"I talked to Bran," Jon Snow—or whatever Targaryen name he goes by nowadays—explains. "Through the… well, you all know it already, how we talk to him."

Jaime nods; Bran Stark's current 'condition' is an enigma to most (himself included), but at least they've figured out how to communicate with him through the weirwood trees. Jaime was one of the first, actually, because Bran wanted to reassure him that 'all was forgiven'.

"You did it to protect your family, I know. Your actions helped me become what I am today, enabled me to help you today. And now you're here. You have my forgiveness."

He only dared tell the wench about the conversation. She offered a hug, and hug her he did, letting a few tears fall—Brienne was the only one who ever saw him cry after his mother's death, and would continue to be so if it depended on him.

"What information did he offer this time?", Lyanna Mormont—who's way too young to be in this fight, but has long proved herself by surviving—asks, taking him out of his reverie.

"The Night Queen and her King," Jon replies. "The North is acquainted with the legend, but I suppose the South isn't." He glances around, and Jaime, Brienne and everyone who grew up south of the Neck nod. Jon sighs. "It is said that the 13th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch married a dead woman and made her his queen, and together they ruled the Wall for several years. They say this man was the reason the Night's Watch sworn off marriage.

"Bran told me a slightly different version. It wasn't the Night King who made the dead woman his Queen, it was the Night Queen who made him her King when he gave her his seed and his soul along. She seduced him with her body, and he fell in love with her, and he forgot all about his vows as a result."

"Of course, blame the woman," Daenerys Targaryen—who ended up not burning him alive after all, and even asked him about her long deceased family once—protests.

"We're not talking about an ordinary woman," Jon reminds her softly. "She was an Other, but not just any Other. Being female, she was the one who could create more white walkers like her. The first Long Night ended with huge losses for the undead, so she went to the Wall to make one of the men hers." He takes a deep breath. "Bran said the Night Queen was no conventional beauty, but the Lord Commander was enthralled all the same."

Across the table, Edric Dayne massages his temples. "What does this tale have to do with us? It happened centuries ago, did it not?"

"Yes, but the Night Queen still lives alongside her King. Even if we defeat all the wights and Others in our path, if we don't find her and destroy her, she will just create more and more like her. If we want any hope for this nightmare to be over, we must do what our ancestors failed to do."

Obara Sand shifts on her seat. "And how are we supposed to find her and kill her?"

Jon runs a hand through his curly hair. "She can be killed the same way all the Others are; that isn't our problem. Bran said she only showed up to the Lord Commander when he was alone, so we can't send an army after her. We need one person only, someone who won't fall so easily for her charms—or her King's, as he is also said to be ethereally handsome."

Oh, that's easy. "I'll go, then," he says, standing up.

Daenerys startles. "Are you sure?", she asks. "This is a very risky mission, Ser."

He grins. "My lady—Your Grace—Daenerys… You may be unaware of this, as you're still kind of a newcomer, but I spent most of my life with one woman only. Ladies at court all but threw themselves at me, many of them really beautiful, and I never looked at them twice. For better or for worse, I'm not one to fall for a pretty face nor for a pretty body, which seems to be the exact ability we need to find this Night Queen."

Some people agree with him, even telling tales of a sister or another who tried to get Jaime Lannister to sleep with them, especially after he was released from the Kingsguard and after Cersei's death, only for him to unceremoniously dismiss them. In the end, Jon Snow decides that he is indeed going.

"Then I'll go too," Brienne says at his side, standing up. "Ser Jaime needs a back-up, if nothing else."

Jon doesn't even blink before saying yes.

"Regret that you came with me?", he asks when they finally find a cave to rest in—he'd say 'spend the night', but it's always night now, so…

Brienne shakes her head. "I'm even more glad now," she replies, glancing at his left leg. He strained a muscle; nothing fatal, and bound to heal in a day or two, but it hurts too much to walk. She places him half-sitting, half-laying down.

"I'm glad, too, you know," he says softly, because he is. If he dies, at least he will do so in his wench's arms. He'll be able to see her one last time, and hear her soothing voice as he leaves this forsaken world.

She smiles, and for a moment he wonders if the summer sun has risen up again. "I'll get wood for a fire and food for dinner," she announces. "I'll be back in an hour or two, Ser Jaime."

He suppresses an urge to flirt and just smiles softly at her. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, only half-teasing. Now that he stopped walking, he doesn't think he'll move anytime soon.

She rolls her eyes and stands up to leave. He wishes she had touched him somehow—a brush on his arms, a pet on his head, anything—but he knows Brienne is too shy and self-conscious for a casual touch. She usually caresses him with her eyes, staring at him softly and understandingly whenever he feels something burdening him.

He hopes his eyes provide her the same comfort one day, but for now he's content with closing them to rest while waiting for her return.

