A/N: The first couple of sections of this are… basically just marshmallow, to be honest, but the latter half of the chapter is a bit heavier on the angst. There will be some Actual Plot later, but for the moment I'm trying to eke as much domestic fluff out of this story as possible, to make up for what we didn't see in the show. I can promise that there will be at least three chapters of lovely fluff (and more!) before the story descends into angst as it deals with the rest of S8 events… but there will be a happy ending, so don't despair.
There's a bit of subtle/background/half-mentioned Gendry/Arya in this chapter. I couldn't quite remember when (canonically) their break-up occurred, but since this story is a fix-it I'm disregarding it anyway. :P I wanted the GoT spin-off to focus on Arya's adventures with the Hound (no such luck), so just assume that rather than going South, they go off on exciting/long-suffering/snark-filled missions together instead and she periodically goes home to Gendry to (not) be his lady.
Also, apologies are due, because I wanted to post this a lot sooner. I was on a roll with this chapter but then my partner managed to break his upper arm, so temporary caring responsibilities kind of took over for a few weeks, and then two months later I fell down the stairs and broke my ankle. You'd think getting signed off from work for several weeks might result in more productivity, but alas!
I have some of the next chapter written and the one after that is also pretty much complete, so hopefully I can get those posted a bit sooner. (No guarantees for what happens after that, however…) I've also thrown a bit of a chapter outline together for this story, and it looks like it should be around 16 chapters in total (with a possible epilogue), but given my propensity to be over-verbose, don't hold me to that!
This chapter is (again) a little longer than others, because I didn't want to break it up and lose the emotional flow. I don't know why I'm apologising for that because I'm sure nobody will complain. =) Enjoy!
Over the next few days, preparations for the march South continue apace. Sansa and Daenerys are no longer at loggerheads over the decision, although the Lady of Winterfell makes her displeasure at the timescales known whenever she can. She has no sway over the Dragon Queen, but she must show a strong front for the Northern lords if she wishes to retain their favour.
When Brienne is not guarding Sansa – which is rare – she makes the time to dine with Jaime and his brother, with Podrick also joining them on occasion, knowing that the few days that remain are precious and not to be wasted. The first couple of times, she felt as though she was intruding, but Jaime has made it very clear that her presence is wanted; Tyrion does not seem bothered either way, and she wonders if her being there makes it easier for them to avoid discussing their sister. It's a subject she has not yet been brave enough to broach with Jaime, although she knows that eventually he may wish to unburden himself of the events that transpired before he left Kings Landing. For now, she is perfectly content not knowing, and has no desire to drag up ghosts from his past.
With their arrangement no longer a secret, Jaime has quickly made a habit of holding her hand when they walk together, kissing her knuckles or her cheek in greeting, regardless of the company they keep. On several occasions, he has accosted her in the training yard or a deserted corridor and kissed her fully on the mouth, heedless of any audience; she has woken some mornings to find him gazing at her in wistful silence. She has learned to ignore the whispered comments and japes that seem to follow them everywhere, either at her expense or Jaime's; none are brave enough to say anything to their faces, and a sharp glare is usually enough to silence them. Sansa is also quick to intervene if she overhears, and Brienne understands that this is her small way of communicating her acceptance, even if she is still wary.
For all of this, Jaime seems lighter and more at ease than he ever has before. She finds his attention embarrassing, at times, but allows him the indulgence. The joy he feels in being able to love her openly, without the need to hide away, is palpable. She knows it is genuine when Tyrion, during a rare moment where it's just the two of them at the dinner table, thanks her profusely, with no hint of his usual ironic cleverness, for making his brother so happy. He's well into his cups, but if anything that only makes him more honest. She does not have a chance to respond before Jaime returns, dropping onto the bench so close beside her that their legs are pressed together from hip to knee. His right arm winds across her back, golden hand resting just above her hip, and when she does not flinch away or show any reticence, it is enough to unfurl any remaining tension in his stance. Her left arm is rendered useless by Jaime's nearness, so she places her hand on his knee; he stutters in whatever he is saying to Tyrion, who raises an eyebrow and glances between them knowingly. Tyrion excuses himself early from dinner, and Jaime says nothing for the duration of their journey back to her quarters, only expressing his gratitude once the door is firmly closed by pinning her against the wood and kissing her thoroughly.
He is insufferable, and she tells him so afterwards, but she would take a thousand more evenings like this over a single second of being on opposite sides of a war.
As Jaime's injury continues to heal, Brienne makes the decision to join him in the training yard, hoping that she can stop him from over-reaching or, at the very least, that her presence will deter Tormund from attempting another fight for her honour. The latter seems to bear out, as they are very rarely disturbed by virtue of sparring late in the afternoon, even after sunset if the moon is clear. The former is not quite so successful, though perhaps she should have anticipated how obstinate Jaime would be. She can hardly deny that she would do exactly the same, in his position.
Today, however, they are forced to remain indoors, the harsh Northern winter conspiring against them with biting winds and the threat of a snowstorm. Sure enough, by mid-afternoon the view from Brienne's window is almost completely obscured by a thick flurry of snow; she shivers and draws the curtains, shutting out the weather completely.
They are playing cyvasse – or rather, she is playing, but she's rather sure Jaime is cheating – when there's a knock at her chamber door. Abandoning the game to open it, she is surprised to find Arya on the other side, holding a large bundle wrapped in battered leather and tied with narrow rope; her shoulders and the hood of her cloak are dusted with snow, as though she has arrived through the blizzard.
"My Lady, what brings you—?"
Arya rolls her eyes. "I'm not a lady. Save the formalities for my sister."
"Arya," she tries again. "What can I do for you?"
"Gendry's just finished putting the final touches on this… whatever it is," she explains, and thrusts the package towards her. "Said it's for you."
Brienne takes the object, testing the weight of it in her hands and immediately recognising it.
"Oh. Yes, I know what this is. Thank you. But why have you brought it?"
Arya shrugs. "He didn't want to leave his nice, warm forge and traipse through the snow, not that you can blame him. I was coming back here anyway."
"Do I want to know why you're fraternising with the blacksmith?"
The young wolf's mouth upturns in a sly smile. "The same reason you're fraternising with a Lannister," she counters. She cranes her neck to try and catch a glimpse of Jaime, but Brienne's tall frame in the doorway is blocking her view. "Lucky for you, that one's not on my list. Yet."
Brienne can never quite tell when Arya is joking, so she changes the subject quickly.
"Go and warm yourself up, Arya. And thank you again, for this."
Arya nods and is gone, disappeared into the shadows, leaving only a breeze and flickering torchlight in her wake. Brienne closes the door again, turning back to the room to find Jaime has been listening, an amused smile on his face.
