Personally, I'm not a huge fan of Dany and her entourage. My predictions for the series end is Jon on the throne with Davos as Hand, Sansa commanding the North with Arya, Bran either beyond the Wall as the Three-Eyed Raven or dead, Tyrion the Lord of the Rock, and Jaime and Brienne on Tarth or in service to Sansa.
That having been said, this story took on a shape of its own and somehow Daenerys ended up a little less mad and bit more likable (especially in a later chapter). Unfortunately, anyone who is staunchly anti-Targaryen probably will not like how this turns out. I do hope you stick around, because who sits on the throne is really just a backdrop to the Jaime/Brienne storyline - which is the main focus of this work.
Seven days after his arrival in Winterfell, a young lad of about nine came up to him with quick steps and a nervous smile just as he finished his meager dinner of stew and stale bread. He held out a small roll of parchment in one hand, and though he wouldn't look Jaime in the face he still stole glances at the knight out of the corner of his eye.
Jaime took the small scroll but didn't unroll it. "What this, lad?"
"A summons, ser. From Lord Snow." And he was off. Jaime watched him dart between men's legs, his nimble feet slicing a neat path through the masses. He was fast, at least. Jaime hoped that would be enough to save him when the war came to their front door.
The summons was simple, and Jaime followed its directions to a low stone building at the corner of the estate. While the great hall had been adorned with banners and chairs to befit a throne room, this was where the real work was being done. The main fixture in the room was the large rectangular table that stretched down the center. A mockup of Westeros took up most of the tabletop, with clusters of wolf and dragon tokens scattered about the topmost part. Beyond them, the Wall had been erected and a hundred small, white figures placed at the easternmost end. Jaime took a moment to revel in the familiarity of a war room. This he knew. This he was good at.
Lord Snow stood at the head of the war table, Queen Daenerys at his right side. Tyrion stood with them and the three seemed to be talking in quiet tones about something, though there was enough chatter in the room that Jaime couldn't hear. On Jon's other side stood Lady Sansa, looking every bit as regal as her brother. She had her back to the door as she addressed Brienne and her younger sister, Arya. Jaime could hardly believe that both girls had made it home despite all the odds stacked against them and allowed himself a small victory at the sight. It was one vow kept, at least.
"Ser Jaime, my lord." The young man at the door was tall and gangly, his limbs long and thin. Jaime sized him up fairly quickly and guessed he was being trained as an archer, given the size and strength in his forearms and shoulders.
Jon looked up from his work and nodded for Jaime to come closer. He did.
"You have been with us a week," Jon said. "You've seen our forces. What have you to say about our chances?"
You're fucked, he wanted to say. Instead, he glanced down at table and sighed. "I'm not sure, my lord. Having never fought the dead, I can't tell you how they think. Are they smart enough to wait us out? Our supplies won't last forever."
He paused. "No, they won't. And the Night King is smart enough to lay siege, though I suspect his intent is to overwhelm us with numbers."
Jaime looked up. "How many?"
"That's precisely what we want to know. We intend to send a small scouting group northeast, toward the Gift. The Night King's forces broke through the Wall at Eastwatch. That is where the dead will be coming from. We need to know how far away they are, and how many."
It was a smart move, if a deadly one. Jaime wondered what poor soul had been chosen for the sacrificial mission.
"Lady Brienne volunteered to take a small group to assess their position and strength," Jon continued, and Jaime froze. He looked sharply over to where she was standing, but she resolutely refused to look at him. "And since we know Valyrian steel is deadly to the White Walkers, I thought two swords might be better than one. Provided, of course, you can still use it as well with your left hand." Jon gestured toward the side table where his own sword, Widow's Wail, lay still within its scabbard.
"You want me to accompany her," Jaime said. There was no question, because he knew they would not ask. They would demand. And if he refused, they would kill him.
"You, Lady Brienne, her squire and Jorren Umber," Jon confirmed. "The Last Hearth is the Umber family home, and Jorren is the new Lord Umber's uncle. He knows the area better than anyone. You're to assess the situation and report back. Nothing more." Jaime hesitated for only a moment before nodding his consent. Jon didn't quite smile, but his scowl seemed less severe. "Good. You will leave at first light."
Jaime caught Brienne as she made her way past him to the door. "You volunteered?" He kept his voice low so as not to draw attention, but Brienne glanced around sharply anyway.
"I was also the one who suggested they send you as well."
"Oh, thank you for that, wench," he hissed. "I was afraid my death would never come. Now I get to ride out and meet it."
