A/N: I spend my life apologising for delays. The opening of this chapter was a struggle, I won't lie. Luckily enough, some words for later chapters decided to fall out of my brain very recently, and that gave me a bit of a push to get things moving again because I really want to share them!
This chapter is still mostly filler, and certainly not as fluffy as others, but it covers two events which I needed to get out of the way before the rest of the story continues. Hopefully, the pace (and the fluff) should start to pick up a bit from this point, so please bear with it! I'm quite excited about where the story is going (for various reasons) and I'm eager to get there, but I have a lot of ground to cover.
(The penultimate chapter of "The Things We Do" has also turned into an unscalable mountain at the moment, mostly because it turns out I'm very bad at writing battle sequences, but I'm slowly trickling words into it and I'll get around to posting it eventually. I haven't forgotten about it!)
Another four days elapse before Brienne finds the opportunity to speak with Sansa.
The Lady of Winterfell manages to delay the war discussions for as long as possible, but soon enough they are well in progress, taking over every waking moment. It's a slow process, with Sansa and Daenerys at a constant impasse over when to march on Kings Landing. Jon Snow fluctuates on an almost daily basis, depending on which of them is more able to sway him; and Tyrion, for all his clever conjecture, serves only to confuse matters all the more.
(He is buying for time, Sansa realises one evening, as Queen Daenerys leaves the war room with a defeated flounce and Tyrion catches her eye with a knowing smile and a single, arched eyebrow.)
Tyrion also attempts, on more than one occasion, to plead for his brother to assist with the strategy for the assault on the capital. Daenerys will not hear it, unable or unwilling to hear the case in his defence. Restless and frustrated, Jaime asks for regular updates from Brienne and Tyrion, and imparts his knowledge through them both. If the Dragon Queen suspects his tactic, she does not say so – she has no evidence, nor can she argue with the rationale when it is placed before her.
Eventually, the decision is reached to move South within the week. Sansa can only postpone things for so long, and knows better than to keep pushing. They will have a few days at camp to finalise the plans before the siege, but Sansa still fears it will not be enough for the troops to fully recover.
With the Queen appeased, even if only temporarily, there is finally room to breathe. Sansa's relief at her rival finally leaving Winterfell is tangible, despite her worry for what the next battle may hold.
Brienne finds herself strangely nervous, as she stands outside the door to Lady Sansa's solar – there is no way to predict how this exchange will turn out. Thankfully, Tyrion has been far too preoccupied by his duties as Hand, these past few days, to be spreading gossip around, and the idle chatter around the castle has not infiltrated the circle of discussion in the war room. Brienne is not overly concerned about Sansa hearing the news through whispers, but she is conscious, nonetheless, that the surprise may not be a pleasant one. She is heartened by the fact that Sansa took her word during Jaime's trial, and her evident fondness for his brother can only be a good thing.
Regardless, she has no right to assume that Sansa will allow Jaime to remain at Winterfell indefinitely, and a tremor of anxiety shudders through her to think of it. They have not discussed what might happen in such a circumstance. Jaime could go to Tarth, perhaps, until the war is over – or he might decide to travel South to join his brother. Either way, the thought of being left behind in the North makes her sick with dread. A week or two of happiness seems an unfair and disproportionate reward for all they have been through.
Shaking the notion from her head, Brienne mentally chastises herself. Sansa is reasonable; she is not rash in her decisions; she will understand. And even if she does not, her regard for Brienne should at least count for something.
Brienne takes a deep, calming breath and raises her hand to knock. There is no response, and after a moment of silence, she announces herself:
"It's me, my Lady."
"Enter."
Even muffled through the thick wood of the door, Sansa's exhaustion is evident; for a brief second, Brienne reconsiders her purpose in attending. Her hand strays to the hilt of Oathkeeper, unconsciously seeking courage from its constant presence at her hip, and Jaime's voice drifts into her head, encouraging her to continue. With a nod to herself, she pushes open the heavy door and steps into the room.
Sansa is seated by the fire in a high-backed armchair, the remnants of a simple lunch abandoned, half-eaten, on the floor beside her. Her tiredness is palpable from the heavy set of her head and shoulders, and her face is drawn and paler than usual. Her mouth upturns in a smile as Brienne approaches, wary and a little amused.
"Ser Brienne," she greets. "Did I not dismiss you to find some lunch?"
"Yes, my Lady – you did."
"Have the kitchens run low?"
"No, there was plenty. I'm just not very hungry."
"Nor I," she admits, both of their gazes drifting to the half-finished plate. "These relentless strategy discussions have rather dulled my appetite. I have no head for war – in truth, neither does Jon, though I dare not admit that to anyone else."
