Chapter Eight
A/N: Once again, I must apologise for the absolutely unacceptable delay on this story. I have very much struggled with winter lockdown (particularly whilst working from home throughout – it's now been a full year) and it resulted in an immovable iceberg of Writer's Block which is only now starting to shift. The first section of this chapter proved an almighty stumbling block, so hopefully now it's out of the way the updates will be bit more regular again.
On a positive note, I now know exactly where this story is going, as despite the lack of actual writing, it's been slowly percolating and poking me in the brain for all this time. Such being said, I should warn you that there will be angst in the future. Since this has become a Season 8 canon-divergence, I'm intending to cover some familiar events within the context of this universe, to see how things might have panned out if our two favourite knights had been given half a chance at longevity. I won't say any more for fear of spoilers, but please be assured there will be a happy ending, even if it takes a while to get there.
The really heavy angst won't hit for another few chapters yet, though – so for now just enjoy the fluff! This chapter is… just over 9000 words of filler, to be honest, and picks up the morning after the feast, as Brienne discovers the joys of her first proper hangover. There's a bit of unrequited Sanrion, also, because I couldn't let that moment in the crypts go unmentioned…
The sun is still low by the time it pours bright winter rays through the window, dragging Brienne reluctantly from a deep, dreamless slumber, her mind emptied of the recurrent nightmares that have plagued her since the battle, if only for one night.
She opens her eyes a mere crack, only to squeeze them shut again immediately. Her first instinct is to get up and close the heavy, tapestried drapes to block out the light, but even the thought of moving is nausea-inducing. Instead, she seeks reprieve by burying her face further into the pillow – and, as it transpires, the juncture of Jaime's neck and right shoulder. In the morning silence, it takes her far too long to realise that the relentless pounding is coming from inside her head, rather than any external force, so great is its exacerbation of her headache.
Woken either by the daylight or Brienne's movements, Jaime shifts a little, raising his hand to his face to scrub wearily at his eyes, before dropping it back to the mattress. Despite Brienne's best efforts, the daylight is still encroaching, and she tugs the fur up to completely cover her head. After a brief hesitation, Jaime shuffles downwards, following her into the darkness and warmth of the burrow she has created.
They listen to each other's gentle breathing for a long moment, until Brienne is finally brave enough to open her eyes again. The drumming in her head has lessened significantly without the onslaught of sunlight, but it still takes her some time to speak, as she waits for another wave of queasiness to ease off.
"Gods—" she begins, and cuts herself off with a wince, as her own voice ricochets inside her skull. "I feel terrible."
In the scant light, Jaime's mouth upturns in a smile.
"Good."
"Why is that good?"
He barks out a laugh at her incredulous tone, and then flinches, which at least must mean he fares just as badly as she does.
"If you feel awful, that means you had a thoroughly pleasant evening."
"That sounds like something your brother might say."
"What he lacks in stature, he makes up for in wisdom."
It is far too early – possibly, she's not really sure, but it feels as though it's early – to be dealing with Jaime when he's in such a mood, somewhere on the border of serious and sarcastic. She finds it hard enough to interpret at the best of times. It is wholly unfair to expect her to know how to react, when her head feels like half the population of Winterfell is hammering away inside it. Frankly, she is baffled he can even summon the energy to jape with her, when she can barely drag herself to alertness.
He must notice her predicament, because he does not rush to fill the silence with his usual level of persistent chatter. She allows herself a few seconds to close her eyes again, trying to recall some of the events of the previous evening. She remembers the feast more clearly than anything afterwards, echoes of laughter and music in her memory, and a goblet that never seemed to be empty.
Well, that explains a lot.
"How much did I drink?" she asks, lifting her head from Jaime's shoulder so she can see him properly. "Was it ten cups, or twelve? I completely lost count after Tyrion joined us."
"No more than seven, by my estimation," he reassures her.
She stares at him in abject disbelief. "I'm sure it was more than that."
"I promise you, it wasn't. Tyrion was refilling your cup after every drink – not when it was empty. He may be a debauched little imp, but he would never hold anyone else to his own standards. It was obvious the wine had gone straight to your head. He wouldn't have expected you to drink more than you could handle."
"There was definitely a second jug," she ponders, "during the game."
"Most of that went into Tyrion's cup, not yours – and a fair amount into Podrick's."
In a flash, her mind's eye recalls the image of Podrick heartily downing his entire goblet in one go, and Tyrion refilling it with a gleeful smile, the two of them banging the vessels together before drinking them down again. She cannot quite remember the reason for the celebration, beyond the obvious.
"Well, no matter how little it was in comparison to everyone else, I really can't see the appeal if this is the end result."
"Drinking is a skill, like any other. You just need to practice."
"I'm sure the world has enough masters of that particular skill – I will not be joining them."
Jaime huffs in amusement, and they both lapse into silence once more. Brienne briefly considers sharing with him the only other time she had indulged in wine – sneaking a carafe from Evenfall's kitchen during a grand party after she had been sent to bed. She had managed to consume perhaps half of the contents, each bitter mouthful going down easier than the last, before falling into a stupor, only to be rudely awoken the next morning by Septa Roelle shaking her roughly. She had promptly vomited all over the woman's clean linen robes, and had been duly punished for her thievery, forced to participate in her lessons with an empty stomach and a thoroughly miserable headache. The experience had been so unpleasant that she vowed never to partake of alcohol ever again.
Lost in the memory, she is brought back to the present by Jaime rolling onto his side to face her, his hand searching for hers before linking their fingers together, squeezing gently. The contact returns another flash from the previous night, sitting opposite each other on her bed in the unexpected aftermath of a passionate frenzy. She feels the blush rising on her face before Jaime speaks, and it is evident his thoughts have travelled in the same direction.
"Brienne… I may have been well into my cups last night, but I meant everything I said. You must know that."
