A/N: And it just keeps on coming! This chapter is a series of shorter vignettes leading up to the funeral scene from 8.04 and taking it in a slightly different direction from canon. I still have no clue (a) what I am doing or (b) where this is going, but I couldn't rest until this sequence was released into the wild.
I very much struggle to 'hear' Podrick so I hope he's not too OOC in this chapter. I can't remember if he even had any lines for the entire of season 8 other than singing "Jenny of Oldstones"…
You can expect more of the same from this chapter as previously, that is: early morning cuddles, a bit of angst, and lots of kissing between our two favourite idiots in love – this time a little more from Jaime's perspective than Brienne's. I am forever bitter about how the show treated them (and us), and that we didn't get to see more of them being happy before the writers broke our hearts.
Such being said: this piece is the absolute pinnacle of self-indulgent fluff and I'm mostly writing it for my own benefit, but if others are enjoying it then I certainly won't complain.
Please enjoy!
Dawn breaks; daylight, white and hazy through a filter of snow, slowly encroaches into the room and drags Jaime from slumber.
For a moment, he is disorientated, unable to recall his whereabouts. There's another body with him in the bed and his immediate instinct is to panic – he should not have stayed all night and now the servants will see and the secret will be out and everyone he cares about will die – but once his eyes adjust to the light he finally becomes fully aware of his surroundings. Dark stone walls tinted orange from the dying embers of a fire: Winterfell. The heaviness of furs and coarse linen sheets. Morning glowing cold and bright rather than golden. The body is as tall as he is, with a pillow-rumpled mess of short blonde hair. Brienne.
In a flash, he remembers the events of a few hours ago, in the eerie half-light of dusk: her gentle hands tending to his injury, a heartfelt discussion in the wake of his terrible remembrance, the comforting weight of her as they kissed, and the even steadiness of her breathing as she fell asleep against his shoulder. He lets out a lungful of air in relief, and sags against the mattress again, the tension leaving his limbs.
Brienne has rolled away from him during the night, but if anything it has brought them closer together, back-to-chest, knees interlocked, Jaime's right arm curled protectively around her waist. He nuzzles the back of her neck, pressing a kiss to her nape, and she stirs a little but does not wake. When he shifts his arm he realises that the hem of her shirt has bunched up, exposing the merest inch of her torso to his touch.
If it were anyone else, Jaime would never dream of allowing his maimed arm to come into contact with another's bare flesh, but with Brienne he no longer feels any compulsion to hide away – Gods, how has she managed to make him overcome that in such a short space of time? – and the smoothness of her skin is too tempting to ignore. His arm drifts upwards, skimming the toned expanse of her stomach, the outline of her lower ribs, her sternum. It's only when he moves higher, grazing the soft underside of her breast, that he realises she is awake, as she reaches for his wrist and gently tugs it downwards again, back to her waist.
He acquiesces without argument, but makes his disappointment known. Somehow, even though she is facing away from him, Jaime can tell she is smiling, amusement in her tone when she speaks.
"Good morning, Jaime."
"G'morning," he mumbles in response, pressing another kiss into her hair and tightening his grip around her.
Brienne shivers against the early morning chill and shuffles backwards, instinctively seeking out his warmth, but then freezes in surprise. For a moment Jaime is confused, part of him still anticipating that she will recoil from his handless arm, before realising that he has once again been unable to curb his body's reaction to Brienne's close proximity.
"Ah. Sorry."
"No, it's… it's fine."
She rolls, turning beneath his arm, to face him. His forearm lingers under her shirt, gently caressing her lower back, partly in affection and partly to reassure himself that she really does not find it repulsive.
"I suppose I need to get used to it," she ponders.
"I can't help it if I find you irresistible."
He fully expects her to argue, but instead she graces him with a curious half-smile, raising her hand to his forehead.
"Are you sure you didn't take a knock to the head?"
"Quite sure." He gives her a soft smile. "I admit, it's very rare that I speak sense – but absolutely nothing I have said to you these past few days has been a lie."
She brushes some errant hair away from his eyes before her hand trails down, fingers tracing a path behind his ear and her palm resting against his face. She studies him searchingly for a moment, then shakes her head in fond exasperation and leans in to kiss him. Jaime hums in approval, his arm tightening and legs entangling with hers, dragging her closer. At the gentle caress of her hand, her nails lightly scraping against his beard, his tongue darts towards the seam of her mouth, seeking entrance that she gladly provides, and for the next few seconds they are aware of nothing but each other.