"Don't be dramatic," she sighed. "This is your chance to prove yourself."
Jaime gritted his teeth. "I've got nothing to prove, not to them."
Brienne's eyes softened just a fraction, but it was enough to drive the fight from him. "Then prove it to yourself. You're a good man, Ser Jaime."
Jaime reeled in the face of her raw honesty. His usually quick wit seemed to have abandoned him for the moment, so he settled for a small jest. "So you keep telling me."
"And I will keep telling you until you believe it." He wasn't sure who was more surprised by her words, but they both stood completely still in the middle of the war room for several long moments. Then she cleared her throat. "Permit me to help with your scabbard, Ser?"
Jaime could only nod. She moved over to where Widow's Wail had been laid rather unceremoniously on a wooden table, as though it were merely an ornament rather than a deadly weapon. Wordlessly she strapped it to his hip, securing it snugly on his right side. It still felt odd there, even after all these years, but he was grateful for its familiar weight. Brienne's hands brushed over his hips as she adjusted the belt and Jaime clenched his jaw against the sudden swell of heat that rose within him. When she was finished she stepped back, standing much further away than she had been before.
"I hope that is satisfactory."
Jaime felt her discomfort mirrored within himself. It was odd, this feeling, and it unsettled him, so he fell back on the familiarity of his sharp tongue, hoping to quell the uneasy churning in his chest.
"Is that a blush on your cheeks, my lady, or is the cold that stains them pink? Or perhaps you are a woman after all? You certainly haven't begun dressing as one."
Her eyes grew as dark as dragonglass and she straightened. He felt awful the moment the words escaped him, but once said they could not be unsaid. He silently cursed his bitterness as he watched what was perhaps his only friend in the world close herself away from him. She never moved, but Jaime felt the shift in the room as clear as if she had turned her back. Then she did.
"My la-" he started. Then, just as softly, "Brienne."
"I understand why you do it," her voice was as cold as steel, and he hated it, hated himself for it. "You wear your mockery like armor, and your tongue is sharper than either of the blades on our hips. They both serve you well, it's just…" She took a deep breath that raised her shoulders, then let it out in one long sigh. "I had hoped we had moved past such cruelties, at least when we're alone."
Jaime closed the distance separating them in three strides, his only hand reaching out to take hers. She tried to pull away but for once he was stronger, holding onto her wrist despite her attempt to put space between them again.
"Forgive me," he implored. "I have been off balance these past few weeks, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I have wronged you from the moment we met, and now more deeply than I can ever repay."
At this she turned her head, though Jaime noted she didn't not try to remove her fingers from his grasp. "You have never said anything I haven't heard before. I told you before, words are wind; they don't matter."
"They do matter when they come from me." He tugged her to turn fully and face him. "From this day on, you will not hear a cruel word from me, my lady. I swear it." He raised their joined hands to his lips, brushing them against the back of her knuckles in a soft promise. In the well-lit war room, he could see the surprise and a hint of fear in her eyes. He knew what she was afraid of; he feared it, too. Yet it remained unspoken.
"We need to prepare to leave in the morning," she said finally, snatching her fingers from his and angling to step around him. Jaime let her go, well aware he'd probably pushed her enough today. But he took her embarrassment as a good sign; if the lady was not interested in him, he would have no doubt received a similar rebuke to the one she'd given the wildling fellow that night they had first spoken.
Jaime was well aware of his own steadily rising feelings for the Maid of Tarth. The farther he'd gotten from King's Landing and Cersei's control, the more she had invaded his thoughts until, when he'd crossed the Neck and saw the battlements of Winterfell rise up from the whitened landscape, she was all he could think of. Still, he'd known the chances of his immediate execution were still very likely, and so he'd promised himself to push those thoughts aside. He was not worthy of her, especially now as a knight with no family name, no lands, no title or security to offer her. Still, she occupied his heart and his mind during the quiet moments, and he was grateful that their friendship seemed to have remained intact despite all of the hardships they'd faced in the last few years. Perhaps on the slim chance they both survived the Long Night, he could remain at her side for the rest of his days, even if just as her companion and friend. It was more than he deserved, he knew, but he couldn't help but hope for more.
He shook himself out his thoughts, berating himself for the distraction. He would need all of his wits about him if he wanted to survive this scouting mission. He didn't relish the thought of going out into that biting cold, but he had little choice. So he focused his mind on the task ahead and sent a prayer up to the Warrior to protect them.
