In the early morning, a tap at the door came, with the soft voice of her maid: "Lady Brienne? You must admit me."

Brienne pulled the blankets up to her neck, knowing her eyes were swollen from sleeplessness and tears. "Come if you must." Trying to hold out any longer was futile; she would need someone sooner rather than later to bring food and water and take away the chamberpot.

Nira approached, closing the door behind her and bolting it. She came to Brienne's side and knelt respectfully by the bed. "My lady. I—I know of your injury. I will tend to you. Ser Lannister swore me to secrecy. He said if I—" Her eyes were wide. "If anyone else found out against your wishes, he would—"

"Yes," Brienne waved her to silence. She could imagine what Jaime might have threatened. "I trust you will keep confidence."

"Of course, my lady. Are you in much pain?" The maid scanned her face, misreading the reason for her sleepless night. "What can I do?"

Brienne directed her to fetch proper bandages and re-dress the wound with ointment. She closed her eyes throughout the procedure, wondering if it were possible that Jaime had been gentler last night or if she was just more sensitive today.

Once that was done, she mumbled, "Did he say anything else to you?"

"Only that if it seemed worse, I was to fetch the maester even if you disagreed." Nira ducked her head at this bit of potential disloyalty. She hesitated, then added, "He did not say how it happened."

"Because you do not need to know," Brienne said, not unkindly. She supposed, with some bitterness, that Jaime had only made such a stipulation because he didn't want her to die of an infection at his hand. "When did he import this to you?"

"Last night, my lady. But that I was not to disturb you until this morning."

"How did he..." Brienne wanted not to care, but she wasn't there yet. Maybe she would not get there at all. "How did he seem?"

Nira looked doubtful. "In a hurry?"

Of course he had been, he was probably halfway back to the port by now.

"May I bring you some breakfast, my lady?"

"No. Thank you." She couldn't imagine eating anything. No, what she needed was sleep. Her eyes ached. Her wound was throbbing less, however, so perhaps the medicament was starting to work. Probably she would eventually drift off. "I will rest. You may check in on me later in the afternoon. If my father should ask for me, say I am unwell."

The girl murmured her understanding and rose, leaving Brienne—blessedly—alone.

Jaime was about an hour's ride from Evenfall which was as far as he'd gotten before his horse flatly refused to maintain the breakneck speed, at least for any longer in the dark. So here they were stopped, under the sky, by a moon-lit glossy lake. Actually very picturesque, like most of Tarth's natural spots, if he'd been paying any attention to his surroundings.

The horse had wandered down the shore, reins trailing, doubtless wanting to prolong its rest.

Jaime did not care. He was crouching, one knee to the ground of the shore. He'd washed hands and face in the cool black water, in search of some clarity or calmness, neither of which he felt. His blood still raged. He thought how maddening Brienne was. One moment he'd been kissing her to teach her some kind of lesson and that had turned into something he wanted to keep doing, next moment she was looking at him with hateful blue eyes and calling him what she had, oathbreaker.

He didn't know how any of that had happened.

Nor did he currently have any kind of plan.

He reached for his sword, which he'd unbuckled earlier, and pulled it out of the sheath. He hadn't actually taken it out since the battle and the tip was still darkly bloodstained. Grimly, he washed the weapon and dried it on the fabric of his sleeve. All that he could see was Brienne's face. What if she needed him. No. Fuck that. Before leaving he'd made sure to scare that servant girl into doing her job properly. He hadn't wanted to play nursemaid before and he sure as seven hells didn't want to do it now.

His shoulder was stinging, a reminder he'd taken no care of it either other than to wipe it clean that one time. That one time, curiously enough, she'd touched him of her own volition.

Fuck.

Sometimes, there were no other words.

He knew what he should do. He should get back on the horse, ride until dawn and take the first and fastest ship back to the mainland, then start the arduous journey hundreds of miles back to the westerlands.

Not because there was anything particular waiting for him there (other than recriminations from family for having been gone so long in the first place), but because it was the greatest amount of physical distance he could put between himself and Brienne, short of going to the Wall.

(And there was nothing—nothing at all—that would induce Jaime Lannister to go as far north as the Wall. He'd heard more than enough stories of mens' balls freezing to their saddles. Not to mention the cold-addled inbred zombie locals, or the fact that all that ice and snow was Stark territory anyway. Let them have it.)

So making Casterly Rock at least his nominal destination made sense. The only thing that made sense.

