A/N: I suspect this might be the penultimate chapter in this little saga, because I still don't really have any kind of firm direction for where this is going other than a generic happy-ever-after, and I'm not sure how much more pointless fluff I can eke out of this situation, TBQH. I'd like to say that this fic could potentially become a vessel for my first ever attempt at smut, but it will probably take me at least a decade to write it and even longer to share it, so I won't make any promises. :P
(I am still a little new to this 'ship, relatively speaking – my most longstanding OTP is at 25+ years and counting – but the THINGS these two do to my brain, it's honestly terrifying.)
Anyway, in this section Brienne has a little thought journey which is hopefully not too horrendously OOC, and I have attempted to fix the feast/drinking game scene, because I have mixed feelings about the canon version. I loved everything about it up to Tyrion's awful final guess, so I've tried here to incorporate the bits I liked and improve the bits I didn't. Tyrion is still endearingly terrible, but there's no virgin-shaming. It's been a while since I saw the episode, so even though I have lifted some dialogue from the actual scene, it's more than likely inaccurate or in the wrong place – just go with it. ;)
I hope you enjoy.
There is no expectation – from either Daenerys or Sansa – for anyone to occupy themselves with anything of importance after the funeral; the families have left Winterfell to grieve in private and those that remain are allowed to use the time before the feast as they see fit. Northerners are a resourceful people, however, and soon enough there are pockets of activity in the grounds of the castle. Brienne feels restless without a purpose, though she in no way regrets the time spent with Jaime if it has reassured him of her own intentions. When Podrick catches her eye and waves her over to a group that has already gathered outside, she does not hesitate to join them. Jaime follows automatically, for a lack of anything better to do.
There are a few hours of daylight remaining to begin the clean-up, removing the debris left in Viserion's wake, in readiness for rebuilding to start over the next few days. Brienne and Podrick both throw themselves whole-heartedly into the heavy lifting involved, as broken stones and gravel are hauled into awaiting wagons, and those that can be reused are piled up. Jaime is relegated to inventory, at Brienne's insistence, despite his protests that his left-handed penmanship will likely be illegible.
"You can count?" asks one of the men gruffly. "You know your numbers?"
"Of course I do," mutters Jaime irritably.
"So, count. Joby here will write it down."
A lad barely past his sixteenth year is suddenly shoved forwards and a piece of parchment is deposited into his hands. He is covered in cuts and bruises and has clearly partaken in the battle, though he looks barely strong enough to wield a sword and so skinny that the merest breath of wind might knock him over. He looks equally as unimpressed with his assigned task, but neither of them are in any fit state to be hefting stones around, and a sense of mutual solidarity falls between them. So Jaime counts, and Joby scribes.
As dusk falls, Lady Sansa – much recovered, though her face is slightly puffy still from crying – finally re-emerges from the castle to relieve them, instructing the group to rest and clean up before the evening's festivities. They have made good progress in a short space of time, the ruined wall cleared enough that work can begin soon to rebuild it. Sansa's expression just barely reflects her surprise at finding Jaime amongst the Northerners, and she gives him a nod of gratitude as the group disperses. It feels like a step forward on the path to gaining her trust.
Brienne's position at Winterfell affords her the luxury of a private bath in her chambers, whereas Jaime and Podrick must make do with the communal baths within the castle. Jaime needs to obtain a change of clothing from Brienne's room beforehand, which becomes a mission in nonchalance and stealth; he loiters in the corridor as servants come and go from the room with buckets of water. He does not know anyone well enough to pass the time of day or engage passers-by in conversation, but thankfully nobody pays him any heed and the servants are too busy to notice his presence.
Eventually, the flurry of activity dies down, the final servant leaving the room. When nobody returns after five minutes or so, Jaime finally manages to approach the door, announcing his presence with a knock. A muffled "Enter," sounds from within and he pushes open the door.
He is greeted by a startled shriek and a flurry of movement, and it takes him a moment to notice through the haze of sweet-smelling steam that Brienne is clutching her shirt to her chest and that he has caught her in the midst of undressing for her bath.
"Jaime, close the door, for Gods' sake," she demands urgently, and he would do as she asks except he has no idea which side of it he should be on. His dilemma must be obvious, because Brienne rolls her eyes impatiently. "Get in or get out, but close it."
