A/N: So much for my neat and tidy one-shot! Whenever I think this story has had enough to say, it proves me wrong. This continuation for "After" popped into my head whilst I was trying to sleep off a migraine – sadly I am never quite able to recreate my migrainous imaginings as accurately as they came to me at the time, so hopefully I have done this justice.

Fair warning: this was a bit of an experiment. I am still taking (very) tentative steps into writing stuff higher than a T rating and these two (and you!) have apparently become my guinea pigs before I attempt it in my other fandoms. So, er… count yourselves lucky, I guess?

This picks up immediately where the previous chapter ended and it's mostly just kissing (literally, the first 600 words of this is kissing) and talking and exchanging banter whilst cuddling, as all of my plot energy is being thrown into "The Things We Do", but I'm sure nobody will complain about that. There's a bit of angst and a lot of fluff, and hopefully a couple of amusing moments (I'm pretty convinced that snark is their love-language). It is also, like before, far softer than anything GoT-related has any right to be, but considering D&D wouldn't know softness if they were suffocating in it, quite frankly I do not care. (No, I'm still not over it a year later.)

Anyway! Please enjoy!


"I told you there'd be an after."

Jaime's face fills her entire field of vision as he gazes at her searchingly. She is not yet practiced enough to fully interpret the myriad things his expression is trying to communicate, but his eyes are glassy, awe-struck; beyond that, it barely matters any more, because soon enough he leans forward again to capture her mouth a second time.

Tenderness quickly gives way to passion as her fingers scrape lightly against the coarseness of his beard (it needs a good trim, but that can certainly wait a day or so), and he kisses her more deeply in response, his arms tightening possessively around her waist. If it were anyone else, Brienne would feel trapped, but even a few short hours of uncertain anxiety about his fate were too many to endure, and instead she welcomes the sensation of being pressed so close against Jaime's warmth, to know that he is real and solid and alive.

It has been less than half a day since their first, tentative kiss in the hallway before the battle. Brienne still barely knows what she is doing, fearing her inexperience will soon reveal her to be as naïve as her title – her former title, now that her knighthood has superseded it – might indicate; but she learns fast, reading Jaime's cues as easily now as during any sparring match.

Her hands move back and up, fingers splaying through his hair, and in reply his left hand travels lightly up her spine. She shivers involuntarily at the contact, arching closer towards him, her nerve endings igniting a cascade of pleasurable tingles through her limbs. Jaime smiles into the kiss, and she can easily imagine the self-satisfied, smug grin he would be wearing if he was not otherwise occupied. Brienne determines that she will return the favour, once she knows how, but for the moment she is cautious of straying too close to his injured side. Instead, when she tugs lightly at his hair, she is gratified by the surprised noise it elicits and the way his mouth falters against hers, before he resumes the attack in earnest.

Of course, it would be a battle; nothing about them has ever been otherwise. There's no victory to be won, no bitter sting of defeat. Nevertheless, Brienne refuses to be bested, and she tries her utmost to match him.

Jaime's hand presses between her shoulder-blades, his right arm encircling her, the stump resting against her hip – his hand would be decidedly lower, if it were still there, she realises with a jolt of surprise – and with only the merest pressure he is able to draw her nearer. Their chests are pressed together, heartbeats running in tandem; she can feel him hard and insistent against her thigh. It takes her a moment to fully comprehend that through the encroaching haze in her brain, and understanding dawns like a lightning bolt straight to her heart, her breath suddenly catching in her lungs. The concept that Jaime wants her – Gods, that Jaime wants her – is thrilling and terrifying and utterly preposterous, and suddenly entirely too much to cope with, and she tears herself away with a desperate gulp of air.

She rests her forehead against his as she recovers both her breath and her sanity, her chest rising and falling steadily, and her hands drag down to his shoulders, trying to maintain a scant distance between them. Jaime allows her only a moment to regain control of her breathing before he pulls his head away and leans in to nuzzle his nose against hers, unexpectedly tender, and when he follows by pressing a chaste kiss to her mouth she cannot help but respond, and within moments they are duelling again.

Before she can lose herself, Brienne reaches once more to cup his face in her hands, gently easing him away from her. The abject confusion on his face is almost enough to break her resolve, and she gently caresses the line of his cheekbones with both thumbs, silently imparting that there is nothing badly amiss.

"Jaime, we… we need to stop," she blurts out, struggling to find the words to impart what she means. "I can't— it's too—"

His smile is understanding, and he interrupts her stuttered attempt at an explanation by reaching up to extricate her hand from his face, pressing a kiss to her palm.