But he also already knew he was not going to do that. He was not even going to make it to the port.

"Fuck!" he said, loud enough to make the horse startle mildly. He threw a stone out into the still, irreproachable water.

Angry, hurt blue eyes like sapphires were not enough, should not be enough, to base any decisions upon.

She didn't even want him around. She hated him. She thought he was a lost cause, and she was right about that.

He whistled for the horse. It came, though with some reluctance.

He'd ride until he found somewhere to drink, for a start.

Brienne drifted in and out of irregular waking and sleeping cycles over the next few days, not particularly marking the time passing beyond Nira's regular visits to bring her food, water, and otherwise tend to her. She could easily have risen from the bed after the second day—as she had earlier pointed out to Jaime, there was nothing wrong with her legs—but had no interest in doing so, other than when urgency demanded.

Nor did Lord Selwyn make an effort to visit her in those initial days, though he did inquire on her well-being through Nira. It was not until the fourth day he requested that she join him for dinner if she was up to it. Brienne could find no real reason to further demur, at this point. The wound was healing well after faithful treatment, turning pink and the skin attempting to knit itself together again. It was easily hidden.

It was her heart that wasn't healing, staying ugly and wounded and fierce and small inside her chest. She felt it when she tried to breathe. She didn't know if she would be able to let it grow again. To open again.

And so she joined Lord Selwyn at table, the two of them, alone. He hadn't had a wife at his side when she'd left, so she was mildly surprised to see he hadn't found someone else by now, but all the easier.

She greeted him formally, waiting to be acknowledged before taking her seat.

"Brienne, my daughter."

The table was set with far more food than she'd consumed in a week, having refused anything Nira tried to tempt her with other than soups. The scent of meats, though normally appealing, made her vaguely nauseated. She resisted the urge to scratch at her collarbone, well-covered beneath a modest high-necked tunic.

"Are you quite recovered from your incapacity?" her father inquired, politely.

"Much better, thank you. An autumn cold." She'd never been susceptible to such things and perhaps should have left the excuse unsaid.

He raised an eyebrow. "It is not like you to lie about."

Brienne could think of nothing to say to that that was not combative, so simply agreed with a quiet, "Yes."

"Our guest has departed?"

Was that a rhetorical question? She did not want to confirm it.

Lord Selwyn took up his knife and sliced into a portion of meat. "He is a hard one to know, that Lannister."

Indeed, Brienne thought, bitter.

"Have you had occasion to meet any others of his family?"

"I have not," Brienne said, and almost added, nor do I desire to.

"Neither have I," Selwyn reflected, "for none of them have had occasion, I suppose, to come this far east, and I myself have not travelled to the west coast, nor do I expect I will, at my age."

"You are hardly 'of an age', Father," Brienne said, conscience pricking her that though he had never been a particularly tender parent, neither had she been the best of daughters.

He chewed some meat, thoughtfully. "What did you think of ser Jaime?"

The question, or some variation thereof, she'd most hoped wouldn't come up. She studied her plate and poked a vegetable from one side to the other. "I have no particular opinion."

"He's quite polarizing, with his past. The things that are said of him."

"This meat is delicious," Brienne lied desperately, not having tasted any of it.

"Whatever the circumstances," her father continued, undeterred, "I am glad he returned you to me safely. But you look pale, daughter. I hope you will not undertake any endeavours until you are completely well?"

"I'm quite well, my lord." Jaime had been right about that, anyway, she thought with still more bitterness; she was healing excellently.

I wasn't going to stay, he'd mocked, his face coming strongly though unbidden to her mind, and she felt herself warm with anger, humiliation, to the very memory of it. Of course he hadn't been going to stay. She wasn't good enough for him. He'd said that too.

"I will ride tomorrow," Brienne found herself saying. "And resume training."

"You must do as you wish, of course," Selwyn said, rather dryly, the implication being that she was going to, anyway. "But on the subject of young Lannister, again—one thing about his departure was curious. You see he had asked me for a favor, in lieu of a more...tangible reward. And since we assume he has gone from these shores, I cannot but wonder when he means to collect it."

"Since he has gone, I am sure it cannot matter now," Brienne said, dully. She refused to be surprised by anything Jaime had said or done, at this point. There could be nothing more hurtful than the way they had parted. She must put it behind her—gods, she must try to put all of it, all of him, behind her, and regroup.

"I thought perhaps you might have some insight," her father suggested.

