the sword, and hoped she would grant him a turn the next time she was able. Jaime’s cousin Daven thumped him on the back and proclaimed him wise for finding himself a wife who could more than make up for his missing sword hand. Brienne blushed all the while, hardly knowing how to respond. And if anyone thought it strange that Lord and Lady Lannister resided in different parts of the castle, they took care not to mention it where she would overhear. 

It was the longest they had ever lived in each other’s company since being wed. As the weeks wore on, Brienne felt she and Jaime had managed to fall into a comfortable rhythm—by which she meant she would try to only encounter him when it was unavoidable. Like at mealtimes, where he insisted on sitting with my lady wife, or in the training yard, where he insisted on sparring with my lady wife, or whenever he happened upon her in a corridor and insisted on escorting my lady wife to her destination, which included seeing my lady wife to her bedchamber every evening; always playing the dutiful husband, though his reasons escaped her—perhaps it was all an attempt to further ingratiate himself with the Starks—and it was all she could do to keep enough distance the rest of the time, to avoid unknowingly revealing the pathetic extent of her love for him.

But gods, he did not make it easy. 

She had come down to the yard to work Pod through his morning drills—the boy had improved a great deal, though the idea of sending him out to fight the Others still terrified her—and it did not take long for Jaime to arrive with some of his own squires in tow. 

“They have been terribly unsubtle in hinting that they’d like to join in your lessons,” he said by way of greeting.

She recognized the wary look on their faces. “I have a hard time believing this was their idea.”

“Are you accusing me of over-selling your talent?” 

“For two nearly-grown boys to submit to training from a woman?” She motioned for them to join Pod. “Yes, I accuse you.”

But Pod seemed pleased to have company in the ring, and the other boys took her direction readily enough. Jaime settled his shoulder against a straw dummy to watch while she took them through their forms, making small corrections here and there. She had just set them up for spars when Jon’s portly maester-in-training raced by on his way from the rookery. Jaime raised an eyebrow at her, but she turned her attention back to the boys—if it was anything important, they’d wait to hear it from Jon.   

Pod bested Peck first, tripping him up with a cunning bit of footwork that drew an impressed whistle from Jaime. Then it was Little Lew Piper’s turn—who was not so little anymore—but their attention was diverted when Jon finally sought them out, raven scroll in hand. He motioned for Jaime and Brienne to join him out of earshot of the boys.

“Daenerys Targaryen has answered the call,” he told them, voice low. “She has crossed the Narrow Sea with a Dothraki horde, an army of Unsullied, three dragons and—your brother.”

“Oh good,” Jaime groaned. “More people who want to kill me. Do be sure to house them all under one roof, so at least I’ll know which direction to expect the dagger from.”

Brienne hushed him. “Jaime, this is more help than we had thought to hope for.”

Jon seemed torn between wanting to affirm Jaime’s fears or assuage them. “Rest assured, once the fighting begins all other problems will become a distant memory.” 

Jaime ran his hand over his beard, sighing. “I hope the Dothraki have a greater respect for guest right than my father and Walder Frey.”

As the days grew shorter, Jon began sending out riders to look in on the smallfolk and encourage any who had not yet come to the winter town to take refuge in the keep—anyone living outside of the castle’s defenses when the Others came would only become more fodder against the living. 

Jon had thought to pair Brienne up with Arya for these excursions, because they all knew they’d never stop her from sneaking out anyway, but it seemed the little wolf had something different in mind. 

They had all three been in Sansa’s solar the night before—the eldest Stark girl was poring over ledgers while trying to figure out where they would find room for Daenerys and all her retainers, Arya was sitting across from her while diligently polishing her slim little sword, and Brienne stood at the door, watching over them both.   

“Do you think she really has dragons?” Arya had wondered aloud.

“Jon certainly hopes so—they would be a great asset,” Sansa muttered, rustling through some papers. “Though where a dragon would even stay…it’s not like we’ve got a dragonpit just laying about." 

“Well I know how you could free up a nice big chamber in the Guest House,” Arya mused. “Brienne’s husband could finally move in with her.”

Sansa sent a sharp look to her sister. “Arya, do not speak about things you don’t understand.”

Arya only rolled her eyes. “Do you really not see the way they look at each other? She’s smitten with her Lannister. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, right Brienne?” 

She felt her traitorous cheeks begin to flush.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Arya.” Sansa looked up at Brienne for confirmation, but her eyes widened at the sight of her pink cheeks. Brienne’s hands flew up to cover them, pointlessly. “Truly?” Sansa asked. 

