"I see your wife has set you up nicely."

Tyrion spun from the table to see his brother standing in the doorway, a teasing grin on his face as he took in the size of the room.

"She's not my wife," Tyrion said pointedly with a sigh, "but yes, she has. He stood and walked toward him, gesturing at the space. "I have plenty of room – I would offer to let you come and stay here, but I've not heard a single complaint from you so I assume you're content with your meager lodgings?"

Jaime assented wordlessly from the other side of the room. Convenient, Tyrion thought. He struck up a conversational tone hoping not to rouse his brother's suspicions about his reason for being there.

"What have you been doing with yourself all day?"

Jaime shook his head, "Is that why you summoned me here? To talk about the mundane trivialities of my daily routine?"

"If you like," Tyrion said with a shrug, attempting nonchalance, "I just thought it might be nice to sit and talk as we used to." He gestured to one of the chairs near the hearth while he climbed into the other. "Difficult to do much outside of this room lest the queen think I'm plotting with you."

"But we're not…plotting…?"

"What do you take me for? I know he sneaks about and hides in corners, dropping in when you least expect him like the craven spider he is, but have you forgotten that Varys is here? Our heads would be mounted on the wall in less than a day."

Jaime chuckled, "Yours, perhaps. I think I'd be able to charm my way out of it."

"Only if Ser Brienne of Tarth was the executioner," Tyrion chanced with an arched brow.

Jaime sat down with a soundless breathy chuckle. "You're wrong. I've made a promise – no secrets, no plotting. If she found out, I'd have better luck with Varys."

"Just so," Tyrion laughed. "She's a rare woman, your friend. A rare knight, too. I doubt that any other could lay claim to having danced with the same man on whose Kingsguard they later served…oh, except Loras Tyrell I suppose – same King, and all. Wasn't Loras also engaged to our sweet sister for a time?" Tyrion didn't wait for an answer, adding quietly, "What a curious parallel. But I'd put my money on Brienne in a fight."

Jaime smiled somewhat sadly. "She beat him, actually, so you'd have won that bet...and all the Tyrells are dead now, so a rematch is unlikely."

"A clear winner then!"

Jaime smiled a bit wider, but remained rather pensive, watching the fire.

The younger Lannister resumed his passive grin and studied the fire. "And so lucky, too," Tyrion said, slowly tiptoeing his way to the point of this meeting, "to be surrounded by such dedicated friends. Sansa and Arya look up to her – I suppose we all do. Podrick wants to be her. And Giantsbane obviously cares a great deal for her—"

Jaime threw his brother cautious glance, his jaw hardening, single fist unconsciously clenching. But Tyrion was looking into the fire serious and unconcerned.

"And you, of course." He finally turned to face his brother, the mask of innocence tightly pressed, "You said you made her a promise? I hope nothing serious, or that giant man will likely have your hide or whatever it is wildlings do to other men."

Jaime tried to find the sarcasm in his brother's eyes, but practice had allowed Tyrion to hide it completely. Gathering that there was no jape coming, Jaime looked down at his hands in his lap - one flesh, one gold – flexing the living one at the memory of her hand in his. "I've sworn to fight by her side, that's all."

"Hmm, and you've done so valiantly, both of you. How fortunate the North was to have the two of you here. I'm glad my former wife had such a champion in the battle." He watched his brother turn silent thoughts over in his mind, the firelight glinting off that garish hand of his.

"She wasn't fighting for Sansa," Jaime said very quietly, "we were just trying to survive for..."

They say everything, it happens for a reason

Tyrion quietly noted his brother's shift from "she" to "we" but said nothing of it and don't press him to finish his thought once he trailed off. "And what will you do now that war is over? The army of the dead may have been stopped, but death inevitably marches south. The queen is anxious for her throne. Our sister-"

"—Is already dead to me," Jaime said without a hint of irony. "I've no plans to ever return to King's Landing, but I'll fight wherever Brienne needs me. I owe her that."