A distant noise in the corridor beyond the chamber door drops them suddenly back to reality; the rest of the castle's inhabitants are stirring, ready for the day ahead. They force themselves apart with a shared look of regret. The battle may have been won, but there is much yet to do, and there is not the time to indulge in idling the morning away. Still, perhaps they can allow themselves a few minutes more to enjoy the quiet, before duty calls.
"That," says Jaime, nuzzling his nose against hers, "certainly did not help my current predicament."
He rolls his hips towards her and does not miss the way her eyes darken in response, despite her surprised intake of breath; he's almost certain that she had pressed back against him, very slightly, and the idea of that makes him dizzy with need. He is leaning to kiss her again when a sharp knock at the door intrudes on their solitude, and he pulls back with a groan of abject frustration. There is no point in hoping their visitor will go away, as within seconds there is another knock, louder and more insistent.
"Milady?" The voice on the other side is muffled, but undeniably that of Brienne's squire. "It's Podrick. I thought you might want some breakfast."
Brienne presses her forehead to Jaime's for a final, shared moment of closeness, before disentangling herself. He lets her go, albeit reluctantly, and watches as she crosses the room to open the door.
"Good morning, Ser," says Pod brightly from the other side of the threshold.
"Good morning, Pod. I trust you managed to get some rest?"
"Yes, thank you, Milady. I came to let you know that there's breakfast being served in the Great Hall. Would you like me to get something sent up for you?"
"Oh… yes, if you wouldn't mind."
Her squire hesitates for a moment, looking thoughtful, then leans forward conspiratorially. "Would that be one serving, milady, or two?"
Brienne should admonish him for his forwardness, but then she remembers that he had left shortly after Jaime's arrival, making himself scarce. He had clearly been aware, at least to some degree, of what might ensue. Whilst she feels the need to assure him that nothing improper has occurred, she is also very disinclined to share details of such a personal nature, even with Podrick. Especially with Podrick.
Instead, she holds her head a little higher, communicating that she is not ashamed, but she keeps her voice low so as not to be overheard.
"Two. But I'd appreciate your discretion, for now, Podrick."
"My lips are sealed," he promises, not quite able to force back the grin that illuminates his face. "Besides, almost everyone is half-starved after the battle. I'm sure nobody will question it. Is there anything else you need?"
"Actually, you can do me a favour later." Podrick nods. "I need you to accompany Ser Jaime to see the Maester. He was injured during the battle and it needs attention. I fear he will not go of his own accord."
Jaime's voice emanates from within the room – "I can hear you, you know." – and Brienne bites back a laugh. Podrick also beams in amusement, temporarily unable to contain his delight at the situation, but manages to arrange his face into a serious expression.
"I'll make sure he gets there, Ser."
"Thank you."
With that, he sets off down the corridor again, and Brienne closes the door. In any other circumstances, she would chastise Jaime for making his presence known, but she trusts Podrick to keep her business private. Any remaining disapproval that she could send in Jaime's direction evaporates at the sight of him in her bed: still not fully awake and delightfully rumpled. The covers are pulled back on her side of the mattress and it's so very tempting to return, bury herself back under the furs and in Jaime's arms. Now that she's up, however, she's very aware of her empty stomach and the need to prepare for the day.
She moves to add another log to the fire, to keep the blaze going, moving about the room to see to anything else that needs her attention, and she can feel Jaime's gaze on her as she does. When it's obvious that she won't be going back to him, he sighs in defeat and attempts to get up himself. The effort causes him obvious discomfort, and Brienne heads over, pressing a hand to his shoulder to encourage him to remain where he is.
"Rest awhile, Jaime," she says. "There's no rush."
Before she can move away, Jaime grasps onto her hand, pulling her down to sit on the edge of the mattress beside him. He holds firm even after she has settled, refusing to let go.
"If there's no rush," he suggests, "you can keep me company."
Any argument she could make to the contrary vanishes as Jaime's thumb gently caresses her hand. She weaves the fingers of her other hand into his hair, ruffling it slightly, and he closes his eyes like a contented cat – or a lion, she reminds herself – and sinks back against the pillow. He is evidently happy to remain like that, so for the time being Brienne allows them both a moment of quiet peace.
Besides, it might be a while before they can indulge in such simplicity again.
Their breakfast – a simple affair of porridge with servings of honey and wild berries for sweetness – is brought by one of Winterfell's many serving girls, and Brienne collects the tray through her half-open doorway, thanking the girl for her trouble and sending her off to locate Podrick. She deposits the tray on her small table and then returns to the bed to rouse Jaime. He had succumbed to a light doze under her gentle ministrations, the knock at the chamber door only just piercing the haze of sleep.