“I—he’s not—” Brienne stuttered helplessly. 

Arya snorted.  

“Brienne, why did you not say?” Sansa stood and placed a gentle hand on her elbow.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head a little. Was it that plain to see? “I’ve hardly said it to myself.”

“So he does not know?”

“Of course not! I would never—” She looked around wildly. “Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, please believe me when I say I would never betray the trust you have placed in me.”

Arya frowned. “Why would you say that? We know you wouldn’t.”

“I will not pretend to understand it, but…he is your husband. You are lucky if you have grown to love him,” Sansa said softly.  

She could hardly believe someone had spoken the words aloud. “Yes but he could never—” her voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Well, I think you’re being stupid,” Arya chimed in unhelpfully. 

“Arya!” Sansa admonished. 

“Well I do! And I don’t even like him, but at least I’m being practical. And he’s always hanging around you, anyway.”

“Would that it were that simple.” Brienne wished they would stop talking about it. “But he and I made an agreement before we were wed that once we had fulfilled our oath to see you both safely home, we would seek an annulment and end our marriage.”

“But we are home safe,” Arya pointed out. “And you’re still married.”

“We have not yet discussed it, as such…there has been so much to do. I am sure he has not forgotten.” 

Sansa was watching her with a strange look in her eye. “Brienne, you do not owe us any explanation.”

“Well I think they might owe each other one.” Arya stood, yawning dramatically. “All this pointless yearning is exhausting—I’m going to bed.”  

Hoping for the opportunity to better explain herself on their ranging trip the following morning, Brienne slept off her mortification—but when it was time to leave, Arya was nowhere to be found. 

Short a partner, she’d been about to ask Jon if there were any wilding women he would recommend for the task, but then Jaime had overheard, and volunteered himself instead. It was so ludicrously beneath the duties of a lord commander that Brienne and Jon had both stared at him unblinkingly for a moment; Brienne had been about to say as much, but Jon was slightly quicker and told him he was free to do as he pleased.

So Jaime followed Brienne to the stables like the cat who got the cream, presumably because even after all these years he still delighted in seeing her flustered. And damn him, because of course she was—the idea of spending an entire day with only Jaime for company was somehow both terrifying and her most fervent wish, and she was wholly unprepared for the reality of it being thrust upon her. 

It was not until she glanced up on their way out of the Hunter’s Gate did she realize this had been Arya’s plan all along—for there she was, waving at her from the outer walls, a satisfied smile lighting up her gray eyes.

The sun hid pale and white behind a sky so grey it seemed to be made of one enormous cloud. A light snow began to fall as they left the first of the three homes they had planned to check in on, but they plowed ahead. She could feel Jaime studying her, but he remained uncharacteristically quiet as their horses trudged through the landscape.

“You are worried for Daenerys Targaryen’s arrival,” she realized, breaking the silence.

He shrugged. “I have no strong desire to find myself within 500 leagues of the Mad King’s daughter, but more forces would be welcome.”

“I would not let harm come to you,” she said earnestly, and the look he gave her sent her heart thudding in her chest. “Nor would Jon Snow,” she added hastily.

His eyes settled back over his horse’s ears, though his lips worked to repress a smile. 

The second home on their route had already been abandoned, and by the time they’d reached the third the snow had grown heavier and the wind was blowing in such strong gusts that travel had become precarious.  

She peered through a window after no one answered the door. “Gone, as well.” She had to shout for her voice to carry over the wind. 

“Then they won’t mind if we shelter for the night,” Jaime shouted back. “We’ll never make it back to Winterfell in this.” 

They led the horses the short distance to the barn, which like most structures in the north was built of sturdy stone and well-protected from the elements. They blanketed the horses and found some spare feed to leave with them, before bracing against the wind for the short walk back to the main house. 

The squat little cottage was made of the same gray stone as the barn. Together they shouldered the door closed against the swirling snow, and looked around the little room. 

Jaime shook the snow from his cloak with a shiver. “Tell me again why anyone lives in the bloody freezing north?”

Brienne ignored him, making for the hearth. To her relief, the former occupants had left behind a dry stack of wood, so she set to work building a fire while Jaime continued to grouse unhelpfully about the cold.

Had the snow not worsened they would have easily made it back to Winterfell by nightfall; now they would certainly be trapped here together until morning. 

Her stomach gave a nervous lurch, eyes darting to where the only bed sat half in shadow; it was clearly designed for two people considerably smaller than Jaime and herself. The floor is not so cold, I will let him take the bed, she thought, cursing herself for not packing her bedroll.  