Tyrion flopped his hand through the air as if lazily batting away his brother's words. From his conversation with Podrick that morning, he already knew all about this infamous debt that the two of them seemed to take on from each other every chance they got, as if oaths were water and the two of them were dying of thirst. They made promises the way other people made excuses.

Tyrion didn't relish the idea of manipulating the brother he loved into acting on his feelings but, he told himself, if it meant that there were two more people in the world who stood a chance for happiness, it would be worth it. "Would she stay here with the Starks? I don't predict there'll be much fighting to do here at Winterfell – the North seems to have met its quota on that for now. What does one do when one has already fought the most dangerous enemy?"

Tyrion worried his lip, a mummer's farce of deep thought, "Maybe she'll go home to Tarth, he mused, "has she mentioned it? I can't fathom that Lord Sellwyn is getting any younger so she'll go back eventually, I imagine. Not much to fight there except perhaps an errant lobster or two. Of course she could always go even further north instead. The cold suits her, don't you think? Bundled in those furs she could almost be one of the free folk."

Jaime could feel himself turning red, and a bitterness crept into his voice as he swallowed hard, "I couldn't say. I am not privy to her plans."

"But what of your own plans? Surely you can't follow Ser Brienne of Tarth around forever. For one thing, Podrick is already doing a superb job of that, and for another, how long do you think it would be before she'd need to start carrying you from camp to camp?" Jaime glared at his brother, but Tyrion persisted, "Besides, she's Lord Sellwyn's only living issue and will need to produce an heir somehow. What are you going to do, squire her on her wedding night? Play nursemaid to her babes when you're too old to hold a sword any longer? You could be the Lord of Casterly Rock, why on earth would you choose this life instead?" Tyrion knew that he was holding the door open and pushing his brother into the abyss now, but it had to be done. Burning down the last vestiges of Jaime's pride and self-indulgent hesitation was going to be the only way to let those feelings live.

Jaime shot out of his chair as if he were going to bolt for the door, but he only stalked closer to the hearth, his hand on the mantle. He'd never really considered the future, even when it came to Brienne. It was always an afterthought – fight, live, repeat – it beat through his veins like a mantra. But just because his family's legacy was at an end didn't mean everything stopped for her, too.

Of course she would be honor-bound to go home and lead Tarth. But what if her father finally coerced her into marrying someone unsuited to her? Would Jaime be able to stand by knowing that she deserved better? Or worse yet, he thought with a pang, what if she managed to marry someone who was suited to her, who would love her, whom she would love? Would she dismiss Jaime? Or would he – as Tyrion had suggested – stay and play nursemaid to her large flame-haired children?

"Tell me," Tyrion nudged after a few moments' silence, interrupting his brother's waking nightmare of being surrounded by Tormund's offspring, "have you never aspired to anything else? You were determined to use your left hand after you lost the other, and you succeeded. So I know you capable of dedicating yourself to a cause. But we're not getting any younger, brother. Have you put any thought into what you might do when the wars are all over?"

Jaime shook his head, rage still coating his throat, "I was never a scholar like you."

"Nor would you need to be! You were Lord Commander of the Kingsguard - you know what layabouts the masters were in those days. Petyr Baelish was clever but not a scholar. Father was never a scholar."

"I don't wish to hear about—-"

"The Evenstar, then. Ser Brienne's father was raised to be just as learned as you, he trained arguably the best warrior I've ever seen – I know you won't disagree with that - and he's ruled Tarth these many years in peace – all without being a scholar, as you say. Leading doesn't always mean being the smartest person in the room. It means being wise enough to listen to the smartest people in the room. You've led armies into battle - did you see to rationing and training schedules? No, you were there to ensure that all of those things were being addressed by the right people. Leave the scholarly pursuits to others. You could do much better. And I mean it – Casterly Rock should be yours. What use have I for it? Find a wife and repopulate the westerlands to your heart's content."