"They grow up so fast, don't they?"
Brienne chooses to ignore him, not wishing to dwell on Arya's dalliance with Winterfell's blacksmith; the as-yet-unresolved situation between Sansa and Tyrion is difficult enough to deal with, and she has never been any good at interpreting other people's awkward silences. She deposits the wrapped bundle on the bed and takes a step away again.
"Well, aren't you going to open it?" he asks.
"Actually, it's for you."
Interest piqued, Jaime abandons the cyvasse game and crosses to the bed. He places his hand on the package, pushing down; it dips under the pressure, the contents soft and springy, like a firm pillow.
"What is it?"
"Why don't you find out?" she suggests, the barest hint of a smile on her face.
He reaches for the rope securing the bundle, tied with a loose bow – easy enough to navigate with one hand – but he hesitates before opening it.
"It's… it's been a long time since anyone gave me a gift," he says, moving away from the bed to approach her. "Thank you, Brienne."
He leans in to kiss her but she presses her hand to his mouth, keeping him at bay. "Save that until after," she advises. "Just in case you hate it."
"Doubtful."
He returns, perching on the end of the mattress, and finally sets about unwrapping whatever is concealed within the leather. The bow yields easily and he pulls the rope away, flipping the entire parcel over to find the edges of the outer covering and carefully peeling them back. Inside, he is greeted by what looks to be a pile of furs: not the darker colours of the North but something paler. As he starts to unfold the layers, the greater whole becomes apparent. He stands, dragging the item upwards with him, finally unveiling it.
"It's a cloak?" he asks, as the garment unfurls to the floor.
"As promised," she reminds him. "And just in time, by the look of the weather."
He turns it about in his hand, draping it over his right arm to examine it more closely. The outer layer is exquisitely soft, dappled in shades of grey and white; the fur lining has a shorter pile, the colour of freshly baked bread, though it seems to shimmer like gold in the firelight. Jaime runs his hand over it reverently.
"It's rabbit," explains Brienne, feeling the need to fill the silence, "and the lining is deer. There's a layer of sheepskin across the shoulders, for extra warmth. It should fit, I hope. They had to use my measurements, and we're of a height so—"
"Brienne," he interrupts, "it's…" He struggles to think of an adequate word. "You didn't have do this. I'd have survived with anything that was going spare; I didn't expect you to have something made for me."
"Well, now we're even," she says, with a softly reminiscent smile.
"This fur must have been difficult to procure," he guesses. "Rabbits are not exactly abundant in this climate."
"Oh, the Cook owed me a favour," she says, by way of explanation, before realising it does not explain anything at all. "Her son was in my regiment, in the battle. He made it through and she's convinced I saved his life – I didn't have the heart to tell her he was on the other side of the castle for most of it. I had eyes on him for all of ten seconds before I lost him to the blizzard." She smiles, a little fondly. "She's been saving the furs for me, taking extra care when skinning the rabbits. The deer pelts were a gift also – I have no idea what she thought I'd do with them."
Jaime nods, a slightly disbelieving look on his face. "What does Gendry have to do with it all?"
She steps forward, to retrieve him of the cloak, swinging it around in a graceful arc and settling it over his shoulders. She expects him to make another jape about being brought under her protection, but he is evidently too surprised by the gift to think of it.
"The clasp," she says. "He helped me come up with something you could use one-handed. He didn't ask for payment – I suppose he enjoyed the challenge."
She steps back, to let him try it out. The cloak is secured by a large, hook-and-eye type fastening, the edges of the fur overlapping to keep out the cold. It takes a bit of fumbling, the first time, but once the layers are in place, the clasp itself is surprisingly simple to affix. Jaime's arms disappear inside the garment and Brienne quickly assesses its length, giving a satisfied nod. Sensing an additional weight against his back, Jaime reaches over his shoulder, shaking his head in exasperation as he finds a hood of similar construction.
"You really did think of everything."
"Of course." She reaches out, drawing the hood up over his head. Then she grasps his hand and leads him to the mantle, where a small hand-mirror is propped, upside-down, against the wall: a recent addition to the room, acquired solely for the purposes of Jaime trimming his beard. She positions him in front of it so he can fully appreciate the additional detail of the hood: a line of plush fur around the rim. Jaime surprises her by bursting into laughter.
"Was it your intention to make me resemble a lion?" he asks, when he recovers.
"No," she admits, though she has to acknowledge that he's correct; the fur around the hood does conjure the image of a mane. "Funnily enough, I haven't seen many lions this far North."
"Quite right, too. They generally dislike the cold, and this one is no exception."
"Just as well you have a nice new cloak to keep you warm, then."
He turns to face her, his expression soft. "Brienne, I… Thank you. Between this and your blazing hearth, I hope never to feel the cold again."
"You truly like it, Jaime?"
He is momentarily distracted by unhooking the clasp at his neck – it releases just as easily as it caught and he huffs out a small, impressed laugh – but soon his focus is back on her again as he reaches for her, hand and stump settling at her waist to pull her into the circle of his arms, until she is practically inside the cloak with him.
"I love it," he says, giving her an encouraging squeeze as she returns the embrace. "I love you, you magnificent woman."
With that, he leans in closer, nuzzling his nose against hers before capturing her mouth in a tender kiss, the hood blocking out any remaining light, and the cocoon of surrounding fur warming her from the outside in.
Jaime finds himself at something of a loose end, the following day. After the blizzard, the temperature has dropped, freezing the freshly-fallen snow and covering everything in a delicate layer of frost. The conditions are far too treacherous for any kind of training; even patrolling the walls is an exercise in balance and careful footwork. Since Brienne is required at Sansa's side for most of the day, Jaime spends the morning testing the limit of his new cloak, by going for a ride into the forest and fields beyond Winterfell.
He would never admit growing accustomed to the North, but even Jaime can appreciate the quiet stillness of the surroundings. It helps to calm some of the restless anxiety swirling around in his head, as the hour approaches for the journey South. In only a couple of days, the vast majority of Winterfell's current population will depart, his brother among them. Soon after that, a new Queen will be crowned, the fate of Westeros decided – and neither of the available options are particularly favourable.
He heads back as the sun starts to descend, making it back to the main gate just as the sky is painting itself in shades of pink and orange. Winterfell strikes a formidable silhouette at any distance, all the more so up close, its dark stone a harsh contrast to the luminous snow. When Jaime had first arrived, alone and without the promised army, the Starks' fortress had struck him with a sense of cold dread; now, as the gate seals shut behind him with a resounding thud, he feels a sense of relief wash over him. The amber glow of torchlight from within is warm and welcoming, reminding him that there is a well-built hearth waiting for him in Brienne's chambers.