Her recollection is still hazy, coming back to her in small, unconnected moments: words still unclear, but emotions as sharp as a Valerian blade. Her actions feel like those of a stranger, and she can barely recognise herself from the images now returning to her mind. Had she really been so bold as to drag him into an alcove and kiss him senseless? It seems implausible, yet she can remember the weight and warmth of him as he huddled closer to hide them from view, the look in his eyes as she pledged herself as his.
She swallows, her already parched throat feeling like a desert, and gives him a nod.
"As did I."
A part of her, still naïve and more than a little self-conscious, wants to apologise for all that did not occur last night, though she knows that Jaime will not hear it. Rather than subject them both to a potentially awkward conversation, she chooses to remain quiet.
Jaime releases her hand, insinuating his arm around her waist. The warmth of his palm is briefly startling through the thin material of her shift, all the more so as he deftly discovers the spot where the fabric has bunched up, to gently caress the bare skin of her back with his thumb. She is slowly growing more accustomed to such contact, though it still surprises her that Jaime would seek to touch her deliberately, after so many years of forced propriety and aloofness between them. He is already so comfortable with it, and Brienne wonders just how long he had been secretly yearning for such a time as this: to be able to touch her without fear of it being misinterpreted.
She has every reason to reciprocate, she realises with belated clarity, and so she does: lifting her own hand to brush some sleep-tousled hair away from his forehead. He leans into the contact gratefully, eyes drifting closed.
"If it's any consolation," he says, "my head feels as though that bloody Ice Dragon is on a rampage inside it."
She injects as much sympathy into her voice as she can muster. "Is there a cure?"
He opens his eyes again, looking thoughtful as he ponders an answer.
"My brother – who is undoubtedly an expert – swears by returning to the scene of the crime. Personally, I've always found sleep to be a much more effective remedy, but I doubt we'll get the chance for that. A Maester would probably recommend plenty of water, and a good breakfast."
Thankfully, there is a pitcher near the window which is freshly filled each evening by the chambermaids, though it feels like far too much effort to fetch it.
"How long is this affliction supposed to last?"
"A few hours, at most. I wouldn't worry – you won't be the only one suffering this morning. It's a small price to pay, for an evening of good fun and excellent company. Wouldn't you say?"
She acknowledges him with a slightly absent nod, remembering the feast and everything that came afterwards. She had never seen the Great Hall so populated before, nor so joyous. Despite the noise and celebration, it had felt as though she and her companions were the only people in the world. She could even forgive the interruption from Tyrion, to see the two brothers together, enjoying each other's company despite their differences.
"Where in the world did your brother learn that game?" she asks. "I've spent time in army camps, and that's the first I've heard of it."
"I honestly suspect he made it up on the spot, just so he could play match-maker," suggests Jaime with a shrug. "I've certainly never encountered it before. He might have picked it up on his travels, I suppose, but it's exactly the kind of meddling he would be capable of."
"That's… strangely reassuring," she considers, because it's certainly a good thing that Tyrion is so invested in his brother's happiness.
"I'd play it every night, if I could," he tells her. "Just to see you smile."
She averts her gaze self-consciously, hoping that Jaime cannot see her face reddening. As a girl, her Septa had informed her, in no uncertain terms, that her laugh was too brash and raucous for decent company, and that she would be better off learning how to be demure. All she could ever manage was sullen, an affliction which had followed her through life. Two cups of wine and a silly drinking game had proven enough to unlearn all of her girlhood education, but in the cold light of morning she feels ridiculous for dropping her inhibitions so quickly. Even Podrick has never heard her laugh like that before.
Jaime sighs, distracting her from her thoughts, and his hand moves to her face, lifting her chin with the slightest pressure until she meets his gaze again. A sliver of wintry sunlight at the fur's edge provides just enough illumination to see each other, and Jaime's expression is vaguely troubled.
"If I was to compliment your prowess on the battlefield," he suggests, "you'd believe me without question. Why is it so hard for you to accept that I find you—"
Before he can finish, she cuts him off by pressing her mouth to his, heedless of their mutual wine-stale breath. His hand shifts back, cradling her head, grounding and familiar. She pulls back after a second or two, hoping that Jaime will let her speak without interruption.
"You know why," she reminds him, and he tries to respond, only for her to silence him with gentle fingertips against his mouth. He concedes, and lets her finish. "My skills as a soldier are learned, Jaime – the result of years of hard work and dedication, on a path that I chose for myself. To receive a compliment from one of the greatest swordsmen in Westeros— don't give me that look."
She loses her train of thought, her brain still fuzzy despite being more awake, and tries to remember the point she was trying to make before Jaime rolled his eyes in self-deprecation and distracted her.
"Even if we were not… acquainted," she continues, "your reputation precedes you, and I would be an utter fool not to take you at your word when it comes to my ability with a sword." She considers her next words carefully, hoping Jaime will not interrupt her. "My… appearance is neither learned, nor something I chose. I realised from an early age that it would never be the subject of any praise, though it took me far longer to understand that pretty words are for even prettier idiots, and that I would be better off ignoring them."
"If I had met you—"
"You would have been an arrogant, self-centred wretch," she points out.
"You don't know that," he argues, with an ironic smirk. "I might have been charming."
"And I would have fallen straight into your trap and gotten my heart broken," she theorises. "We're both different now, and all the better for it. The point is—"
"The point," he interrupts, "is that my perception is undoubtedly unique. Regardless of whether you believe my words, can you at least accept that I do?"
She gives him a meek nod. "I'll try… but it may take me a while."
"Take all the time you need," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."
Her heart clenches at that, alternating rapidly between sheer relief and abject fear; because she trusts his heart's intentions, just as keenly as she knows he will break his promise. The army will be moving South, probably within the month, and she will not cling to any foolish hope of Jaime staying behind. She is not so naïve as to dismiss what – or rather, who – waits for everyone in the capital, and how quickly that invisible tether can tighten its grip.
