As the battle raged on and men died around them, they each had found hope in the secret they shared. One night before the war. One night before the wights converged. One night where their passion emerged.

And both had fought bravely and endlessly until finally, finally the Others were no more. But a war doesn't end when the last enemy is slain. The men who died must be given a proper grave, must be given the respect they so selflessly earned. And the wounded must be healed and the order of the lands restored. Words of each other's survival brought comfort, but duty separated them, preventing a proper reunion.

Brienne was on guard within the tent of Lady Stark. She looked battered and worn yet stood proud to continue her protection over the Stark girl.

"Brienne, won't you sit with me? You need rest more than I do. We're safe now. The war is over." Sansa's words flowed like silk. Her voice was gentle and kind causing the lady of Tarth to smile at her thoughtfulness.

"I appreciate your concern, Lady Sansa, but I fear you won't be completely safe until you are back within the walls of Winterfell."

"Perhaps you are correct, but I must insist that we at least share a conversation. War has put a damper on everyone's souls, but there is hope beyond this tragedy," replies Sansa with a woeful smile.

"I agree, my Lady. Things will get better –" Brienne's sentence was suddenly cut short as her face twisted and her stomach churned. She breathed deeply attempting to make the feeling subside.

"Brienne, are you alright?" questioned Sansa, taking note of her Knight's demeanor.

"Y-yes, my Lady. I'm fi–" Brienne's eyes widened and she ducked out of the tent in a mad dash. Stumbling around back she found herself doubled in two, heaving and emptying her stomach into the snow.

"Brienne!" cried the Stark, who had gathered her skirts and come running after.

"I apologize, Lady Sansa," whimpered Brienne as she stood up and wiped her mouth.

"Was it the stew, you think?" the red headed girl asked, breath forming ice crystals before her.

The lady of Tarth still felt dizzy, though she refused to admit it. "I don't believe so. It was no different than last night's serving." Sansa scrunched her face in confusion. "I'll be alright, but you must get back inside before you take chill –" But before Brienne could add any conviction to her demand, her face went pale and she was bent over, heaving once again.

This time Sansa rushed to her side and held back the straw-like hair of the maid. Once the bout had faded, Brienne straightened her posture. "You shouldn't be watching me like this." She was embarrassed, feeling vulnerable and weak.

"Lady Brienne," began Sansa, "you have devoted yourself to being my rescue. I have your life to thank for mine. The least I can do is hold your hair when you are ill."

"You have the kindness of your mother, My Lady. I thank you."

Sansa gave Brienne an affectionate smile, however, her face then turned to perplexity. "Brienne, if I may be so bold, the last time I remember witnessing sudden and unexplained nausea was with my mother. Nine moons later my brother Rickon arrived. My lady, when was your last flower?"

Brienne's face grew impossibly more ghostly. Her eyes grew wide and she swallowed thickly. The realization was sinking in. "It is late," she replied gravely.

"Oh, Brienne!" exclaimed Sansa with joy but the look of excitement was not mirrored on the face of the maid of Tarth. "Don't look so dreary. The war has been filled with horror and death, yet from it – from you, will come new life!"

"But it is my vow to serve you. I cannot fulfill my promise if-"

"Hush this nonsense. I do not question your honor, Lady Brienne. And neither do I your loyalty. But I must ask, do you know who be the father?" Brienne turned a dark pink. "Is it Tormund?" Sansa pressed.

Brienne shook her head negatively before another wave overtook her and Lady Sansa was once again minding her hair.

~x~

It had not been nearly a week after Brienne made her discovery that Lady Stark was reunited with Winterfell. And upon doing so, she adamantly insisted that the Maid of Tarth ride south. Brienne could not refuse her order.

The snow and ice were finally retreating yet there was still a chill in the Northern air. The journey south revealed more dead, more wounded and more encampments where the soldiers were regrouping prior to their return home.

His banner waved gallantly above his red-pitched tent, ensuring there be no mistake of the lion harbored inside.

Fear overtook every inch of her body. Her feet did not want to move. A million negative thoughts ran through her mind; doubt being the most cruel.

Slowly she approached the tent until finally she was before its door. Brienne breathed deeply. She could not turn back now. He had a right to know.

She pushed aside the flap and stepped inside. Ser Jaime spun around quickly, startled, but as soon as recognition hit, his features were flooded with relief and cheer.

"Brienne!" he proclaimed, stepping forward and reaching to embrace her. But the lady took a step back and turned her face.

Jaime stopped, appearing as though he had been slapped. "Brienne, what's wrong?" His tone grew soft as he tilted his head for a view of her face.

She didn't reply and her features paled as she refused to meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry," began Jaime, "I should have found you before I had to leave but there simply hadn't been time. Still, I should have sent a raven…something! I'm sorry." Brienne remained silent, her fear continuing to grip her gut.

Jaime persisted, "I meant what I said that night, Brienne... I love you." His tone was sincere. She could feel his green eyes boring into her, so tender, so sweet. She could no longer resist him as she looked up, shamed. Brienne's lower lip began to quiver, her eyes welled with tears. Jaime reached for her, "What's the matter?"

This time she welcomed the embrace. She placed her head on his shoulder and wept. His arm encircled her, pulling her close. He placed a small kiss to her temple and whispered in her ear: "Tell me."

Brienne pulled herself away so as to meet his eyes. Jaime was once again astonished at how hers gleamed. Always like sapphires, especially so beneath the shimmer of tears.

Brienne took an unsteady breath. "I'm with child."

Jaime was lost for words. His eyebrows raised, though his face lit up like a thousand suns. His emerald eyes twinkled as he stared back at her. A smile formed across his lips. Finally he could be the father he had never had the chance to be. And then he kissed her.

At first Brienne was startled, but the lips claiming hers were so full of love that she relaxed against them and pressed herself closer.

Jaime's left hand came up to caress her cheek as they broke apart, that wide smile of his ever-present.

Brienne was the first to speak. "I don't know what to do. I was not made to be a mother."

"There is no one whom I know more qualified than you," spoke Jaime sincerely.

"But I am sworn to Lady Stark –"

"And my oath binds me to her as well. It doesn't mean we can't live our lives, Brienne. We can keep her safe within the walls of Winterfell and raise our babe there too. Sansa cares for you, otherwise you wouldn't be standing in front of me now. We will make this work. I will not miss out on raising this child, our child. And I will not miss out on spending the rest of my days with you."

Brienne couldn't withhold the smile that creased her mouth. And for the first time since that night before the war, she felt hope; a warm sensation that rose from her core and spread throughout. Then Jaime reached out and placed a hand tenderly upon her stomach. "Yes", thought Brienne as she watched his enraptured features, "everything would be alright".