A/N: Okay, here we go: over 7000(!) words of angst, H/C, fluff, affectionate banter, another soul-cleansing conversation (these two have a lot to discuss, okay?), and not much in the way of actual plot. Not that there was much of one to begin with. I basically feel like if they'd acknowledged any of this stuff in canon, things might have turned out better, so now I'm making up for it in kind. :P

I'd like to say we've seen the last of the angst for this pair, but sadly there's more to come in the final chapter (I just can't help myself; it's like a compulsion). If it's any consolation, this time the ending will NOT be bittersweet, I promise.

Timeline-wise, the first section of this chapter immediately follows the previous one (notwithstanding there's been a fade-to-black in the meantime) – it's essentially the not-quite-morning after. Initially this would have formed part of the same chapter if not for it growing words at a rate of knots, so that transition would have been more obvious. (The actual show sucks at telling us how much time has passed between scenes, so I thought it best to clarify for the avoidance of doubt. :P)

I had a lot of fun with this, so I hope you enjoy. :)

She awakens with a chill down her spine.

It is an unfamiliar sensation, after weeks of waking to the warmth of another in her bed, and she shuffles backwards, seeking reprieve from the cold. There is nothing but empty air behind her, and the realisation of that drags her further into alertness, as she rolls towards the space where Jaime should be and finds it vacant. She sits up in alarm, her hand trailing over the sheet, seeking some evidence of his presence, but the other side of the bed is cool to the touch.

She understands, logically, deep down in a sensible part of her brain, that he cannot have gone far, that he would not have abandoned her, especially not after their conversation last night; but in her still half-asleep state, the memory of that night overwhelms her: the sinking realisation of knowing he had left, her determination not to let him go, her absolute inability to convince him otherwise. The sting of rejection rises like a wave and crashes inside her skull; her throat tightens and bitter tears sting her eyes, blurring her vision even as she tries in vain to blink them away. She brings her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly, hiding her face in a futile effort to stem the flow. A voice in her head is chastising her, sounding uncannily like her childhood Septa, stupid girl, stupid, you should never have trusted him, you knew this would happen, and she cannot shut it out, and Jaime's voice joins in, repeating all the terrible things he had done for his sister, she's hateful, and so am I—

"Oh, fuck. No, no, no. Brienne. Brienne."

Suddenly his voice is in the room with her, urgent, moving closer; the mattress dips and the furs lift and his arms are encircling her, as best they can when she is curled up into such a self-protective stance. His chest is warm against her back and he rests his chin against her shoulder and something inside her breaks, a sob wrenching from her throat which causes her entire body to shudder. His grip tightens and he presses a kiss to her shoulder-blade, soft and reassuring, the scratch of his beard against her skin bringing her back to reality again.

She tries to regain control over her breathing, taking in a lungful of air and exhaling it more shakily than intended, but it is effective in calming her down enough to speak.

"I thought you'd—"

"Shh, I know. Don't fret. I didn't go anywhere."

His tone is comforting, slowly grounding her, and it is then she realises the room is bathed in the warm glow of a recently-tended fire, the chill which had woken her already abating. A sense of understanding floods her veins: he had only left to re-stoke the flames; if she had remained asleep, she would not even have noticed his temporary absence.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, wiping irritably at her face, "I'm being ridiculous."

"No, you're not," he says reassuringly, "and it's me who should be apologising. I should have realised how this might look. I was trying to make myself useful, but…" He sighs in frustration. "Gods, I'm so sorry. Even when I try and do the right thing, I get it wrong."

Feeling significantly saner and considerably more awake, Brienne unfurls and relaxes, turning in Jaime's arms. She cannot bear the guilty expression on his face, and with an eye-roll and a brief kiss, she pushes him onto his back so she can cuddle up to him properly. She reaches for the furs and tugs them higher, staving off the last of the cold. His left arm curls around her shoulders, her head dropping to the crook of his neck; she draws lazy patterns on his chest with her fingertips, and in response, his handless wrist traces up and down her arm, both of them craving the contact of skin on skin. A surge of familiar affection floods her heart; she is continually surprised and overjoyed that he feels no shame, with her, over the missing appendage. It has been a long battle to reach such a place, a battle she did not fully expect to win.