"I only want to kiss you," he promises. "Nothing more."

She summons up the most sceptical look she can muster and glances downwards, and thankfully he laughs.

"Well… yes, obviously, I would like to do more than just kiss you… but not until you're willing. Besides, the state I'm in, I'm quite likely to cause myself further injury."

Brienne smiles at that, though she is unable to dispel the image that returns, unbidden, to her mind's eye – blood on her hands and Jaime's lifeless body sprawled on the ground before her. She swallows uneasily, fighting back a wave of nausea. As if sensing her inner turmoil, he raises his hand to her face, bringing her back to reality. She blinks as she refocuses, and the look on his face is more serious, the previous levity gone.

"Truly, Brienne, I wish only to try and make up for all of the time I wasted in the capital. I could have followed you out of Riverrun and saved us both so much unnecessary heartache. Hells, I should have left Kings Landing with you when I had the chance. " He shakes his head a little sadly. "I didn't realise how deep my feelings for you were, until I had to watch you ride away."

She hopes her surprise at that is not too obvious.

"Even then?"

"Yes, even then." He drops his hand from her face, insinuating his arm around her waist again and squeezing reassuringly. "I loved you then, as I love you now… as I will always, until my very last breath."

At that, her heart overflows with too many emotions to count, tears springing to her eyes before she can think to try and curb them. She covers her face with her hands, muttering a muffled "Oh, Jaime…" before collapsing against him. Alarmed, he encircles her in his arms and rubs her back in a soothing motion, threading fingers into her hair when that only causes her to cry even harder, shaking from silent sobs.

"Gods, I didn't intend to make you cry," he apologises, his tone low and reassuring as he tries to calm her. "Come now. Hush."

She quiets eventually, pulling back with a loud sniff and scrubbing the remaining moisture from her face. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy but just as bright as ever, as she gazes at him in wonder.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… it's just…" She takes a deep breath to compose herself. "I have loved you for so long, Jaime, and I never dared hope that anything would come of it. To know that you've felt the same… after all this time. It's a little overwhelming."

"I'm a fool," he admits, "and I do foolish things for love – in this case, my foolishness was to do nothing at all." He emits a slightly maudlin sigh, but when he speaks again there is a more positive note to his voice. "I know I can't bring back all the time we've lost, but I really do want to make it up to you. My earlier proposition still stands – I would like to spend several hours kissing you senseless, until you are in absolutely no doubt or the sun rises on another day… whichever of those may occur first."

A smile edges onto her face, as she realises he is entirely serious. "That seems… a little excessive."

"Well, I know how much you enjoy a challenge."

She laughs at that, dropping her head to his shoulder, her hands resting against his chest as he settles his arms around her again.

"Gods, I'm exhausted." Her words are muffled by Jaime's shirt, and she lifts her head again before continuing. "Could we move this conversation somewhere more comfortable, do you think?"

"I thought you'd never ask," he says, and kisses her – soft and sweet, barely for a moment – before finally releasing her from his embrace.

The room is warm, Brienne's ample fire burning strongly in the hearth, but after so long in such close proximity, there is a definite chill as they separate. They make their way slowly towards the bed on the opposite side of the room, Brienne remaining within arm's reach in case Jaime needs support; he braces against the table at the halfway point, pausing to take a deep breath before continuing again, and she makes a mental note to find some more milk of the poppy when they finally re-emerge from the relative safety of her room.

Jaime sits carefully on the edge of the mattress and leans forward a little in an effort to remove his boots – Brienne smiles as she remembers telling him to do just that, only a few short hours ago – but he winces in pain as the stitches pull uncomfortably. She stills him with a hand to his shoulder and kneels to assist him, tugging the boots off and placing them neatly off to the side. She hesitates to help any further – she does not want him to feel useless – though she grimaces in sympathy as he slowly manoeuvres himself into a prone position on the bed. She busies herself with fussing over the pillows and furs instead, a more practical use of her sudden nervous energy.

She draws the furs up the bed, ensuring Jaime is comfortable, and notices that his shirt has hitched up during his cautious movements. The bandages are more stained than they were and she bites her lip in concern.

"That needs changing," she says. "There's some spare cloths in here, I think. I could—"

"It'll keep," he tells her, though now that she has pointed it out, the bandages do feel a little sticky and uncomfortable. He ignores it, tugging the shirt down and the furs up, extending a hand towards her. "Now, come here, Brienne, and keep me warm."

"I should make you sleep outside," she jokes, as she sits on the edge of the bed and kicks off her boots. "That way you might finally acclimatise."