He is distracted from reaching his destination by the rumbling of his stomach; he had lost track of time whilst riding, and has not eaten since breakfast.
Making his way to the Great Hall, he scans the interior. Tyrion and Podrick are sat at their customary table in the furthest corner from the high table – it gives his brother the perfect vantage point for staring wistfully at Sansa from across the room, though he has vehemently denied such a claim – but there is no sign of Brienne. Since the Lady of Winterfell is present, Brienne's absence cannot be related to her duties.
Tyrion spots him and waves him over, gesturing towards the seat beside Podrick, and Jaime approaches but does not sit.
"Where's Brienne?" he asks, forgoing any formalities.
Pod and Tyrion share a glance, its meaning unknown to Jaime, an unspoken conversation moving between them until Tyrion nods encouragingly at Podrick.
"She said she wasn't feeling well, Ser," he explains, his concern for her well-being evident from his face. "A bit of a chill, I think, from the weather. A lot of us have had it."
As if on cue, one of the Northmen sneezes dramatically on the other side of the Great Hall, and as Jaime casts his gaze around there are more than a few inhabitants looking rather the worse for wear with streaming noses and hacking coughs.
"Has she eaten today?" asks Jaime with concern.
Pod shakes his head. "I didn't see her at breakfast, but she was with Lady Sansa from sun-up, so I'm not sure. She only came here to let us know she wasn't staying."
"I'll go and check on her."
"You should eat something, brother," suggests Tyrion. "You'll be no use to her on an empty stomach."
Jaime grabs a hunk of bread from the basket on the table, waving it meaningfully in Tyrion's direction, and is gone before the conversation can continue.
He chews on the bread as he makes his way to Brienne's room, finding it unpalatably dry and hard to swallow without the remnants of stew to dunk it into, but it's enough to stop the hunger pangs. As he approaches the door, the room seems to be deathly quiet on the other side, and he surmises she must be resting. He knocks quietly.
"Brienne? Are you alright? Podrick told me you were feeling unwell." He is surprised to hear a thud from within and a low curse, and immediately fears the worst. "I'm coming in," he announces.
"No, wait—"
He pushes open the door, expecting to find her collapsed on the floor from fever and unable to get back up, but instead he catches her hastily righting a fallen chair and straightening her back, standing in front of the table. There's a flush to her cheeks, but it does not appear to be from illness. He hesitates on the threshold of the room as he tries to make sense of the situation before him.
Nothing seems to be amiss; the fire is blazing heartily as usual, curtains drawn against the harsh weather outside, the room as neat and orderly as ever. Brienne has not moved from her position in front of the table, almost as though—
"What are you hiding?" he asks, curiosity getting the better of him.
"I told you to wait," she responds in an admonishing tone. "You almost ruined the surprise."
"Another gift? Honestly, Brienne, the cloak was enough."
"No… not a gift, exactly." She hesitates, weighing her options, but eventually gives in. "Well, you're here now, so you might as well see. Close the door, you're letting all the heat out."
He obeys, pushing the panel shut with a satisfying thump, divests himself of the new cloak and hangs it up carefully, and when he turns back Brienne has stepped away from the table to reveal what she had been trying to obscure from his view.
There's a simple dinner laid out, nothing any different to the fare available in the Great Hall: two bowls of still-steaming stew, half a loaf of bread, a flagon of wine and two cups. There's a neatly embroidered cloth on the table, with suns and stars around its edge and a pattern of waves and tiny flowers in the colours of her House, all rendered with tiny, neat stitches, and a candle in the middle. Jaime approaches the tableau, a fascinated smile raising on his face.
"What's all this?"
Her expression is a little sheepish as she explains: "I've been so busy lately with Lady Sansa, it feels as though we barely see each other… except at mealtimes, and as much as I like your brother, there is only so much of him I can endure."
"Yes, he does have that effect on people," muses Jaime.
"I just thought this might be nice," she says, eyes downcast. "A silly notion, I suppose…"
Jaime affects his most chivalrous posture. "It would be my honour to join you in a private dinner, my lady."
As anticipated, Brienne rolls her eyes at him. "Just sit down before it gets cold."
Undeterred, Jaime pulls out a chair for her first, enjoying the surprised expression on her face and the shy smile that follows. As he sits opposite, she pours them both a cup of wine, and gestures for him to start eating.
The meal passes slowly as they share details of their respective days, though neither of them has much to tell. Brienne's day with Sansa has been much the same as any other. Jaime embellishes his outside adventure by listing off the various wildlife he encountered along the way, including the slightly unnerving experience of hearing a pack of wolves in the distance that never revealed themselves, almost as though the spirits of long-gone Starks were watching him from the hills in judgement.
As they dine, Brienne empties her cup and reaches for the flagon to refill it, perplexed to find that Jaime's is still mostly full.
"This is a rare treat," he explains, realising after the first mouthful that Brienne had acquired something of better quality than the watered-down excuse for wine that circulates the Great Hall every night. "I'm going to savour it."
"Suit yourself," she mutters with a shrug, and takes a hearty gulp from her own goblet.
"I must say, it's very generous of Sansa to—" He does not finish the assumption, as Brienne flushes guiltily, and it's not difficult to guess why. "Brienne, did you steal this wine?"
"I would have asked, but I didn't have the opportunity," she says, not even attempting to defend herself. "I'll replace it, when trade is running again. Besides, it's one jug out of a whole barrel. Nobody will miss it. The way your brother carries on, I'm surprised there's any left at all."
"Don't bring Tyrion into this. He drinks what's he given; he doesn't go sneaking into the cellars to purloin the finest Dornish from Winterfell's stores." Jaime can barely contain his delighted grin. "Unlike the honourable Maid of Tarth."
"Oh, do shut up," she admonishes him. "If you don't want it—"
"Now, I never said that," he counters, and moves the goblet out of her reaching grasp. He takes another swig, and hums; it really is excellent. Brienne responds by downing half of her cup in one go, barely pausing to appreciate what she's drinking, and he looks at her askance. "It's not a race."
"I know."
"If you're trying to destroy the evidence," he says, as she lifts her cup again, "I'll not be party to it."
His continued amusement at the situation distracts her from her intention, and she places the cup down, fixing him with an unimpressed glare and folding her arms in front of her chest.
"Is this the thanks I get, for going to all this trouble?"
Jaime abandons his own drink, placing the vessel down and reaching for one of her hands, extracting it from the defensive stance of her arms and drawing it towards him so he can bestow a kiss to her knuckles. Some of the frostiness leaves her expression, and he takes it as a good sign.
"Apologies, Brienne. You know I'm only teasing." He brushes his thumb across the skin of her hand in a gentle caress. "I am grateful for your efforts. This is truly the best meal I've had in a long time."