Her overreaction on waking makes her burn with embarrassment, tinged with guilt that she immediately thought the worst, jumped to the wrong conclusion and caused Jaime to doubt himself. Especially after the previous night, when she had tried so hard to reassure him that his heart was safe in her hands. She does not want the shadow of his self-loathing hanging over them; not when she knows the path ahead is bright; not when he has so much goodness still to give.

"Jaime, I… I need you to do something for me."

"Anything," he tells her, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, and she believes he would dive head-first into a snake-pit, if she asked him to. Thankfully, what she wants to request of him is not quite so destructive – quite the opposite, in fact.

"When you're with me, I want you to… to try and see yourself as I do. To see all the good things you're capable of, until you really believe it." In the ensuing silence, it is clear Jaime is considering her request; she feels the need to continue. "I know how difficult a decision it was, to turn around and come back here. And I know that your intentions were honourable when you left for the capital, even though you handled it badly – that you were trying to keep me safe, trying to stop the war before it claimed any more lives. I know all of this, Jaime, because I know you. You're not the monster you think you are."

"Am I not?" he asks, and there is a flatness to his tone which she recognises, now, as the first sign of him trying to shut himself away, to avoid having to reconcile the two opposing sides of himself. Brienne draws the goodness out of him as strongly as Cersei pushes it back inside; he has never been able to find a middle ground.

"No," she tells him firmly, "you're not."

"I can be," he responds darkly; his stump has stilled against her arm, the fingers of his left hand slack against her shoulder. "I'm more than capable. We both know that."

"You can exorcise your demons in the training yard," she suggests, uncomfortably aware that her voice has taken on a slightly impatient and commanding tone, but hoping it might get through to him where softness has failed. "Go for one of your night-time walks and get yourself lost. Ride out to an empty field and scream into the wilderness, if you have to."

"Brienne—"

"All I ask is that when you're here, with me, you leave it behind. If you truly can't, then I'll do my best to help you forget." She raises her head, propping herself up slightly to meet his gaze. "There may be a war going on, but we can still have peace."

He searches her face, a maelstrom of emotions flitting over his features as he considers her words, before he slowly nods. The encroaching darkness in his eyes dissipates once again, replaced by the softness she can still never quite believe is for her.

"I'll try," he promises, and she leans down to kiss him, relieved, before settling against his side again. "But I have one condition."

"I suppose that's only fair," she mutters.

"You need to return the favour," he says. "If I must see myself as you do, then you must see yourself as I do. That means not arguing with me when I tell you you're beautiful."

"But I'm—"

"What did I just say?"

His tone is frustrated, but she can detect the humour behind it, so she tamps down all the responses she would usually employ to deflect such a comment. She has gotten herself into this mess, but it's a mess she can live with, probably: there are much worse things he could be saying to her, much worse things that he did say to her, once upon a time.

"You drive a hard bargain, Ser," she tells him with resigned tone.

"As do you, my lovely maid of Tarth."

She snorts in amusement, a most unladylike noise. "Not quite so maidenly any more, thanks to you."

"I seem to recall that you were a more than willing participant in your own downfall."

"You got me drunk!" she argues, and she feels the rumble of laughter in his chest.

"Tyrion got you drunk," he reminds her, "and you certainly weren't complaining at the time."

They quarrel lightly back and forth for a few minutes more until Brienne loses patience and swats at his chest, though there is no force behind it and he can feel her smiling against his shoulder. He reaches instinctively with his right hand to try and prevent her from doing it again, forgetting until the last second that there is no hand to speak of, his stump making contact with her palm. He tries to jerk away, as yet unable to curb his immediate impulse to escape, but her fingers curl around the scarred end of his wrist to hold him steady and his heart aches; he is rendered suddenly speechless by the power of her affection for the most shameful part of him.

He knows, of course, that she does not see it that way, and he is very slowly coming around to her perspective. He has not worn the golden hand since their return to Winterfell and cannot even say where it is, these days: Gendry could have melted it down in the foundry for all he cares. It will take more time yet before he is fully accustomed to the new lightness of his arm, though he does not miss the way the metal appendage would freeze him half to death in the northern climate.

His arm is not the only thing which is unusually light, he realises as he takes stock of his current situation: Brienne nestled in his arms, the crackle of the fire in the grate now the only sound in the room, though only moments ago there had been laughter and jovial conversation between them. He has never had the opportunity to enjoy such things before; it is a marvel, to share her bed, to enjoy her company, to joke with her, to stay until the morning and possibly even beyond. (There is much less urgency, these days, while they wait for news from the South.)