For now, she must have faith, and savour what little time they may have. She allows a smile to grace her features as she remembers the previous night, more and more details becoming clear in her mind as the morning continues. Her actions had been emboldened by wine, and she cannot bring herself to regret the indulgence, despite the consequences.
Jaime's hand is still cupping the back of her head, and he toys with the strands between his fingers, gently caressing her scalp.
"I like this," he says, with a contented sigh. "Waking up together. I've never— It's not something I've ever had the chance to do, before."
"Believe it or not," she responds in a wry tone, "neither have I."
"So I'm your first, am I?"
"Jaime, you're my first everything."
The frivolity dissolves immediately, the unspoken assumption behind her words casting them both into silence. He stares at her, searching for words that he cannot quite find, before giving up the struggle and leaning towards her.
His mouth has barely pressed against hers before they are inevitably interrupted by a sharp rap at the chamber door, and he drags himself away from her with a frustrated groan.
"The inhabitants of this castle really have a knack for poor timing," he mutters.
"It's probably just Pod," she guesses. "I'll send him away."
With a massive force of will, she extricates herself from the furs and Jaime's arms, re-emerging into the daylight of her room and blinking muzzily, wincing as her skull is bombarded with a fresh cacophony of pounding. She swallows against a wave of nausea before rising slowly from the bed.
She gets halfway to the door before Jaime calls her name in a slightly urgent tone, and when she turns she finds him sitting up with a bundle of dark cloth in his hand.
"You might want to put this on," he suggests, "unless you'd like your squire to see you in such a state of undress."
Glancing down, she remembers with a rush of hot embarrassment that she is still clad in only her shift and breeches, and gives him a nod. He hurls the cloth in her direction, and as she catches it and shakes it out, she realises it's his shirt from the previous night – the one she had attempted to cover herself with before they slept. She casts her eyes around the room briefly to look for her own, but there's another knock at the door before she can start to hunt for it, so she concedes defeat and tugs the tunic over her head, looking considerably more proper (though no less rattled) when she finally tugs open the wooden panel.
It's not Podrick on the other side, but Tyrion, carrying a small wooden box in his hands. She must be especially bedraggled, because his mouth upturns into a knowing smile before he manages to school his expression again.
"Good morning, Ser Brienne." He greets her with cheery formality, surprisingly upbeat considering that he imbibed most of Winterfell's cellars last night.
"My Lord," she responds with a nod. "What brings you here?"
He indicates the mysterious package in his hands. "Samwell Tarly came to deliver this to my brother this morning. Apparently he will know what to do with it."
"Forgive me, Lord Tyrion, but why have you brought it here?" she asks, feigning nonchalance.
"Jaime did not return to my quarters last night, and I noticed this morning that his belongings are conspicuously absent. I can only assume he has been allocated space elsewhere, in recognition of his efforts in the battle, no doubt – though it's very remiss of him not to inform me." Brienne stares at him, saying nothing, and he explains: "I thought, if anyone might know where to find my brother, it would be you."
She tries to muster a sceptical, even scandalised expression, and Tyrion raises one hand in surrender.
"I mean no disrespect, Ser Brienne. When I last saw Jaime, he was with you. Given your new… arrangement, and your closeness to Sansa, I thought you might at least know where he's staying."
"I do not," she answers, more curtly than necessary, the lingering effects of the wine making it difficult for her to exercise courtly politeness.
Tyrion's gaze drifts over her form – not inappropriate or leering, but calculating. She resists the urge to wrap her arms around her torso. It seems very unlikely that Tyrion would have paid enough attention to her outfit last night to realise that the shirt she wears now is not her own – let alone that it might be Jaime's. Everyone in the North wears similar attire, and it's not as though she's draped herself in Lannister crimson and gold. A plain black tunic is hardly out-of-the-ordinary.
The various items strewn across her chamber floor, however, just visible through the half-open door, are rather more incriminating. Tyrion's expression is shrewd and perceptive, already analysing everything he needs to draw an opinion.
She decides to continue with the charade, regardless, holding out a hand to receive the box.
"If I see him, I'll be sure to pass on Tarly's message," she says.
"You have my gratitude," he says, passing up the wooden chest. "If you could also inform him," – he clears his throat and raises his voice a little – "I'll meet him for the evening meal later." He pauses, waiting for her to react, and when she remains silent, he concedes defeat. "We have much to discuss."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Many thanks, good Ser." He makes as if to leave, but hesitates, fixing her with a slightly ponderous expression. "If I may be so bold… I'd suggest taking breakfast in the Great Hall. I'm advised the bacon is most excellent. It will work wonders on your headache."
With that, he gives her a courteous bow of his head and turns on his heel, disappearing down the corridor with his familiar, uneven gait.
Brienne closes the door and lets out a breath of relief, resting her forehead temporarily against the wood. If Jaime's huff of amusement is any indication, he has clearly heard the entire exchange.
"You really are a terrible liar."
She does not give him the courtesy of a response, just shoots him an unimpressed glare, and he gives her his very best dazzling Lannister smile. She ignores him, depositing the box on the table, and then sets to tidying up the mess on her floor. Jaime's coat is halfway across the room, where he had flung it, his jerkin is in a heap by the door – her own, thank the Gods, is neatly stowed on the back of a chair, though she can barely recall putting it there. Her shirt and two pairs of boots are scattered in an evident trail leading towards the bed, and she feels her face burn with embarrassment. Tyrion would have spotted it easily from his vantage point, and drawn his own conclusions as to the outcome of their evening.
"I hope you were planning on speaking to Lady Sansa soon."
She pauses in her flustered activity. "Why?"
"Because Tyrion is a bigger gossip than a whole gaggle of fishwives, and if you don't tell her about our situation yourself, she is bound to find out through some other means."