Her tone cuts through his indecision and he chooses the former option, stepping over the threshold and tugging the wooden panel closed behind him. For a long moment they are caught in mutual silence, Brienne staring at Jaime as he stares at her, both of them lost for words. She clasps the shirt to herself with both hands, the fabric and her arms protecting her modesty, and she thanks whichever of the Gods might be listening that she had not started on her lower half yet. A part of her considers how ridiculous this situation is, because it's not as though he's never seen her, and there was much more of her on display the last time – but, she reminds herself, he was half-delirious from pain and fever and did not have quite such a look on his face.
She blinks and lets out a breath. "I thought you were one of the chambermaids," she explains, for a lack of anything else to say.
"I… I came for a change of clothes", he responds absently, still gawking at her. "Sorry, I didn't realise you were—"
"It's fine."
Jaime makes no move to collect the items, almost as though he is rooted to the spot.
"You'll have to get them yourself," she points out. "I can't—"
"Oh. Yes, of course."
Her suggestion finally pierces his bewilderment, and he steps forward, averting his gaze to the floor as he moves past her to pick up what he needs. Brienne stands as unmoving as a statue, attuned to the sound of his footsteps behind her. Soon enough he turns and begins to head past her again, but he suddenly draws to a halt with a sharp intake of breath and she wonders if his injury is causing him pain, until she feels the warmth of him behind her, where he has veered off his intended path.
"Gods, Brienne… what happened to your shoulder?"
His question puzzles her. "You… you know what happened, Jaime. The bear, it swiped at me before you—"
"No, your other shoulder," he says. "It's black and blue."
Oh. Yes, she had dislocated it during the battle, a wight getting hold of her blade to try and disarm her, yanking so hard and at such an angle that it had wrenched the joint out of alignment. The contusion is more than likely from it being reset, the weight of a full-grown man pushing against her shoulder-blade with all his strength whilst another manipulated her arm back into place. After the wave of blinding agony had subsided, she had barely noticed it beyond a dull ache.
She explains as much to Jaime, but her reassurance that it doesn't bother her is cut short as he raises his hand as if to soothe away the bruising – he does not quite touch her but the heat from his skin is enough to raise goosebumps down her arms. After a second, he pulls away again.
"What were you thinking, hauling stones about all afternoon, you insufferable woman?"
"You're hardly one to lecture me, Jaime – you'd have done the same given half a chance."
He concedes on that point – they are just as obstinate as each other when it comes to downplaying their injuries. She can feel his gaze on her as he appraises the damage, even though her back is turned.
"I know I can't force you to rest," he says, "but at least be careful."
An argument is on the tip of her tongue, about how she's not made of glass and is more than aware of her own body's capabilities, but his tone is so concerned and sincere that she manages to bite it back. Besides, she had intervened herself only an hour ago to prevent him from hurting himself any further. The battle may be over, but they cannot stop themselves from protecting each other.
She acquiesces – "I will," – and can almost feel Jaime's relief. When he eventually moves away from her and makes his way to the door, a chill runs down her spine from his absence, despite the blaze in her hearth.
"Right," he says, in a more casual tone, trying to break the tension, "I suppose I should leave you in peace before your bath gets cold." Brienne can only nod in response. "Podrick has promised to save us both a seat at the feast."
"I'll see you later, then."
Just before he turns to leave, he gestures vaguely towards the neatly-laid-out clothing on her bed.
"You should wear the blue shirt, not the grey," he suggests. Her only response is a questioning look, and he lifts his gaze to hers as he explains: "It brings out your eyes."
She graces him with a smile, just the barest upturn of her mouth, and nods. "As you wish."
"Until later, my lady."
With that, he slips back out into the corridor.
She waits until his footsteps have well and truly disappeared before approaching the door and bolting it, to prevent any further unwarranted visitors or interruptions. She should probably give thought to obtaining a screen; in truth, certain practicalities had not occurred to her when agreeing for Jaime to move into her quarters. The notion crosses her mind that perhaps they have rushed into such an arrangement, barely two days into what Jaime has deemed their courtship, but just as quickly it is overtaken by the knowledge of how empty her bed would feel without him.