The sky outside her window is still dark, hours to go before the sun edges over the horizon, and he knows full well they should try and get some more sleep before daybreak; as the temperature in the room increases again, he can already feel the pull of unconsciousness, and Brienne's breathing is starting to slow as she also succumbs. Except their reminiscence about the feast after the battle has reminded him of something very important which he now, urgently, needs to tell her.

He nudges her gently back to alertness, and although she protests, she reluctantly resurfaces.

"What now?" she asks a little impatiently.

"I have to tell you something," he explains, realising too late that his tone comes across as more grave than intended, as Brienne lifts her head from his shoulder and fixes him with a slightly startled expression. "It's nothing bad – stop looking at me like that."

"It must be serious if you've woken me up," she counters.

"I didn't say it wasn't serious, I just said it wasn't bad. Lie back down."

She is still sceptical, but does as he asks, and once she is settled again he rolls onto his side so he can face her properly.

"Well?" she asks. "Come on, Jaime; out with it. You're worrying me."

"That wasn't my intention," he says, hoping it come across as reassuring. "I just… I just wanted you to know... that night, the feast, Tyrion's game. That's when I knew I loved you." She does not respond, merely stares at him levelly, assessing his words for their truth, and he feels the need to fill the silence. "We'd survived against all the odds, and we were all together – you and me and Pod and my brother – and it felt so good to be alive, and Gods, Brienne, your smile. It made my head spin more than the wine ever could. I would have done anything to make you laugh like that again, and I wanted to spend the rest of my days trying to achieve it."

She thinks back to that night; in retrospect, it was more than obvious, their shared glances lingering a little longer than was strictly appropriate. Tyrion and Podrick would surely have noticed, as well as anyone else in their immediate vicinity who might have had the inclination to look. It was the first time Brienne could remember Jaime being so carefree, and in the moment she had put it down to post-battle relief, the presence of his brother and the influence of the finest wine from Winterfell's stores. She could not recall if his smile had ever reached his eyes before; any mirth directed towards her in their early days had been ironic and tainted with sarcasm; he had been sombre, after his return to the capital, and at every meeting between them after.

"You said it had been years," she reminds him.

"It was," he says, "but I didn't realise it until then – or didn't acknowledge it. The feelings I'd been carrying around for you hadn't changed, but suddenly they were blinding me. I knew I loved you, but that night I fell head over heels in love with you, and there was no going back."

She remembers how flustered and nervous he had seemed after insinuating himself in her room, the reasons why suddenly now becoming all the more apparent. Perhaps if they had both been braver about their feelings, things might have worked out differently.

"For me it was Harrenhal," she admits quietly. "That's when it started, when I first saw the real you. I knew it for certain when you gave me the armour." She decides not to dwell on the troubling exchange with his sister at Joffrey's wedding, the Queen seeing straight through the façade she had so carefully constructed and making her question everything all over again. Her voice takes on a wistful tone. "I wish we'd both realised sooner."

"It wasn't the right time, for either of us."

"I could have saved you from her."

"My gallant knight," he says, and pulls her closer into his arms, pressing his mouth to hers in a tender kiss. "You did save me. You made me see that there was another path to travel, another choice to make. I would choose you in every lifetime, Brienne."

She smiles at that; not the radiant, beaming grin from the night after the battle, but it makes her eyes sparkle just as brightly and Jaime's heart skip a beat just as unexpectedly.

"I'm perfectly content with this lifetime, for now."

She buries her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, chasing the sleep he so rudely interrupted with his sudden need to bare his soul.

"Only for now?" he teases, smiling as she groans in frustration.

"Forever, then," she mutters. "Now stop talking and let me sleep, you wretch."

He decides not to push his luck any further, even though that word – forever – has sent his head spinning into too many scenarios to keep track of. He very much suspects his own sleep will be evasive now, as he tries to make sense of the images bombarding his mind's eye and talk himself out of doing something very impulsive, but he has no intention of disturbing Brienne any further – lack of sleep makes her grumpy, and it would not be fair on Podrick for him to bear the brunt of it in the training yard later.

Instead, he brushes a kiss to her temple and huddles down beneath the furs, pulling her close with an arm across her waist, and listens to her even breathing in the flickering firelight of the room.

Yes; he's perfectly content with this lifetime, too.

