When he first sees her, he urges her to leave. "The Night's Watch does not welcome women," he tells her, "or wildlings."
She says nothing to him, only bats her eyelashes and leaves. The image of her stays with him long after her departure, though.
She's not beautiful like his sister, but Cersei is too far away, too happy with her life as Queen to bother with him, her twin who broke his vows and killed his king, allowing her husband to rise to the throne—only to be forced to join the Night's Watch for his actions. Cersei never even granted him a goodbye, a last kiss, a last fuck. Best to forget her altogether.
So… the wildling woman is not beautiful like his twin, no, but there is something ethereal about her. She's tall and broad, yes, but her milk-like skin called to him, begging to be caressed, with enough freckles to make him want to count them. Her lips, full and dry and pale as if dehydrated, asked to be kissed. Her eyes are the bluest he's ever seen, and he looked away as he dismissed her in fear they'd arrest him in place.
He's been in the Wall for a while and had seen a handful of women, north and south of it, but none had enticed him until now. What was she doing there, anyway? How did she learn about the Wall's underground passages, and why was she there alone, instead of following (or leading) a bunch of wildlings to break through it?
These questions, as well as her face, haunt him in his sleep and in his awake times. He decides to watch over the underground passages more often, lest she returns with people behind her.
Her second visit happens moons later. He's half-asleep, exhausted from the training session with new recruits, so his restraints are weaker—at least, that is what he tells himself later.
She's wearing the same white dress that clutches to her body, camouflaging with her skin and emphasizing every curve of hers. She barely has those, true, but he is so enthralled by the vision of her, he looks and looks until he finds them—the slight swell of her tiny breasts, subtle curves on her hips.
He looks up to her face, and she's as enchanting as the other night. No, she does not carry Cersei's beauty, but he's just as captivated, if not more. "What are you doing here?", he asks.
It takes a while for her to answer. "It's cold outside," she replies simply, and her voice is soothing. He wants to hear it more often.
You swore to take no wife, a voice reminds him. But this isn't 'taking a wife'; he wants her body, not her love or her commitment. "You can stay here for the night," he says, half-choked. "No longer than that. And I'd rather know how to address you."
She smiles, and he thinks he could kill another king for that smile. "Brienne," she whispers timidly. "May I ask your name as well, Ser?"
He imagines her gasping his name as he goes down on her and—fuck. "Jaime," he says, half-choked.
She smiles again.
Brienne doesn't take her dress off, doesn't even lift her skirt to grant him access to her, but she lets him kiss her and touch her over the dress. She's cold to the touch, but soft, and her kisses leave him breathless. She doesn't make a sound as he touches her, no matter how hard he tries, but her starry eyes arrest him just as he once feared they would.
Neither of them sleep that night, and, when the sun rises, she kisses him goodbye. "Thank you for keeping me warm… Jaime."
He nearly comes undone with her saying his name. "Anytime," he breathes out.
She visits him every fortnight, never letting him go further than their first night together, but in his dreams, she takes her dress off and screams his name. For now it's enough.
The Lord Commander, an old man from the riverlands, dies in his sleep. For reasons beyond his comprehension, they elect him, the Kingslayer, as their new Commander.
Once, he'd relish such a position. Now, though, he only laments he can't go downstairs anymore to wait for Brienne.
He is in bed, ready to sleep, when his chambers' door opens and closes. Assuming it to be the wind—for he didn't hear anyone entering—he doesn't even bother to open his eyes.
Until he feels a cold but soft hand caressing his arm. He sits up and opens his eyes to see Brienne. "How did you—"
"I move quietly," she answers his unfinished question, and fuck, her voice alone already makes his heartbeat completely unsteady. "You didn't show up," she continues, and he hears the sadness in her tone. "I thought you had given up on me. Realized I wasn't pretty enough…"
No, no, he can't have that. "You are beautiful to me, Brienne," he whispers, raising his hands to caress her arms as she did his. "They elected me Lord Commander, though, and I could no longer go to our place."
She looks at him with her astonishing blue eyes, and once again he's powerless to move. "You did make me feel beautiful those nights," she whispers back.
Slowly, but surely, she presses herself against his side. The sensation of her body touching, even with their clothes in between, leaves him dizzy. "Tell me what you want, Brienne," he says, breathless, "and I'll give it."
"You," she replies, placing a hand over his heart. "Not just your body—I don't want a one-time fuck."
"You can have all of me if you want to," he breathes out as her hand goes under his shirt. "My body, my heart, my love. But… I swore to take no wife."
"Are you not King of the Wall?", she asks, a bit of innocence in her tone. It sends shivers down his spine. "Did they not elect you so?"
"I'm Lord Commander," he corrects, albeit weakly.
"I see no difference," she insists. "You are King, you are above these petty rules." Then, with her other hand, she pushes a side of her dress down, revealing half of her chest. "Make love to me, Jaime," she pleads. "Make me feel beautiful. Give your all to me, and let me make you mine."
He has absolutely no willpower to refuse her.
She gets less cold as he touches her newly revealed body—gods, she's a fucking revelation—although one could argue he's just getting used to it. Slowly, she begins to shiver under his touch, and finally she makes the sounds he so longed to hear.
Just before he becomes one with her, she asks, "What would you do to keep me at your side, Jaime?"
What a stupid question. "Anything," he replies easily. Now that he knows how she looks, how she tastes, how she feels, he can't go on without her.
"What would you give to have my love?"
He's desperate to unite with her. "Everything."
"Even your soul?"
What kind of question is this? "My soul is already yours, Brienne," he murmurs, his heart racing at the feel of her all around him.
"Good," she whispers, grabbing his face and lowering it until their lips are nearly touching. "Very good." Then she lets him inside, kissing him, and it's the most passionate and sweet and glorious moment he's ever lived.
He's so full of her, he doesn't even realize his heart stops beating.
Old Nan turns up her nose when she hears the royal party is coming to Winterfell. "The stag king is surrounded by lions," she says, like a curse.
Bran tilts his head to the side. Robert Baratheon is married to a Lannister, yes, and one of his guards is her twin brother. "What do you have against the Lannisters, Old Nan?"
She looks at him. "They are the blood of traitors, child. Have you ever heard of the Night King?" He shakes his head. "He was a Lannister, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch of old. As soon as he rose to leadership, he married a corpse and made her his queen. He gave his body and his soul to her, and together they ruled the Wall for thirteen years, until your ancestor Brandon the Breaker pushed them away."
So it is just another of Old Nan's scary stories, then. "Are they still around?"
"Who knows? Mayhaps they're dead, mayhaps they're still in the lands where snow never ceases to fall. If that's the case, we can only pray they never return."
Far away, in the lands where snow never ceases to fall, a man with golden hair and unearthly blue eyes surrenders himself to his queen once more, letting her use him to build her army of undead. When she kisses him, he almost feels his heart beat again.