At first, his vision is blurred. As he blinks, though, it gets clearer, and he makes out the figure coming to him. It's the wench—or rather, her naked body. Even in this darkness, he can notice she's unclothed—they still have the stars hanging above them, after all.

Oh, he remembers Harrenhal. How her supposedly unattractive body aroused him and how it got imprinted on his mind, to the point it often visited his dreams. He saw her bare other times—tending to her after Stoneheart and helping her exit a bath when she got too exhausted after a battle against the undead—which only helped him memorize every inch of her skin, every slight curve, every single detail that charmed him beyond words.

Still, he never allowed himself to touch her more than strictly required. She was a maiden, and an insecure one at that, having been the target of countless jokes—many of them crueler than his rudest words uttered at the beginning of their acquaintance. If he wanted her, he'd have first to convince her of the truth within his heart. He'd have to marry her, show the whole world that he belonged to her. Only then she'd give herself to him without fear of being betrayed or abandoned come morning.

So, it is a bit odd that she is coming in his direction in her nameday suit. "Wench?", he asks, still too hazy with sleep to say more.

"My clothes got soaking wet before I could grab anything," she replies, so innocent and sweet. She kneels beside him, but he still can't see her face, only her—fuck. "I'm cold, Jaime."

Jaime. Not 'Ser Jaime' or 'Lord Jaime' or any other title. Just 'Jaime'. Her Jaime, for he is undeniably hers, whether she is his or not. "Did you not… get wood for the fire?"

"No, it was too cold to keep walking." She begins to lay on his side, and he feels every inch of her body against his. "Will you keep me warm?"

Brienne has never been this bold, but he cannot think straight with her naked beside him. "Of-of course," he breathes out.

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to recompose himself, but it's all for naught when she begins to take his clothes off. "What—"

"It'll be warmer if it's your skin against mine," she offers timidly.

Her touch is colder than expected—well, she did complain about it—but maddening all the same. "Don't tease me, wench," he whispers. "Don't give me false hope."

"False hope of what, Jaime?", she asks, opening his shirt and pressing her chest against his—fuck, fuck, fuck, does she not know what she's doing to him?

"Brienne," he gasps at the contact. "I… please, I-I love you, don't—"

He feels her whole weight above him now. Gods, this is better than his fantasies. "Then there is no false hope, Jaime," she whispers, undoing his breeches. "Make love to me. Keep me warm."

He shudders; it's too much. His dreams are about to come true. All he needs is to look in her eyes while they finally become one, so he opens them—

Her eyes are not sapphires. Even in the darkness, he can see they are cold blue, not the warm blue of his wench's astonishing eyes.

Suddenly he's very much awake.

"You're not my Brienne," he hisses.

It's so obvious now. His wench would never be so bold, would never use the cold as an excuse to strip. If she felt cold, she'd bear it silently until he noticed it and offered the warmth of his arms—not his body, for she'd flee from it.

His wench would not have replied to his declaration of love with a request for sex.

His wench is warm, even in this damned winter. Her eyes are comforting and calm and the most enchanting he's ever seen.

This woman, whoever she is, isn't his wench. Isn't the love of his life.

Still, her face and her body are eerily similar to his Brienne, so she tries again. "Of course I am," she replies sweetly, caressing his torso. His breath stops at the touch. "I may be—Maybe I'm sounding too needy, but I'm cold, and I need your love to warm me up."

Her lips are shaped like Brienne's, but her words sound like Cersei's. "Get off me," he hisses. "Whoever you are, you're not my wench, so leave before I strangle you." He's done it once, he'd do it again.

Her big blue eyes—cold, so fucking cold—stare at him, hurting, and for a moment he wants to take it all back. Slowly (very slowly), she pushes away and sits up in a way that makes her tiny breasts stand out. It's as freckled as he remembers his wench's being from when he washed her semi unconscious form, and he's tempted to pull her close and finish what she began.

But she's not his Brienne, so it's all too easy to throw this temptation away. Saying nothing, she stands up and slips inside the cave.

With one hand, it's a bit hard to tie his breeches back and button his shirt up, but he manages. Exhausted from the effort that pushing Fake Wench away required, he falls into slumber again, though not without thinking, I must convince Brienne to leave this cave as soon as possible.

He doesn't know how long it is before he is awakened by a gentle shake on his shoulder. "Ser Jaime," a soothing and warm voice calls—his wench is back.

He smiles and opens his eyes. Yes, now those are sapphire eyes staring at him, and her hand is warm, so warm. "Wench," he replies quietly.

"I found a village a couple miles north," she explains, handing him a round green fruit. "I think the Thenns used to live there, given where we are."

He takes a bite and hums in delight. Not at its taste, although it's good, but at the fact that Brienne is back, truly back, and talking to him gently instead of sweetly. I must have had a nightmare, he guesses. One in which Cersei took over Brienne's body.