A couple of days later, Brienne makes good on her promise – or her threat – of asking Jaime to help her with the children. The building work has paused, for now, as the weather has taken a turn for the worst; a blizzard is blowing in, flurries of fine snow making visibility impossible and the stones too slippery to work safely. Feeling restless without a purpose, Jaime readily agrees to join Brienne in her training of the youngsters.

They are certainly a handful, and he can see now why she has struggled to rein them in. The eldest is barely past her tenth year, the youngest – a small boy with curly hair who reminds him fiercely of his brother as an infant – is merely four: not too young to hold a sword, but not quite old enough to retain instructions. Regardless, he can already see a marked improvement from his brief moments of watching the proceedings from afar: there is generally more education occurring than chaos.

For the most part, his assistance comes in the form of demonstration, lightly sparring with Brienne. The first time, Podrick does not so much hand him a sparring weapon than shove it at him with a scowl, clearly unhappy with his presence in the training yard. Jaime has not attempted to plead forgiveness from Brienne's loyal squire; he knows that she has spoken to Pod at great length, trying to get him to understand, and it will take some time before he is ready to make amends. Still, when Brienne asks Jaime to spar with Podrick instead, so she can better explain a particular step or parry, Jaime lets him win and the amused smirk on his face is slightly less hostile than before. In the spirit of good sportsmanship, Pod does at least extend a hand to Jaime to help him to his feet again, but his assistance is non-too-gentle as he hauls him upright.

As they start again, Jaime espies the unmistakable figure of Sansa Stark, watching from the battlements. She has always looked at home in the North, in her stern clothing and ample furs; her flame-auburn Tully hair and striking blue eyes are bright and piercing against the whiteness of the landscape. She is too far away to fully ascertain her expression, but her stance is not as tense as usual and he surmises she is merely passing the time and enjoying the spectacle. Jaime himself has spent longer than he cares to admit watching Brienne teaching the children, so he can well appreciate Sansa's curiosity; today, there is the additional entertainment of Podrick sending him sprawling in the mud, which is doubtless a more amusing sight for the Lady of Winterfell.

Three bouts later – another false loss on his part, one true win for Podrick, and a final victory for Jaime in an effort to preserve his reputation – Brienne finally takes pity on her exhausted and mud-splattered companions and enlists them, instead, in more practical training of the youngsters. As the snow grows heavier, however, the children's attention starts to wane, and the ground of the training yard becomes too treacherous with compacted snow for the lesson to continue. Brienne announces that the day's training is over and instructs the group to head inside for some food to warm them, tasking Podrick with rounding them up and ushering them back towards the castle, as she and Jaime collect up the discarded wooden swords and shields.

The children make it only halfway to the safety of the castle before a snowball fight breaks out, all of them scattering in random directions to find makeshift barricades, whilst pelting each other mercilessly. Jaime is almost completely certain that the instigator of the war was Podrick (who is now cowering from a multi-pronged attack), though he refrains from saying so when he notices the surprised and slightly appalled expression on Brienne's face. For a moment, it almost looks as though she is going to admonish them, but as the sound of laughter and joyful shrieking carries audibly across the courtyard, she merely rolls her eyes and leaves them to it.

Up on the battlements, even Lady Sansa has cracked a smile at the antics below, leaning forward slightly against the stone wall to properly enjoy the view.

The training yard is almost presentable again, the sparring weapons all neatly stowed away and any evidence of the morning's activities slowly disappearing beneath a cover of fine snow. Jaime moves to right a felled dummy and skids slightly on a patch of ice, reaching for the sparse wooden barrier which encloses the yard to catch himself. He lets go once he has found his balance, noticing that the snow has clung to his glove and created an almost perfect handprint on the railing. He clenches his fist and the snow compacts tightly rather than crumbling, and he is struck with an idea so utterly ridiculous that he almost does not act on it.

Almost.

Brienne, satisfied that the training yard is neat and tidy once more, turns to Jaime and suggests that they should also move inside before the weather takes another turn. He nods in agreement but gestures towards the still-fallen dummy, indicating for Brienne to carry on without him. She warns him not to linger too long, knowing his propensity to never wear enough layers for the freezing temperatures of the North, but leaves him to finish the task.

Within mere seconds of walking away, she is stopped in her tracks by the unfamiliar sensation of something cold and solid impacting against her back.

