He wakes up feeling warm for the first time since he left Winterfell. Soon he finds out the reason for his warmth is the same he had in that blissful month spent in the North: Brienne.

So I didn't dream last night, he realizes as memories of their fight and subsequent conversation come to his mind. She loves me and forgives me. She wants a second chance for us. Is this even real? Is this a dream within a dream?

He decides to test it out. His face is buried in her chest, his nose and lips brushing against her breastbone. He leaves kisses across it until he feels her shift slightly against him. It's now or never, he thinks, still kissing her soft skin. Either she will welcome my lips or push me away.

To his delight, her fingers go to his hair, caressing it gently as she did last night. He sighs in relief, and she pushes him back just enough for their eyes to meet. "Good morning," she whispers, a shy smile on her face. Gods, she's so beautiful.

"Good morning," he whispers back. "Is this... alright?"

"More than alright," she replies softly. "But you have to give me a moment. I'll be right back."

With that, she sits up and stretches. She's wearing the same azure robe of last night, further confirming he didn't dream it. She tightens its laces and stands up. Younger or older, she's still stunning, he thinks in awe as she walks to his chambers' exit door. How did he ever think of her as anything less?

She opens the door, and he hears her calling for Ser Arthur. "Jaime and I will take the day off," she tells him quietly. "Please warn the council and my handmaidens."

"Sure," Dayne replies. "Are you alright?"

"We will be. Don't worry; we only need a reprieve day."

"Alright. I'll be standing here all day, so call me when you need help. I assume there will be no need for a guard at your door?"

It takes a short moment for her to reply. "There won't."

He can't hear Arthur's reply, but she closes the door immediately after, then slips back into bed, wrapping her arm around him. "I still fear I'll open my eyes and find out this was all a dream," he murmurs.

She brings her hand to his cheek and caresses it with her thumb. "It isn't, I promise you," she whispers back. "I want to try us out again, but first we need to talk."

He takes a deep breath. "Ask me anything, and I'll do my best to answer."

She closes her eyes; for a moment, there is no sound between them, the only movement being her thumb on his cheek. He thinks it is a soothing gesture for both of them. Eventually, she opens her sapphire blue eyes again. "I want to know," she says slowly, "what you were thinking on the day you left Winterfell—on the day you left me."

He knew this was what she'd ask about, but her choice of words still surprises him. "When you told me the report about the dragon's death, Sansa taunted me about Cersei's imminent loss. Do you remember?" She nods. "I wasn't so sure she'd lose."

He expects a reaction, but she remains with her kind expression. "At first, I thought of all the ways she'd harm you if she won," he goes on. "Like I told you in Harrenhal, back when I didn't know whether she came back with us or not—"

"She didn't, did she?" she asks, cutting him off. "She never hinted at knowing me from a previous life."

"Oh no, she didn't. It seems only the two of us did. Anyway… Like I told you then, she doesn't like to share her toys, and that was how she always saw me." Her eyes go wide, and he lets out a snort. "Brienne, she never loved me. If she loved anything, it was what I could give her. I was her loyal hound. Always have been, up to the end. If she found out I was with you, she'd torn you down for stealing me from her. It wouldn't matter that I left her for another reason entirely—in her mind, my plan was to be with you all along, because that was how she saw the world.

"After panicking over all the things she'd do to you and all the ways she could win that war or even just survive it, I tried to calm down. I told myself Daenerys wouldn't let her live, even if it meant the city burning in the process. I hated that idea—you know what I did to prevent that very fate—but I wasn't dumb enough to think I could do anything to stop it a second time. Then I thought about what would happen if she won. And… it didn't look promising."

"Why?" she asks quietly. "She forgave you."

"She allowed me to live for the Long Night," he corrects her. "Then Sansa granted me guest right; she wasn't going to defy her by killing me in Winterfell, not when she still had the throne to conquer. But imagine: she wins, then summons all lords of Great Houses to the city. She insists that I go as Lord of Casterly Rock, since I was dismissed from the Kingsguard. Then, when I get there, no longer under Sansa's protection, she holds a mock trial and sentences me to death. You and Tyrion are the only ones who mourn me, and neither of you can really show it, lest Daenerys considers you a danger as well."

She shakes her head. "I wouldn't let her harm you," she insists. "I would have asked for Sansa's help—I don't know, make you her personal guard, or have her send a letter saying you've fallen ill."

"I didn't think of any way out at the time," he admits, "though I'm unsure it would have worked, even now. So, I came to the conclusion I was doomed no matter who sat on the throne. Even if I survived Daenerys, I'd likely be reduced to less than a hedge knight, unworthy of marrying the heir to Tarth."