"Where Ser Jaime is concerned, I have no insight whatsoever," Brienne answered. She put a spoonful of food into her mouth and chewed mechanically, though it tasted like nothing but ashes.

Did her lord father smile, then, or was that her imagination?

It was day four before Jaime even learned the name of the backward hamlet he'd ended up in. Mainly because it didn't matter and he had been drunk most of the hours spent there anyway. The tiny tavern's brew tasted awful, but he didn't care about that either. They gave him a room and as much as he could drink and the occasional plate of food and left him to himself.

So he drank. He didn't even leave the room for the first two days, except once to use the privy where he ended up vomiting from the smell alone, never mind his stomach full of brew. And on the third day it grew cold, and there was no fire in the room—there was no space for anything more than his dingy pallet—and so he was forced to tromp downstairs to the common room. There were only ever a few other patrons; gap-toothed gaping farmers, long-retired soldiers. He didn't care. No one addressed him other than the elderly tavernsmistress who murmured something about a nice young man like himself disappointing his mother. He laughed because he thought that was funny, his mother being long dead, and he was neither nice nor young either. Being perpetually inebriated tended to make everything funny anyway. At least for him. He was not a particularly angry drunk. Not normally. This particular interlude of drinking was somewhat different. It was usually boredom that prompted him to overindulge to the point of sickness. Now it was his inability to consider how to move forward from this place, from this damned beautiful island, may it sink into the sea and take him down with it.

He raised his mug to that, winning a glance or two.

"Will ye not eat something, master?" They'd taken to calling him that here, he wasn't sure why and didn't care. The tavernsmistress pushed a bowl of slop in front of him that he'd seen at least twice already on previous occasions. To be fair, they weren't trying to be insulting—that was more or less what everyone else consumed.

"I would," he said conversationally, "but I'm afraid you would shortly be cleaning it off this—" he glanced down at the boards beneath his feet, he'd been going to say "pretty floor", but it really wasn't that pretty, or clean either "—this lovely establishment's floor, and I don't care to make that much extra work for you."

She was uncertain how to take that. Her eyes creased in her doughy, undoubtedly well meaning face. Eventually she sighed and went away, but left the bowl.

Jaime drank more. He'd almost managed to maintain the level of inebriation where, when he thought about Brienne, she was only a blurry memory that did not immediately ignite a raft of feelings carrying him down a turbulent river.

At the same time, he had to be functional enough not to pass out in public, and make it up and down to his room. Like everything in life, it was a balance. He was fairly sure he had fallen insensate once the last night, having a vague recollection of the woman's burly husband helping (carrying? Dragging?) him upstairs. They probably would not miss him when he was gone.

Then again, he was a paying customer and there didn't seem to be terribly many of those in these backwater island parts.

He drank again. Emptied his mug. Slammed it down. Not intentionally; it got heavier the more one drank.

Someone was mentioning Lord Tarth, a couple of tables over. Heard his daughter came back. Jaime studied the wood grain underneath his drink, black with stain and grit. Felt his lip curl.

Gods, he wanted to see her, shake her, make sure she was healing properly if he had to rip off her clothes to see. That was the damned thing about alcohol, as much as you could use it to blur your mind and make yourself forget, it could also act like some kind of fucking torture truth-enactor.

They were already talking about something else. What else had they heard? Apparently nothing. Apparently, the cabbage crop was more important than his—

Than Lord Selwyn's daughter, that was all she was to him.

He gestured to the tavernsmistress for more.

The first bath since her injury was a welcome one, soothing Brienne's stressed and weakened nerves and muscles; the only unpleasant aspect being memories brought up from the last visit. So she made herself meditate while she soaked, keeping her mind from wandering into dangerous territory. Nira was washing her hair for her, only because the healing wound still tugged a little when she lifted her arm, otherwise Brienne would have preferred solitude. The trailing warm water felt good against her taut neck, and she had fallen into a near stupor. Nira had been murmuring a few words of conversation in the last few minutes, and Brienne was pondering the least rude way to ask her to be silent when she said, "My lady, I wonder if—I had heard something about my lord Lannister not having left Tarth. My brother is a soldier, and he heard that someone saw him—Ser Jaime, that is—north of here, near Ellisvil?"

Brienne felt her fingers curl under the water. "Where is that?" she heard herself say, idly, as from far away.

"You would have passed through on the way home, my lady. It is just off the north road, some three, four hours hence?" Her maid gently sluiced clean liquid over her head again. Brienne closed her eyes, trying to recall. Yes, though she didn't know that the tiny hamlet had ever been named.