But Jaime didn't want the Rock. He didn't even want to be a lord. And he certainly didn't want to be in the westerlands when his heart would be rooted in the east. He'd told himself that he never wanted much – just for his family to be happy. But now his head ached and his heart hurt, as if his entire person was realizing how much want had been simmering below the surface for years.

These last couple of weeks they'd sharaed at Winterfell, the last week especially, he'd stopped himself dozens of times from reaching out for her, from acting on that want – a need, really. Even after he'd shaken off the fog and put distance between himself and the past he'd borne on his shoulders for so long, even after he felt certain that his feelings were being reflected back to him, he'd held back, partly out of fear of rejection in light of her sensitivity to Tormund, but mostly because he treasured the friendly intimacy they had and he hadn't been willing to put that in jeopardy. The worst of it had been right after the battle, when they'd been alone in her room, removing each other's armor, bleary with exhaustion, the awareness of how close they'd brushed death was all quite vivid at the time, and he'd clutched his armor to him to keep from pulling her down into her bed and holding her there until the apparitions of the dead had passed.

Tyrion was right – time wasn't going to stop here. If he wanted to hold onto the happiness that he'd earned, either he had to decide what he wanted his future to be and go toward it, or he needed to get a lot better at living in the present.

You can be flawed enough but perfect for a person

He let out a heady sigh while his brother watched him tumble from the pedestal of nonchalant uncertainty that he'd lived on for so many years. "I've only ever looked to the next battle. Being idle has just made me depressed and drunk. You're right, though…I should consider my choices. But it won't be Casterly Rock. You can have it – or burn it down, or do what you will – give it to Bronn for all I care. It's on the opposite side of the world from where I want to be."

Directly opposite Tarth in fact, Tyrion thought. "Very well," Tyrion said, indifferent, "do let me know if you change your mind." He slapped at his knees and jumped from his chair. "In the meantime, I'll be going south soon with the queen. Preparations are being made and I expect we'll leave within the fortnight. Until then," he added, sincerity leeching in, "it will be nice to spend time with you, brother. Even if all we talk of is very tall mundane trivialities.

Jaime rolled his eyes and tried to smile despite the feelings that were now trying to claw their way out of his chest.

"Who knows how many years we might spend apart this time, hmm? Let's make the most of it…starting with tonight. I've been drinking the pithy grape waters of Essos for far too long. I understand that a barrel of Dornish strongwine has finally arrived from White Harbor and I intend to drink it all," he added with an impish grin.

Earlier in the day, Jaime had considered excusing himself from going down to the feast. The hall being filled with the stinking Stark bannermen was bad enough on any given day, but the thought of introducing the aromas of meat and quality wine to the mix made Jaime's stomach turn. He would rather sit in the cold and starve – at least it might help numb him to everything else. And he was sure his brother wouldn't mind his missing the event.

But now he knew he couldn't go another hour without seeing her. He pictured Brienne in her usual seat, confused by the empty bench across from her. And then he imagined that empty space being filled by the oafish red-headed lout, and he couldn't do it – he would not. He stood and clapped his brother on the shoulder, "I hope they brought more than one barrel."

Tyrion grinned slyly back up at him and chuckled to himself.

They crossed the courtyard together quickly to avoid the cold and made their way up the aisles of the great hall. Tyrion nodded to his brother before walking to his place at the queen's side, while Jaime made his way to the table that he and Brienne had customarily taken as their own over the course of the last several days.

They'd eaten most meals together there, plotting out the courses of their mornings, recounting the horrors of their afternoons, or simply sitting in contented evening silence after a long day before she left for her chamber. He'd often parted from her at the bottom of the steps and stayed below a while if only to selfishly make sure that she wasn't followed by the wildling. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she ever were. Even now the wildling was just a few feet away from her creating a raucous noise at one of the head tables, too close and present for Jaime's liking, especially with the way his body had begun humming protectively the second he saw her from across the hall.