"I can't take any credit for the stew," she reminds him.
"The best company, then."
She gives him a small, self-conscious smile, and he assumes he is forgiven for his japing. They resume the meal in silence. Brienne tries to take smaller gulps of her wine, but she still finishes her cup before him, reaching wordlessly to refill it a third time. Jaime does not say anything, but there's a creeping intuition in his gut that something might be amiss. He lets it go, for now.
"Tell me about this table-linen," he suggests. "It's from Tarth, I assume?"
Brienne looks surprised, as though she had not expected him to notice.
"Yes. It's one of the only things I took with me, when I left." At his curious expression, she is compelled to continue. "My mother made it. Or rather, she started it, but she died before she could finish it. I took it upon myself to see it done, only the Gods know why; I'd only just learned how to thread a needle. My Septa tried to talk me out of it – I would ruin all that hard work, she said, and the end result would be so awful it would never see the light of day again."
"I hope you proved her wrong."
"Ah… no. She was right. As always. I did finish it, but… well, see for yourself."
She gestures towards the edge of the cloth nearest the fire, which had been hidden from his vantage point in the doorway, and Jaime lifts the corner to examine it more closely. The handiwork of young Brienne is more than evident: the neatly-stitched emblems of her House transforming into haphazard, indeterminate shapes. The stars, at least, are recognisable, though inconsistent in size.
"Is that a blood stain?" he asks in an amused tone.
"I did tell you I was terrible at needlework," she responds self-deprecatingly. Jaime shakes his head fondly at her and drops the edge of the cloth again, before smoothing it carefully over the table's edge. "My Septa was horrified when she saw it, and I was so devastated by the terrible mess I'd made that my father tried to cheer me up by using it anyway. The next day I took it to my room and hid it."
"Oh, love."
Jaime tries to inject some sympathy into his tone, but in truth he is overwhelmed by affection, both for the girl she used to be and the woman she has become: true to herself in spite of everything. A delightful flush paints her skin at the unprecedented endearment, and she reaches for her goblet, taking a large swig of the wine before continuing with the story.
"I'd forgotten all about it, until I was packing my things. I considered leaving it behind, but… after all those years, there was barely anything left to remind me of my mother, and I could hardly remember her. When I saw it again, I… I felt a connection. So I've kept it with me ever since."
He presses a hand to his heart, a gesture of sincerity. "I am truly honoured to be dining off such a prized possession."
"I just needed something for the table," she responds, a little bewildered.
"Regardless," he says, "your mother's handiwork is exquisite, and yours is charming."
She snorts out a laugh. "That's not quite the word my Septa used to describe it."
"The more you tell me about this woman, the less I like her."
"Then you'll be pleased to know that she died within a year of me leaving home," she reveals with a smile.
"That does not please me at all," he counters. "I would rather have liked to deal with her myself. Unless, of course, you'd prefer I leave the privilege to you."
"I will admit, the thought did cross my mind on occasion," she admits, with a pensive expression. "She disapproved greatly of my training, all the more so when it became apparent I was more proficient with a sword than I ever would be with more ladylike pursuits. I think she… she considered me ungrateful, or ignorant of all she tried to teach me. Everything was so right, with a sword in my hand – for the first time in my life, I felt as though I knew myself. I thought – I hoped – she might be happy for me."
She hesitates before continuing, the silence extending; despite his burning curiosity, Jaime keeps quiet and allows her the time she needs to find the words. She stares into her goblet, watching the reflection of the flames in the dark surface of the wine, before lifting it and taking a hearty mouthful.
"I realised," she continues eventually, "years later, that her cruelty was almost a kindness. She was only trying to prepare me for the world I'd encounter; she saw no point in trying to shelter me from it. Of course she was unhappy about my training – she knew exactly what people would say about a… a silly little girl pretending to be a knight."
Jaime reaches out, lightly touching the back of her hand where it encircles the goblet, drawing her back to the present.
"She was wrong," he reminds her. "And I'm glad you defied her, because you're better than all of us put together."
"I didn't have any other choice." She shakes her head. "You have to admire her fortitude, really. All those years she spent trying to prepare me for a future I'd never have. No wonder she was so displeased that I took up the sword instead. If someone had been willing to marry me, at least she'd have done her duty."
Jaime bites his tongue from blurting out that he would be more than willing; they have spoken of it, in offhanded comments and vague promises of the future, but he has every intention of asking her properly one day, when the realm is at peace and spring has arrived. The possibility shines like a beacon in the distance, a guiding light.
"If you'd married," he says, trying to keep his tone light in a bid to lift her slightly melancholic mood, "then you wouldn't be here, enjoying this truly excellent wine and this… decidedly average stew." He gestures towards both in turn. "You would never have met Catelyn Stark, or Lord Renly, or Lady Sansa, or Podrick—"
"Or you," she interjects.
"I'm sure that would be no great loss," he mutters self-deprecatingly. She opens her mouth to speak and he interrupts, knowing exactly what she's about to say: "Someone would have knighted you eventually – it didn't have to be me."
She stares at him, a look of disbelief on her face.
"Do you really believe that's all you are to me?" He is not quick enough to formulate an answer before she continues, incredulous: "What, do you think I've only let you share my bed out of gratitude?"
"No, but—"
"I love you, Jaime, you great bloody fool." It always cheers his heart, to hear her say it, but Brienne's troubled countenance does not alter and the tendril of worry tightens in his chest. "Maybe I don't tell you as much as I should, but that does not make it any less true."
He does not respond immediately, occupying himself by moving both of their empty bowls and the candlestick to one side, creating space in the centre of the table so he can reach for her hand and grasp it tightly. The physical contact makes the intangible feeling inside him coalesce into something he can express in words.
"I know," he reassures her. "You don't have to remind me – you show me, every day, in a hundred different ways. It's always nice to hear it, I won't deny that, but you needn't worry about me forgetting." He reaches up to caress her face; it's rare these days that he yearns for his missing hand, but he wishes he still had it now, so he did not have to let go of hers. "I am thankful every moment for having earned your love."
Her hand covers his as she leans into his palm.
"But you tell me so often, and—"
"I tell you because I want to," he explains. "Because I do not ever wish for you to doubt it. Because the look on your face when I do is as rare and precious as… as that first sunrise after the battle, when I never thought to see daylight again."
She is wearing just such an expression now, eyes sparkling in the firelight with tears she is bravely keeping at bay, the subtle quiver of her chin revealing the deeply-felt emotions that she normally keeps hidden from those around her. He feels privileged, as ever, that she feels no compulsion to disguise it from him, that she knows he will not judge her or consider her weak.