Besides, nothing about them has ever been conventional.
When she finally manages to sink into her bath, the water has retained its heat – not as scalding as she would prefer, but warm enough that it causes her various cuts to sting. The maids have strewn medicinal herbs and fragrant lavender onto the surface, the effect so relaxing that she could easily take a nap; it's certainly tempting, except for the fact that if she does not show up at the celebration she will never hear the end of it. Still, she savours the bath for longer than is strictly necessary, indulging in the opportunity to soothe her battle-bruises and new-found aches from an afternoon of manual labour.
The silence and solitude give Brienne a moment to reflect on the past few days. The events since her knighting have passed in a blur, her emotions running from one extreme to the other with barely a chance to regroup. Jaime has been at the centre of everything: gifting her a knighthood and a first kiss, scaring her almost to death at the conclusion of the battle, filling her heart with despair one minute and absolute joy the next. There are no half-measures, and it's always been that way between them, but the encounters have usually been further apart with more time to recover her senses. Now that their mutual feelings are out in the open, it's as though a floodgate has been opened.
Perhaps that's why she is suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of unease and disbelief. Until now, any doubts she might have harboured have been quashed as swiftly as they have arisen. Although Jaime has made his intentions more than obvious, she is terrified of disappointing him. Even the memory of the look on his face only minutes ago, catching her in a state of undress, is not enough to shake the feeling. The voice of Septa Roelle echoes in the back of her mind, as it always does in such moments of self-deprecation, reminding her that such ladylike pursuits as romance are beyond her grasp. She had chosen to become a warrior in defiance of her Septa's harsh words, following a path that would have been denied her otherwise, whilst forever tamping down the foolish yearnings of her heart.
Whether wisely or not, her heart has chosen Jaime, in spite of her best efforts to the contrary. We don't choose who we love, he had told her once, and she had certainly not made a conscious decision to fall for the most unattainable man in Westeros. She doubts that Jaime would have chosen her, either, in any usual circumstances, and perhaps their miserable trek through the Riverlands would have had a very different outcome if not for Harrenhal.
Despite knowing their mutual history, she still cannot quite see how they ended up here, but to complain about it would be ridiculous. As impossible as it might seem, Jaime does love her – any lingering uncertainty about that has disappeared, because Brienne knows how men look when they mock her and Jaime more so than anyone, and he has given her more sincerity in the past couple of days than during their entire acquaintance in the years prior. The intentions of his heart are not the thing that concerns her.
When she considers what he's had before, she knows there is no comparison. Brienne is not blind; she knows what she looks like. She wears her armour as much for what it hides than what it symbolises. Septa Roelle gave up on teaching her to conduct herself as soon as it became apparent she would not stop growing, her limbs too gangly for proper deportment and her fingers too clumsy for needlework; she has never learned how to be a lady in any of the ways society would accept, and her appearance saw fit to absolve her of the rest.
Maybe, she considers, as her armour and sword catch her eye from across the room, reflecting the flickering patterns of the firelight, just maybe, it doesn't particularly matter. She was wearing them both when Jaime knighted her, and when he kissed her for the first time; if she had let him continue speaking before the battle, she would have been wearing them as he confessed his feelings, too. He knows what she is, and he loves her anyway. Love is knowing your flaws and wanting you in spite of them. The same words she had used to try and reassure him come back to her, flooding into her brain, a harsh reminder that she should stop over-thinking.
The bath has cooled enough to be mildly uncomfortable when she finally scrubs herself clean, ridding herself of any lingering remnants of the Long Night, but her fire is still warm and there's fine food and good company to look forward to in the Great Hall. She is thankful for that, and for the fact that she nobody expects her to wear a dress, considering she's already late.
By the time Brienne reaches the Great Hall, the celebration is in full swing, a wall of raucous sound and overpowering aromas bombarding her as she enters the room. She scans the room briefly before locating Podrick and Jaime, her squire waving her over with a jovial expression to a spare seat beside him.