She could hear Jaime rustling about the room. He wandered over to crouch beside her once she’d managed to stoke the flames to life—it seemed he’d been gathering up whatever candles he could find. Lighting a few, he placed them atop the sturdy wooden table that sat a few paces away. He draped his cloak over the back of one of the chairs there, then began plucking awkwardly at the straps affixing the false hand to his arm. 

“Here—” she said, reaching for one of the straps to help. “Does it get quite cold?”

She felt him nod as the hand loosened and slid off into her own. He was looking at her in a way she could not understand—had she overstepped? She quickly placed the hand on the table and went to fish around in her pack for what food they had left, knowing the warmth rising in her cheeks had little to do with the fire now crackling merrily in the hearth.

They ate in silence. She studiously avoided looking at him, yet was intensely aware of every flick of his eyes towards her. There was a growing tension between them; it filled the air and seeped into every crack and crevice until the little cottage felt like it might burst from the pressure. 

She stood to stoke the fire just for something to do. Wind whistled over the chimney, and Jaime’s chair creaked behind her. He joined her at the hearth, clearing his throat. 

“There is something we have not yet discussed.” 

Brienne tensed—he could only mean one thing. She supposed they could not go about ignoring it forever, much as she wished they would. 

“And you wish to do so now?” 

“Have you a better time in mind? I had meant to ask you on the Quiet Isle, but I was craven and let it go unsaid. I thought I had plucked up the courage to do it when I’d arrived at Winterfell, but it seems I can never get you somewhere private—there is always someone flitting about or somewhere you have to be. If you wish to avoid me now, your only escape would be to run out into a raging blizzard, where you will surely freeze to death.”

“I haven’t avoided—”

“Oh, but you have.” Jaime turned to face her, and she took a step backward. He laughed bleakly, as if to say she’d proven him right.

“I may have had a late start at it, but I mean to be a man of my word. So, here: our oath to Catelyn Stark is fulfilled, you have seen her daughters safely home.” He glanced away, seeming to wrestle with something. “That is to say, the agreement we came to on the day of our wedding still stands. If you wish it.”

“Do you wish it?” The question slipped out before she thought to stop it. She bit back tears, feeling foolish.

“Hm.” He tilted his head, regarding her warmly. “I think our marriage has been more agreeable than most, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Mutually beneficial.”

“Yes,” she swallowed—her heart had crept into her throat. “Though I do not know what I have done—it has all been you. Your aid to Tarth; your army coming north.”

Jaime took another step towards her and she felt her legs bump up against the table, keeping her in place.

“What haven’t you done? You’ve carried my honor halfway across the continent. That the Starks didn’t slaughter me the moment I set foot above the Neck is testament to their opinion of you, and by extension, me.”

He was so close to her now, she hardly knew where to look. Her breath was coming in short bursts and her heart was pounding away in her chest. She wanted to look away, but his gaze held her still. 

Jaime softened then, dropping his voice. “But even so, I would undo it if you wanted. Do you think I did not see your tears on our wedding night? I wish it could be undone, not because I regret it, but because I regret that you could not marry a husband you loved. You deserve to have that.”

“That is not—” she stopped herself, on the precipice of revealing too much. 

But—what difference did it make, now, here in this cold place at the end of the world, if he knew the truth she kept hidden in her heart? You don’t always have to be so brave, he’d once said to her. But what if she wanted to be? 

She closed her eyes, and decided to jump. 

“I had long known I would not be the kind of lady who could marry for love. But—I did. Because I loved you on our wedding night, Jaime. I loved you long before it, and I love you still. I cried only because I knew you could never love me—”

He silenced her with his fingers on her lips, and her eyes flew back open at his touch. 

“Good,” he said, voice rough. “Because I would marry you again, Brienne—” his hand shifted, thumb dragging across her bottom lip “—of my choosing, I would marry you again. I would marry you a thousand times. There is no one else I would rather have for my wife.”

Certain she had fallen asleep and this was all some wondrous dream, she reached for his face, almost surprised to find it warm and real beneath her hands. He closed his eyes, turning into her touch, and pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of her wrist. 

“I am yours, if you will still have me,” he said softly. 

And of course she would, for she would never be anyone else’s—so she nodded, dragging his face to hers. 

He hooked the stump around her waist and pressed into her, and then they were kissing; soft at first, then fiercely—there was intention behind each press of their lips, a hunger to it—all she knew was she needed more. 