She wakes him with a hand against his shoulder, helping him rise from the bed when needed; with some relief, she notes that his shirt is clean and that her slightly amateur, middle-of-the-night attempt at patching his wound has held. Jaime is steadier once he is actually standing, crossing the room slowly and dropping into the wooden chair with a little more ease than the previous day. When she passes him his boots, he manages to pull them on himself, wincing slightly but able to achieve a wider range of movement.
They eat in companionable silence until the door knocks again, Podrick announcing his arrival to accompany Jaime to the Maester. Brienne gets up to answer and allows Podrick into the room, this time, now that the secret is out. Jaime makes no move to rise, however, greeting Pod with the barest nod of his head but otherwise refusing to acknowledge the reason for the lad's arrival.
The silence extends, Brienne staring meaningfully at Jaime until he caves under her scrutiny.
"I don't need a bloody chaperone," he gripes, and Brienne merely rolls her eyes impatiently.
"You can barely walk three steps without support," she points out. "You agreed—"
"—to see the Maester, yes. I remember. But you don't need to send me there with a personal guard. I'm not going to wander off, and I'm sure everyone has bigger things to worry about than trying to assassinate the resident Lannister."
She levels her gaze at him, whilst Podrick watches the exchange with growing amusement.
"Jaime, do you even know how to get there?"
He is about to answer, but hesitates; deciding that discretion is the better part of valour, he gives up with a sigh.
"Truthfully? I barely remember how I got here."
Indeed, much of his recollection after waking up in the infirmary is a blur of noise and colour now, a fevered dream fuelled by poppy milk and exhaustion. He must have stumbled upon Tyrion by accident, and it's a miracle he made it to Brienne at all.
Brienne nods, satisfied. "Podrick?"
"Yes, Ser?"
"Please escort Ser Jaime to the Maester."
"Yes, Ser."
Jaime quickly realises that he is outnumbered and puts down the sprig of berries he has been absently picking at for the past few minutes, pushing out of the chair. He makes it halfway across the room out of sheer pride and determination, before a surge of pain overwhelms him; when he reaches out to steady himself he finds Podrick's shoulder already rising to meet his hand, and nods in gratitude.
"You'd best lead the way, then," he suggests.
They pause at the threshold, as Podrick remembers the message he had intended to impart on his arrival.
"The funeral is in a couple of hours, Milady."
"Thank you, Podrick. I'll see you later."
With that, after briefly checking that the coast is clear, the two men depart into the corridor.
The Maester's Tower is a long distance away on the other side of the castle, a difficult enough trek even if the Night King's undead dragon had not decimated half of the building; at their current pace, it will take all day to get there. Luckily, Samwell Tarly is still set up in one of the makeshift infirmaries within the main castle, close to the Great Hall, only one storey down.
They make slow progress, walking in a silence that is not quite awkward, but lacking a common starting point for conversation. They pause halfway down a set of stairs so that Jaime can catch his breath, leaning heavily against the wall, and Podrick appraises him thoughtfully. There are words on the tip of his tongue that inherent propriety prevents him from uttering; Jaime barely had the patience for such things in the royal court, and has even less so now.
"Out with it, Podrick."
"Beg pardon, Ser?"
"Whatever it is you're so desperate to say."
Caught off guard, he stammers nervously. "W-well, it's about Milady."
"I guessed that much. I very much doubt you'd be wearing such a face about anyone else."
Despite his thoughtful countenance, Podrick has not fully considered how to word the question burning in his mind, and he launches into it haphazardly.
"How do you… that is— I mean—" He cuts himself off, steels himself, and tries again with more determination. "I need to know that your feelings for her are true. That you— that you love her, Ser."
The directness of Podrick's query momentarily floors him, but the answer is obvious.
"Yes. More than anything."
He looks sceptical. "More than your si—"
"Yes. Seven Hells, boy, you don't pull any punches, do you? Brienne is…" He takes a breath, and tries to explain. "She's more than I should deserve. I'm very aware of that. But she means everything to me, and I want to be worthy of her."
Podrick seems convinced, at least, but his troubled expression has not altered.
"She loves you."
"I know that."
"No, Ser. Truly, you don't."
Podrick debates with himself whether or not to continue; Brienne will certainly kill him if she finds out he broke her confidence; but Jaime deserves to know.
"After we left Riverrun," he explains, "she was quiet. More so than usual – for days she barely spoke a word. She wouldn't tell me anything, but I knew. After you waved each other goodbye, it was obvious: she'd wanted to stay… or for you to leave with us. Oh, she knew it was impossible, but all the same… I'd seen that look on her face once before, but I barely even knew her then – it was when we left the capital. But after Riverrun, it was so much worse."