Belatedly realising that Brienne is still standing, hands clasped behind her back, Sansa gestures towards another chair. She takes a seat, though her posture is a little awkward, the armour making it difficult to be fully at ease. The warmth from the fire is comforting, its homely crackle in direct contrast to the frosty landscape outside.
Sansa exhales on a sigh.
"A sennight," she mutters. "Onward to the capital within the month. It's not long enough. She's going to lose the majority of her men to the journey before they even reach the battle lines."
Brienne can only nod in agreement. "It may be a rash decision, but I can appreciate her haste. Every day we avoid Kings Landing is another for Queen Cersei to plan her own attack. We may at least have the benefit of surprise."
"I understand that," says Sansa with a hint of frustration. "Of course, I do. But I have lost so many people already. This war has stolen most of my family, as it has for everyone. You will forgive me if I find the idea of losing those who remain to be a little unpalatable."
"If there were any way to end this without the need for bloodshed—"
"While Cersei Lannister still lives?" she scoffs. "You could no sooner thaw the Night King's heart."
There is an irony to her tone and only the slightest tinge of bitterness, and Brienne allows herself a wry smile.
"Speaking of Lannisters," adds Sansa thoughtfully, "am I to assume Ser Jaime will be leaving for the capital with the others?"
"Oh. Actually, that's why I wished to speak with you."
Her fingers find the hilt of her sword again, a subtlety that Sansa is not oblivious to, though she does not comment on it. A silence descends, Brienne waiting for a direct question to open this impossible conversation, but Sansa remains unerringly silent, unforthcoming, staring at her patiently. Brienne has no choice but to navigate these waters for herself.
"Ser Jaime does not intend to go South," she begins. "Not imminently, at least. Perhaps not ever."
"He came North to help in the battle against the dead," points out Sansa, "and he's achieved that, has he not? What possible reason—"
She stops short, realising from the high colour of Brienne's cheeks, and her suddenly averted gaze, what she has been struggling to articulate. Sansa appraises her, as though weighing evidence in her mind. The silence extends, almost interminable, until she speaks again:
"When Lord Tyrion told me about the wager, I thought he was mistaken."
"You may have been the only person to think so," mutters Brienne. "It seems everyone was aware except us."
"So it's true, then?" she asks. "That you and Ser Jaime are—"
"Yes."
She raises her head, at that, determined not to shy away from the truth. Sansa studies her for a long moment, trying to piece things together.
"You vouched for him, when he arrived here," she ponders, more to herself than Brienne. "I sent you to the parley in Kings Landing because you assured me Ser Jaime had treated you well. How long have you two—?"
"Since the battle," Brienne responds quickly. "I promise you, nothing has been going on behind your back. I did not consider us anything other than friends when he arrived at Winterfell."
"But you loved him," she guesses, an echo of Cersei's accusation all those years ago, though there is considerably less malice behind it. Brienne sees no point in denying it.
"I did not think – or expect – anything would come of it," she admits, a little sadly, unable to shake those old doubts. "But I could not stand by while the Queen ordered his execution, when he had turned away from everything to help us. He is a good man, my Lady."
"So you have told me before, many times," points out Sansa in a sceptical tone. "He's a Lannister, Brienne. Do I need to remind you of the wrongs his family have committed against mine?"
"You do not," she responds flatly, "but, with the greatest of respect… neither of us would be here to have this discussion, if not for Ser Jaime."
Sansa does not respond, her mouth set in a firm line, but her stance relaxes slightly, and Brienne feels the tension in the air begin to dissipate. She considers her next words carefully, hoping to make Sansa understand.
"He came North to keep the promise his sister had broken," she explains. "You were not there at the Dragon Pit, my Lady, but… words were exchanged. I did not realise the impact of them until Jaime arrived. He He hasn't told me much of what transpired in Kings Landing, but I know his sister wanted him killed. Executed, more accurately, for treason. The night of the battle, he said to me that if he was going to die, he wanted it to be here. With me."
She falls silent, allowing the import of that to settle between them.
"There is much you do not know," she continues, "and they are not my secrets to tell. Without his blessing, I cannot dare to presume. I would not have vouched for him without good reason. He is more than people say – I know this better than most."
Sansa's countenance is thoughtful as she absorbs Brienne's words.
"There are some who believe he is here to spy on us," she counters, "to send word back to his sister of our movements. Queen Daenerys certainly does not trust him."
Brienne almost laughs at how ridiculous that suggestion is, but she manages to suppress it.
"If that were true, he would be keen to move South with the rest of the troops. I can assure you, he has no immediate desire to return to Kings Landing."