There were far too many layers between them, leather and boiled wool that had protected against the cold but now felt oppressively warm as they fumbled at each other. Layers were shed with little conscious thought, until finally his lips found the bare skin of her neck, his beard tickling her throat, his hand slipping between their bodies to pull at the laces of her tunic. 

Her fingers twined through his hair as he worked the fabric open, lips tracing the line of her collarbone; he tugged it down over one shoulder and she gasped, feeling the shock of air against her naked breast.

And then she did not recognize the next sound that came out of her, when Jaime’s mouth closed over it, hot and wet. She shuddered in his arms as he swirled his tongue, legs threatening to give out beneath her. She groped blindly for the front of his tunic, fisting both hands into it, and brought him down to the floor with her as she sank to her knees.

Then somehow she was on her back with Jaime above, her legs falling open so that he could kneel between them. His right arm came to rest beside her head as he leaned down to kiss her, the other trailing a slow path from breastbone to navel before lightly tugging at the laces of her breeches. Her hips rose to meet his hand when it slid beneath the fabric; she felt him grin against her mouth, and he found his way to the slick heat between her thighs. 

A strangled noise escaped her—she could not help it—and he murmured soothingly with his mouth on hers, tongue wet against her own while he slipped a finger inside. 

She arched into him, wanton, shameless, greedy—her hips moving entirely of their own volition to match the rocking of his hand. Her own hands scrambled at the back of his tunic, bunching and pulling at the fabric, searching for his skin. His hand left her breeches and he sat back on his heels; she followed, lifting the hem of his tunic until his arms were overhead and together they were pulling it off and tossing it aside. He was golden and beautiful kneeling there before her, the firelight flickering over the hard planes of his body. She brought a hand to him and ran it over the warm skin of his chest, feeling the thump of his heart under her palm. Had the pull of her own desire not been so strong she might have lost her nerve, but his eyes were dark and heavy as he watched her watching him, and she shivered, knowing he wanted her.

Brienne dropped back to her elbows and wriggled free of her breeches and smallclothes. A slow smile spread over his face. “Come here,” he said, voice low, pulling her back up to sitting. 

He reached for where he’d discarded his cloak, spreading it over the floor below them with care. Her heart beat almost painfully fast as she knelt before him; and still, it took a moment of bravery before she was able to pull her own shirt off and away.

She reached for the front of his breeches before her courage left her, but he stilled her hands, lifting them away. His breath was ragged as he shook his head. “If you touch me, I am done for.” 

He stood, untying the laces himself. And then he was naked before her, his desire for her evident, almost startling. Heat pooled low in her belly as she took in the sight of him. Her hand found his leg, fingers wrapping around his calf; he made a low noise in his throat and was suddenly kneeling before her again, pressing her down until her back met the soft fur of his cloak.

Bare and flushed underneath him, she trembled under the tenderness of his gaze. His hand found her scarred cheek, thumb circling over the wreckage of it, and he leaned in to kiss it softly. He kissed her forehead, the jagged bridge of her nose, the corner of her lips. His head dipped lower and he pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat, the tip of her shoulder, the inside of her arm. His tongue traced the curve of her ribs, and she realized he was seeking out each of her scars—his lips offering benediction to all the broken, hidden parts of her.  

If she had not loved him already, she surely would have loved him now. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, sliding down her temple and into her hair. She reached to brush it away but he caught her hand, pressing his lips to her palm; then, glancing at her from beneath his lashes, took one of her fingers into his mouth. 

Brienne shuddered, shifting underneath him, suddenly feeling the hard length of his desire against her belly. She shifted again, angling her hips to coax him where she needed him. It was then that she could see it, the flicker of nervousness in his eyes, the openness of his yearning as unmistakable as her own.

She brought both hands to his face and kissed him, smiling. Ready. 

“I am yours,” she murmured against his ear. 

Jaime raised himself to one elbow, exhaling shakily. She slid her legs over his hips as he positioned himself in the cradle of her thighs, and his eyes did not move from hers when, at last, he finally pushed inside. 

A small gasp caught in her throat and he stilled, but it was not painful only—different. New. She pulled at his shoulders to coax him further and he obliged, groaning when he sank in fully. 

How had she managed for so long, alone in the world, without ever knowing what she was missing? Her husband moved above her, inside of her, and she had never felt such a sense of wholeness as she knew now—knowing what it was to have Jaime surrounding her like this, their sweat-slick bodies moving together. She rocked her hips to chase his own, pulling him deeper, feeling her pleasure slowly coiling inside, building like a storm cloud she might have watched from her window at Evenfall; anticipating the first loud crash of thunder that would rattle the walls. 