Podrick hesitates for a moment, shaking off the memory, before continuing.
"I'm not sure how much you know, about her history."
"Not nearly enough," admits Jaime, his tone regretful.
"She's been hurt," he says plainly. "A few times, years ago, before she met you, but the wounds still cut deep."
Podrick gives him a meaningful look, and Jaime tries to reassure him: "I won't—"
"Ser Jaime, I…" The boy looks very serious, all of a sudden, his face darkening threateningly. "I may not be as great a swordsman as you, but I swear… if you hurt her or betray her in any way, I will not hesitate to kill you."
Taken aback by the squire's bold claim, Jaime is unable to respond immediately. He is uncomfortably aware of his very vulnerable position, midway down a steep and winding staircase; the merest push would see him tumbling to the bottom in a pile of broken limbs. Nonetheless, a surge of unprecedented pride wells up in his chest at how fiercely loyal and protective the lad has become, reassuring him that he made the right decision in sending Brienne off with the company of a squire. A green boy no more, under his lady's patient (occasionally not-so-patient) tutelage, Podrick has grown into a confident and decent man.
"Podrick Payne," he begins, his tone sombre and serious, "I swear to you, if I ever cause Brienne any kind of heartache, I will happily throw myself in the path of the nearest dragon." Pod looks surprised, and Jaime adds: "That Lady Knight we both adore so much is the best thing to ever happen to me. I rode all the way here to die beside her, and instead I find myself planning our future. If I do somehow manage to fuck this up, my life will not be worth living. I consider myself very fortunate to have gained her trust and her respect; I did not expect to earn her love, but now that I have it…" He is overwhelmed by a surge of emotion and cannot finish the thought. He regains his composure, and concludes: "I hope Brienne knows how lucky she is, to have you defending her."
Podrick cracks a smile. A wave of sheer relief rushes over Jaime and he defaults to irony in a bid to break the tension:
"Will that suffice, or do I need to open a vein?"
"That won't be necessary, Ser."
"Good. Now, let's get to the Maester before we miss the funeral. After he's done with me, you can accompany me to my brother's room so I can change."
Jaime pushes away from the wall and continues the arduous journey down the stairs, Podrick following close behind.
"But that wasn't what Milady—"
"This is what you get for threatening your elders, boy. You're to assist me until I say otherwise. Understood?"
"I… yes, Ser Jaime."
Brienne is leaving for the funeral, swinging open her chamber door, only to find Jaime on the other side with his hand raised mid-knock. Podrick is just behind him, looking beleaguered, carrying in his arms a somewhat insubstantial pile of neatly-folded clothing, atop which sits Jaime's golden hand. She almost does not recognise it, at first; after the Long Night the gold has lost its shine and the metal is nicked and dented, stained with dried blood that she hopes is not wholly Jaime's.
"Oh," she says in surprise, "I wasn't expecting you back so soon."
She stands aside so they can both enter, and Jaime directs Podrick to deposit the load on the table. Brienne watches, unquestioning, as Jaime moves himself and his meagre possessions wholesale into her quarters. A part of her is shocked that he accepted her invitation so readily, but they have grown so comfortable with each other in such a short space of time, the notion of how rapidly they have jumped to this arrangement barely registers in her mind.
Podrick retreats again with a polite nod – "I'll see you outside, Milady." – and disappears again, closing the door behind him.
"Did you find the Maester?" she asks Jaime.
"Yes. Tarly is certainly a strange one, but I feel much better. He replaced the stitches and treated me with some kind of salve. A concoction of his own making – poppy milk and some herbs and about a hundred other ingredients I'd never heard of. It should aid the healing process, apparently, as long as I apply it every morning and wrap myself up in swaddling like a newborn babe."
He is clearly unimpressed with Tarly's advice, and Brienne cannot help the amused smirk on her face.
"The poppy milk is obviously working," she points out, noticing that his stance is straighter, and he concedes with a nod. "I hope you were polite."
"Oh, yes, I was a paragon of gratitude," he reassures her. "He'd also kept my golden hand safe for me. Whoever attended to me must have removed it and left it where it fell. I didn't want to take it back, but he looked so pleased with himself I couldn't bring myself to refuse." He moves to the table and collects up the prosthesis, rubbing some of the dirt from its surface with his sleeve. "Having said that, I did consider on my way here that it might be best if I keep wearing it in public. For the sake of appearances."
Such being said, he slides the appendage onto his wrist and begins the arduous one-handed task of securing the straps. Brienne steps forward to help, as familiar in her movements as if she has done it every day, but she stills his fingers under hers for a second.