"Cruel wench," he admonishes her. "Is the prospect of being close to me so heinous that you would rather I froze to death?"

"Yes, if you continue to use that awful nickname." She clambers beneath the furs, settling on her side next to him. "I know you don't mean it as an insult any more, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant to hear."

"My humblest apologies," he says gravely. "If you give me some time, I'm sure I can come up with something more befitting your character."

He lies still for a moment until the pain subsides enough for him to roll and face her. The movement puts pressure on his side, though it eases after a second or two, and his left hand has been made effectively useless beneath him; with a little more forward planning, he could have ensured that his good arm was the one to drape around her, not the maimed excuse for a limb that he carries on the opposite side. Even so, as he gently places it across her body, she quietly shuffles closer, grasping onto his foreshortened wrist to adjust the positioning of his arm around her waist, without even a flinch.

He manages to extract his left arm and slide it beneath her pillow, his right tightening to tug her further into the meagre space that still remains between them. He hooks his leg around her calf, holding her in place, taking in a deep breath and exhaling with a contented sigh as Brienne's hands, caught a little awkwardly between them now, come to rest against his chest.

"Are you quite comfortable, Ser?" she asks him in an amused tone. "Plenty warm enough?"

If anything, Jaime is the one keeping her warm, not the other way around. Nonetheless, he hums in response, his eyes drifting closed.

"Yes. That's much better, love, thank you."

She does not intend to gasp quite so loudly at the unexpected term of endearment, but it startles Jaime enough that he opens his eyes again, fixing her with a surprised expression. For a moment he is confused by her reaction, before he realises what he had said, and a gentle smile rises on his face. Brienne is well aware that she must look similarly shocked, and to her dismay she can feel the onset of tears again, a telltale lump in her throat and a prickling at the back of her eyes. Before the urge can take hold, she moves her hand up to Jaime's face and leans in to kiss him.

He practically melts into her at the contact, his limbs tightening around her as if to bring her even closer, though there is barely any distance left to close. He returns the kiss, softly at first and almost chaste, before parting his lips beneath hers and gently chasing her tongue with his. It still surprises her, the intimacy of it, as unpractised as she is – but she responds in earnest, drawing a contented hum from his throat as her hand caresses his face and her fingers once again thread into his hair.

Instinctively, Jaime's right arm releases its hold on her waist and he moves as if to touch her face. As his stump makes contact with her cheek, he pulls away from her abruptly, a flash of shame and horror in his eyes as though he is dreading her reaction.

Brienne seeks immediately to remedy the situation, disentangling her fingers from his hair and reaching to cover his wrist, drawing the gnarled appendage towards her mouth so she can bestow a tender kiss to the puckered scars. Jaime's breath hitches in surprise, his eyes drifting closed for a second before they lock once again with hers, glossy with emotion. She caresses the skin of his wrist with her thumb, the pulse beneath jumping erratically, an echo of his heartbeat beneath her other palm.

Jaime gazes at her in wonderment, vying for the right words to express himself.

"How can you bear it?" he asks in a low whisper. "It's… it's repulsive. The worst part of me. You should be recoiling in disgust."

"The worst part?" she repeats incredulously, shaking her head in fond exasperation. "Jaime, I… you saved me, that night. I'll never forget what you sacrificed for me. Whoever it was that made you so ashamed of this… they were wrong."

Of course, she knows exactly who is to blame: his father, his accursed sister. One is dead and buried, the other miles away, on the other side of a war. He could have been with her, still, if he had not chosen to join the fight for the dawn. Instead, he is here: in Brienne's bed, tangled up with her so thoroughly that she can barely tell where she ends and he begins, gazing at her with a soft expression that she is certain she will never fully believe is for her benefit alone.

"Gods, I… I can't… Brienne…"

He gives up on whatever he was trying to say, communicating instead in a more effective way by pressing another kiss to her mouth; she presses his handless wrist to her cheek and he does not resist or try to pull away. He withdraws after a second or two, determined to give the emotions that are overwhelming him some kind of verbal outlet.

"I love you, Brienne – so much. I don't think I have the words to express it. You say I saved you when I lost my hand… but you have saved me, in every possible way, more times than you know."

He smiles at her bemused and slightly disbelieving expression, belatedly realising that this conversation is a little heavy – especially considering that their mutual feelings only came to light less than an hour ago, though it felt like years in the making.

He adopts a lighter tone when he speaks again, as his arm settles around her waist again, her hands resting over his heart.

"You know… I've never courted anyone before. I hope I'm doing it right."

"I wouldn't know," she admits with a smile. "I've never been courted before. Not properly, anyway." Not in a way that didn't end in humiliation and rejection, she thinks but does not state aloud.