"I shall withhold judgement until a sennight has passed, then. If he remains in Winterfell, as you suggest, that will go some way to proving his loyalty."
Brienne nods, grateful that Sansa is at least considering Jaime's position. Still, she is not fully comfortable with how the discussion has gone, feeling that her skills of persuasion have been lacking. Sansa is the closest to family she has these days, and she has no desire to push her away; but Jaime has taken root in her heart like an ancient oak, immovable. She does not want to be forced into making a choice.
"My Lady… may I ask you a question?"
"You may."
"Do you trust me?"
Sansa opens her mouth to respond, but hesitates, the query throwing her for a moment. She considers the implications of what Brienne has asked, unsure of how best to answer.
"Brienne, I— forgive me, I need a moment to think."
"Of course."
The two of them stare into the fire while Sansa ponders what to say in response. Brienne had not given consideration to how complex the question would be; belatedly, she realises that trust is something Sansa does not give away easily, and with good reason. Perhaps she should have been more specific.
Eventually, Sansa takes a deep breath, as though clearing her head.
"What are you asking me, exactly?" she muses. "Do I trust you as… as a friend? As my sworn sword? Do I trust you to always have my best interests at heart?"
"All of those things."
"Then my answer is yes, of course. I would have faith in none other to defend my House and my family. Perhaps the bigger question is whether I can be confident in your judgement."
"My Lady?"
Sansa gives her a sympathetic glance, for a moment so resembling her mother that Brienne is taken aback.
"Oh, Brienne… you are not the first woman to be enchanted by a handsome face and empty promises, and nor will you be the last."
At that, her face flushes with warmth and she blusters, trying to change the subject. "I'm sure I have no idea—"
Sansa laughs, stunning her into silence, though she regains control of herself quickly, the poised mask slipping neatly back into place.
"You don't have to pretend; I'm not blind. If we were in the royal court, you would be the envy of every woman there. I almost wish we were, just to see the look on Cersei's face." She sighs, the levity gone again. "I don't doubt that you love him, Brienne, and if you believe him to be a good man, then I suppose I must take you at your word. I will not stand in your way, if this is what you truly want."
"It is," she says, feeling the pressure lift from her shoulders.
"Then you have my blessing. But know this: if he hurts you in any way, his head will be on a pike on our battlements before the day is done."
"Understood." Her mouth upturns in a subtle smile and Sansa returns it, a mutual agreement finally reached.
A part of Brienne wants nothing more than to share her innermost fears and thoughts with Sansa: the inherent knowledge that whatever she shares with Jaime will reach its natural conclusion, war or family or duty inevitably ripping them apart; that she knows it will be the sweetest kind of agony, to lose him after loving him so completely; that the short time they have ahead of them may be the only happiness she is granted. She stays her tongue, not wishing to burden her lady any further. There is nothing that Sansa can do to prevent the course of the future, in any case.
Instead, she rises from the chair; she has taken up enough of Sansa's time this afternoon.
"If there's nothing else, my Lady…"
Sansa opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything, her attention is drawn to the window, some unexpected noises outside suddenly distracting her. She moves to the glass, clearing the fog from the panes with her sleeve to find the source of the interruption, her eyes scanning the horizon and the ground below.
"Oh, for the love of all the Gods…"
"What is it?" asks Brienne, concern painting her tone as she joins Sansa at the window.
"See for yourself."
Brienne's own search is assisted by the sound of raised voices below; she appraises the situation for only a second before muttering a curse under her breath and sweeping out of the room with a determined pace. Sansa observes the activity in the courtyard for a little longer, then follows for a closer look.
Contrary to Samwell Tarly's advice, Jaime is in the training yard, lightly sparring against a straw dummy. His injury has healed enough to remove the stitches, but Tarly has advised a couple more days of rest just to be sure. Jaime has ignored him; the boredom has become too much to bear; and since he is not able to help with the war effort, he should at least keep his strength up. After lunch, he had spent half an hour irritably pacing Brienne's quarters before going for a walk – through daily strolls he is learning the layout of Winterfell, little by little – and on noticing the training yard to be empty, had decided to make the best of a bad situation.
The training dummy is looking a little the worse for wear after repeated thrashings, but Jaime's left arm and shoulder have a satisfying ache to them, and the now-healed gash in his side has not given him any trouble except for the occasional, uncomfortable tugging sensation. Much of his time in the yard has been spent imagining the wight who injured him in the place of the dummy, hacking and slashing at it with gleeful abandon.