"I only thought, that is, I assumed he was gone from here, and you might have thought the same. I hope I do not offend."

"No," Brienne said. "I would rather know such things than not. Though it would be better that you did not further spread this information."

"Of course not, my lady, if you do not wish it."

She felt slow anger kindling in her stomach. He hadn't even gone. Why ever not? What did he hope to hold over her father's head? Did he only want to madden her? To wait until her defenses were down and then attack again in some way? What game was it?

Be wary of men. They play games. Harmful ones. Oh, how her septa had known.

"He may have gone since," she said aloud, slowly.

"Yes, my lady. I suppose so." Nira's tone was carefully disinterested.

Brienne could not so pretend to be.

"I am getting cold," she said. "I will go up now."

Nira quickly patted her hair dry with a cloth before handing her robe.

Brienne spent the remainder of the long night staring angrily into the fire and thinking. Silently raging. Rising, going to bed, rising again.

In the morning before it was light she packed her supplies and sword, crept out of the hall with no words but finger-to-lips gestures to the servants who saw her. Saddling one of her father's horses below—the stable-boy hadn't been about to argue—she clambered a bit stiffly into the saddle and rode out of the gates into the misty darkness.

Despite how surprisingly freeing it felt to be away from Evenfall again, the journey quickly proved not to be the most enjoyable she'd ever undertaken. Her mind was not clear, and her body, not quite healed to the point where it was comfortable to ride at a pace faster than walking for any distance. Not being able to travel at peak speed was frustrating, more so as dawn broke and the road became clearer. She encountered a few other travelers who respectfully made way. She stopped once to water the animal and walk, trying to overcome the discomfort in her arm and shoulder through force of will.

Eventually, though she felt it had taken half the morning, she came to the little village in which Jaime had been said to be seen.

It was really not more than a handful of scattered houses, built around a river that carried fresh water from the mountains and pooled downwards to a lazy lake. Somewhere, a rooster made noise, and a dog lifted its greying head from a doorway, then lowered it, unconcerned.

Brienne slipped out of her saddle, wincing, and took the reins to walk the horse along until she found a hitching post. There was a common-house just beyond. If he were anywhere, he would be there. Or in a ditch somewhere, she thought darkly.

Her hand found the hilt of her sword as she pushed through the squeaking door. At this hour of the morning surely someone must be up and about. So far, only some scattered tables and chairs, and a burnt-out hearth.

There were voices coming from the back, perhaps a kitchen.

Brienne called out.

The chatter stopped, and a few moments later an elderly woman appeared, wiping hands on a grubby apron. She stared at Brienne for what was a predictably long time before offering, "Can I help ye?"

"I'm looking for someone," Brienne said, feeling her lip curl with distaste. "Not quite as tall as I. Blond. Ill-mannered. Not from here."

"Oh, aye, the mainlander. Finally!" The woman sighed in theatrical or possibly genuine relief. "In the back."

Brienne followed her through the equally grubby kitchen space through a swinging back door.

"Most nights we got him in," the other woman said, almost apologetically, "but last night, 'e wasn't having it." She thumbed at a motionless cloak-wrapped body that could be Jaime or anybody at all, indeed, a dozen yards away under a tree.

"He's still alive, isn't he?" Brienne said far more coldly than she meant to.

"Oh aye, right enough, he has a constitution." With which puzzling assertion she turned to go in.

"Does he owe anything?"

"Oh nay, he paid his way fair enough, but we're ready for you to take 'im away, still. Such misery's bad for business," she said, again apologetically, and stepped inside, letting the door bang shut.

The lump shifted while Brienne stared at it. Him.

She walked over, her footsteps seeming terribly loud in the crunch of leaves. What a perfectly beautiful morning. What was she doing here? She stopped and looked down at him. Then put out the toe of her boot and kicked, not very hard. Not as hard as she rather wanted to.

Jaime rolled in a flurry of cloak and had a knife out, unseeing, unrecognizing, not even sober yet but the knife was perfectly placed against her inner leg where a slash would bleed her out in moments.

Her lip twisted, again, at the irony of that. He was still so ready to fight anyone. To beat anyone.

She waited for him to recognize her, and within a few seconds the knife came away, disappearing back into the folds of his cloak, and he made a dismissive grunt.

She looked up to the sky, breathed in through her nose, held it. "Get up," she rasped.