"Well," he ponders, "I've already covered the expensive gifts. At least, I sincerely hope that a priceless sword and custom-made armour will suit the purpose. You don't seem like the kind of woman to be impressed by jewellery or trinkets."

"Quite so," she agrees, with a nod. "The knighthood also, though that cost you nothing."

"Only my dignity," he suggests. "I was quite jealous of that Wildling, you know."

She flushes with mock affrontation, pushing back from him so the effect of her glare is not lost. "Jamie Lannister, are you honestly suggesting that you only knighted me for some ridiculous demonstration of one-upmanship?"

"Not only because of that," he says appeasingly. "Nobody else would have been worthy of the honour." He considers that for a moment. "Actually, nobody else would have wanted it, from me."

"Now you're just being morose for the sake of it." Brienne huffs, keeping up a pretence of irritation, though she is enjoying the game as much as he is. "Nobody else would have thought to give such a gift, except for you. I… I can't tell you how grateful I am."

"A gift well-received, then," he surmises, and looks thoughtful. "Now, what else, what else… Ah, yes, I believe I'm supposed to make my intentions towards you clear – I hope I've managed that. If you're still in any doubt, I'm sure I can… remind you."

He rolls his hips a little, at that, pressing against her, and she cannot help the blush that overcomes her. Jaime's gaze drifts from her face, down to her neck, and lower still to the bare patch of skin peeking out from the loose collar of her shirt, clearly appraising whether the blush goes all the way down. She fumbles self-consciously to pull the shirt's edges together, but does not miss the twinge of disappointment on Jaime's face.

"When you're ready," he reminds her, dragging his eyes back to hers. "I promise. I'll even marry you first, if that's what you want."

She gives him a wry half-smile. "Did you just propose to me?"

"I think I did," he ponders, only realising it himself as he clarifies it out loud.

"Isn't there supposed to be more of a question involved?"

"Well, would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Marry me, if I asked you?"

Her head is starting to reel. "Are you asking me?"

"That depends on how you'll answer."

"Jaime," she begins, and then gives up the fight, shutting him up in the most effective way she knows, by pressing her mouth to his. She can feel him smiling against her lips, thoroughly pleased with himself.

As they separate, she wonders if he will merely start up the ridiculous back-and-forth again, from the knowing look on his face. Instead, he lets out a contented sigh.

"That reminds me… wasn't I supposed to be kissing you senseless by now?"

She groans in exasperation; as tempting as it might sound, she is exhausted, weary to her very bones.

"I need to sleep," she tells him. "Don't you? Gods, you fared far worse than I did in that fight. You need to heal."

She expects him to argue, but her words seem to have gotten through to him; he blinks heavily, as though suddenly realising just how tired he is.

"Yes, you're probably right. We should both rest."

He shifts a little, settling himself more comfortably against the pillows, though he does not release his firm hold on her. His body against hers is warmer than the furs could ever be, chasing away any remaining chill from the long night.

"One more kiss, my lady?" he asks. "It's very likely I'll have to face those undead monsters again in my dreams. I could do with some courage."

In truth, Brienne shares his fear about what nightmares are yet to come, and she cannot refuse him. She leans in, Jaime meeting her halfway; she expects him to claim her mouth and leave her breathless, but instead he is deliberately, almost cautiously tender. He brushes his nose against hers as he withdraws, meeting her gaze for a brief moment before closing his eyes again, the weariness finally taking over.

His last words before sleep claims him are barely more than a murmur. "Sleep well, m'love."

One day, hopefully soon, Brienne will be able to stem the urge to cry whenever he uses that word in reference to her, but for now she is too worn out, too battered and drained, to try and preserve her dignity. She allows herself the luxury of a few silent tears, breathing carefully so as not to disturb Jaime and worry him with her demeanour. She watches him sleep – no sign yet of any bad dreams to plague his rest – listening to the crackle of the fire and the sudden patter of rain against her window (a light thaw, after the blizzard, doubtless soon to be replaced with yet more frost), the daylight beyond creating an eerie sense of timelessness.

Eventually, the quiet and the warmth and the relief are enough to lull her to sleep, her hands still pressed protectively over Jaime's heart and the rest of her secure in his embrace.


A/N: Okay, so there was supposed to be a little more to this, but I really wanted to share it and this works as an end point (for now), so I'll post the rest later when I've properly figured out where it's going. I hope this has sufficed your appetite for shamelessly fluffy softness, because the next section will be a bit angstier. Er, sorry.

Thanks for reading!