"Gods, Jaime – he thinks—"
"I know what he thinks, and I'll set him to rights later. But I'm sure the Lady of Winterfell would much prefer to hear your perspective on this than my brother's."
She nods. "I'll speak to her today."
"Try to persuade her into giving me a good, clean execution."
"For Seven's sake, she's not going to—"
"A swift blade to the neck ought to do it. I've already stared down the jaws of that bloody dragon once and I don't relish the idea of doing it again."
"What?"
He looks momentarily surprised at her befuddled expression. Clearly, there's a tale he is yet to divulge, and the fact that it involves a dragon does not fill her with joyful anticipation.
"A story for later, I think," he suggests, and then changes the subject. "What's in the box?"
She reaches for the hinged lid and opens it. The majority of the interior is taken up by a small, clay pot, with the rest comprising neatly folded strips of linen. She lifts the cover of the jar and reels back, as an overwhelming aroma of mint emanates from an unappealing grey sludge within. The strips of cloth are bandages, she realises.
"It's Tarly's ointment," she says, though the smell has evidently reached Jaime in the bed and he nods in recognition. As she replaces the lid of the pot, the lingering scent sets her stomach rolling again, though this time the nausea is from hunger rather than anything else.
She sets down the jar and moves to the bed, unceremoniously yanking the furs away despite Jaime's protests. She offers him an arm, reminding him that the dressing needs to be changed, and he reluctantly acquiesces. Brienne helps him upright, noting that his movements are stiff but definitely improved. He had certainly been stable enough last night, though the alcohol probably helped in that regard; if anything, he's lucky not to have made things worse.
As Jaime sits, Brienne goes to collect the pitcher near the window. She pours herself a cup first, drinking it down in one gulp; it's refreshingly cool and makes her feel better almost immediately, though her stomach growls in protest. She pours a second cup for Jaime and brings it back to the table, along with the pitcher.
She is more confident in her movements, this time, as she deals with the bandages around his torso. They are only slightly stained, she notes with some relief, and they come away easily when she reaches the final layer. Tarly's stitches are neat and even, far more effective than the previous attempt (though she cannot begrudge whoever was responsible – their handiwork likely saved his life). To her surprise, the wound looks much better than expected: the edges are smoother, starting to knit back together where the cut is shallower. A line of angry bruising has started to develop, varying in intensity from yellow to deep purple. Some of the poultice has dried and crusted; it flakes off when she brushes it carefully with a dampened cloth.
Once the area is clean, she opens the jar again, scooping some of the liniment out. An array of other aromas emerge, and it becomes apparent that the mint has been included to mask whatever the other ingredients are and make it slightly more pleasant. There's nothing specific, but it's certainly pungent. Tarly might very well be a genius, or completely insane, but either way the strange concoction seems to be working.
Brienne hesitates, not wishing to cause any more pain than necessary. "I don't know if… will this sting?"
"No – actually, it's quite soothing," he reassures her.
Still, she applies the paste carefully, ensuring the entire cut is covered. It sticks, to her surprise, long enough for her to clean her hands and extract some fresh bandages from the box. Tarly has provided at least two days' supply, at a guess. Jaime rests his arms on her shoulders again, while she works to bind the injury, though this time she is certain he does it out of affection and familiarity, rather than necessity: whenever she catches his eye, she finds him gazing at her with a contented smile on his face.
With the final bandage secured, Brienne lets out a hum of approval at her handiwork, smoothing the layers so they lie flat.
"That should—"
Jaime interrupts by pressing his mouth to hers, fingers sinking into her hair. She recovers quickly from her surprise, and as she returns the kiss she feels his heartbeat quicken beneath her hand. He tries to pull her closer, but the movement nearly topples her out of the chair; she uses the hand still resting against his chest to brace herself and ease him away. His arms drop from her shoulders as he moves back, without complaint.
"What was that for?" she asks.
He gives her a warm smile and she immediately feels silly for asking.
"Do I need a reason?"
"I… I suppose not," she concedes.
He decides to indulge her curiosity anyway.
"Truthfully? Because I wanted to, and because I can. But also… you're always so gentle with me. I'm not used to being cared for."
"Well," she ponders, "you've got another week of this yet. You'll be fed up of me fussing over you by then."
Even as she says it, she knows Jaime will take her words as a challenge, not a prediction. The next few mornings will find them repeating the same ritual, Brienne's hands working diligently to tend Jaime's war-wound, his arms resting on her shoulders as she works, and a kiss for her trouble when she's done.
The castle is an unexpected hive of activity, considering the majority of its populace are nursing hangovers. Brienne spends the day by her Lady's side, hoping for a moment of privacy to share the news about Jaime and secure his residence at Winterfell, now that the Battle for the Dawn is over. Unfortunately, Sansa's time is taken up with an unprecedented amount of urgent matters, from dealing with masons and carpenters about the reconstruction, to hushed conversations with Jon and Lord Tyrion. The latter scuttles back and forth between Sansa and Daenerys like an overwrought messenger, relaying information and attempting to reason with them both whilst doing so.
Brienne catches only brief snippets of whatever is being debated, but it is evident the Dragon Queen is eager to move South and march on Kings Landing. Lady Sansa is entirely more preoccupied with securing her northern fortress and allowing the men to recover in relative safety, and Brienne – if only for her own selfish reasons – is more than inclined to agree.
They share luncheon together, the door barred and guarded with strict instructions not to allow any interruptions – but Sansa is evidently exhausted, and Brienne is reluctant to add to her woes, so the meal passes in silence. Tyrion is far too busy to be gossiping, at least, so the news can probably wait another day or so.
Sansa has a clear, if unspoken tactic: she is refusing to open the war room today, refusing to entertain the notion of strategy. The discussions cannot be tabled, so they cannot be deemed valid. If she derives some small pleasure from infuriating Daenerys, she hides it well enough.