She stops short and spins around, finding Jaime looking rather too nonchalant with his arms clasped behind his back, and a telltale patch of bare wood on the wooden railing behind him. She eyes him suspiciously.

"Did you just…?"

"Did I just…?" he repeats, feigning ignorance. "I'm afraid I haven't the faintest clue what you're—"

"You threw a snowball at me?" she accuses him incredulously.

"No? I don't think I did." He makes a show of looking around for the culprit. "Are you sure it wasn't one of the children?"

"Jaime." Her tone is weary, but there is a hint of a smile on her face.

"Brienne."

There is a mischievous gleam in his eyes, something she has not seen since the feast, and it is enough to send her back across the yard towards him. For a moment, she merely stares at him, carefully assessing the situation, before suddenly reaching behind his back to grab his left wrist, pulling it into her line of sight. They both stare at the snow still clinging to his glove, before he lifts his head and gives her one of his infuriatingly charming smiles.

"Well, the evidence is certainly damning," he comments, clearly amused with himself. "What do you say, my lady? Trial by combat?"

It takes her a moment to figure out what he means, and then her eyes widen in surprise.

"I have no intention whatsoever of participating in—"

"Oh, come on, Brienne," he pleads. "We both grew up in the South. I didn't see my first snowfall until I was too old to enjoy it – not without earning a disdainful glare from my Lord father, anyway." He indicates the distant battle with a gesture of his head. "You can't tell me that doesn't look like fun."

Beyond the joyous fracas amongst the children, Podrick's deeper laughter echoes across the courtyard, Sansa's delighted giggle from above; despite the cold, Brienne's heart begins to thaw. As much as she hates to admit it, Jaime is right: she's always wondered what the fuss is about.

"Very well, Ser Jaime." She extends a hand and he shakes it in agreement. "May the best Knight win."

He tugs her into a half-embrace, overwhelmingly pleased by her agreement, and she uses the movement to her advantage, quickly swiping up a handful of snow with her free hand and crushing it unceremoniously into his hair. Before he can react, she takes off running, straight out of the yard and towards the Godswood.

By the time he recovers enough to go after her, she is already some distance away, weaving in and out of the trees as he gives chase. Brienne has the significant advantage of an extra hand, creating sizable missiles to hurl in his direction, where he can do little except grab handfuls of snow, compact them down and hope that they retain enough integrity to land on target. The tall pines bordering Winterfell make for perfect cover, and they both miss more often than not.

At some point, they are both hiding behind separate trees, only vaguely aware of each other's whereabouts, and Jaime calls for a temporary cease-fire whilst he catches his breath. He is met with silence in response and assumes Brienne is in agreement. Then the crunch of snow nearby gives her away, as she attempts to sneak up on him; her arm emerges into his periphery, reaching around the tree from behind him with the intention of dumping a handful of snow over his head. Instead, he grabs onto her wrist, drags her around in front of him and pivots, pressing her back against the rough bark. She drops the snowball in her surprise, the force of the movement winding her slightly.

She looks completely dishevelled, with ice in her hair and her cheeks tinged pink from cold and exertion, and Jaime imagines he must look much the same, though Brienne undoubtedly wears it better.

"Gods above, wench, what part of 'hold fire' did you misunderstand?" he grumbles, still holding firm against her arm to pin her to the tree.

She smirks at him. "There's no mercy in war, Jaime."

"I'm so glad we're on the same side," he mutters sarcastically, shaking his head in exasperation. "Besides, this isn't actually a war. It's just a bit of fun, though it is – I admit – considerably more strenuous than I was expecting."

"The children don't seem to be complaining."

"Yes, well, when they get to our age—"

"To your age, you mean."

She's trying to get a rise out of him, he knows, and he will not give her the satisfaction; they both enjoy taking verbal swipes at each other, when they are not speaking in softer and more serious tones. Before, he would have found it irksome, but now it warms his heart, the comfort in their dialogue with each other so far removed from anything he's experienced before.

There was never any affection behind his twin's barbed words; they were only ever designed to hurt. She would never have indulged in such an activity as this; he can easily imagine her sneering face if he had even so much as suggested it.

A flurry of snow carries through the trees with an icy blast, the drop in temperature jolting him back to reality as the unwelcome memory of his sister quietly fades away. Brienne is wearing a slightly concerned expression and her hand is pressed against his upper arm; he must have looked far away for a moment. He blinks, refocusing his attention, hoping to use her temporarily distracted state to his advantage.