She rests her whole palm against his cheek. "Marrying? You wanted to marry me back then?"

"I've wanted to marry you since Riverrun," he replies without hesitation. "Ever since I saw you and realized I could take you to the nearest sept and show the realm who truly held the Kingslayer's heart in her hands."

"Jaime's," she corrects him. "If I held any heart, it was Jaime's, not the Kingslayer's."

"I'm both, sweetling," he reminds her. "I killed Aerys in one life and claimed to have done it in another."

"But it isn't what defines you," she insists. "But do go on. You said you'd be unworthy of marrying me—which is a big lie, by the way. I'd have married you no matter how many titles you carried, or didn't carry."

He gulps. "I never thought you would," he admits. "Not when you were so keen on doing your duty—one of the many things I love about you, never think otherwise. Even if you wanted me, if I was a nobody it would be a bad choice to marry me." He shakes his head. "Well, I realized then I was unworthy of you regardless of my titles. I was not a good man trying to atone for my mistake, but a monster who was now corrupting you with his greed and selfishness—I wanted you all for myself, for the rest of our days, and yet I knew you deserved better."

She opens her mouth to protest, but he doesn't let her. "Cersei and I made the realm a worse place to live. If I had just kept my breeches on, there wouldn't have been a war to tear it down and leave us all weak and ready to be slaughtered by the Night King."

"You can't know that," she whispers. "Littlefinger's rise to power happened regardless of you, and he wanted the realm to go to civil war. So did Varys, because he wanted the Targaryen dynasty back. I've learned it all while I served Sansa, and it is crystal clear to me they would have found another reason." She pulls him closer. "And, as much as I hate Cersei for what she did to you all of your life, I can't wish it didn't happen."

That surprises him. "Why?"

"Because otherwise you wouldn't have been at the right place at the right time to stop King's Landing from burning," she replies instantly.

He shudders at her words. He thought about it in Harrenhal, yes, when he wondered whether he should lose the mock melee on purpose, but to hear it from Brienne…

"But you're not finished, are you?" she asks.

"No, I'm not," he replies. Their noses are touching, and their breaths mix together in one. "When all my crimes and sins came to my mind, I realized I did not deserve to live in happiness with you, but die with the woman whose destructive power I enabled. The realm would be better off without us, so I rode out of Winterfell to make sure it would happen." He takes a shuddering breath. "Tyrion wanted us to escape. Well, he wanted me to escape, and the unborn child Cersei was supposedly carrying."

"What? Cersei was pregnant?"

He sighs. "No, but she told us she was. I—I fucked her once after Tommen's death. I didn't want to, but I feared her reaction if I refused her. So I let her fuck me; it's what I had earned, after all."

Her eyes go wide, and she shakes her head. "No, it wasn't," she says emphatically. "You are a person, Jaime, not her toy, no matter what she thought of you. You should have been able to say no."

"If I did, she would have immediately assumed it was due to desire for someone else. Whether she guessed it was you or made it up some other woman's name… the woman would pay. And she'd make me watch, just to remind me I was hers and no one else's. Anyway, it no longer matters. What matters is that the timing of her lie fit with the one time we fucked. Tyrion and I both believed her, and my brother wanted me and my child alive and well."

"But you wanted to die," she says softly, once again caressing his cheek.

"Yes," he confirms. "Euron found me on the beach, and we fought. I won, but I was heavily injured. Gods know how I reached the Red Keep, but I did, and I found Cersei all alone. I was sure I wouldn't make it to the boat, and I didn't want to, but I had just rung the bells, so I hoped Daenerys would stop her attack long enough to lead her out of the castle. I had not yet realized she wasn't pregnant; if I had, I wouldn't have wasted time or energy with it."

He's not particularly proud to say that, but Brienne deserves to know everything. "I held her as the bricks fell on us," he adds. "She was crying, and all I saw was my sister, as if we were children once again. I… I didn't kiss her, or proclaimed my love—I just held her, all while thinking of you."

"What were you thinking of me?" she asks gently.

He rests a hand on the subtle curve of her waist, even harder to notice while covered with a robe. "How I didn't want to leave you, and how it was still for the best. When you—you held me in your hands and begged for me to stay. I don't think I'll ever forget that. I nearly obeyed you, but I was too convinced staying would be dishonorable, and I wanted to do the right thing for once in my life. I was sure you'd mourn me for a time, because you're wonderful like that, but soon a worthier man would see you for who you are and offer himself to you. And you would accept him—because if you accepted me in your bed, surely you'd accept a better man's hand in marriage—and eventually you'd thank the gods that I died and left you free for the real love of your life."