He pauses for a brief rest, taking a hearty gulp of water from a skin as he catches his breath and stretches out muscles that have been unused for the best part of a week, still aching slightly from the Long Night. The sun will disappear soon enough, daylight hours in the North being scant at best, but he can probably fit in another round before dinner.
He rights the dummy, slightly crooked on its stand from his most recent attack, and steps back, settling into battle stance. He has barely taken one step before the voice of another drifts across the courtyard.
"Kingkiller!"
There is only one person who refers to him as that, and Jaime suppresses a groan as he spies Tormund approaching at a determined pace, a lumbering mass of fur and red hair tramping through the snow. He resumes the sparring exercise with the dummy, hoping Giantsbane will realise he is otherwise occupied and leave him alone. To his dismay, Tormund continues marching towards the yard, a look of slightly ominous intent on his face.
Jaime stops what he's doing and gives his uninvited companion an outwardly amiable smile; most people would detect the warning underneath it, but he suspects Tormund is not among them.
"Yes, Wilding? Anything I can help you with?"
"Aye," says Tormund, getting right to it: "Rumour has it you're interested in the Big Woman."
"Her name is Lady Brienne," says Jaime tersely, "and you really shouldn't listen to rumours."
He gives up on training as a lost cause, sheathing his sword and hoping that will be enough to communicate that he is not interested in continuing the discussion. Tormund, unfortunately, is oblivious to the intent, blocking his path as he tries to leave.
"The Little Man seemed very sure," he explains. "He's your brother, isn't he?"
"Yes – and that's Lord Tyrion, to you."
Tormund rolls his eyes dismissively. "You Southerners and your titles. Never understood the point of it. Just call people what they are – it's much simpler."
Jaime sighs impatiently. "If there's a point to this discussion, please feel free to arrive at it."
The Wilding puffs out his chest, presumably in an attempt to appear intimidating. "I will fight you for her!"
"That won't be necessary," he says. "My brother has a tendency to embellish the truth, you see. Whatever he's said about Brienne, or myself—"
His words are cut off by a booming laugh.
"You're not fooling anyone, Kingkiller. I've not seen anyone look so heartsick since King Jon—" He cuts himself off, some level of respect for his ruler preventing him from continuing. "Just admit that you want her, and we'll have at it."
"Listen, Giantsbane, this might be how you do things North of the Wall, but you're not there now. Regardless of my feelings for Lady Brienne—"
"I knew it!" he yells, eyes widening in triumph.
"Regardless," Jaime continues, ignoring him, "have you considered asking her what she wants?"
"Psh!" Tormund makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "When she sees my prowess in battle she won't be able to resist."
"In that case, I suggest you go and find a battle, because I have no interest whatsoever in continuing this ridiculous—"
"Never took you for a coward, Kingkiller," he taunts. "Lost your nerve as well as your hand?"
Jaime rises to the bait; he can't help himself. "I could trounce you with my eyes closed, Wilding, but it would not be worth my time." He tries to walk away, but Tormund bars his path once more. "I am not going to fight you. Move."
Giantsbane pokes him in the shoulder, deliberately antagonistic. "Draw your weapon and we'll see how good your fancy sword really is."
Shaking his head exasperatedly, Jaime steps around him and strides off, expecting that to be the end of it. Tormund follows, his boots crunching heavily in the snow, but it's a subtler noise that sets off Jaime's instincts. He reaches for Widow's Wail and spins, just in time to parry the incoming swoop of Tormund's battle-axe. Their weapons clang on impact, echoing across the empty courtyard. Jaime uses the momentum to push his adversary away from him.
"What you doing, you imbecile? You almost took my head off!"
Tormund has the audacity to start laughing, blissfully unaware of how dangerous his actions were. "Got your attention now, eh?"
"I am not going to fight you," he says again. "Put that bloody thing away."
The ginger-haired Wilding swings again and Jaime barely manages to dodge out of the path his axe carves into the air. It's clear the man will not listen to reason, so Jaime concentrates on defending himself and trying to disarm his opponent. He has no intention of engaging in the duel or pressing an attack, hoping Tormund will either tire or get bored when he does not fight back.
Unpractised after a week of rest, Jaime's arm starts to ache after only a few minutes, every strike of Tormund's axe against his blade sending an uncomfortable jolt all the way to his shoulder. His injury is beginning to sting from the exertion, a tell-tale sticky warmth suggesting that it might have reopened at the point where the wight's blade made entry.
Tormund's annoyance is increasing, his attacks becoming more erratic and unpredictable. The ground beneath their feet is slowly turning to mud, making evasion more difficult, and the light is dwindling quickly as the sun sets. The Long Night has given Jaime more than enough experience of fighting in the dark, and he does not relish the prospect of repeating it, but Tormund does not seem bothered.