"This apparently geriatric Knight appears to have the upper hand, Ser Brienne," he points out. "Do you yield?"

"No."

Before he can respond, she grabs onto both of his arms, pushes away from the tree and spins them both around until their positions are reversed. She shoves him against the trunk with much more force than he had used, the impact causing snow to fall from the upper branches and land in scattered piles all around them.

"I trust you've had time to recover your breath?" she asks.

"Well, I had until you knocked it all out of me again," he complains.

"Good," she says, then kisses him firmly, just long enough for everything to become slightly blurred around the edges, before letting him go and stalking off. He barely has time to recover his senses before she pelts him with a snowball, hitting him square in the chest, and when he looks up he finds her staring at him, poised to flee, waiting for him to react. He eases himself away from the tree and stoops to gather up a handful of snow, flinging it haphazardly in her general direction before she can dodge out of the way; it clips her shoulder, and she lets out a noise midway between a giggle and a yelp before running off again.

As the second round sends them careening amongst the trees, they show no mercy, finding each other's cover spots and attacking at close range. In the ensuing chaos, Jaime loses sight of her for a moment, and he hesitates, listening intently in case she attempts another stealthy approach. A sudden gust of wind both deafens and blinds him, and when there is still no sign of Brienne after it passes he starts to worry, wondering if she might have slipped and hurt herself somewhere in the woods.

He is about to head off and look for her, when he finds himself halted by someone gripping the back of his collar, and in the next second a handful of snow is shoved inside the back of his coat. For a moment he is frozen in shock, seizing up from the sudden cold, then shuddering violently, though that achieves little other than moving the snow further down his back. He spins around and finds Brienne trying desperately not to laugh, biting her lip and almost shaking with the effort of containing herself.

"That was a dirty trick, Ser," he admonishes her.

She emits a snort, but manages to control her amusement long enough to respond, in a mock-serious tone: "You let your guard down. I was merely pressing my advantage."

"By freezing me half to death?"

"You'd have managed that on your own."

She's probably right, but he won't let her know that. "Unless you want me to return the favour, you'd better start moving."

Brienne does not need telling twice, turning on her heel and rushing off again; the snowball aimed towards her head misses by half an inch, and she veers off to the right. Jaime is in pursuit, his movements slowed by the uncomfortable chill of his now-soaked shirt. Their chase leads them out of the Godswood and into the open field, where the snow is deeper – halfway to her knees – and much more difficult to navigate; Jaime follows her tracks, managing to gain on her as she struggles against a driving wind.

Eventually, it is too much of an effort to keep going, and Brienne slows to a stop; Jaime continues on, determined to reach her. She turns, holding her arms up in surrender, but he finds a burst of energy from somewhere and barrels forwards with the intention of taking her down. There is a flicker of panic in her face, but she quickly recovers and scoops up a generous handful of snow, intending to throw it at him to stop his approach. By the time she straightens again, he is almost upon her, and she acts instinctively, kicking his legs out from underneath him as soon as he is close enough. Before he hits the floor, he makes a desperate grab for the front of her clothing and brings her down with him.

He lands heavily on his back in the snow, Brienne collapsing on top of him; he tries his best to cushion her descent, but they are both winded from the fall, their hysterical laughter emerging slightly breathless in the aftermath. Brienne is the first to recover and she attempts to right herself, finding it difficult in the powdery snow, which both crumbles and compacts whenever she tries to find any purchase. Eventually, with some assistance from Jaime, she manages to sit upright in his lap, her knees astride his hips. He makes a vain effort himself to sit up, but he has run out of energy for now and gives up again, letting his head fall back with a defeated chuckle.

"Yield," she says, a lightness to her tone.

He looks up at her, intending to speak, but finds himself struck dumb instead. Brienne looks ridiculous, with her cheeks florid from the cold, her hair soaked with melted snow and hanging loose around her face, her eyes bright with amusement and shining with that particular shade of blue that makes his heart jump into his throat, and Jaime thinks she might be the most stunning thing he's ever seen in his life.

When he does not respond, she reaches for another handful of snow and raises it threateningly.

"Yield," she repeats, her voice lilting with barely-suppressed laughter, and her face lights up with the same relaxed and un-self-conscious smile as during Tyrion's drinking game, and for the briefest of moments Jaime forgets how to breathe. Unaware of his inner struggle, she pulls her arm back with the intention of aiming the snowball at his head, hoping to elicit a reaction.