As he speaks, he sees her eyes water; by the time he's done, she is openly crying. "Do you—you have no idea how much it hurts me to hear these words, do you?"

He tightens his hold on her. "I'm sorry, Brienne, I—"

"You are the love of my life," she cuts him off, sniffing. "You are the only man I've ever truly loved, the only I ever will. Had I lived, I would have kept on mourning you and our child. Had our child lived to term, I would have loved and cherished them infinitely, because it'd be yours, and I would never want any other man to father my children. There is no one better than you for me, because there is no one else for me but you!" She lets out a sob. "And I wish I could only blame Cersei and your family for making you think that way, but I'm guilty as well."

He shakes his head. "You are guilty of nothing," he says vehemently, raising his thumb to her tear-stained cheeks. "You did absolutely nothing wrong."

"I did," she insists. "You… I replayed all our moments together, here and in Winterfell, and—you may never have said the words before last night, but your love was there, clear as day with everything you did. And I—I let my insecurities and fears take over me and refrain me from doing the same. I should have told you I loved you. I should have showed, just as you did. Instead I kept my walls firmly around me, and when we came back I built them even higher. I only thought of myself and ignored the possibility you were hurting too, even when I noticed you were not yourself."

He blinks. "What do you mean?" He didn't notice he was behaving any differently.

"You were… unstable," she explains. "Sometimes you acted like you wanted me far away from you. Other times, it was like you needed me like one needs air. I could no longer make you out, although I was under the assumption I never did to begin with. And after we married, it—it was like part of you had died somewhere down the road. Like a part of you was still dead under the Red Keep." She grabs his face with both of her hands now, just as she did in Winterfell. "I knew your sister mistreated you and made you feel less than you were. It was there in the few times you spoke of her. And still I didn't make an effort to let you know it would be different—we would be different."

"I've always known it would," he counters. "You are kind, caring, warm—you are goodness personified, Brienne. It could never be the same, even if you didn't love me."

"It would be different because I love you," she counters back. "And I—my love is not conditional. It won't change if you disappoint me, if you hurt me. I… I can't not love you, Jaime. You say I hold your heart in my hands? You hold mine in yours, my love. And I'm sorry I never made it clear until now. If I could change one thing in our previous life, it would be that. I would gather up the same courage I have in a battlefield and tell you how I felt then—how I still feel now—so you'd never doubt it."

He buries his face in her chest again and lets his tears fall freely, gathering her in his arms and pulling her as close as he can. "I love you, I love you," he chants over and over. She holds him just as tight and leaves feather kisses on the top of his head, murmuring soothing words. Eventually, they break their hug just enough to look into each other's eyes once again.

She cups his jaw. "I forgive you," she whispers. "I've forgiven you, step by step, since I saw, day by day, what you've been through under Aerys' rule. Any resentment I still had turned to dust when you opened your heart to me last night, and I don't want to live without you by my side any longer." She swallows hard. "Do you forgive me?"

He wants to say there is nothing to forgive, that she was entitled to everything she did and didn't do, but it is not what she wants to hear. "I do," he whispers back.

A comfortable silence falls between them. For a while, they simply caress each other. Eventually, though, a question pops in his mind. "What happened after I…?" After he left? After he died? He's not entirely sure what to ask.

"I was a mess the day after you left," she admits, and his heart squeezes at the image. "But I carried on with my duty. I didn't want anyone to see my reaction to your departure, because I knew they'd all judge me for loving the Kingslayer.

"Aside from that, nothing much happened until we got a letter from King's Landing. It confirmed your death and Cersei's obviously, as well as the city's destruction, which we all knew would happen. But… well, there were surprises. Jon Snow killed Daenerys for her actions."

He gasps. "Jon Snow? Weren't they lovers?"

"Jaime, not an hour ago you all but said you would have left Cersei to die had you realized she wasn't pregnant, and she 'only' burned the Sept of Baelor. Is it really far-fetched to think Jon wouldn't get rid of Daenerys after she burned the entire city?"

"He was raised by Ned Stark, whether he was his son or not" he counters. "He's not the first person I'd think to commit queenslaying."

"Well, he did. And your brother had something to do with it too, I think, because the letter said both of them were imprisoned."

"Tyrion may have been arrested because he freed me from imprisonment," he argues. "Daenerys' soldiers captured me halfway to King's Landing. That's how I talked to him before going."

"Oh," she says simply. "Anyway, Sansa and Bran were summoned for a Great Council, and of course I went along." She bites her lower lip. "I had not realized yet I was pregnant."

And here it comes, the moment he dreads hearing about the most. Still, he must. "How did it go?"

