Chapter Text
Fireproof: Not immune to heat or flame, but built to withstand it. To resist destruction. To hold shape through the trial. Fireproof doesn’t mean unburned—it means surviving the burn and standing tall afterward.
Brienne woke to the rich scent of coffee curling through the air, mingling with the faint hum of Jaime’s off-key singing in the kitchen. It was an ordinary morning made extraordinary by its quietness—soft light spilling through the blinds, dust motes dancing like tiny embers caught in a sunbeam.
She stretched beneath warm sheets, every muscle tingling with the ache of last night’s closeness. It wasn’t just the physical soreness—the kind that whispered of new tenderness—but something deeper: the ache of being seen, truly seen. Of being held without armor. Of surrendering just enough to let someone in.
Barefoot, she padded softly down the hall, hair tousled, cheeks flushed with sleep. Jaime glanced over his shoulder, eyes crinkling with affection as he set down a steaming mug.
“You’re lucky I didn’t burn the place down trying to make this,” he joked, voice still rough with sleep.
She smiled, taking the cup. “Then it’s a good thing I know how to handle fires.”
His grin grew wider, full of promise. “Guess I’ll have to keep you around, then.”
They sipped in companionable silence, the quiet between them a balm. Brienne leaned into his shoulder, resting her head for a heartbeat. No sirens. No urgency. Just this warm, fragile calm.
_______________
Three days later, the storm she’d braced for never came.
Instead, taped to her locker, was a plain white sheet of paper.
Unfamiliar handwriting.
But not venom.
Not cruelty.
Words that felt like a balm to her soul:
You are made of steel and flame. The rest of us just try to keep up.
Her breath caught. She blinked, caught off guard by how much those words meant.
Beside it, a small pin — a tiny phoenix, crafted from a bent washer and a matchstick, delicate and fierce.
She held it in her palm for a long, silent moment, stunned into stillness.
Then, a slow, fierce smile curved her lips.
That night, she showed Jaime.
He took the paper gently, voice warm and amused as he read it aloud.
“Do I need to be jealous of a secret admirer?”
She snorted. “Pretty sure it’s someone from the crew. Podrick, maybe. Margaery. Or Tormund—with help.”
Jaime leaned in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Whoever it is—they’re right.”
She traced the phoenix with her finger. “I never thought I’d get something like this.”
“You get everything now,” Jaime said softly, “everything you were always too good to ask for.”
_______________
Later, wrapped in a shared blanket on the back steps of Jaime’s apartment, the night wrapped around them like a hush. The air was cool, carrying the faint pulse of distant traffic, the occasional bark of a stray dog, the rustle of leaves.
Stars pricked the sky—sharp, brilliant, eternal.
Jaime nudged her gently.
“Can I say something ridiculous?”
Brienne laughed, warm and soft. “Always.”
“I think I knew I loved you the day you carried that boy out of the fire.”
She turned, eyes wide, searching his face.
“I didn’t know it then,” he admitted, voice low and rough. “Not really. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. How you never flinch.”
“I do,” she whispered, voice fragile. “I just do it quietly.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead.
“I love you.”
Her breath caught, heart pounding wild in her chest.
She reached for his hand, squeezing tight.
“I love you too.”
No fireworks. No grand speeches.
Just the raw, steady pulse of truth.
_______________
The next morning, Randyll gathered the crew for a meeting.
“I won’t pretend to know who wrote the note,” he said, eyes sharp but warm. “But whoever it was—thank you. We could all use a little more fireproof in our day.”
Laughter rippled through the station.
Brienne’s cheeks flushed, but her heart swelled.
Later, Margaery bumped her shoulder.
“Didn’t peg you for the locker poetry type,” she teased.
Brienne rolled her eyes, smirking. “If it was you, I’m making you mop the whole bay.”
Margaery winked. “Some mysteries are best left unsolved.”
Inside the firehouse, warmth gathered like kindling. Podrick presented her with a matching phoenix pin, carved in wood. Tormund attempted a ballad about dragon-hearted women, slightly off-key but full of heart. Randyll nodded at her in passing, respect plain in his eyes.
And Jaime?
He kept showing up. Every day. Every quiet moment between chaos.
With steady hands, patient eyes, and a presence that said, I’m here.
_______________
Weeks passed.