"You think we should go there?", he asks, already knowing the answer.

"You are exhausted," she replies softly, "and, frankly, so am I. Neither of us will find the Night Queen if we drop on the ground to take a forced nap."

He chuckles, but agrees. "Did you find any weirwood tree on your way here? We should try to contact Bran, see if he can find the Night Queen."

She nods. "Can you stand?"

"With your help, my lady." He flashes his most charming grin, but she only rolls her eyes and helps him to his feet.

It still hurts to walk, but not unbearably so. She places a hand around his waist to keep him steady, and gods, how did he ever mistake her touch for anyone else's?

After some time, they reach the aforementioned weirwood tree. Brienne helps him sit down and kneels beside him. "Bran," he calls. "We need your help over here."

As if only waiting for them, the tree's carved face begins to speak with Bran's ominous voice. "You must rest before the battle against the Night Queen and her King," he says, without a single 'good evening'.

"We haven't even found them yet, my lord," the wench argues. "We are here precisely to gather this information."

"Oh, but you have," the tree replies, and its eyes seem to move pointedly to Jaime's side. "They are hidden in the cave you just left. I know this because I saw the Night Queen moving out to its entrance.

To its entrance—exactly where Brienne left Jaime. "No," he whispers to himself. Then, to the tree: "It was a nightmare."

"It was very much real, Ser Jaime," the tree replies. "I forgot to warn Jon, but the Night King, the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, was born a Lannister. Go, go to the village and rest. You both need all your strength, physical and emotional, for this fight."

The wench guides him silently to the village, and Jaime follows her numbly. It is only after they enter an abandoned house that he lets himself react: with a hysterical laugh as he sits down on the bed before the fireplace.

"Ser Jaime?", the wench asks, sitting beside him. "Ser Jaime, are you alright?"

He manages to quiet his laughter to answer her. "I told Jon Snow—Aemon Targaryen, or whatever—that I would not fall for a pretty face or a pretty body." Then a sob escapes.

Soon he's circled by Brienne's strong and warm arms. "What happened?"

He rests his head on her shoulder. When he notices the position gives a direct view of the valley between her breasts, he closes his eyes. "I fell asleep immediately after you left," he begins. "When I woke up, I—you were right beside me, naked."

She gasps. "I'd never—"

"I know," he cuts her off as gently as possible. "I mean, I should have known, but—she claimed, with a voice too much like yours, that your clothes had soaked wet. You—she said she needed my warmth." He brings his knees to his chin. It's too shameful, but he must finish. "There was a part of me that thought it odd, but—you—she pressed her body against mine and—I couldn't think straight."

He hears her gulp. "And what… what gave it away that it wasn't me?"

"Your eyes," he replies easily. It's the only easy thing to say. "I found her eyes, and they—the spell broke. I shoved her away, and… she used her body to try to lure me back to her, but it was too late. Then she just left. But—she had already unbuttoned my shirt and unlaced my breeches, wen—Brienne."

Her arms leave his sides, and he feels cold all of a sudden. She's going to leave me, he realizes. I've repulsed her. She wasn't repulsed by my sisterfucking, my kingslaying, my kinslaying, none of my crimes, but my desire for her is what will push her way. Those thoughts are soon drowned out when she cups his cheeks with her hands. "You almost died," she whispers, her big sapphire eyes dancing around his face. "The tale said the Night King lost his soul to the Queen when he gave her his seed. Had you not seen it wasn't me—"

He shudders. The thought didn't cross his head before, but…

She lets out a strangled sob. "You—you would have turned into her minion, and I—I would have lost you to—"

"Your lookalike," he finishes for her. "What an embarrassing way for you to find out."

She blinks. "Find out what?"

Seven hells, she still doesn't get it? "Brienne," he says, softly, raising his own hand to cup her cheek and resting his hooked stump on her side, "Jon said the Night Queen was not a conventional beauty. Bran said the Night King was born a Lannister." He lets out a strangled laugh. "Perhaps my ancestor and I share the same taste for women, for I only ran the risk of falling for her charms because she looked like you."

She stares at him, wide-eyed. "You—you're attracted to me?"

He chuckles. "At least that you caught on, wench." He suddenly remembers what he told the Night Queen, and his mirth dies out. "There is something I told her first. Words that should have been said to you, but I let it out in a desperate effort to not surrender to her touch." He rests his forehead against hers and looks deep into her gorgeous blue eyes. "I love you."

"You—what?"

He leaves a feather kiss on the tip of her twice-broken nose. "I love you. The Night Queen's body was tempting to me because I find you beautiful. Her spell on me broke because, unlike her, you carry your beauty inside as well, not just outside. You're warm where she was cold, honorable and gentle where she was seductive, honest where she was all fake sweetness. I've loved you for so long… I can barely remember how it was to not love you."