"I won't argue, if that's what you want," she says, "but I hope you know… you don't have to wear it, with me. You don't have to hide."
He gazes at her for a long moment, then extricates his fingers from beneath hers and reaches to cup her face.
"I know, love."
He leans forward to kiss her, a chaste press of his mouth which lingers longer than he intended, as she instinctually returns the pressure. Both of her hands raise to encircle his face, the golden hand forgotten, and after a second or two she gently eases him away. Her hands remain where they are, as she realises his beard is considerably less wild than it had been when he left her.
He smiles at the look on her face – part approval, part curiosity – and explains:
"Your squire is very handy with a dagger."
"I can assure you, he learned that by himself. It certainly wasn't my doing."
Jaime hesitates to mention that Podrick had every opportunity to slit his throat during the process, a fact that he had belatedly realised midway through the trim of his beard. Thankfully, he must have been too focused on the task to consider the potential of the weapon in his hand. There is still a need to build trust with Podrick, and Jaime hopes that by making himself so vulnerable, it may at least have paved the way.
There are many within Winterfell who care much for Brienne, and little for him, and with good reason. Gaining Brienne's faith is likely not enough to win over a castle full of Northern wolves, but Jaime is determined to try. Lady Sansa had taken Brienne's word when she vouched for his life: a small step, undoubtedly, and clearly a power move by the Stark girl – Jaime is not blind to the undercurrent of acrimony between the two would-be queens at Winterfell – but more than he should have expected after his family's treatment of hers.
Creating a basis of trust will take time; it's not something that can be achieved in a day, especially not this day. Today is for grieving, and later for celebrating, and there will be many more days to follow as preparations are made to move South. He will spend them all with Brienne, proving his devotion to her and those closest to her, and when he finally marries her – there's no if about that in his mind, it's as inevitable as winter had once been – it will be with her new-found family's blessing rather than their warnings to the contrary.
"What are you smiling about?"
"Nothing," he says, and they return to the abandoned task of securing his golden hand.
After, she appraises his outfit – as many layers as he could sensibly manage to wear to protect him from the harsh climate – with a slightly concerned expression, and suggests that he needs a set of furs if he's going to survive the North. He knows better than to argue, even if the thought of wandering around in a bear- or wolf-pelt makes him feel uncomfortably Stark-like, because after everything he's given Brienne she has every right to return the favour. They're supposed to be courting, after all, even if practical gifts are not the most traditional way of showing it.
Still, he refuses to borrow her cloak a second time, remembering the knowing expression on Podrick's face as Tarly had attended to his injury, the boy somehow recognising Brienne's shirt upon his back despite its non-descript appearance. Their new arrangement is not common knowledge yet, and he does not want to be responsible for causing any untoward rumours that might bring Brienne's stalwart honour into question. The whispers started shortly after his arrival, and he does not wish to give them further fire.
For now, he will endure the cold in whatever form it takes.
The funeral is a sombre affair – not that it should be otherwise – and Jaime feels oddly out-of-place: not just because he is surrounded by Northerners and people who should be his enemies, but because the two people he cares about most in the world are still with him. Regardless, he knows what it is to lose friends and allies in a battle. The Dragon's Queen grief is palpable, as is Lady Sansa's. The eldest Stark girl has already lost so much in her relatively short life, thrown into adulthood far too soon as part of Cersei's cruel games. At least both Mormont and the Greyjoy lad died with honour, like every man, woman and child they are laying to rest this day.
To Jaime's right, Brienne is watching the proceedings, motionless, her usual impassive and stoic expression never faltering – at least to the untrained eye. He knows her tells better than she would like: the barest wobble in her chin betraying her emotions. Jon Snow's monologue goes unheard over his head, the King's dour Northern tones fading into the background; Jaime is too distracted by the sudden need to try and ease Brienne's pain even though he does not yet know its cause. She is standing to his right and he feels a phantom twitch in his missing hand, itching to entwine his fingers with hers in a gesture of comfort and solidarity. Instead, all he can do is nudge his arm gently against hers and hope that she understands the intent.
A quick glance to his brother suggests he is battling a similar internal struggle. Tyrion's gaze flits between his Dragon Queen and his former wife, fingers clenching at his side, his loyalty as Hand warring against the tentative friendship – perhaps more, judging by the look on his face – he has tried to rebuild with the eldest daughter of the North. Something had evidently occurred in the crypts; it was still too raw for Tyrion to share the last they spoke. Jaime feels a pang of sympathy for his little brother, knowing all too well that pining after unattainable women will create heartache long before the warmth of reciprocation.