She takes a deep breath. It's as hard for her to talk about it as it is for me to listen, he realizes. "I've never bled much," she begins, "and cramps were never much of an issue during my moonblood—actually, I only felt them in my first years of womanhood. Still, I didn't think much of it. I thought it was because it had come late. I haven't bled for two months at the time, so perhaps it was coming even stronger because there was… accumulated blood?" She shrugs. "I didn't say a word, but Sansa noticed my discomfort and ordered our party to stop for a couple days and looked after me."

He takes her hand and holds it. Not for the first time, he finds himself wishing he was there to comfort her, to take care of her. He says nothing, though, and she goes on. "It ended as quickly as it began, and soon I was back on the road. Then I fell sick with a fever. Pod found a maester near where we camped, and he told me it was an infected abortion—parts of the baby remained in my womb and got infected, he said."

He tightens his hold on her. "Now I know it is something that can happen to any woman, especially when she gets pregnant a bit too old for it—we were 37 at the time, surely you remember it—but when I found out I cursed all the gods up above for depriving me of your child and not letting me go through my life unaware of I had lost. Days went by, and nothing the maester did improved my health. Then one day he said there was nothing else to be done, and I said goodbye to Sansa and Pod before drinking the poppy. And then I woke up in Tarth."

She swallows hard. "I fell asleep hoping to find you and our baby in the afterlife. I daydreamed we'd raise them together in death. I just wanted you back—my Jaime back, the one who made me feel loved in Winterfell." A single tear falls. "Then I got part of my wish, and I pushed my own little miracle away."

Feeling brave, he dares kiss her cheek. "It's alright," he murmurs. "You reached out in the end, which is more than I can say."

"I only reached out because you opened up first," she reminds him. "Otherwise we would still be miserable."

It seems she's going to say more, but a knock is heard on the door. She stands up to open it; it's their breakfast.

Over their food, she asks a new question. "You said, last night, you already loved me when you gave me Oathkeeper. I… I want to know how you realized it."

He chews a bit more of his bread before swallowing it and answering her. "I didn't give you all that—sword, armor, horse and squire—just to fulfill our joined oath. I knew you'd go with or without my aid, but I wanted you as safe as possible. I also feared your prolonged stay would spark ideas in Cersei's mind, especially since she was mad with grief." He shifts on his seat. "When you told me you'd find Sansa for her mother and for me, my heart forgot how to beat properly. When you named the sword Oathkeeper, I knew for sure I was in love with you. I'm not entirely sure when I fell, but I think it was after I showed you my golden hand and you frowned, saying it could not be comfortable. I don't even know if you remember it, but it meant the world to me. And I've fallen deeper and deeper ever since."

She inhales sharply, then relaxes and smiles softly. Oh, the things he'd do to bring that smile as often as possible. "I think I began to fall for you when you told me about Aerys and asked me to call you Jaime instead of Kingslayer. I realized you had wormed your way into my heart when you jumped into that bear pit without a weapon or a plan, thinking only of saving me from certain death. I knew there was no one else for me when I tried to give Oathkeeper back to you and you said it would always be mine."

She reaches for her hand and kisses its palm. "I wasn't talking only about the sword," he confesses. "By then I knew it was you—you who were my other half, you who held every piece of my tiny little heart, you with whom I wanted to live the rest of my days. And when you reminded me it was an impossible dream—when you warned me we could end up fighting each other—I knew I'd kill myself before harming you, or letting anyone else do it." He shakes his head. "I told you I would have killed everyone in Riverrun for Cersei, but for you I'd have removed the entirety of my armies, uncaring of what anyone, my sister included, would say."

He kisses her palm again. "Had I found out you were pregnant, I'd have proposed to you and escavanged the entire North in search of a septon. Had I been there when you lost our baby, I'd have held you and comforted you. Had you—had you died on my watch, I'd have taken your bones to Tarth, Great Council be damned, then begged your father to let me serve him as a household knight and rest next to you when my time came."

Her eyes are watery, but she doesn't cry. Instead, she takes her hand off his and cups his cheek. "That's all I've ever wanted," she says quietly. "To be with you, to have you by my side. To hold and be held. To love and be loved. I don't need anything else—certainly none of what Cersei demanded."

"I know," he agrees, "and that only makes me want to give you more and more." In an impulse, he leaves his chair and kneels before her. "Whatever you want, Brienne. Whatever you desire, whatever you need—I'll give it. I'll do everything in my power to grant your wishes; all you have to do is to say the word."