Tears fall from her eyes. "I never thought you'd love me back."

"Of course I—love you back?" Did he hear it right? "Did you just admit to love me, wench?"

He expects her to roll her eyes at his nickname, but instead she just sobs. "I can't believe—I nearly lost you, all because you loved me to the point you'd only surrender to an evil creature because you mistook her for me." She embraces him again. "But for once the gods were kind and spared me of that torment. Yes, Jaime, I love you."

Jaime. No titles, and no fake sweetness. "Your Jaime," he whispers, "if it pleases you."

Her kiss tells him it does.

When they finally rest enough to make it back to the cave, Jaime stops her midway out of the small house. "There is one thing I must do," he announces, then drops himself to one knee. "Brienne of Tarth, the truest knight this realm has ever known, my wench, love of my life, will you marry me when we go back to the Wall? Will you grant me the honor of fighting the Night Queen beside my betrothed?"

There are tears in her eyes, but she does whisper her 'yes'.

As they go back to the cave, Jaime remembers other things. "She barely made a sound when she moved," he tells Brienne. "We shouldn't expect to hear her coming; we can only rely on our sight."

She improvised torches for them out of fallen trees, even making a hold for his hook to hold it steadily—and he loves her a little bit more for that. He also loves her a little bit more when she holds her torch with her left hand, leaving her right one—her sword one—free for him to grab it.

And grab it he does, when they enter the cave, to dispel his fears. He has no wish to see the Night Queen again—to see his beloved's face on such a monster—but it's a must if they are to defeat her.

They go down, down and down, until they reach a frozen lake. There is a hole in the rocky ceiling that allows starlight to shine the lake, and from the shadows she appears: ethereal, tall, broad and freckled. Brienne gasps beside him, recognizing her lookalike, and he suddenly feels weak.

He won't be able to kill her. It's ridiculous—he killed his own twin to save King's Landing—but no salvation of humanity can make him stab a creature that looks so much like Brienne.

Still, he pulls himself to fight. She's unarmed, but she's quick to defect their blows. At one point, she kicks Brienne on her knee, making her fall, and throws herself at him. Caught in surprise, he lets his sword fall, as well as the torch. "Come with me, Jaime," she begs. "Let me show you how it is to be with a woman you love. My beloved King surrenders himself to me even now, centuries later, because I am good. Very good."

He tries to take a step back, but she's stronger than he remembered, and soon he's on the ground, pinned down. "I won't turn into your minion," he says, but it's a struggle to utter those words. His body still assumes he's being touched by his wench, and the effect is dizzying. It's hard to focus on the task at hand. Is that how the other Lannister felt? Is that how he ended up breaking his vows?

Just as she begins to unlace his breeches again—not bothering to unbutton his shirt this time, for she only needs his cock—he hears a scream. Then, the Night Queen suddenly appears to be without a head, and the rest of her body shatters above him.

"Stand up," Brienne's voice comes above him, commandingly but gently. "Let me help you."

He holds her free hand and stands up, holding her torch and she ties his laces back. "Thank you for saving me once again, my lady," he whispers softly.

"As if I was going to let you meet a fate worse than death," she whispers back.

He opens his mouth to reply, but a guttural scream cuts through the cave. "My Queen!"

Brienne grabs her torch from his hands and turns around, and he motions to grab his sword, only to almost trip in the process. From the other side of the shadows, a man as tall as the Night Queen surges forward, his eyes the same shade of blue the creature had, but his hair and beard are golden-tinted. He looks just like Jaime. Fuck.

"You killed my Queen!", he screams, running to Brienne. "The only woman who ever loved me!"

He looks at his betrothed, but she's frozen on spot. Her chin trembles, and her eyes glimmer with unshed tears. She won't kill him, he realizes, raising his sword. Just as couldn't kill the Night Queen. It's up to him to repay the favor, and a Lannister always pays his debts.

It's remarkably easy to slay the Night King; he's not nearly as strong as his 'wife' was. As he melts to the ground, he says, "She didn't love you, lad. She just used your love to her own gain." He turns to Brienne, who is still unmoving. "Her looks and voice were all yours," he adds, "but her heart, if she even had one, was all Cersei's, and for that, she was no beauty. Not like you."

That seems to spark something in her, for she drops her sword and torch, marches to his direction, grabs his face and kisses him with a passion he never imagined to see in his wench.

Still, her hands are warm and her lips caress his lovingly, so he has no doubts who he's kissing back. My wife, he thinks, gathering her in his arms. My beloved wench.

There is still a long way back to the Wall, and there certainly will be wights and Others waiting for them. For now, though, they're safe, free to get distracted with each other.

And who knows, perhaps he can convince Bran Stark to oversee their wedding through those weirwood trees.