Jon Snow's sermon reaches its conclusion and the pyres are lit, their searing heat taking some of the edge off the biting chill, plumes of smoke rising upwards. The smell of wood turns soon enough to the acrid stench of burning flesh; several of the smallfolk in attendance cough and cover their noses and mouths. Those in higher positions hold firm, taking shallow breaths, as the heroes of Winterfell are laid to rest.
When Jorah Mormont's body has been completely consumed by the flames, Daenerys gathers her composure and turns to leave with a quiet authority, silently signalling that everyone else may depart if they wish. Jon reaches for her, but her gait is too quick and his hand closes over the air mere inches from her wrist. He takes a step to follow but is halted by Tyrion standing deliberately in his way, indicating with a shake of his head that he would do best to leave her alone. With a sullen nod, Jon acquiesces, moving instead towards Tormund and a group of other free folk who are watching one of the pyres with grave expressions.
Lady Sansa is faring no better than Daenerys, tears streaming down her face beyond her control as Theon turns to ash. At her side, Arya's face reveals nothing of her emotions, though her gaze flits between the flames and her sister; she does not know what to do for the best. Eventually, as the smell becomes too much to bear, she wrinkles her nose and turns away. The movement startles Sansa from her trance-like state, as though she had forgotten Arya was there.
They have never been close as sisters, but Arya had been there for Theon's gruesome final moments, and the guilt weighs heavy that she could not reach the Godswood any quicker. Sansa will not accept an apology, not when Arya's deeds should be lauded. Instead, the younger Stark communicates silently for Sansa to return indoors – I'll watch over him – and Sansa blinks away her tears and clasps hands with her sister, squeezing in gratitude, before heading back to the castle to grieve in private.
Tyrion, placeless for a moment, juggling his loyalties, hesitates only briefly before following, his shorter legs jogging to keep up. Jaime watches his brother with a small, wistful smile, until he disappears from view.
Brienne is one of the last to leave, and Jaime resigns himself to remain by her side until she is ready to move, despite the fact he can no longer feel his toes. He wants to speak, to try and draw her out of the shell she has withdrawn into, but he does not know where to begin. A brief glance to Podrick suggests that he, too, is worried for his Lady, and equally as unsure of what troubles her.
Suddenly, Brienne turns on her heel and marches off towards the castle without a word; the two men exchange apprehensive glances before Podrick nods for Jaime to go after her.
He catches up with her quickly enough, reaching for her arm to slow her down. He half-expects her to jerk away from him, but instead she draws to a halt, allowing Jaime to move to her side. She takes in his concerned expression and heaves a sigh.
"What do you want?"
He is taken aback by her abrupt tone, squeezing her arm as though that might soften her.
"Are you all right?" he asks.
She would pretend to be perfectly fine, in any usual circumstances, but things are different now – or so Jaime would like to think. His instincts do not fail him on this occasion, as Brienne takes some time to respond, weighing up whether to be honest with him or brush him off. Her face falters, bottom lip quivering, before she manages to compose herself.
"We lost so many," she explains. "Good men – fathers and husbands; sons; brothers. They didn't deserve their fate."
He had warned her of that before the battle – "It's war. Men will die." – but he knows that will bring little consolation now.
"Maybe not," he suggests, "but they died with honour. Because of them, the living prevailed."
"I failed them."
"Brienne—"
"Don't. Don't you dare try to tell me otherwise. They trusted me, and now they're dead. I should never have—"
"Brienne, that's not how it works." She is unable to respond, her eyes sparkling with tears of fury and despair. Jaime's hand is still pressed against her arm, and he squeezes again, trying to ground her. "You failed nobody. Yes, we lost people, but look how many we still have. All of the people you care about are here. You didn't fail Podrick, or the Stark girls… or me."
"But—"
"What did you request of me before the battle?" he asks, not waiting for her to respond before he answers for her: "You asked me to back you up, and to challenge you if I thought you were misguided. Did I fail in my duty, Ser?"
She is evidently perplexed by the question, her brow furrowing, so Jaime continues.
"The men followed your order to retreat, and so did I. At no point did I need to question you or correct your decisions. You did exactly what I would have done – what any good commander would have done. Success in battle is not measured by the lives you lose; it's measured by those you save."
Brienne considers his words. She knows he is correct: the scope of what they have achieved is immeasurable, the rest of humanity saved from the Night King's reign of terror. Yet her gaze flits to the mourning families scattered around the pyres, mothers and children clinging to each other, their plight so much more immediate. If it were Podrick amongst those bodies, or Sansa – or Jaime, Gods, as it very nearly was – she would not feel a whit of comfort from knowing that they had died for such a cause.