Jaime had rarely been jealous of anyone for anything, but when she'd defended the man against Jaime's teasing, he'd felt it. It has been one thing when the advances had been met with patient disdain. It was quite another to see her openly pity the man on a human level. When she'd chastised him he'd looked down almost expecting to see a dagger sticking out of his gut the pain was so sharp - it might have been more merciful if she'd skewered him with a sword rather than her words. In that moment he'd been terrified of seeing her walk away from him disappointed, so he did the only thing his addled brain could think to do, and he walked away first – a cowardly move that he knew he would never repeat.

Someone who will be there for you when you fall apart

As he approached the table, Brienne and Podrick had their backs to him, and a Stark bannerman whose name Jaime was always forgetting – Daron, Dorin, Declan, something like that – was encroaching a little bit too far into Jaime's normal seat for his liking. He glared at the man from behind Brienne, and on spying Jaime he quickly moved off to another table altogether just as Jaime slid into his seat across from her.

Brienne started at the sudden change of persons in front of her, but blinked and grinned when Jaime took his seat, causing Jaime to smile back. "Not late, am I?"

"No, Ser Jaime," slurred Pod from the opposite corner of the table, "just the wine just now."

"Yes, Podrick seems to be enjoying the wine quite a bit this evening," Brienne muttered to Jaime. His face lit up at her conspiratorial tone, his smile growing wider, and it put Brienne at more ease than she'd felt in what felt like a terribly long time.

Jaime has been often nearby in the last week, ever since their quarrel. Ever since he'd sworn to stay. But starting that night he'd seemed quiet and somewhat guarded, until this moment. Something was different somehow, even from before. He seemed light, free. She hadn't seen him smile quite like this since...

Brienne cast her eyes down. She hadn't seen him smile like that since knighting her a fortnight ago. The memory filled Brienne with a terrible joy of accomplishment that she thought must be making her blush to her roots, but no one would have been the wiser, save Jaime. He could see the emotion ripple up through her body, ending in a contented sigh that only he witnessed, averting his eyes before she lifted hers again in order to prevent causing her embarrassment.

As Pod finished refilling his own cup, he went to dutifully fill Brienne's but she stopped him with her eyes and covered the top of the cup with her hand until he set the pitcher down. But then another hand was on hers, gently curling around her fingers – one she guessed she would have known with her eyes closed – the only touch that had ever made her feel that knot in her stomach turn to liquid fire.

They hadn't had any sort of physical contact since that night in the cold, pyres lighting the sky with their sickly glow, Jon Snow droning on his usual course, when she had dared to lace her glove with Jaime's – for warmth, for comfort, whatever it was – and he'd grasped her in return, his callused sword-hewn palm pressing through the leather and fitting flush against her own.

But this was different. The contact ignited a wildfire in his chest as he lifted her hand and then pressed it to the table with his, lingering for a moment, feeling her pulse through the back of her hand as it beat in time with his. And then he was moving away to turn the pitcher so that he could grasp the handle.

Even after he'd removed his hand from hers, Brienne could feel the blaze of that touch stealing up her wrist and, as he picked up the pitcher, Brienne's breath caught in her throat as she found herself wondering despite herself what it might be like to feel that inferno on skin that wasn't currently exposed to the air.

Guiding your direction when you're riding through the dark

"We fought dead things and lived to talk about it," he said. "If this isn't the time to drink, when is?" He paused, pitcher in the air, and caught her eye. The look on his face seemed to silently ask for her trust, and she couldn't help but meet it with an affirmative nod. He poured her only a little, himself more, earning him a light chuckle from her when she saw what he was about.

They clinked their cups together, a celebration of life, a promise for living, and then they drank, neither daring to look away. And for a moment, there were no wars or oaths or titles, only Jaime and Brienne smiling as the filament that had once struggled to connect them long ago mended itself and became stronger as it wove a familiar path beneath their ribs.

Oh, that's you and me

A/N: I do not own Game of Throne or these characters; some dialogue may be taken verbatim from HBO's Game of Thrones or George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire. Lyrics used are directly from "You and Me" by Alecia Moore and Dallas Green (C) 2014

So many breadcrumbs