She lets out a shaky breath, a valiant effort to regain control, lacing her fingers through his before drawing his hand away from her face. She reaches for her goblet with the other, downing the contents and moving to refill it from the flagon. Alarmed, Jaime extricates his hand from beneath hers to cover the rim of the cup, preventing her from pouring any more into it; the movement startles her, but she manages to avoid spilling any wine onto the tablecloth as she sets the jug down again. She fixes him with a mildly irritated, questioning stare.
"You're going to make yourself ill if you keep drinking at that pace," he tells her in a concerned tone.
"I'll be fine," she argues, but to his relief she concedes to his authority on the matter, abandoning the wine completely. Jaime shifts Brienne's goblet out of the way, then his own, placing them beside the empty bowls and the tough-crusted remains of the bread, before reaching across to grasp her hand again. The uneasy feeling in his gut has not abated, but the warmth of her fingers entwined with his own feels grounding and familiar; the world seems a little less chaotic, when they are tethered together like this.
"Thank you for dinner, Brienne."
"It wasn't anything special."
"I beg to differ," he says with a warm smile. "Every minute with you is time well spent, and I will gladly occupy as much of it as your liege lady will allow."
"That may be very little until the Queen and her retinue have left," she reminds him sadly.
"All the more reason to savour it." His smile falters a little. "All those wasted years and missed opportunities. It grieves me to think of what could have been – of how our lives might have been different if only—"
"Everything happens for a reason," she interjects gently. "There's no point in dwelling on it. You're here now; you did the right thing when it mattered and—" She cuts herself off, voice thick with emotion, eyes shining as they meet his across the table, before she drops her gaze to the delicate weave of the cloth. "It means more than I can say, that you made the decision to be here – to be with me."
"There was no other choice to make. It was you, or nothing." His raises his handless arm to nudge her chin upwards, until she meets his gaze again, unwilling to relinquish the connection of their hands. "On the ride here, I had no real plan to… to tell you how I felt. I could not even imagine that you might feel the same. I thought that fighting and dying by your side would be enough."
"But you lived," she reminds him with a light smile.
"Yes. I lived, and I fully intend to continue living – with you, wherever you will have me."
Brienne levels her gaze at him from across the table, contemplating his words. It's not uncommon for him to render her speechless by laying his heart's intentions at her feet, so he does not think anything of her silence.
Eventually, she lets go of his hand and rises from the chair – a little unsteady as her sudden upward movement exacerbates the effect of the wine – and edges around the table to stand in front of him. She studies him as though trying to figure out a puzzle, but her expression is otherwise unreadable. Their eyes lock; between one breath and the next she has leant down to kiss him; he has to crane his neck to reach her, and her back is bowed awkwardly. Her hands raise to encircle his face and she moves closer, taking a step forward. Jaime tries to stand to adjust the uncomfortable position they find themselves in, at the same second as Brienne situates herself in his lap, her legs astride his hips, effectively forcing him back down again. His right arm snakes around her back to help her retain her balance; the chair creaks alarmingly under their combined weight.
Her tongue darts tentatively, still unsure, along his lower lip; he yields instinctually, humming contentedly as the kiss deepens. The fingers of his good hand bury themselves in her hair, his stump caressing up and down her spine. Despite the precarious arrangement, her body in his arms feels right, as though she was always supposed to be there.
Her thumbs graze his cheekbones and he kisses her harder, nipping softly at her bottom lip in the way he knows she enjoys, and she shifts in his lap, dragging an involuntary groan from his throat and causing their kiss to break. Brienne has clearly noticed his evident physical reaction, and he curses himself inwardly for his lack of control, expecting her to bolt at any moment. She searches his face, a flash of something unidentifiable in her gaze, gone too quickly for him to try and analyse it; but her eyes are dark in the firelight, almost black with need, and his breath catches in his throat when he tries to speak.
She leans in again before he can recover, claiming his mouth possessively. Her hands drop to his shoulders and she moves against him again, intentionally this time; it takes every last shred of will-power not to buck up towards her, and he is so focused on reining in his own reactions and trying not to frighten her off that he barely registers the fact that her hands have dropped to the tie of his shirt until her warm fingers brush against his chest.
He pulls back from her in surprise. "What are you doing?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Brienne—"
She interrupts him with another kiss, a message clearly sent and received.
Despite the outward confidence of her movements, her hands are shaking; when he tries to touch her in return, snaking his hand beneath the hem of her shirt, she squirms out the reach of his searching fingers, almost flinching away. That same uneasy feeling returns with a vengeance, and his conscience wins the battle.
Jaime eases away from her gently, stilling her skittish hands beneath his, trying to convey his concern without having to ask her outright. A confused frown edges onto her face.
"What's wrong? Do you not want—?"
"Yes," he reassures her fervently. "But I'm not sure you do."
"Does it matter?"
"Does it matter?" he repeats incredulously. She looks chastened by the outburst, her gaze dropping away to stare at his hand where it still covers hers, and he tries to temper his tone before speaking again. "I thought I had been clear enough, and I apologise if I was not. I do not expect anything from you that you do not wish to give." He lifts her chin, until she meets his eyes again. "I want you desperately – I've never denied that – but I'll wait as long as I have to. There's no need for you to… to rush into anything if you're not comfortable."
To his dismay, Brienne only looks more downtrodden at his words, a maudlin sigh escaping her as she averts her face again. Jaime has struggled to predict and interpret her mood all evening, and this is no exception; there is evidently something much deeper at play, but getting to the bottom of it seems an impossible task when she will not even look at him.
A moment later, she lifts her head again, a strange determination in her face, and she reaches decisively for his half-full goblet, drinking the contents as rapidly as before. The jug is out of reach, but he's certain she would be refilling the cup if she could. Before he can say anything, she encircles his face again and presses her mouth to his. The lingering taste of the wine on her tongue is intoxicating, addictive, almost enough to crumble his resolve, but the niggling worry in the back of his mind simply will not be silenced. He echoes her posture, hand and stump both raising to hold her face and carefully ease her away, and she acquiesces without argument.
This time, he does not even try to hide his concern.
"Brienne… what is all this?"
"Nothing," she says. "It's… it's nothing."
With that, she clambers off him and retreats to the middle of the room. Her absence leaves him chilled and he suppresses a shudder, despite the close proximity of her ample fire. He does not immediately seek to go after her, giving her space for the moment, but he cannot deny feeling another wave of apprehension as Brienne wraps her arms around herself in a self-protective stance. It makes her look small, if such a thing were even possible, and that in itself is enough to make him rise from the chair and stride over to her.