Jaime follows the line of her gaze, understanding implicitly, and he places himself in front of her, filling her field of vision. She blinks as she focuses on his face, causing tears to escape beyond her control which she discreetly wipes away.
"I'd love to say this gets easier," he says, "but I'd be lying. Perhaps it's more accurate to say that we harden our hearts against it."
Somehow, despite that, he has the feeling that Brienne's heart will remain as soft as it ever was – and maybe that's what the world needs. More than hardened warriors with wizened consciences, humanity would benefit from knighted maidens with boundless empathy. He'd like to tell her so, but a sudden rush of absolute joy and adoration overwhelms him, stealing his breath and his words. Her cheeks are still damp from the tracks of her tears, and before Jaime is fully aware of what he's doing, he steps closer into her, his hand raising to her face and his right arm twining around her waist, because that's what they do now, isn't it, now that they're in love, they exchange kisses and tender touches and comfort each other in times of need—
Brienne jerks back from him with a look of alarm, putting enough distance between them to appear proper but remaining close enough to hiss at him:
"What are you doing?"
"I'm comforting you?"
Her reaction has confounded him so much he's not even sure any more what his intentions were, but she looks slightly less like a startled deer at his explanation, and at least her tears have stopped.
"I don't—" She cuts herself off before she can finish, biting her lip in thought before continuing. "That is, thank you, but… anyone could have seen us."
"And?" His tone is biting, and she flinches.
"And, nobody knows about… this – us – our arrangement." She stumbles over her words, gesturing vaguely into the space between them.
"You'd obviously prefer it to remain that way," he accuses her. "Gods forbid anyone find out you've spend the past day in bed with the most hated man in the Seven Kingdoms."
His words come out harsher than he intended, and she falls into silence rather than allowing the argument to escalate and cause a spectacle, feeling exposed enough already. It gives Jaime pause, a moment in which to gather his thoughts and analyse his own reaction. It doesn't take him long, clarity dawning clear as a spring morning, and when he does speak again, the pitch of his voice is lower, softer, his face imploring.
"I've been someone's dirty secret for most of my life. I can't do it again."
At that, Brienne's expression softens in immediate understanding. She casts her gaze about the courtyard, a little frantically, before deciding on a direction and reaching for his hand. She heads off at a brisk pace towards an abandoned out-building, Jaime following mutely behind her. After checking quickly that the building is empty, she slips inside, tugging Jaime in after her. It's an annexe to the armoury, the floor strewn with dented plates and mail, discarded weapons and shields. It provides some respite from the bitter wind and acrid smoke, though the haze encroaches regardless.
Now that they are here, however, Brienne is unsure of how to proceed; she wants to right the wrong she has inadvertently created, but does not know where to start.
Luckily, Jaime gives her a head start.
"I mean it, you know. I don't want to sneak around as though we're doing something immoral. I love you, Brienne, and I want everyone to know that."
"I don't want it to be a secret," she promises. "If I did, Pod wouldn't be any the wiser. It's only… I need some time. I've never— This is so new."
To her relief, Jaime nods; it's just as new for him, to be allowed to love someone without repercussions, without the need to hide away. Although, he considers with a hint of irony, Brienne has not done either of them any favours by dragging him behind her to a more private place; the crowd in the courtyard had dwindled during the course of their prior discussion, but there's still a risk someone might have seen. (A slightly childish and petulant part of him hopes that Tormund was among them.)
"I'd like to tell Lady Sansa, before anyone else," ponders Brienne, interrupting Jaime's wandering thoughts. "If she heard about this through the castle's gossip, she'd never forgive me."
A smile raises on his face. "If you're telling Sansa, I'm telling Tyrion."
"Agreed. But… let's wait a day or so. Please."
Jaime sighs, his disappointment tangible, and Brienne reaches to cup his face in her hands; some of the tension eases out of him and she takes that as a positive sign.
"I'm not ashamed. Not of you, not of this. I'm just… not accustomed to being the centre of everyone's interest."
"I'd rather not draw unnecessary attention to myself either," he points out, his golden hand coming to rest against her hip. "I'm not suggesting we go everywhere arm in arm, or that we should shout it from the battlements, but I'd like to be able to kiss your hand in public occasionally without worrying that you'll punch me afterwards."
An amused smile graces her features: just the barest upturn of her mouth, but the mirth dances in her eyes. "I would never."