As the axe swings towards him again, Jaime tries to dodge out of the way but loses his footing in the sludge, the ground seemingly giving way beneath him and dropping him to his back on the floor. Tormund brings the axe down towards him and he just about manages to block it, though his strength is waning now and the fall has not done him any good. Tormund is relentless, raising his arm high and bringing his weapon down again; Jaime rolls out of the way and the axe embeds in the ground, momentarily stuck. Jaime uses the few seconds advantage that gives him to consider the quickest way out of the situation without endangering either of them any more than necessary, but it's too dark to see properly and the training yard is a mire of slush.
Tormund has finally succeeded in unsticking the axe, wiping the blade on his furs before lifting it again.
"What the fuck is going on out here?"
Jaime has only heard Brienne use that tone once, and the last time it was directed towards him; he has never felt so relieved in his life. Her unprecedented arrival distracts Tormund just long enough for Jaime to kick out at his legs, knocking him off balance into the mud. He lands heavily, clearly winded if his groan of discomfort is anything to go by.
Jaime finally manages to catch a glimpse of his rescuer; she is gloriously indignant, mouth set in an unimpressed line. Lady Sansa is with her, carrying a lantern and looking equally as displeased. Behind them, Jon Snow is trudging dolefully towards the yard, clearly at the behest of his sister.
"I couldn't have put it better myself," mutters Sansa under her breath, and then draws herself to her full height and adopts a stern expression. "Would one of you care to explain, or shall I have you both thrown in the dungeons?"
Jaime struggles to his feet, staggering a little, and raises a hand placatingly. "That won't be nece—"
"We are fighting for the Big Woman!" explains Tormund gleefully.
Brienne looks mortified, and Jaime hastens to add: "He was fighting. I was just defending myself."
Giantsbane has finally managed to get up, and Jaime hopes that will be the end of it. His optimism is short-lived.
"Now that she's here, we should start again!"
Jaime sheathes his sword decisively, a message clearly sent. "We're done here, Wildling."
He tries to leave, moving towards the relative safety of Brienne and her accumulated companions, but Tormund pushes him back roughly, sending him colliding with the training dummy. Its supporting post finally snaps under the pressure, the straw body toppling to the ground. Jaime eyes the remains of the wooden stake, sorely tempted to wrench it out of the mud and use it to beat some sense into his opponent, but he doubts he has the strength for it now. Realising that Tormund is not going to give up, he reaches wearily for Widow's Wail.
"Jon, for Gods' sake," says Sansa, deeply exasperated, "call off your man!"
Snow would clearly rather be anywhere else than here, and Jaime can hardly blame him for that. Still, he knows better than to let this charade continue.
"That's enough, Tormund. Leave him be."
"But—"
"That's an order."
It's almost fascinating, Jaime decides, to see Tormund defer to his King's seniority; the glint of gleeful madness in his eyes immediately dissipates, replaced by an expression of browbeaten disappointment, and he finally concedes. Jaime gives him a wide berth as he staggers out of the training yard, more exhausted than anything else. He heads directly towards Brienne; her face belies her concern as he approaches, subtly skimming his frame for any obvious injuries. He wants to reach for her and collapse into her arms, but they have company, and in any case her annoyance seems directed towards him as well as Tormund. She folds her arms in irritation, dispelling any illusions he might have had about a comforting embrace.
"What were you thinking?"
"He started it," he mutters petulantly.
"And you couldn't just ignore him?"
"I tried. His axe was very persuasive."
They're on the verge of bickering, an activity which ordinarily he would find enjoyable, except for once he's not quite so sure Brienne feels the same way. Before either of them can continue, however, Sansa clears her throat to interrupt them.
"Perhaps it would be prudent to have this conversation indoors," she suggests, and Brienne nods obediently. Sansa's expression is stony as she turns to him. "Ser Jaime, whilst I appreciate that you were trying to defend yourself, I do not wish to hear about you engaging in such behaviour again. Is that clear?"
There is so much of Catelyn in her, in that moment, that Jaime forgets himself.
"Yes, Lady Stark."
There is no jesting in his tone, and Sansa is clearly surprised by his words, the mask dropping away. Her manner is less harsh when she speaks again.
"I will ask Jon to ensure the same message is imparted to the Free Folk. It does us no good to have allies brawling with each other like common thugs."
"Thank you, my Lady," says Brienne.
Sansa leaves them with a bow of her head, her footsteps crunching through the snow until they disappear completely.
Brienne heaves a sigh, abandoning the argument for now. "Come on. Let's get inside."