It continues throughout the afternoon, until Jon grows tired of the argument and stomps off to bed, effectively calling a halt to the proceedings. Sansa takes it as a victory, a triumphant smile gracing her features as she finally dismisses Brienne for the evening.
By the time she gets to the Great Hall, Jaime and Tyrion are already deep in conversation over their evening meal. Not wishing to intrude, she collects a plate of whatever is on offer and retreats to the safety of her chambers to eat in private. Jaime catches her eye as she leaves, holding her gaze from across the room; Tyrion continues prattling on, oblivious that his brother's focus is elsewhere. They share a smile, subtle but understanding, and she nods as she departs.
"…it's not that I disagree with Sansa, but this game she's playing is not going to stand in her favour. The army will be going South sooner rather than later and if she won't even discuss it, then… Jaime, you're not listening."
Jaime's gaze is still fixed to the door through which Brienne has just left, and whatever his brother was saying has barely registered. He turns back to the table, Tyrion's frustrated scowl holding for a mere second before he raises an eyebrow, shrewd and knowing.
"Apologies, Tyrion. You were saying… this feud between Lady Sansa and Daenerys?"
The younger Lannister takes a swig of his wine. "Yes. The problem is… they're both right, and if they could just speak to each other with some semblance of politeness, rather than taking carefully-targeted swipes at each other, they might realise that and reach an accord. Sansa's position is admirable: the men need rest, and we need time to rebuild the troops."
"And Daenerys wants to go South at first light, injured men and tattered army be damned?"
"Not quite so extreme as that, but soon enough, yes."
"Sooner than would be deemed reasonable?" Jaime's tone is gently questioning, trying to coerce an admission from his brother that the Targaryen queen might not be wholly rational in her decision.
Tyrion taps his fingers against his goblet thoughtfully. "It's hardly my place to say," he responds cautiously. "I'm not an expert on war strategies."
Jaime stabs at his plate with a fork, skewering some of the contents, but makes no move to eat it.
"They can use me, Tyrion," he suggests. "They should be using me. The battle the other night proved that."
His brother's smile is sardonic. "We won, didn't we?"
" Barely," he gripes, shaking his head in exasperation. "Even the greenest commander wouldn't have sent the entire cavalry off into the dark to get slaughtered. What's the point of the fucking dragon if she wasn't going to use it right from the start?"
Tyrion says nothing, his own experience in the crypt enough of an indication that some questionable decisions were made that night.
Jaime sighs. "If you could try and persuade them—"
"I've already tried," says Tyrion, a look of anguish briefly washing over his face. "The Queen barely trusts me as it is. She thinks I've sided with Sansa, that our… our marriage has clouded my judgement."
He shakes his head, defeated, considering for a moment whether to share the thoughts currently burdening him. Jaime is staring at him patiently, curious about whatever Tyrion was hinting at with his comment. He takes another gulp of wine, and then leans back in the chair.
"There was… a moment," he explains, "down in the crypts. She said I was ' the best of them', if you can believe it. I don't know much of what she went through after she left the capital, but the Boltons are hardly known for their pleasantness. I have every reason to believe that Littlefinger got what he deserved, too, but I'm in no position to ask for details."
He's veering off the point, perhaps deliberately, and as he lifts the goblet to take another drink, Jaime's hand reaches out to stop him.
"What exactly happened?"
Tyrion closes his eyes for a brief moment, a shudder overtaking him as the memory returns.
"We were cornered," he says. "Hiding behind one of those terribly ostentatious Stark tombs. She handed me a dragon-glass dagger, and for one terrible moment I thought—" He cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath. "It wasn't for herself, or for me – though it might as well have been. We had no other means of escape but to fight our way through."
He drinks; Jaime does not stop him this time.
"The way she looked at me, Jaime – I wondered, for a second or two, if—" Shaking his head, he dismisses it. "Ridiculous, I know. Fool that I am, I allowed myself to believe it. She was clinging to my hand and I could feel her shaking, and Gods be good, I wanted to kiss her. I think she might even have let me. But that would have doomed us, of course. Both literally and figuratively. So I did the only sensible thing: I kissed her hand like a knight from a song, and I took the dagger, and I threw myself into the fray."
Jaime is silent, staring at his brother with a pensive expression. Obviously, he had been aware of the chaos in the crypts, his thoughts turning to Tyrion almost as soon as the dead began to rise again. He can recall exchanging a glance with Brienne, whose own mind must have flitted to Sansa in that moment, but soon enough they had a more immediate threat to worry about. To be in such close quarters with the enemy must have been terrifying, and not a seasoned fighter among them. It's a miracle any of them made it out.
"If you're going to berate me for being a noble idiot," says Tyrion, in a bid to break the tension, "then I'd advise you to look in the mirror, and consider from whom I might have picked up the habit."
Jaime smiles.
"The things we do for love."
Tyrion chokes on his wine, spluttering and coughing, and Jaime can only shake his head in amusement. He waits for Tyrion to recover before he speaks again.
"So, just how long have you been pining for your wife, brother?"
"I don't know," he groans, dropping his head into his hands in defeat. "I didn't even think—" He sighs in exasperation. "Obviously, I grew fond of her in Kings Landing. The girl lost her father and got lumbered with me as husband, so I thought the very least I could do was be a friend to her. After Joffrey's wedding, I honestly thought I would never see her again." He swirls the wine in his goblet and looks thoughtful. "She's changed so much since then. I almost didn't recognise her when we first came here. She was just a child when Father forced us to marry, and now…"
"Now…?"
"Now, she's… a woman grown. Better than all of us put together, and the cleverest person I know. With all she's been through, I could not possibly hope for more than her friendship. Even if there was a chance… my loyalty to Daenerys stands in the way. It's an impossible choice."
He reaches for his drink again and frowns in dismay to realise the cup is empty. He commandeers another jug from a passing servant, filling his own goblet and topping up Jaime's in the process. The lull in conversation gives Tyrion an opportunity to refocus his thoughts: he certainly did not intend to discuss his own romantic inclinations this evening.