It was not long before his movements grew more desperate and his lips tried to find hers again, but he only managed to moan against her open mouth. His forehead fell against her cheek, driving her head back with each thrust, and she clutched at his arms, mouth hanging open against his temple, some low sound escaping her throat with each breath.  

The wind keened outside, or maybe it was her own release; she clenched around him as the waves broke over her. He was not far behind, and was soon groaning into her neck before collapsing, boneless, against her. 

It was a moment before he shifted slightly to move out of her and made to roll to the side, but she pulled him back. 

“Am I not crushing you?” His voice rose, muffled and exhausted, from where his head had nestled into her chest.

She smiled, shaking her head, understanding at last why the gods had blessed her with this body. 

The snow continued to fall outside, and the world could have ended that night for all she knew—nothing else existed but for Brienne and Jaime in that little cottage. And in the end the floor was not cold at all, there in front of the fire, with her husband holding her close, his breath warm as he whispered three precious words against her skin.

They had eventually found the bed in the night, somewhere between the second and third time they’d woken and blearily reached for one another. 

Morning light filtered through the cottage’s little windows, bright and white from the snow despite the early hour. The storm had finished, and the world outside seemed quiet and still to her ears. She would get up and check for herself, but the bed was delightfully warm and besides, Jaime had her arm trapped under his chest. 

He was splayed out on his stomach beside her, one arm curved up under the pillow and the other draped possessively across her middle. His face was turned into her, his every breath tickling the bare skin of her shoulder. He looked so young in sleep, all the tension drained from the hard angles of his face, and she could almost imagine how he must have looked when someone first whispered Kingslayer behind his back. 

She brought her hand to his brow, gently running her fingers over it, then down around his temple, his cheekbone, his nose. She had memorized all of it years ago, but it was miraculous to soak him in like this now, at her leisure.

She ghosted over his lips and they twitched into a deep yawn, then a smile. He cracked an eye open, squinting at her. “Good morrow, wife,” he croaked out. 

“I did not mean to wake you.”

He hummed, tightening his grip about her waist and nestling closer. “I’m not complaining.”

The sound of one of the horses whinnying carried from the barn—they were restless after being locked up all night.

Brienne sighed. “If we don’t return soon, Jon will send someone out looking for us.”

Jaime rolled onto his back with a resigned groan. 

When they finally dressed and stepped outside, the world all around them was white. Despite their impatience, the horses had fared well in the barn. Jaime fed them each some dried apple while she saddled them. 

He fixed her with a dangerous grin. “So will you be telling Sansa you need a bigger bed, or shall I?”

How was it that he could still draw a blush from her, even now? She turned away to hide it, feigning interest in double-checking the straps of her saddle.

He continued on, unabashed. “I imagine they’ll quickly tire of hearing us fucking all night, and move us to a larger chamber just to—” 

“Jaime!” She smacked him lightly on the shoulder, reprovingly, but he caught her hand and pulled her into his embrace.

He sighed happily, crossing his arms around her back. “We’ve two years of marriage to catch up on, you know. They’ll be lucky if we manage to keep ourselves contained to the bedchamber.”

Brienne opened her mouth to admonish him, but he stole a kiss instead. She sank into him, irritation leaving her with each press of his lips, until she was warm and breathless in his arms. They broke apart only when the horses began stomping impatiently, ready to return to Winterfell.  

“Alright, alright, we’re going,” he laughed, patting his palfrey on the neck. 

She liked being able to look upon him openly now, unashamed, and he seemed to enjoy catching her at it as they rode back. She knew with clarity that she would never be parted from him again. For it was cruel, how little time they’d had together; how little time there might be left. Something had sparked to life inside her now, some vast wanting. The hope that there could be another life for them on the other side of it all. That there could be days spent soaking up the warmth of the sun, when winter left and spring returned; days spent doing little more than listening to the gentle roll of the tide below Evenfall Hall, or the sounds they could draw out of each other as their bodies came together; there could even be children, someday, with golden curls atop their heads, with sweet sleepy sighs and pink cheeks, and little hands reaching for her own. 

And there could be love. Above all else, there could be love. 

It was an enormous dream, one for a girl who still believed everything she heard in songs. But Brienne wanted it anyway. 

They were making their way back towards a looming danger, to shaky alliances that would have to hold if they hoped to see it through. But—maybe this war could be won. With Jaime at her side, it felt possible. When she closed her eyes, there was a vision of what their life could be on the other side. The time they would have together, and how beautiful it would be. 

And Jaime, always Jaime, with her through it all.