Jaime nods, and they set off. He makes it two steps before the injury in his side throbs, a stab of white-hot pain that dissipates as quickly as it arrives, but it is enough to make him falter. Brienne reaches to steady him, hands firm at his shoulders.
"Are you injured?"
"I don't know," he answers honestly.
She moves to his right side, securing an arm about his waist as his arm drapes across her shoulders, and they make their way slowly back inside.
"What were you even doing out here?"
"I was practicing," he explains. "Trying to build my strength back up. Tormund offered to fight for you, and when I refused he started on me anyway. I swear, Brienne, I was only trying to defend myself."
"Does he know about us?"
"He guessed." Jaime frowns. "Remind me to murder Tyrion."
Brienne does not respond to that, and they continue the journey to her quarters in silence.
Jaime sits in one of the plain wooden chairs in the light of the hearth as Brienne unfurls the bandages from his chest. It's a familiar routine, but she is not usually so sullen. His suspicion had unfortunately been correct: as soon as he lifted his shirt, Brienne's expression darkened into worry at the crimson stain blooming beneath his arm. Beneath the linen strips, the wound had scabbed over, the cloth adhering to his skin, and it has taken her nearly five minutes to stem the bleeding.
He is also sporting several fresh bruises thanks to Tormund's haphazard fighting style, and his back is aching from his collision with the training dummy and his fall to the ground.
Brienne is examining the injury with concern, and she has not spoken a word since they were outside.
"What is it?" he asks, hoping it will prompt her to respond.
She shakes her head. "I don't think I can bind this, Jaime. It needs stitching back up. I'll have to fetch Maester Tarly."
She rises from the other chair, but Jaime reaches out to stop her, grasping onto her forearm.
"No. If he finds out I was exercising against his advice, he'll have me bed bound and under armed guard. If I have to spend another minute being inactive I will lose my mind."
She stares at him incredulously. "Are you suggesting—"
"I know you've sewn up your share of injuries, Brienne. We all have. This is nothing in comparison."
"Jaime, I can't—"
"Please."
She is still for a moment, but then sighs and nods, and Jaime lets go of her arm. Before she returns to the chair, she finds a box of medical supplies, scavenged here and there in case of emergencies: a small supply of poppy milk, a sharp-bladed knife, needles and thread and scraps of cloth. Jaime briefly wonders how often she has needed to use it, and shoves the thought down, not wishing to dwell on it.
She sets the box down on the table. It takes a few fumbled attempts to thread the needle and she lets out a bitter chuckle.
"If my Septa could see this, I wouldn't be able to hold a needle again for a week."
"She sounds delightful," says Jaime.
"She was a horror." Brienne finally vanquishes the stubborn thread and uses the knife to cut it to length, tying a knot in one end. She reaches for the tiny vial of poppy milk, shaking it experimentally. "I don't have much, but it might help."
Jaime nods in agreement, and she uncorks the bottle and deposits its scant contents onto a bundled-up rag. He lifts his arm, realising from Brienne's slightly relieved expression that the wound must have started to scab over again, or at least has not bled anew. She presses the rag beneath his arm and bids him hold it in place until the numbing effect starts to work, while she heats the needle over a candle flame. By the time she removes it again, the area is tingling slightly.
She takes a slow, measured breath as she readies the needle. She approaches and withdraws three times, her hands shaking too badly to even attempt it. Setting it down again, she scrubs at her eyes in frustration, letting out a slightly shuddery breath. Jaime can practically feel her anxiety over the task, and he stills both of her hands with his foreshortened wrist, holding her steady.
"Just breathe," he says. "It'll be fine."
"You have more faith in my needlework abilities than I do," she points out.
"Well, how about this: if you're still upset with me, use it as an opportunity to vent your frustrations."
That raises a smile, at least. "I'm not upset with you."
"Now, I know that's a lie."
"I'm not," she repeats, though he still does not believe her. She's definitely upset about something, but now is not the time to fathom it out. The tension eased, she extricates her hands from under his arm, reaching for the needle again. She is steadier now, so he must have done something right.
He grits his teeth in anticipation, but the poppy milk has succeeded, at least in part, to make the experience considerably less unpleasant than it would usually be. There's a tugging sensation, and he can feel the gentle pressure of her fingertips as she holds the edges of the wound together, but nothing more than that. When he doesn't flinch or make any indication of being in discomfort, she becomes more confident, finishing the job quickly. Tying off the end of the thread, she then descends into the familiar motion of securing it with bandages.
As is customary, he rewards her diligence with a kiss. She is clearly still a little fraught, because she melts into him, the final remnants of uneasiness falling from her shoulders. There's a wetness on his face when she pulls away, and she swipes irritably at the tears still welling in her eyes. He lifts his hand to her cheek, helping to wipe the droplets away.