"Speaking of pining," he says, deftly changing the subject, "I'm rather more interested to hear about you and Ser Brienne."
"There's really nothing to tell," mutters Jaime dismissively. "Nothing you don't already know."
"Indulge me," he says, and gestures expansively in front of him. "For the sake of my wager."
"Fine," says Jaime grumpily, and launches into an explanation. "I kissed her before the battle, because I was too cowardly to tell her how I felt, and then I nearly died without having said anything, so now I'm going to make bloody sure I tell her every moment I can."
"And when were you planning on informing me of your new living arrangements?" asks Tyrion with faux-curiosity.
"That wasn't planned," he explains. "We've been sharing a bed since the fight. It just… happened." Tyrion raises an eyebrow and Jaime interrupts before he can say something snide: "For sleeping, nothing more."
"You'll forgive me if I find that a little hard to believe. I saw you last night—"
"You saw nothing," Jaime reminds him, "because you interrupted us."
"I saw," continues Tyrion more adamantly, "two completely besotted fools drunk on wine and each other. And I saw the way you were looking at her during the feast. Are you honestly telling me that you haven't—?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
Tyrion stares at him in abject disbelief, and as much as Jaime fervently does not wish to be having this conversation, he knows his brother will not let the matter drop until he gets an answer.
"I was badly injured, as you know," he explains. "You're not the only noble idiot rushing into danger to protect the one you love. I got hurt because Brienne was in trouble – I acted rashly and let my guard down. We'd spent the whole night saving each other, so it was just… second nature. It wasn't until the fighting stopped that I even realised I was bleeding." He decides not to mention nearly dying in her arms, though in truth much of what transpired after the wights fell is still a blur in his memory. "Whoever it was that tended to me afterwards, they must have been inexperienced, or working in a hurry – Brienne had to wake me, that first night, because I'd bled straight through my shirt."
He continues on, explaining how Brienne had changed the bandages herself, and the much better job undertaken by Samwell Tarly the following morning. Tyrion nods in understanding as the reason for Tarly's delivery makes sense.
"The prognosis is good," adds Jaime, "but I'm to refrain from physical activity for at least a sennight."
"Ah", says Tyrion, "so it's out of necessity. For a minute there, I thought you'd taken leave of your senses."
Jaime hesitates to inform his brother about the near-miss the previous night, but only because he does not wish to sully the memory.
"It's not just that," he finds himself saying. "Brienne is… meeting her is the best thing that's ever happened to me. I mean that sincerely. She knows the absolute worst of my secrets, every terrible thing I've ever done, and she loves me in spite of it all – and Gods, I love her so much it hurts. I want to be with her – in every possible sense. I'd marry her tomorrow, if I could."
"Jaime—"
"But why should I presume she'd want to?" he continues, previously unbidden thoughts spilling out of him like an open wound. "I've done nothing to deserve her goodness, and all this will achieve is dragging her name through the mud along with mine. You've heard the names people call her under their breath. I'm going to ruin her."
Tyrion gazes at him thoughtfully, considering his words, before leaning forward conspiratorially in his chair.
"It seems to me," he ponders, "that the lady rather wants to be ruined."
Jaime's eyes flash in anger. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Tyrion raises his arms in surrender. "I intended no offence. It's merely an observation. Ever since you arrived North, your mutual feelings have been more than obvious. If it's not you gazing at her from a parapet, it's her gazing at you from the training yard. I hate to be the one to tell you this, Jaime, but you are the least subtle person I know when it comes to matters of the heart, as well as the most oblivious."
Jaime should probably be offended by that, but he cannot summon the energy. Tyrion has always been far too observant for his own good – an inevitable side effect of being ignored and overlooked due to his stature.
"What I see," he continues, "are two people who want each other desperately. If you let silly notions of honour get in the way of that, you're a bigger fool than I thought."
He downs his goblet again, a conclusive gesture that leaves no room for argument. Jaime considers his brother's words, knowing that he's right – he would be stupid to let a chance for happiness slip through his grasp so easily. Brienne would not stand for such self-deprecation, either – and with that thought, Jaime suddenly wants nothing more than to be back in her room, cosy from her blazing hearth, limbs entangled beneath the furs as they have been for the past three nights.
He drains his cup in one long gulp and stands abruptly, staggering slightly as the wine rushes to his head, and pushes his chair beneath the table. Tyrion stares at him quizzically, knowing precisely where he's going but pretending to be ignorant.
"It's been a long day," he says, which is certainly true for everyone in the castle except himself. "I should get to bed."
"Sleep well, brother" says Tyrion with barely a hint of irony.
Jaime chooses to ignore the thinly-veiled jibe, but before he leaves, he feels the need to impart some wisdom of his own.
"This… situation between you and Sansa. If you believe she feels the same, you should at least try, even if Daenerys disapproves. She can't execute you for treason just because you're in love."
His younger brother proffers a sad smile, refilling his goblet and raising it in a toast. "When she's Queen, she can execute me for far less, if she wishes. And that's if Arya doesn't get to me first, just for the presumption." He heaves a sigh. "Go, Jaime. Be happy, while you still can. Leave me here to wallow in wine."
"Were you always this dramatic?"
"The North brings out the best in all of us."
Jaime can hardly argue with that.
Brienne is finishing her nightly ablutions and preparing for bed when there's a knock on her door. She's not expecting anyone – Jaime will doubtless be talking with his brother for the rest of the night – so she hesitates to answer it, debating whether she has the energy for visitors. A second rap, a little louder and more determined, forces her into a decision. She will get no rest until she has seen to the intrusion.
When she pulls open the door, she is more than little surprised to find Jaime on the other side. He's much earlier than anticipated, and she had assumed he would let himself in.
"You don't need to knock," she informs him as she steps back to let him enter.
"Force of habit."