A few tears escape from her beautiful eyes, and he motions to weep them off with his thumb. "Whatever I want?" she asks. He nods; he knows she will never ask anything dishonorable or evil. "Then I want your smile."

He freezes. "What?" he manages to blurt out.

"I miss my smiling Jaime," she explains. "I miss my happy Jaime, the one who made love to me in Winterfell. Have you smiled once since you left it?" He shakes his head, too dumbfounded to speak. "You looked so fragile last night, Jaime, and ever since we came back you have this lingering sadness in your eyes. I want you happy. I want you to smile again."

He cries. He has no other answer to her request. She is truly perfect, and although he still thinks he doesn't deserve her, now that thought is followed by the certainty that nobody does. He can't think of a single person who, when faced with freedom and power to ask anything they want from someone who loves them, would ask for their happiness. She loves me, he reminds himself. Wouldn't I ask the same, in her place? Yes, he would. This is what being loved is like. This is true love, and I've finally found it.

But… "My love," he says between sobs, "I'm afraid you asked for the one thing I can't give you right now." He takes a shuddering breath and raises his gaze to hers. Her expression is soft, and it warms his heart. "You are right, my last smile was for you in Winterfell. I… I promised myself to never be happy while you suffered, and… You got this fucking crown then wedded me against your will. How could I ever be happy again?"

She shakes her head. "First of all, I didn't marry you against my will. I told you, Jaime, you are the only one I'll ever want, even if you hurt me. I'd rather live in a political marriage with you than wed anyone else. I was selfish when I accepted your offer, because I assumed you didn't want me."

"I'll always want you," he mumbles.

She smiles, but she isn't finished, and her next words are stern. "Second thing—don't you ever make such a vow again. If I'm sad again, I'll need your smile to get back on my feet. And I also find trouble being happy when you are suffering, Jaime. So please, forget your ridiculous promise and give me back your smile. Give me back your joy. Let me help you get it back."

He can no longer hold himself. He surges forward and, as gently as possible, grabs her face in his hands and kisses her. She startles at first, but soon her lips are moving against his, and all rational thought flies out of the window. All he can think is, I'm home, I'm home.

They go back to their meal when Jaime finds himself sitting on her lap, his hand trying to get under her tightly tied robe. Her lips are swollen, and his lust—repressed with all his might since he rode away from her—creeps back bit by bit.

Still, they don't jump on each other right away. Instead, they sit on the bed and ask each other questions about their lives. Brienne urges him to talk more about Cersei. He tells her everything: how it began when they were kids, how he thought of her while serving Aerys, the countless games she played to keep him under her thumb, his relationship with their children.

In turn, she told him about her three failed betrothals—explaining why she hates red roses—her relationship with her father, why she was infatuated with Renly for years, her time with Podrick and Sansa, her family members long dead.

He told her about Tyrion, his father and his mother, as well as Aunt Genna. She told him about the first time she ever fancied anyone—a cute boy from the nearest village, who was too scared of being near a noble to reciprocate.

Eventually, his left hand manages to enter under her robe, and he is rewarded with her soft skin. When she gasps softly at his touch, he presses his forehead against hers. "I promised to give whatever you wanted," he whispers, "and you asked for a smile. I'll do everything to grant it to you, and, if there is anyone who can bring it back, it's you." His hand goes up to her breast, but his palm stays on its side, not cupping nor squeezing it. "But tell me, my love, how I made you feel loved in bed back in Winterfell." He places a quick peck on her lips. "Tell me, so I can do it again."

"Jaime," she breathes out. "Every—every touch of yours is enough to please me. It never mattered what you did—only that it came from you."

To test it out, he cups her breast and squeezes it. She shivers and sighs, and he's already dizzy with arousal. "Pleasure is different from love, though," he replies in her ear. "Tell me what made you feel loved, and I shall deliver my best."

"I… I don't want to tell you," she replies quietly. "I don't want to order you around, to… use you for my pleasure."

The memory of their wedding night comes full force, and he retreats quickly. "I… I'm sorry about—"

She cups his chin. "I know you had the best of intentions, Jaime," she cuts him off kindly. "You wouldn't have thought it was necessary if I had been honest about my feelings. But now you know, and I want our lovemaking to come as naturally as it always did. You want to make me feel loved? Be yourself and do what you want to do with me. I can assure you it will work."

Her hand leaves his face and goes to the ties of her robe. She unlaces it and lets it fall. His mouth goes dry at the sight. "You're…" he falters.

She doesn't let him find the words, for she surges forward and kisses him, undressing him in the process. She wants this too, he thinks dreamily. "Love me, Jaime," she whispers into his mouth as his breeches go down. "Love me, and let me love you."

He surrenders.