"Lying does not become you, my Lady," he says with a smirk, taking a step nearer, his right arm further encircling her waist. Her hands drop away from his face, resting against the front of his leather jerkin.
"Is that so?"
"Your face gives you away," he informs her, raising his left hand to gently trace her features. She stiffens, uncomfortable, but does not flinch away from him as she had done in the courtyard. Eventually, his palm comes to rest beneath her ear; his thumb moves lightly across her cheek; she relaxes, more accustomed to this sort of touch. "You would be wholly unsuited to any kind of political career. You are honest to a fault, even when you're trying not to be."
He intends it as a veiled compliment, but to his dismay Brienne's face becomes downtrodden.
"I'm not sure I'm suited to be a knight, either," she says, her expression just as haunted as before. "I will never grow accustomed to so much death."
"And nor should you," Jaime reassures her. "Brienne, you've been upholding the vows since well before I met you. The rest is… an unfortunate necessity, at times, but if you become unaffected by it, that's when you are unsuited to the task." She looks a little more convinced, and he leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together; his hand falls away to rest over hers, against his chest. "The horror will pass, but it doesn't go away completely. That's why we keep fighting, so that others do not have to endure it."
She sighs, and pulls away, feeling slightly less harrowed; his experience in these matters is comforting, in its own way.
"Thank you," she says. "For your wisdom, and your patience."
He looks surprised. "I think that may be the first time either of those words have been used to describe me. Most people would say I'm foolish and impulsive."
"You are," she agrees, "sometimes. But you're…" She pauses, considering. "You're different, I think, with me."
"No," – he lifts one of her hands, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles – "I'm better," – to her palm – "I always am when we're together," – and finally to the inside of her wrist, causing her hand to curl involuntarily into a loose fist. Maybe she was right to find somewhere secluded before embarking on this conversation; this sort of behaviour would only raise awkward questions, and the way she flushes pink makes him want to kiss her in far less innocent places, which would be most impatient and utterly unwise.
Then, she leans closer, her fingers unfurling to rest against his face, and grants him a kiss that is so sweet and tender that he's absolutely convinced his heart stops, at least until it flutters in his chest again; he feels like a green squire stealing his first kiss from a girl. He savours it for a long moment, the chaste warmth of her mouth against his, until he can no longer resist the urge to reach for her in turn, hand sinking into her hair and his right arm around her back, gathering her against him. He drags her bottom lip between his – he has a vague recollection that she'd particularly enjoyed that, last night – until she opens to him, the sweetness of the honey from their breakfast still lingering on her tongue.
He has thought of kissing Brienne many times over the years, but he had never anticipated how difficult it would be to stop.
They should stop – this is neither the place nor the appropriate time, their former comrades only just laid to rest, the pyres still smoking – but neither of them can quite summon the inclination or the will-power. They stumble towards the nearest wall, Jaime moving backwards, almost tripping over scattered weaponry on the floor, until she has his back pressed to the stones, and that's better, actually, because now he doesn't have to focus quite so much on staying upright with the cold exacerbating his wound, and Brienne's weight against him is achingly familiar even after such a short time – is it two days? three? since their first kiss? – and Gods he wants to marry her desperately so he can show the entire world how much he loves her.
The sun is almost at its highest point by the time they finally re-emerge from the annexe, flustered and unkempt, sharing private smiles. The yard is practically empty as they make their way back to the castle; Brienne allows Jaime's hand to drift into hers and their fingers to entangle, not letting go until they are once again within Winterfell.
A/N: FYI – they were just snogging in the armoury all that time, but obviously Jaime wasn't kidding about making up for lost time. ;)
I admit, the concept of Jaime calling Brienne "love" does things to my shipper heart that should be illegal. Gets me right in the feels. There's no way that Jaime Hearteyes Lannister would come up with some other sickly sweet petname when he can just be direct and to the point, and I like to think Brienne melts a little every single time in spite of herself. (Obviously, he would only use "Ser" when he's losing an argument.)
Also: I have no idea what a political career might entail in Westeros (in the sense that I'm not sure "politicians" are a thing in a form we would recognise) but I'm basing Jaime's comment on the fact that every politician in every universe and every century is a chronic liar, and, well – look at Varys. (There's a reason this fic is so soft, and it's called "current events". *gestures vaguely at entire world*)
Anyway, next chapter I will deal with a reimagining of the feast scene in the context of this canon-divergence. As for what happens after? Honestly, I don't know myself yet, but you can guarantee there will be copious amounts of fluff because I have a bottomless pit of the stuff and I'm not afraid to use it. (Anything more than that will depend entirely on how courageous I am feeling. I promise nothing.)