Almost as soon as the door is shut, he gathers her into his arms, pulling her close. Startled, it takes her a moment to reciprocate, but once she does, Jaime sinks further into her embrace. He nuzzles his face into her shoulder, breathing in and exhaling on a contented sigh.
"Jaime?"
His only response is a low hum, the resonance vibrating through her collarbone. She tries again, a more direct approach.
"I thought you'd still be with your brother. Is… is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine," he says, finally lifting his head and extricating himself so he can meet her gaze. "I missed you."
She wrinkles her nose at the smell of alcohol on his breath, taking a step back. "Are you drunk? Again?"
"I've had one cup!" He looks so affronted, she's inclined to believe him. "I may have downed it rather quickly in my haste to get back here."
"Because you missed me?"
"Yes."
She shakes her head fondly. "You're a sentimental fool."
He does not deny it, his hand reaching for hers across the scant distance. "Isn't that why you love me?"
"Amongst other reasons," she admits with a wry smile. "I was about to go to bed."
"Good. I was just thinking how much I wanted to join you." He releases her hand and reaches up to cup her cheek instead. "You look exhausted. Go and lie down – I'll stoke the fire."
Brienne nods gratefully, pressing her hand briefly over his before stepping away from him in the direction of the bed. As she slides in beneath the furs, Jaime throws a log onto the fire and agitates the wood with a poker until it catches. Satisfied, he divests himself of his boots and jerkin, abandoning them where they fall, before climbing in beside her. Almost instinctively, they settle into the arrangement that has become familiar over the past few days: legs entangled, Jaime's right arm around her waist and her hands pressed to his chest. The only difference is that his arm is half-under her shirt, stump resting gently against the skin of her back.
"Did you manage to speak to Sansa?" he asks, his voice low so as not to pierce the quiet.
"Not yet. She's been locked in a battle of wills with Queen Daenerys all day, and I did not wish to add to her worries."
"Ah – yes, between the two of them, they ran my brother ragged."
"Have you spoken to him about…?"
"Yes," he reassures her. "I wouldn't concern yourself too much with him spreading rumours. He's got a big enough secret of his own."
He leaves her guessing, lapsing into silence, until her curiosity gets the better of her.
"You can't say that and not tell me, Jaime."
"All right – but you have to promise not to tell anyone else."
"The only person I spend any time with is Sansa, apart from you," she points out. "Or Podrick, but given how readily he shared my secrets, I'm minded never to tell him anything ever again."
"You especially cannot tell Sansa."
A grip of fear overtakes her, panic clenching in her chest. "What is it? Is she in danger? Is there some kind of plot to—"
Jaime cuts her off with a laugh. "Gods, no, nothing so dire as that." Brienne's countenance is still troubled, despite his reassurance. "Tyrion is… well, he's in love."
"Oh. That's nice."
"With Sansa."
"Oh," she says again, and is about to ask when such an occurrence came about, when the memory strikes of the immediate aftermath of the battle, as she and Podrick had been navigating the corridors of Winterfell in an adrenaline-fuelled haze.
They had stumbled upon Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion quite by accident. Sansa had been slumped on the stone floor with her back to the wall and her knees to her chest, and Tyrion was standing beside her, one hand squeezing her shoulder in reassurance and the other clinging tightly to hers. Their equally haunted expressions shared enough of what they had been through in the crypt. Their joined hands had separated as Sansa tried to stand, but her legs were shaking too badly. Despite the pain wracking her own limbs, Brienne had knelt to her level instead, startled when Sansa pulled her into a relieved embrace, clutching at her armour.
Then, she had the unenviable task of breaking the news to Tyrion about his brother, his face crumpling in grief and despair when she could not give him a firm answer, and when his own legs had given out it was Sansa who was there to catch him, easing him down to the floor and squeezing his hand tight.
Brienne had been in too much of a daze, at the time, to register their interactions as unusual. After what they'd experienced below ground, it seemed perfectly understandable they would be seeking comfort from each other. Today, however, things had been back to normal – their exchanges formal and occasionally frustrated as the day wore on – and until now, Brienne had cast the memory of that brief encounter to the back of her mind.
"Brienne?"
Jaime's voice pulls her back to the present and she realises she must have been silent for some time.
"Sorry, I was just… remembering something. From after the battle." She does not elaborate on that. "Your brother… how long has he--?"
"He can't remember," says Jaime with a hint of scepticism. "Since he came North, if I was to guess."
"They do say the North grows on people. Is he going to say anything to her?"
Jaime sighs. "He's concerned that his loyalty to Daenerys will stand in the way – or that any dalliance with her Northern rival might lead to his untimely execution."
"It's not treason to love someone, is it?"
He smiles at that. "I told him the same thing."
Brienne looks thoughtful for a moment. "It's not… beyond the realm of possibility that Sansa might feel the same. She's obviously fond of him. He treated her as kindly as he could, in the capital, and she certainly deserves someone who cares for her."
"Maybe it's Lannisters that grow on people," suggests Jaime, and despite the irony of his tone there's a hopeful glint in his eye.
"No, it's definitely not that," she retorts. "You're all too bloody charming for your own good, that's your problem."
He gives her his very best, most amiable Jaime Lannister smile. "I know you meant that as a compliment, so I shan't take offence."
She's about to respond in a similarly sarcastic manner, enjoying their verbal sparring almost as much as if there were swords involved, but her words are swallowed by a yawn. It really has been a long day, repeatedly calming Sansa from pacing around her solar in agitation, advising where necessary, and constantly avoiding eye contact with Tyrion whenever he passed on a message. Her headache had not abated until after lunch. The war room will be opened tomorrow, another long day of strategies and arguments ahead, but at least they will be from a distance of a few feet rather than opposite ends of the castle.