"Marry me."

She freezes, the snowball dropping out of her grip to land unceremoniously in the snow beside them with a dull thud, and her face drops into a mask of confusion and shock, her gaze searching his.

"I— What?"

Jaime is not entirely certain if he intended to blurt that out, but he has no intention whatsoever of taking it back. The thought has been rolling around his brain for longer than he cares to admit, and for the past few days it has consumed him mercilessly. He had already asked her, after a fashion, that frozen morning at the tavern, but not in as many words, and in just as few words she had almost accepted. This is different; it's realer; it's a truth he's wanted to make a reality for weeks, for months, maybe even for years.

She is staring at him intently, a hint of suspicion colouring her features, and he reaches up to gently grasp her arm, grounding her.

"Marry me, Brienne." His tone is softer, the second time, letting her know he's serious.

"If this is your idea of a joke, it's not very funny," she retorts, and to his dismay there are tears brimming in her eyes, despite the cynical edge to her voice. His need to reassure her is great enough to force him upright, despite the awkward position; Brienne tries to move away but his arms encircle her waist, holding her firm so she cannot escape.

"It's not a joke," he says. "I promise, I would never make light of this."

"But I…" She swallows thickly, choking back her emotions. "Why would you want to—?"

"Because I made the greatest mistake of my life when I tried to walk away from you, and I want to spend whatever years I have left making up for it," he tells her adamantly, and before he can stop himself a litany pours out of his soul. "Because you're the best thing that ever happened to me. Because I want to fall asleep in your arms every night, and wake up every morning to see those astonishing eyes staring back at me. Because I came all the way here to fight and die by your side, and the Gods saw fit to let me live, and our time in this world is too brief not to go after the things we want most."

That, he now realises, is the very crux of it. Brienne searches his face, assessing his words for their truth; his heart aches with the need to erase whatever hurts she must have experienced before now, to cause her to doubt him so strongly.

"The… the things we want most…" She repeats the words back to him, slightly dazed, and there is a question in her eyes.

"I want you," he states plainly, reaching up to caress her face; her skin is warm beneath his palm, her bedraggled hair almost frozen solid where it brushes against his fingertips. "You, and this, and us, for the rest of my days."

"I… I want that, too," she admits quietly. "But marriage, Jaime, that's—"

"Too sudden a development? Yes, well, I'm an impulsive fool," he reminds her with a smile, his arm winding around her waist again. "You've known that for years."

"A marriage proposal is a little more significant than jumping into a bear pit," she points out. "It's considerably more permanent."

"I understand perfectly well how significant it is," he says. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't mean it."

"You didn't really ask me, you told me," she points out.

"I did, didn't I?" he realises with a delighted expression. "In that case, you don't have much of a choice."

Brienne rolls her eyes, but says nothing more; some of the tension has eased from her shoulders, a subtle indication that he is slowly wearing her down. Still, he knows better than to keep pushing. With the weather showing no signs of abating, they could both do with getting inside and warmed up, before they succumb to frostbite. Even the children have given up, the snowball fight long abandoned.

"You don't have to answer now," he reassures her. "If you need time to think—"

"Yes," she blurts out, surprising herself as well as him, chewing on her lip in embarrassment. Jaime's heart performs a somersault in his chest, but he tries to tamp it down; he needs to be absolutely sure.

"Is that 'yes' as in, 'yes, I need time to think', or…"

"Yes, I'll marry you."

He can do nothing except stare at her, his brain momentarily frozen, Brienne's acceptance finishing what the frigid outside temperature had already started. When he does not respond for some considerable time, she becomes concerned.

"Jaime? Are you—"

He interrupts by surging towards her and capturing her mouth in a desperate kiss, communicating his relief and love and absolute joy; his lips are cold against hers, his nose icy against her face, and she's sure hers must be too, but Gods, she really could not care less because she'd happily die of exposure before letting this moment end. Her gloved hands raise to encircle his face, and she pushes up on her knees so he's forced to lean up to keep kissing her, and the contented rumble that emerges from his throat is familiar and satisfying, lighting up a preciously-guarded corner of her mind: he is mine and I am his and I want nothing more than this for the rest of my days.