Spring unfolded over King’s Landing in slow, stubborn waves. Fires still came. Rescues still called. And in the cracks between, Brienne and Jaime found their rhythm.
He sketched her in charcoal and ink, capturing the fire in her eyes. She cooked dinners to fill the silence left by long shifts.
They woke tangled in sheets, fingers entwined as dawn painted the sky.
Walked side-by-side to work when the air was soft and sweet.
Fought—playfully—over what to name their future dog. She wanted Bear. He wanted Sir Barkington.
_______________
Dinner invitations came.
Cersei’s sharp eyes softened as she met Brienne’s steady gaze.
Tyrion toasted to their courage.
Tywin, stern and imposing, cracked a rare smile when Brienne recounted a daring rescue.
“I can see why my son follows you into fire,” he said.
Brienne blinked, startled.
“He leads, sir,” she corrected.
Tywin inclined his head, a rare flicker of respect.
“Not always. Not anymore.”
It was the closest thing to approval Jaime had ever heard.
_______________
Selwyn visited Station 9.
Brienne embraced him fiercely and introduced him to the crew.
“That’s my dad,” she said, pride shining in her voice. “He raised me on stories of courage.”
Selwyn clapped Jaime on the shoulder.
“You’re the one who saw her clearly, weren’t you?”
“Trying to,” Jaime replied.
Selwyn smiled. “Just don’t blink. You’ll miss her magic.”
Later, Selwyn sat with Jaime on the station steps.
“You love her?”
Jaime nodded, steady and sure.
“Good,” Selwyn said. “Then carry some of the weight when it gets heavy. She’ll let you, even if she doesn’t say it.”
“I will,” Jaime promised.
_______________
Then came the final fire.
An aging apartment tower. Twenty-three floors. Outdated alarms.
Children trapped inside.
They deployed fast. Everyone knew their role.
Brienne and Jaime led the interior search. Margaery and Jon handled ventilation. Robb and Addam evacuated.
Chaos, but organized.
On the 17th floor, they found three children huddled, terrified.
Brienne cradled the smallest like precious glass.
Jaime cleared the path through choking smoke that clawed at their lungs.
A beam crashed just behind them.
Jaime shielded Brienne with his body.
They emerged coughing, hearts racing, clutching the children close.
Outside, a mother’s sobs broke free in relief.
The fire devoured the roof, but every soul was safe.
They stood side by side, watching the flames lick the sky.
Brienne leaned against Jaime, tired but alive.
“You okay?” he asked, voice soft.
She nodded. “Tired. Grateful.”
He kissed her hair, whispering one word.
“Fireproof.”
She smiled through exhaustion. “Maybe not. But we survived the burn.”
________________
A month later, they stood before a house with white trim and a sloped red roof.
Their house.
Brienne turned the key, unlocking new beginnings.
Jaime swept her into his arms, carrying her over the threshold with exaggerated ceremony.
“We’re not married,” she laughed.
“Yet,” he teased.
The house smelled of fresh paint and possibility.
They filled it with laughter, photos, soft blankets, fire gear, and mismatched mugs.
Sansa, Margaery, and Ygritte helped hang shelves.
Tyrion and Addam brought whiskey.
Cersei painted a mural—a phoenix rising—in the guest room.
Selwyn planted a tree in the yard.
Brienne named it Alysanne, after her mother.
They kissed in every room.
Argued over furniture placement.
Made up on the kitchen counter.
Laughed through it all.
And when alarms sounded, they ran—always together.
_______________
On their first night off in weeks, Jaime led her to the rooftop.
String lights twinkled overhead.
Takeout containers and terrible love songs set the mood.
He didn’t propose—not yet.
But the way he looked at her made promises without words.
“I never thought I’d want something quiet,” he said, fingers tracing her knuckles.
“But I do. With you.”
Brienne leaned in.
“I used to think no one would want me like this,” she whispered. “Not after everything. Not once they really saw me.”
“I saw you the day you ran into fire for a stranger,” he said softly. “And I haven’t stopped seeing you since.”
She kissed him—not with fire, but with truth.
Then, soft as a secret, she whispered, “I love you.”
His breath hitched. Eyes softened.
“I love you too.”
They sat beneath the stars for hours.
No flames.
No noise.
Just light.
_________________
Some fires never stop burning.
But some people are worth the heat.
And some love stories are forged in the blaze.
Fireproof.
Not unburned.
But unbroken.
Together.