His promptly side-turned head, his silence was a clearer fuck you than the words would have been. Which was infuriating. He was going to pretend she wasn't there now?

But she wouldn't draw her sword, she would not do that again with him, even if it might be her best chance to claim a victory; he wasn't in possession of all his senses. No glory in such a win.

She didn't mean not to punish him, however. "Get up!"

He rolled to his knees, rather adroitly in fact, considering his state, and only stumbled once while rising. She assessed him, his utterly bland face with days of stubble, his red and narrowed eyes. He reeked like stale liquor, campfires and—faintly—of vomit, and on impulse, Brienne shoved him in the direction of the brook she could see beyond, and the lake below, glittering through the trees.

Jaime stumbled again, and looked over his shoulder at her with mutinous eyes but otherwise unresisting.

She raised her eyebrows at him and jerked her head for him to keep going.

It took another shove, but he moved. And kept moving, though he might have been cursing her ancestors all the way. She couldn't hear and she didn't care. She marched him down to the lakeside, where he stopped and looked at her.

Brienne pointed at the water so he couldn't be in any doubt as to her meaning.

Jaime looked at the lake. Back at her. Shook his head.

"You're disgusting," she said, calmly, leaving it up to his interpretation whether she meant his current physical state, the entirety of his humanity, or perhaps both.

"That..." He cleared his throat as it came out scratchy. "That water's cold."

"Quite likely. Get in."

He made a negatory sound.

She took another breath, held it, stepped in close and grabbed his forearm with her left (not quite trusting the other) and muscling him briefly back, but then he planted his legs and resisted. They struggled in silent competition, staring each other down, but for just a few seconds his eyes flicked to her collarbone, and the hesitation was long enough that she could exert leverage in the direction of the water.

But he hung on to her, simultaneously freeing and wrapping an arm around her waist even while they fell into two feet of shallow, icy water. They both gasped and flailed involuntarily. Jaime uttered some foul words. Brienne choked a little, having inhaled a tiny amount of water while scrabbling to get her feet back under her.

She pushed him, again, angrier than ever. "Stay down until you're clean," she hissed. He closed his eyes, momentarily, his body sinking back into the water, cloak floating around him like some kind of sea creature. For a moment, she nearly lurched to pull him up, when his head went under. His face bobbed, eerily, in and out of the lake. She wanted to shake him back to life, to sobriety, to alertness.

And yet still that urge to throttle him at the same time.

Seconds passed while she staggered, once, twice, knee-deep in the shifting mud.

"Jaime—"

Oh, now he was pretending he didn't care if he drowned, how delightful.

But she couldn't—she couldn't let it happen, and whether the water on her cheeks was from the lake or her own eyes she didn't know, but her heart gnawed, painfully, on itself.

Brienne grabbed Jaime and dragged him to shore to slump against the pebbles. He coughed, sagged back, then retched, his body arching forward as she sank to her knees beside him. It would have been piteous, except he had brought it on himself by what must have been days of overindulgence. Still, she flinched as his body continued periodically to convulse.

She tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it away, and with bloodshot eyes fixed a stare on her and enunciated "I...wasn't...clean."

Brienne's lips were chattering from the cold. She pressed them together. He'd looked away, let his head fall to his arm, face-down on the shore. His shoulders shook, probably also from the cold. The cloak draped over him so elegantly, as if he'd been posed where he lay.

They needed to go back up to the tavern. Though the morning sun was strong and bright, it would not dry them. She was not completely soaked, but he was. But she felt weak and, more pertinently, too overwhelmed to cope. "Jaime, get up," she muttered. "Get up—please."

He mumbled something into his arm. It sounded like you don't have to be here.

Brienne climbed to her feet, summoned strength, and tried her best to get him standing; thankfully, he cooperated at last or they would not have gotten anywhere. Returning to the tavern was slow and shaky. He kept tripping and she despaired of getting him safely back without a head injury. The tavernsmistress allowed them back in and whether or not she was happy about it Brienne did not stop to ask.

She steered Jaime up the stairs, an ordeal in itself. Seeing the condition of the room he had left, she flatly refused to enter and demanded a different one from the woman, who complained that there were few enough rooms as it was and none of them had fireplaces. Brienne instructed her to bring them hot water, a warming pan with coals, and more blankets, and closed the door on the new room in her face.