He reaches out, intending to press his hand to her shoulder in a gesture of comfort, but she jolts and recoils. He raises his arms in surrender, taking a step back, but she seems just as surprised as him by her reaction.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, confused and embarrassed, her eyes widening in shock.
Jaime's arms ache to wrap around her and offer the reassurance she evidently needs, but he is wary of making the attempt in case she jerks away from him again.
"Brienne, you're starting to worry me," he admits. "Please, just… tell me what I can do."
"I don't know." She shakes her head in abject frustration, blinking back a fresh wave of tears. She swallows thickly, fighting off a wave of nausea. "I… I need some air."
She heads past him towards the door to her chamber and he follows instinctively, but once she has the door open, she turns to him and shakes her head.
"I need to be alone for a while," she explains, and he nods his assent. "Will you be here later?"
He gives her an ironic, self-deprecating smile. "I have nowhere else to be."
Her relief at that is tangible, and she gives him a weak smile in response before leaving the room.
Jaime stares at the closed door for a long time, before he finally concedes defeat and pours himself the final half-cup of wine from the flagon, settles back into the chair and patiently awaits her return.
By the time Brienne makes her way back to her chambers, it is well past the time that most of the castle's inhabitants retire to bed, and the corridors are eerily silent as she traverses them.
She has been wandering the battlements for hours, trying to gather her composure and her thoughts. She has been blessedly undisturbed, the night guards on the walls paying her no heed other than the occasional nod in greeting. The outside air had shocked her system enough that she immediately threw up her dinner, as well as all the wine she'd imbibed – thankfully not in view of anyone – and the subsequent grumbling of her stomach has been an irritating and distracting accompaniment to her solitude. She passes through the kitchen, sneaking a wedge of cheese and some bread to appease her hunger, trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.
In her haste, Brienne had foolishly fled her quarters without a jacket or cloak. The snow has not been falling so heavily today, but her shoulders and hair are coated in a fine layer of white and her clothing is soaked, her rough-woven shirt clinging uncomfortably to her back. Despite that, she does not feel particularly cold, her tumultuous thoughts consuming her to the point of everything else becoming numb.
When she finally reaches the door to her room, she hesitates before opening it, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Jaime had acquiesced to her need for solitude without argument, but she has no idea how to approach the conversation that is about to ensue. She is more than aware of how troubling her actions appeared, and she owes him an explanation, no matter how difficult it may prove to be.
She opens the door to find the hearth still blazing, the table cleared and the chairs tidied; her mother's cloth is folded into a neat pile, placed carefully atop the table's surface. Jaime is half-reclined on the bed, snoring lightly, and she feels doubly guilty for having kept him waiting so long. He jolts awake as she closes the door; his relieved smile at her return alters quickly to a frown of concern as he takes in her appearance, and he rises from the bed to meet her halfway.
He makes a halting, aborted movement, as if to embrace her, and then decides against it, instead raising his hand to his face to rub the tiredness out of his eyes.
"Are you feeling any better?" he asks, with an almost forced nonchalance.
"A little," she responds.
The heat of the room makes her sodden clothing all the more uncomfortable, and an involuntary shudder runs through her. She rubs her arms to try and warm them, but that only makes things worse, and before long she is shivering uncontrollably. She is vaguely aware of Jaime speaking but his words do not properly register in her brain.
He startles her by reaching abruptly for the hem of her shirt, as if to yank it from her breeches and lift it up, and she steps away from him in alarm. He does not seem surprised by her reaction, raising his arms in surrender and moving away from her without argument.
"What—"
"You need to get out of those wet clothes before you catch a chill," he explains patiently, and her memory helpfully reminds her that he was trying to tell her so, even if she could not hear him over the chattering of her teeth.
"Oh…"
He moves to the chest in the corner of the room where she stores her clothing – and his, now – and retrieves a clean shirt and breeches before returning. He deposits the breeches into her still-shaking hands, but he wavers before giving her the tunic, looking thoughtful for a second. A moment later, he nods decisively and tugs his own shirt over his head, handing that to her instead and changing into the fresh one himself. Her addled mind is not able to follow his logic, and it must be obvious from her face, because he lets out a light chuckle.
"Get changed," he commands her gently, and gestures towards the privacy screen she has recently acquired.
She makes slow progress, her fingers uncooperative and almost numb with cold. As she steps out of her boots, she notes with some relief that her socks are still dry, so at least she does not risk losing any toes to frostbite. The clean breeches are only a slight improvement on the snow-soaked pair she changes out of, but when she swaps her saturated tunic for Jaime's, she has to stop herself from groaning in relief, as the garment has retained the heat from his body and warms her more thoroughly than she could have imagined.
Feeling considerably more human, she blows on her fingers to get her blood circulating, moving to the hearth to rub her hands together in front of the blaze, before tidying up the discarded clothing from the floor. Jaime shakes his head in exasperation at her inability to leave things in any kind of mess, but he does not deter her as she clears the items into a basket of dirty linens, ready for the servants to collect on the morrow.
When she's done, he reaches for her hand, his grip tightening when she does not flinch or pull away.
"Come on," he says, "let's get you warmed up."
With that, he leads her towards the bed. He indicates for her to wait, as he arranges the furs and pillows into a pile against the wall. He tugs her with him as he settles on the mattress, manoeuvring her until she is sat between his legs, her back to his chest. The remaining fur, she pulls up to her chin, as Jaime's arms come up around her, enveloping her in warmth.
Brienne lets out a sigh, melting into Jaime's embrace as her limbs start to thaw. She tugs his arms tighter, shivering as the cold leaches from her bones, and Jaime nuzzles his face into her hair, pressing a tender kiss behind her ear. She shudders again, not just from the chill.
They remain as they are for some time. The chaotic mess of thoughts in Brienne's head is finally starting to untangle, but she does not yet feel able to speak. Jaime's presence at her back is enough to ground her, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes and the familiar thud of his heartbeat. Usually, she would resort to sparring to clear her mind, and she knows that Jaime would even agree to join her, if she was to ask him, but moving seems an insurmountable task and the thought of going back out into the cold is not particularly appealing.
For the most part, she is confused by his actions since her return – confused, but relieved. She had half-anticipated an argument or for him to be furious with her, and his calm patience is unexpected. She is far too exhausted now for a debate, but his quiet care and affection only serve to increase her guilt.
"Why aren't you angry?" she blurts out, without truly intending to.
The question clearly startles him, as sudden as it is in the quiet of their room, and he draws in a breath and then exhales before answering.
"Should I be?"
"I thought— My behaviour was—" She cuts herself off with a frustrated sigh, unable to formulate the words. Jaime is tolerant with her, perhaps more so than she deserves. "I led you to believe that… that something would happen tonight, and—"
"It doesn't matter," he interjects. "I was the one who questioned it, if you recall. All evening, I've felt that something was amiss. I've been worried, not angry."