"When I speak to Sansa about us," she says, fighting off her tiredness long enough to at least finish their conversation, "I'll see what comes of it. She might not say anything to me, but... it's worth a try. Your brother seemed so intent on ensuring your happiness, it seems only right we should try and return the favour."
"It might be doomed to fail," he points out.
"The war won't last forever. Loyalties can be divided more easily during peacetime, and… well, love gives you something to live for."
Her words make his eyes glisten with sudden emotion, the atmosphere shifting, and she knows instinctively that his thoughts are no longer for Tyrion, but for himself.
"I've been a reckless fool," he says quietly, solemnly. "Always rushing into dangerous situations without thought for the consequences. Once upon a time I would have thrown myself to slaughter for—" He stops before he says his sister's name, because he does not want her coming between them even as a notion. "For her, because she would have asked it of me if it served her cause. I came North intending to die, because even dying with you would be better than dying in Kings Landing fighting for something I no longer believed in." He takes a breath, composing himself. "I don't want that anymore. I want to live, Brienne. For you. For both of us."
There is nothing she can say that would come close to expressing the emotions rising up in her chest, her own eyes stinging with the onset of tears at his confession. All she can do is bridge the gap between them and press her mouth to his, sealing the pact he has offered with a kiss. His right arm tightens around her, gently caressing her back in an instinctual gesture; it makes her arch towards him, hands sliding up to frame his face.
The kiss deepens; he tastes of the wine from dinner, that he'd drank so fast in order to get back to her. She may have lightly mocked him for his sentimentality, but she would take this a thousand times over compared to their previous distance. His stump against her lower back presses her impossibly closer, but there's nowhere she can go, so her leg slides up and her knee hooks over his, and his thigh between hers nudges further, higher, until—
Her hips rock slightly against his, from surprise and unexpected sensation, and he pulls back from her with what sounds like a hiss of pain. Panic grips her heart that she's hurt him somehow, aggravated the wound in his side, and she's on the verge of asking when his gaze meets hers, the blackness of his eyes providing a more than adequate answer. Belatedly, she notices the other proof, insistent against her hip, and a smile raises on her lips even as the blush colours her face.
Jaime swears under his breath, a sure sign that his control is tenuous, and rests his forehead against hers. It works to calm her racing heartbeat, just as she knows it must do similar for him.
For a long moment, they remain like that, sharing the same air and listening to the crackle of the hearth. Jaime tries to put some distance between them by disentangling their legs, but Brienne holds firm, and at their close proximity she does not miss the hitch of surprise in his breath.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, a harsh whisper.
"I don't want to dishonour you." He must sense her surprise because he pulls away, the better to see each other, gives her a wry smile. "Not tonight, at least."
"You wouldn't be… dishonouring me," she says, her brow furrowing. "Most people would consider it improper for you to be staying with me at all, but if they knew even half of what we'd been through…"
"Fuck propriety?" he asks, an echo of her command to him at the dragon-pit.
"Exactly," she agrees. "You made me a knight, Jaime, and made the honour count for something. Why do you think it can be so easily undone?"
"Because," he explains, "you are twice the knight I will ever be, and so much more than I deserve."
For once, there is no self-loathing to his tone, just a touch of gentle irony. She responds in a similar manner, relieved that their conversation has not become too serious. She's spent enough time navigating political chicanery this day, and the tiredness is starting to catch up with her.
"You seem so convinced of your own influence. Maybe all of my knightly virtues will rub off on you, instead."
"Oh, Gods, I hope so."
The look he gives her is dazzling, hope and happiness in equal measure, and now that some of their ardour has cooled it feels safe enough to bestow a chaste and tender kiss upon his mouth. He hums in satisfaction but does not push for more.
Finally, they untangle themselves, Jaime rolling onto his back and Brienne settling against his shoulder, as she had their first night together. She pulls the fur higher, enclosing them both in warmth.
"Tell me a story," she says.
"The dragon?"
Brienne taps his chest in annoyance and clicks her tongue. "I don't want more nightmares. Tell me about… I don't know… something good from your childhood. Something involving your brother."
He wracks his brain for a moment, lapsing into silence, and then clears his throat over-dramatically. The tale he weaves is nothing particularly extravagant – just the two of them playing at pirates on the beach – but she can tell from the warmth of his tone that it was a happy day. She falls asleep less than five minutes into his narration, lulled by the sound of his voice and the safety of his arms.
A/N: Okay look, I headcanon that Sam is a medical genius and Gilly knows everything there is to know about medicinal herbs, and between them they come up with magical healing remedies for basically anything you can think of. I am basing this entirely on the whole Greyscale removal incident with Jorah, and because I want Sam to be good at something completely unique which his father would probably hate. He's basically like… the anti-Qyburn.
I am still salty over Jon and Daenerys's absolutely piss poor strategizing in the Long Night, and forever bitter that they didn't just suck it up and use Jaime's skills. I feel like Jaime would be rightfully pissed off about that as well, regardless of his opinions on the North. As for Tyrion's recollection here, it's based on a fan-theory that Sansa mouthed "I love you" at him down in the crypt. I'm not convinced on that myself (despite watching the GIFs), and I didn't expressly mention it, but that was the general vibe I was going for. There was a definite something passing between them in that scene and I wanted to pay homage to it here.
I intended the Great Hall conversation to only be around Jaime's hang-ups and misplaced honour around Brienne, but apparently Tyrion wanted to get some feelings off his chest, so who am I to argue?
Also, that last scene took FOREVER to reach an end point because (as usual) they wouldn't shut up – but hopefully it was enjoyable. I'm slowly building up to what I hope may become my first ever (!) attempt at something vaguely smutty – but don't worry, they might have six days left of Jaime's recovery but it won't take six chapters to get there! Maybe two, at the most. And then it's downhill into a n g s t.
Anyway, you can also expect more fluff (to offset the heartbreak) and more background Sanrion in the future chapters, and hopefully now I've shifted my writer's block they will arrive a bit sooner!