It is a night of drinking and sex and appreciating the fact they are alive. So of course Brienne is awkward in the midst of it.

Sansa calls her over, a few drinks in, away from Tormund and Jaime and all the rest of the men she fought beside.

"I'm glad Jaime survived," Sansa says, out the blue, and Brienne feels a rush of awful at the knowledge that with his hand gone, there were so many ways he could have been slaughtered. "The way you stood up for him when he arrived was a little unexpected."

"I owe him my life. He saved me-"

"I know, I know, I know the facts. It was more the way you told them."

"I spoke only the truth."

"Yes, but you looked so interested." Brienne looks into her drink. "Oh god you do fancy him. Are you going to tell him?" Sansa shakes her head at her own question. "Of course you won't."

"Lady-" Brienne can feel the blush heat her cheeks.

"You can call me Sansa, you know. And you can forgive me for being surprised. He's never loved anyone other than Cersei, I shouldn't think."

Brienne nods, eyes now steadfastly on Sansa's. She won't be embarrassed by this. "He's treated me well, for all that. It's not something I can say of many men."

"Yes," Sansa says consideringly, and Brienne is struck again that her Lady has faced cruel men in bed, while Brienne has only had to face them on the field. "Yes I can see that."

Then Sansa nods, and seems to come to a decision. "Well, you best return, I suppose. No need to keep you here. I hope your night is as surprising as this has been." It seems, oddly, like permission, but surely Sansa realises that Brienne's interest is one-sided, and certain to stay that way.

So Brienne walks back across the room, and notices how Jaime's gaze follows her as she does.

She sits with them until Tormund arrives. The giant mentions blue eyes and suddenly a flash of the cold eyes of the dead strikes her. Usually she can block off the memories of war - it's a hazard of the occupation - but this one was so close, and there was no honour in it. You should never have to fight off your own dead comrades.

She excuses herself. Last night was long, and this has been enough as it is. She doesn't need the surprises Sansa wishes her to have.

Jaime enters her room moments after her - he must have followed the instant she left. She had hoped to be alone, but a fight with him might shake her out of her haze. He always had a way to make her feel.

But then he takes off his jacket as he complains about the warmth of her room. It shouldn't mean anything - it's just a jacket, she's seen him in less, he's seen her in less. He's seen her in dresses in King's Landing and with clothes ripped by battle, and he's never looked all that interested.

But in her rooms, in safety, with just the two of them, she has to force herself not to watch how his muscles move beneath his shirt.

She comments, inanely, on how she builds a fire.

He smirks. "Well that's very diligent, very responsible."

Ah, yes, back to mockery. After the strange politeness of the last few days, it's a relief. Still, she can't let on.

"Piss off."

"You know the first thing I learned in the North?" he asks, stepping close, so they are chest to chest, his breath reaching her face. "I hatethe fucking North."

"It grows on you."

"I don't want things growing on me."

She can't not read a double meaning into that. So she's grown on him, that much was obvious. They are close now, respectful. They would vouch for each other.

But that he doesn't want to care about her… that makes her turn away, until he asks about Tormund.

Because she has always been blunt, never learned games with words, the way he did, the way Cersei did. So when he sounds jealous she calls him out.

He looks confused to discover it. Had he not realised? She had realised how she felt at the worst time: when Cersei had told her you love him, and it had been too much a shock to recover from. Another pointless love like Renly. One, interested only in men, the other, interested only in his sister.

She watches him, a mixture of confused and sceptical, as he tugs at his collar. Is he embarrassed, wanting to leave but doesn't know how to ask? Or is this some weird attempt at seduction, as if she hasn't seen naked men - as if she hadn't had to watch while he pissed when he was her prisoner.

Her hands on his shirt are forceful, quick - she doesn't want this to drag on. Doesn't need to linger on what she can't have.

His hand, touching her shirt, is soft, gentle.

She takes over, because she can't bear for a man to remove her clothes, not even this man, and somehow he watches her face as she does it, she can tell. Is he… does he not want to look? Is he afraid of being disappointed? She doesn't have the curves a woman should.

But he knows that, knows her. The crackling of the fire is loud in their silence. She can hear him breathe, hear her own quick inhales and exhales. She goes for his shirt.

When she tells him she's untouched (which he knows, which he had helped ensure, with those lies about sapphires), he tells her to drink.

Then he doesn't let her even begin to properly argue. His kiss is forceful, immediate, his hand in her hair. Jaime. She wants to speak his name but doesn't want to let go.

Author's notes:

I'm interested in continuing this scene (why oh why did they cut away) in the next chapter, but have never written smut. Let me know if you'd be interested!

Disclaimer: GoT is not mine, and there's a lot of canon dialogue in this fic