"Was it that obvious?" she asks.
"You were clearly… not yourself," he offers by way of explanation.
She bows her head, contrite. "I'm sorry, then."
Jaime's left arm relinquishes its grip around her, as he lifts a hand to scrub his face in frustration; even with her back turned, she recognises the action.
"Brienne, Gods, you don't need to apologise." He resumes the embrace, instinctively seeking out her fingers so he can link them with his, squeezing reassuringly. She grips his hand tighter when he tries to withdraw, not wishing to lose the contact. "Please, just tell me what's going on," he implores. "Whatever it is that's troubling you, I want to help, if I can."
She is still not completely certain herself what the crux of the problem is, and it takes her a while to sift through the noise in her head. Her unwarranted nostalgia earlier in the night has certainly not helped matters, the stern and disapproving voice of her Septa intruding on her thoughts and confusing her even further. She shuts her eyes, focusing on her breathing, on Jaime's, on the gentle synchrony of their respective heartbeats.
She feels warm and content; safe within the familiar walls of her chamber and the haven of Jaime's limbs around her. Even a month ago, she would never have anticipated this – would barely have been courageous enough to wish for it. Now, she cannot imagine being anywhere else.
Suddenly, the root of the issue is as clear as day.
"I don't want to lose you."
It sounds as ridiculous spoken aloud as it did within her head, and Jaime's surprise is evident. He does not push her for more, though his arms tighten, just a little, in silent encouragement.
"The army is marching South within a few days," she explains carefully. "I thought if we— That it might give you a reason to stay."
"I already have a reason," he tells her, his mouth close to her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.
She cannot deny that his words send a jolt of pure joy to her heart; she is not made of stone. Regardless, they are knights, and whilst her loyalties must remain with the Starks, Jaime's are not so clear-cut.
"I would not wish to keep you from your duty."
"What duty?" he asks incredulously.
"They need good people, strong leadership," she explains. "Your experience is invaluable."
Jaime scoffs derisively.
"The presence of one man with one hand – as Queen Daenerys so delicately phrased it – will have very little impact on the outcome of this war. Even if I wanted to go South – which, just to be clear, I do not – Daenerys has no reason to trust me, and would probably sooner detach my head than allow me anywhere near her troops. No, I can make a far greater impact by remaining here."
Curiosity piqued, Brienne turns a little within the circle of his arms, to try and see his face.
"How so? Has Lady Sansa found some purpose for you?"
"If she has, she is yet to communicate it to me," he says with a knowing smile.
"Then what—?"
"I have made it my sole mission," he interrupts, in a grave and commanding tone, "to ensure that the Lady Brienne of Tarth, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, knows just how completely she has stolen my heart."
"It is considered stealing," she queries in a similarly solemn tone, "if you've given it freely?"
"Oh, you took it long before I chose to hand it over," he tells her.
She has no response to that, fixing him with a searching gaze for a second before turning to face forward again, making herself a little more comfortable in his hold. She drops her head to his shoulder, and Jaime leans further back into the mound of pillows. Closing her eyes, she lets out a contented sigh, feeling the pull of sleep and allowing herself to succumb to it. She is on the verge of drifting off when Jaime's voice pierces the silence again, in a low, questioning tone.
"Brienne… if I may ask…"
"Hm?"
"The wine," he says. "I know you rarely partake, and the rate you were drinking it…"
She sighs; she had known this question might arise.
"You will think me a fool," she proffers, hoping he will let it drop.
"I doubt that very much. Just tell me."
She thinks for a moment how best to explain it; she has never been skilled in translating her innermost thoughts into words.
"I… The night of the feast, when we almost…" Even now, the memory of that evening warms her as much as it makes her flush with embarrassment. "It seemed… easier, after so much wine, and I thought it might help."
"And did it?"
"Evidently not," she huffs.
A surge of irritation washes over her, at her continued inability to act upon the latent feelings that have been slowly overcoming her for the past few weeks. She would like nothing more than to explain herself to Jaime, to make sure he understands: it's not that she's unwilling, but some invisible barrier is preventing her from letting those feelings run free. Whenever it seems as though it might be possible, self-doubt rears its head, abject terror that either her body or her inexperience will be too great an obstacle to overcome.
Even as that thought arises again, she knows it to be ridiculous; Jaime has made his intentions and his desires more than evident.
"Gods, I have no idea what I'm doing."
Brienne surprises herself with those words, not fully intending to set them free, but now they are released and she has to deal with the consequences.
Jaime's response shocks her just as much.
"And you think I do?"
"Is that a jape?" she asks him, unable to keep the suspicion from her voice.
"No, I don't mean…" Jaime trails off with a sigh. "I know what happens," he clarifies. "That's the easy part."
"Speak for yourself," she mutters, half to herself. Jaime seems not to have heard her, as he continues regardless.
"I've never… It hasn't meant anything for a very long time. I'm not sure I know how to be with someone and have it mean something. I've been willing to wait for you because I—" He hesitates, weighing the odds of continuing, and at her encouraging silence he decides to risk it. "I love you so much, Brienne, and I don't want to… to mess this up."
She swallows the lump in her throat, blinking back tears as she considers his words. It had never occurred to her before now that Jaime might have his own demons to fight when it came to this particular subject. She cannot even say that she fully understands, because her knowledge of his previous history is much the same as everyone else's. With that thought, she realises the solution to the quandary is obvious.
"Do you… want to talk about it?" she offers.
"About what?" he counters incredulously. "My terrible, sordid history? Why would you want to hear—"
Brienne sits up abruptly, startling him and cutting off his words. Disentangling herself from the warm containment of his limbs, she sets about rearranging the pillows and furs to their usual place, silently urging Jaime to shuffle down the bed before rejoining him. She tugs one of the furs over their legs, settling against his side with her head resting on his shoulder, dropping her arm across his midsection in a loose, comforting embrace.
"I… I need to understand," she explains softly, nuzzling briefly into his neck to breathe him in. "Talk to me, Jaime."
She can sense his reticence, despite trying to make her tone reassuring.
"You will find me loathsome," he suggests.
"Impossible." She smiles, hoping he can feel it even if he cannot see her face, and tightens her arm around his middle: both a comfort and a subtle means of preventing his immediate escape. He emits a gruff laugh, more ironic than amused. "Please. Just tell me."
He seeks out her arm where it lies across his stomach, his own resting alongside, hand encircling her forearm just below the elbow. His thumb moves instinctively to caress the skin there, soothing the goosebumps that rise in its wake with each pass.
"I don't know where to start," he admits.