Another flurry blows across the clearing on a sudden gust of wind, chilling them both to the point of shivering and finally breaking them apart. Brienne leans down, pressing her forehead to his for a moment whilst she catches her breath, before finally getting to her feet. It is a struggle, with the snow and her own seized-up limbs conspiring against her, but once she is steady she extends a hand to Jaime to help him up. He stumbles as he rises, his legs numb from Brienne's weight above and the icy ground below, and when she grasps his arm to steady him he leans further into her and presses another kiss to her mouth, soft and affirming.

He complains about the cold and his half-frozen arse all the way back to the castle, as though it had not been his idea to spend the best part of an hour behaving like children, but Brienne cannot regret a single moment of it.

Above them, from her position on the battlements, Lady Sansa has been watching. Her intention was to return indoors once the children had finished playing, but the noise and movement within the Godswood had alerted her attention. The last thing she had expected was to see her sworn-sword and former good-brother chasing each other through the trees and out into the open field, covered in half-melted ice and laughing like adolescents, before collapsing on top of each other in the snow. She had smiled as she watched them, reminded of happier days with Arya and Bran and Rickon, when they would run around these very fields themselves and get into similar antics.

She was not exactly sure what transpired after that, though it had been evident from their body language that something was afoot; Sansa felt a protective urge rise up within her as Brienne had tensed, the set of her shoulders clearly suggesting that she was upset about something. It simmered down again soon enough, as Jaime sought to mend whatever he'd said, and shortly after that Sansa had averted her eyes with a blush that set her face ablaze. Oh. Well. They've obviously sorted that out, then.

The familiar figure of Samwell Tarly distracts her, his usually jovial face set into a serious expression.

"Lady Sansa?"

"Yes, my Lord?"

Samwell stutters at the title, never quite feeling as though it belongs to him. "We've news from the South, milady. A letter has arrived from Jon— I mean, Aegon." He smiles at his error. "It takes some getting used to, that."

"I'll receive it in the library. Thank you."

Samwell nods politely and heads back indoors. When Sansa returns her gaze to the field below, both Jaime and Brienne are slowly making their way back, still in high spirits. Regardless of Sansa's own misgivings about the elder Lannister brother, it warms her heart to see Brienne so happy, to see them both so devoted to each other.

Whatever message has come from Kings Landing, whatever the outcome of the war, it has the potential to change everything, upset the delicate balance she has been maintaining in the North.

The last time there was news from the South, Brienne's heart got broken, and Sansa does not know if enough has changed, in the meantime, to prevent that from happening again. It seems ridiculous, in many ways, to be so concerned about that, when there are so many greater things to be worrying about… but Sansa is still a romantic girl at heart, and Brienne is the closest thing she has to a family now that Arya and Jon— Aegon have left to join the war. (She would never admit it, not to him, barely even to herself, but she misses Tyrion also, and Jaime has a look about him sometimes which reminds her of his brother, the way he gazes at Brienne so similar to how Tyrion would stare at her, once upon a time, when he thought she wasn't looking.)

With a determined nod, Sansa makes her way to the library to receive the letter.

A/N: Is this fluff too shameless? Well, tough; it's only gonna get worse. ;)

(I was going to leave Jaime hanging, but he deserves a bit of reprieve from All The Angst.)

Also, regarding Brienne wanting Jaime to leave his demons at the door: I totally think this is something she would ask of him, but it makes me feel a bit iffy in a coercive-control sort of way, and I was trying to tread a fine line between good intentions vs. bad implementation. Obviously I don't believe she would ever do such a thing to intentionally hurt him – it's coming from a place of wanting to help him and I hope that came across – and Jaime is so damaged from his life with Cersei that he probably wouldn't even see it in that way, but… yeah, anyway, there it is. I don't imagine anyone else even read all of that into it, but I wanted to cleanse my soul regardless.

Also also, I saw a post on Tumblr recently which mentioned a scene in the books where Jaime is watching some children playing in the snow and lamenting his inability to make snowballs; I actually came up with the idea of the snowball fight before I read that post, but it's heartening to know it's at least vaguely in character, even though I'm generally writing in show-canon. (I desperately need to find time to read the books one of these days because the more I learn about book!Jaime, the harder it hits me in the feels.)

Anyway, sorry, I keep turning these end notes into weird essays on Toxic Relationships in Westeros (I want to send D&D on domestic abuse awareness training, quite frankly). Final chapter coming (hopefully) soon, which will deal with the outcome of the war.

Thanks for reading, and I hope it was worth the wait!