Jaime needed attending. He stood with silent disinterest and shivered. Was she truly going to have to undress him? She moved to do so, and he muttered through pale lips, "Not very maidenly of you," and she pushed his chest and said "Do it yourself then." He fumbled with the ties and got his shirt off, then gazed at her with no apparent plans to take off anything else, which was more than all right with her. She pointed to the bed.

He climbed into it, then squirmed around under the blanket taking his pants off, teeth chattering. While his eyes were closed Brienne wrapped the second blanket around herself like a skirt and took her own wet trousers off. She scooped everything up and marched outside, dignity be damned, to drape it all upon the fence to dry in the sun.

Returning to the room, Brienne was glad to see the warm water and warming pan had been brought. The tavernsmistress looked on gloomily, having correctly assessed that they were going to remain her guests until further notice.

"What has he been eating?" Brienne asked of her.

"It's drinking 'e's been doing," the other woman corrected, as though that was not clear by this point. "Didn't think much of my cooking, I suppose."

"If you could bring well-boiled broth, or tea," Brienne said, striving for patience, "that would be welcome. Thank you."

She closed the door on her again, and brought the coal pan over to tuck at the foot of Jaime's bed where he still shivered. Adjusting the blanket around herself, she sat at his side and looked down on him without pity. He squinted an eye at her. He smelled better, at least; more like damp lake mud now than anything else.

"One last drink," he said.

"No," she returned. "Your mind needs clearing."

He made a sound that was not necessarily one of argument and closed eyes again. Eventually, his shudders lessened, and he was breathing more normally. Asleep, or close to it.

Brienne stayed watch. There was no sleeping for her, tired as she was from her vastly shortened night. When the requested broth was brought, she took it and drank a little to make sure it was all right, before urging some on Jaime when he next stirred. He made a face but swallowed a cupful readily enough, then sank back into sleep.

They passed most of the day so. Brienne's legs were tingling from being pinned underneath her, as much as she shifted about. At last, while the sun was setting, she went out to check on the clothing—hers was dry and so she could get properly dressed once more. Jaime's things she left out there.

When she came back in to the room he was shivering again. Well, the warming pan's coals were surely grown cold by now. She sent for more, but even once they were replaced, Jaime seemed to have caught a chill. His skin was warm against her hand, but his teeth were chattering again. She tried to induce him to speak but he would not, or could not.

Both exasperated and a little worried, she cocooned herself in her blanket and lay down next to him on the pallet. She couldn't bear to put her arms around him—even though she tried to consider him as just another human in need, the memory of how he'd scorned her after the kiss was still too fresh. Instead, she worked her shoulders towards him to trap heat between their huddled bodies. Regardless, he did not seem especially aware, once he had nestled closer, like any animal or child seeking heat.

The room grew slowly dark. The pan warmed their feet at the base of the bed, but did little more. Brienne moved her arm over Jaime to tuck his separate blanket around his back, her own limbs becoming slack with fatigue. A strange, intimate way to spend the night, when their hearts were farther apart than the space between their two houses. She felt tears of—self pity? leftover rage? welling up. She thought she'd cried them all that first night.

Jaime's head moved from where it was close to hers; his breath fell warm against her neck. She stilled, having thought he was insensate.

His lips moved against her skin, still tremoring. "I'm cold."

For a moment Brienne wondered indignantly what more he could possibly expect her to do about that. Then she realized it was probably costing him an effort to say so. Had their positions been reversed, she wouldn't have wanted to admit it either. Foolish under normal circumstances perhaps, but neither of them could afford the luxury of vulnerability with the other right now.

She worked the blanket out from around herself, then pulled his away and placed both blankets atop both of them. Now, legs and arms could theoretically tangle together, although she lay rigid, uncertain that this had been the better choice.

He's just cold, she repeated to herself. You would embrace a child in this way, would you not?

But he was no child and there were so very many different feelings wanting to be put first in this moment.

She made her arms go around him, awkwardly, sliding one under his neck and the other over his shoulder. Engaging legs was not going to happen so that would have to be good enough. After a moment he relaxed into her. Their foreheads touched, just briefly.

She wondered if he could hear her heart beat. It certainly sounded loud enough to her.

After a few minutes he made a quiet sound in his throat that seemed like contentment, and she felt her face warm, even in the blackness.

Brienne did not think she would possibly fall asleep under such conditions, but it had been a trying day, and before terribly long, when she realized he was sleeping, her body began to relax into their mutual warmth despite her mind's apprehension. She adjusted her neck a little. His hair brushed her cheek.