"Wherever you feel comfortable," she suggests. "You're not on trial, Jaime."
He acknowledges that with a hum.
"Just remember, you brought this on yourself," he says; the humour in his tone is forced, an obvious act. "You're not allowed to run away from me when you know the truth."
There's a genuine fear beneath his words, a fear Brienne recognises all too well. She leans up, so she can properly see his face, so he can see hers, so he can understand her completely.
"I will not love the man you are any less for having learned who you were." She searches his gaze until she's certain her words have sunk in. "You have my oath, on my honour as a knight."
He nods, and she settles beside him again.
"I do not deserve you," he tells her, turning his head to press a kiss to her forehead.
"I'll thank you to let me decide what I deserve."
Jaime sighs, knowing that he cannot delay the inevitable any further, and Brienne lapses into silence, giving him time. It takes a few minutes before he's able to speak, and at first the account is halting and uneasy; but Brienne does not interrupt or interject, and soon everything comes pouring out of him with barely a chance for breath.
He tells her everything; how he cannot really remember now when it started, or why, only that they were born together, must die together, must be always together; how Cersei hated Tyrion just as much for stealing him away than for the death of their mother, and how she hated Jaime for not sharing her low opinion of their baby brother and sought to punish them both; how Joffrey's arrival was fraught with terror and love and desperate yearning, all the more so for Myrcella and Tommen. He tells her about Aerys, again, every tawdry detail; about Bran Stark and the broken tower; about returning to the capital after Riverrun to find his last child dead, not quite by Cersei's hand but through her power-crazed actions; about succumbing to her wiles because he thought she wanted the same thing, finally, after so many years.
The rest, she knows; the parts in between. There are some things he omits, either forgetting them or not wishing to remember, but there's enough to piece the greater whole together.
By the time it's over, their positions are reversed. Jaime buries his face into her shoulder, muffling his words, which have become little more than half-finished thoughts for the past few minutes as the enormity of what he has shared overwhelms him. Brienne knows without having to ask that this is the first time he has unloaded the burden to anyone, and that perhaps even Tyrion does not know as much as he might think.
Jaime lets out a shuddering breath and she tightens her arms around him, holding him steady as he starts to shake. There is more he needs to tell her – she has no doubt of that – but for now he is emptied out. Brienne allows herself the indulgence of shedding some tears alongside him, her heart breaking that she could not have been there to prevent any of it – an utterly impossible thing to wish for.
Eventually, he calms, letting out a shuddering breath before slowly lifting his head, red-rimmed eyes locking to hers. He raises his hand to wipe the remaining tears from her face, withdrawing again immediately, then offers her a grim smile as he glances towards the dampened fabric of her tunic.
"I've ruined your shirt," he tells her self-deprecatingly, in an obvious attempt to relieve the tension of the moment.
"It's your shirt," she reminds him.
"No, it's definitely yours," he admits. "You can add thievery to my infinite list of sins."
He looks completely downtrodden, despite his best efforts at lightening the mood, and all Brienne can do is shake her head in frustration, turning to face him so she can press her forehead to his. The contact seems to help, as Jaime relaxes a little and tightens his arm around her; his left hand clenches into the fabric of her tunic against her back, clinging to it like a lifeline.
"Do you still believe me to be a good man, now that you know what I've done?"
"Yes," she answers, without hesitation. She eases back, the better to see his face. "Nothing you could tell me would change that."
"But—"
"Jaime, I fell in love with you when you were still an unbearable arse," she tells him firmly, deriving some small joy from the surprised look on his face. "If I had known then what I know now, it would have made little difference. People do bad things for good reasons, or make poor decisions, but that does not make them any less capable of being true to themselves."
He still looks unconvinced, so she lifts her hands to rest over his heart. His expression softens, her words slowly dawning on him, and it encourages her to continue.
"I know you, Jaime Lannister. I know your heart, and I know you have always followed it, even if it led you into trouble."
"It led me to you," he says, softly, "where I should have been all along."
She has no response to that, the carefully-considered words she had prepared disappearing like snow under sunlight. Jaime sighs, searching her gaze.
"You truly do not despise me?" he asks.
She shakes her head, lifting a hand to cup his face. "Not even slightly."
Brienne can tell the moment he believes her: the distant glassiness of his eyes finally dissipates and he is here with her again, no longer trying to shut himself away. She lets out a breath in relief, unaware that she had been holding it in.
He turns his head, nuzzling his face into her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm.
"I adore you," he tells her fervently, his hand finally releasing the bunched fabric of her shirt so he can raise it to her face, thumb drifting gently across the soft skin of her cheek. "I have done terrible things, not necessarily for good reasons, and I will never know why the Gods saw fit to bless me with your beautiful heart. All I do know is that I will cherish it always, because I have never loved another as I love you."
She surges towards him before she can succumb to tears, capturing his mouth in a tender kiss. He melts into her, hand shifting back to sink into her hair, his heartbeat speeding up ever-so-slightly beneath her palms. When they draw apart again mere seconds later, they lapse into silence, words evading them both.
They settle under the furs, wrapped up in each other, thinking of nothing and everything as they gaze across the scant distance of the pillows. Brienne lies still, focusing on the synchrony of their hearts; Jaime is in constant, gentle motion, his hand caressing her spine, her arm, the subtle curve between her ribcage and hip, as though she will disappear if he stops.
"So…" he says, eventually, "tell me more about this epiphany you experienced during our journey across the Riverlands. Which particularly unbearable moment was it that first stirred your heartstrings, Ser?"
Her exasperated groan ricochets off the chamber walls, followed swiftly by Jaime's laughter – the loudest noise either of them have made since she returned to her room, but undoubtedly the sweetest.
A/N: A bit of an abrupt ending there, sorry, but I didn't really know where to take it after that!
I have no idea when this story became a study in getting our two Idiots in Love to the point of TBTWP, but apparently that's what it wants to be, so who am I to argue? On which note… apologies again for the ship-tease. :P
The angst in the latter half of this chapter took a turn I was not fully expecting when I started, but I think these are conversations they need to have. I was playing on my "Brienne is a lightweight with lower inhibitions and even lower self-esteem" tag here (per the AO3 version of this story), and taking that concept to what felt like an appropriate place for the emotional journey these two are taking. They still have a long way to go before Brienne stops overthinking and Jaime comes to terms with his feelings of unworthiness, but they'll get there. =)
The next chapter is approximately one-third written, and I'm hopeful of getting it finished and posted soon, if real life does not continue to get in the way. In the hopes of building anticipation, I can tell you that this story will *finally* start earning its M rating for something other than battle-gore, so… make of that what you will.
I hope you enjoyed! Comments/reviews are always appreciated – go on, it's Christmas. ;)