He keeps his tone intentionally light. "If this is what happens when you're not upset with me, I'm not sure I want to find out what happens when you are."
"It's not that," she says. "I just… I feel like this is my fault."
He drops his hand, reaching instead to thread his fingers through hers, squeezing gently. "I can assure you, it was definitely Tormund walloping me with the axe."
She sighs impatiently, not in the mood for his japes. "I should have been more direct with him. I was trying to be polite, but obviously it didn't work."
"Somehow, I don't think that would have deterred him. If he behaved like that based on a rumour about us, I dread to think how he would act if he knew the truth."
"What did you tell him, exactly?"
"I told him not to listen to rumours, and that he should ask you what you wanted rather than trying to win your affection by showing off." She seems satisfied with that, and he adds: "I may have accidentally suggested that I had… feelings for you. I suspect it was already a lost cause, by that point."
"Jaime, I…" She bites her lip, pondering her words before continuing. "I know how much you hate all this secrecy and sneaking around. I'm not averse to everyone knowing, but this fight with Tormund—"
"…will do nothing for my reputation?" he guesses. "I'm used to people hating me, Brienne – a scuffle with Jon Snow's favourite Wilding in the training yard will be yesterday's gossip soon enough. The stories about us are just going to worsen unless we come clean."
Her face is uncertain. "I'm not sure how I feel about… announcing it."
"Who says we have to announce anything?"
"What do you mean?"
"According to my brother, it is painfully obvious how hopelessly in love with you I am, so there's clearly no point in trying to hide it." She looks mildly stunned, and he suppresses a laugh. "Let's just… be together. I'll hold your hand at dinner and make eyes at you over the table, and if people make assumptions, we won't correct them. We don't have to send ravens or request a royal proclamation."
"Is it really that simple?"
"It can be."
She gives it some serious consideration, and eventually nods. "All right. I suppose it can't hurt." She gives him a small smile. "I… told Sansa this afternoon."
"Oh. How did she take it?"
"She took some convincing. I didn't really know what to say to make her understand. I haven't shared much with her, about our history. I didn't wish to presume—"
"Brienne, you can tell Sansa anything you need to."
She hesitates. "Even… even Aerys?"
A shudder courses through him at the mention of that name. Somehow, with an eerie intuition, he knows that information will one day prove important or urgent enough to share. He trusts Brienne above no other to tell the story accurately.
"If it comes to it, then yes."
"Only if I have to," she promises.
Later, after Jaime has washed the mud out of his hair and changed into clean clothing, they make their way to the Great Hall for supper. It's not as crowded as usual, but Sansa and Jon are both at the high table, speaking in low conversation. Podrick is just leaving, bidding them goodnight as he exits, and Tyrion waves them over to the space Brienne's squire has just vacated. Tormund is sitting in the opposite corner, gazing sullenly into a bowl of stew, as yet unaware of their arrival.
Brienne takes a step, but she finds herself immediately halted as Jaime reaches for her hand. She turns back to him with a slightly startled expression, but he merely smiles knowingly at her, weaving their fingers together and squeezing lightly. She gives him a shy nod, and together they move towards the table Tyrion is occupying.
Jaime's brother, eagle-eyed as ever, does not miss the connection of their hands, and his eyebrows raise in a silent question. Their hands separate again as they sit down, but Tyrion's meaningful gaze does not falter. Brienne stares at the table-top, hoping she will not be forced into an explanation, but when Jaime also remains silent she excuses herself and gets up to fetch them both some stew.
By the time she returns, the brothers are in the middle of a conversation and she assumes Jaime must have given Tyrion an adequate response. Her suspicion is confirmed as he raises his goblet in their general direction.
"Allow me to celebrate your good news," he says. "Jaime informs me you've decided to tell everyone about your new arrangement."
"That's not quite what I said," mutters Jaime. "This doesn't mean you can go around shouting about it to people. I'd still appreciate a level of discretion – if you can manage it."
Tyrion gives him a knowing expression. "Discretion, hm? So getting into brawls with Wildings is considered discreet now, is it?"
Jaime's face is incredulous. "How-?"
"I overheard Lady Sansa and her brother talking about it earlier," he admits. "Honestly, Jaime. What were you thinking?"
"We don't need to go over this again," interjects Brienne. "Jaime was merely defending himself."
He is overcome by the urge to kiss her, but manages to rein it in. "If you want an explanation, I suggest you speak to Tormund."
"He's been staring into that empty bowl since before I arrived," says Tyrion, gesturing with his head towards the corner. "I don't need to ask how it went."
"It wouldn't have happened at all if not for your stupid wager." Jaime shakes his head in exasperation. "If nothing else, please stop stoking the rumours. This isn't the royal court, where gossip is as good as currency. You should know by now that they favour loyalty in the North."
Tyrion raises his hands in surrender. "Duly noted. I shall pay out all winnings that are due, and speak no more on the matter."
Jaime looks sceptical, but Brienne gives him the benefit of doubt. "Thank you, my Lord."
"Please – call me Tyrion. After all, we're practically family now." He raises his goblet again. "A toast, then. To loyalty."
They have only water cups with which to return the motion, and as Tyrion drains the remaining wine from his vessel, Jaime places his cup down and reaches for Brienne's hand beneath the table, drawing it up and brushing a kiss to her knuckles. His gaze locks to hers as he repeats the words.
"To loyalty."
At the high table, whatever Jon is saying to Sansa goes unheard, as her gaze is drawn to the shadowy corner where her sworn sword is dining with the Lannister brothers. In the low light, she can only just make out Jaime's chivalrous gesture, but the look in his eyes as he gazes at Brienne is unmistakable, and she wonders how she did not spot it before now. She had her doubts, when Brienne shared the news, and she cannot say they are fully dispelled as yet; Jaime may have proven himself to Brienne, but Sansa will need more proof before she can trust him. Still, Brienne deserves someone to look upon her with such fondness, and Sansa will not interfere if this is the path her heart has chosen.
She is jolted out of her reverie by the sound of a chair scraping heavily across the floor on the opposite side of the room, as Tormund finally abandons his empty bowl and stomps out of the hall. From the despondent look on his face, he had obviously noticed them as well. Jon also pauses in what he was saying, watching Tormund leave the room with a troubled expression.
"Shouldn't you go after him?" suggests Sansa.
Jon shrugs. "He's drunk nearly a full barrel of ale. Probably not worth the effort of trying to speak to him now."
"Jon, I can't have your Wildings drinking us out of house and home every time they get their heart broken," she warns him, though her voice is tinged with irony.
He laughs gruffly. "He'll get over it. I'll give them all a reminder tomorrow about how to behave."
"Please do." Her face is horror-stricken for a moment. "I can't believe I'm about to defend Jaime Lannister, of all people, but if anything happens to him, Brienne will never forgive me. Please make it clear to Tormund that his advances towards her are unwelcome, if he still hasn't worked it out for himself. Apparently, Ser Jaime is going to be here much longer than I expected, and I don't want a repeat of what happened this afternoon."
"Don't concern yourself, Sansa. I'm going to ask them to return to Castle Black when the troops march south."
Sansa nods, relieved for Brienne more than anything. She continues watching the table in the far corner absently for the rest of the evening, still only half paying attention to her brother as their previous discussion resumes. By the time the three companions finally bid each other goodnight, Tyrion is considerably less steady on his feet than he was when he arrived, but he shrugs off help from either of them and meanders down the corridor towards his room. Sansa allows herself a fond smile that nothing ever changes, where Tyrion is concerned; it only grows stronger, as Jaime links hands with Brienne and they amble slowly to their own destination, unhurried and content in each other's company.
She sighs as they disappear from view, uneasiness settling in her stomach once more. She cannot begrudge her friend's happiness, but she worries that Brienne does not fully understand what she's gotten herself into. Cersei Lannister is not exactly known for her ability to share.
A/N: Eagle-eyed Buffy fans may have spotted the quote I recycled/butchered during the Jaime and Tormund sequence of this chapter. It just popped into my head and seemed so Jaime-esque I couldn't resist.
Apologies for any OOC writing of Tormund here – I tried to make him boorish but well-meaning, as well as genuinely unaware that Wilding customs are not acceptable on the other side of the Wall. (I always imagine Jon trying to explain that to them and then just… giving up. But as per Brienne's comments in an earlier chapter, they do at least defer to his authority if they overstep the mark.)
Also: I can't remember what Tormund's weapon actually is, but in my head I conflate Wildings with Vikings, so now he has a battle-axe. Fun fact: it actually hadn't occurred to me until I played Assassin's Creed: Valhalla that "The Wall" is potentially an allegory for Hadrian's Wall, so I guess technically Wildings are Picts…
So, I still don't know exactly how long this story is going to be, but I have a vague plan mapped out for the next few chapters and a few "milestones" in mind – at a guess I would say there'll about six more chapters, but don't hold me to that! What I can tell you is that there should be something worthy of the M-rating within the next couple chapters, if I can get it to cooperate… I shall say more for fear of spoilers.