She weaves her way carefully through the crowd, making way for serving girls hoisting massive silver platters amongst the tables or scurrying back and forth with jugs of wine and ale, dodging to avoid splashes from wayward cups raised with jubilant cheers, before finally finding her place at the table. She has to wonder if the arrangement is deliberate on Pod's part, as she finds herself directly opposite Jaime. As soon as she sits, a goblet is deposited in front of her and filled with wine, followed by an empty plate for her to take her fill from the ample fare laid out down the length of the table. The choice is overwhelming and she asks Podrick for his recommendations. He is already well into his cups and prattles on about the venison and the rabbit stew with more enthusiasm than the situation warrants, but she barely takes in his words as she catches Jaime's eye, watching as he slowly appraises her outfit – the blue shirt, as he suggested, complemented by a smart leather jerkin subtly embroidered with tiny silver stars, stylised suns tooled around each of the hooked clasps down its front: a gift from Lady Sansa for her last name-day, designed to match her sword-belt – and finds herself flushing under his gaze.
As the evening progresses, the drink flows freely and the salvers are never empty, a seemingly endless procession of fresh bread accompanying every course. Brienne is not usually one to partake of wine, but she downs nearly four cups without even realising. It's only when she reaches for some bread, rising slightly from her seat only to collapse back into it again as her head swims, that she realises how much she has imbibed. She can't even be offended when Podrick starts laughing, because it's frankly ridiculous how badly the alcohol is affecting her. She dares not try to stand again, and before she can ask Jaime reaches over himself to pass her the bread basket, barely concealing his own amusement at her predicament. He seems barely even tipsy and she feels a little envious.
The wine jug appears in her periphery again, the servants possessing a kind of sixth sense when it comes to empty goblets, and she places her hand over the rim to prevent any more being poured into it. To her utmost surprise, Jaime's hand drops to cover hers, lingering for longer than strictly necessary before dragging her away from the cup's edge. She gives him a quizzical look, and he explains:
"We fought the dead and survived. If now isn't the time to celebrate, when is?"
From the knowing look on his face, she understands that he is not merely referring to their victory in battle. His hand remains in contact with hers, his thumb gently caressing her skin; for a long moment she is lost, timeless, as their eyes meet across the table. It's only when Podrick clears his throat a little too nonchalantly that they finally break apart, and she reaches for her newly-filled goblet and takes another swig to distract herself.
After Daenerys has made her speech and there's a lull, finally, in the meal, Tyrion makes his way over to join them, squeezing another chair into the space beside Jaime and causing a moment of temporary chaos as others in the row are forced to move down. Trays of desserts are brought out for people to choose at their leisure – fresh fruit with honey, sweet pastries and lemon cakes (Sansa's favourite, Tyrion informs them casually). The feast is undoubtedly impressive, possibly the best that any of them will enjoy for a long time to come.
Brienne makes a decision to sip her wine more slowly, to try and make it last. That plan is immediately dashed to the rocks as Tyrion hails down a passing servant, relieves them of an entire jug, and announces that a drinking game is in order.
The rules are simple, he explains: a guess is made about someone's past, and if correct, they must drink. If not, the guesser drinks. He seems a little unclear as to how one knows who the winner is, waving his hand in a vague gesture and muttering something about drinking Bronn under the table, which Brienne does not find particularly reassuring. She elects to merely watch for the first few rounds, as the Lannister brothers guess back and forth about each other. They have a distinctly unfair advantage which renders the competitive element pointless, before Podrick gets to grips with the rules and joins in, and eventually all three of them persuade her into participating.
It quickly transpires that Pod has been sharing her secrets, as Jaime guesses correctly about her dancing with Renly as a girl; there is a hint of challenge to his tone, as though daring her to deny it. Podrick merely shrugs and grins at her.
Somehow, she manages to score a point against Tyrion – "You were married, before Sansa!" – and then loses another in the next round when he evidently does not prefer ale to wine: a foolish guess considering how much of the stuff he has consumed since joining them. They're already on a second jug and Brienne has lost track of how many cups she's had.
Jaime's next guess is surprising.
"You are an only child."
It's not technically true, but there's probably no better term for it now; she hasn't always been an only child, but she's certainly the last of her line, so—
She is distracted by Jaime's expectant face and the sight of Tyrion slumping against him affectionately in his inebriated state, pouting in sympathy at Brienne's plight because being an only child must surely be a fate worse than death. The sheer power of their sibling bond momentarily knocks the wind out of her – that despite their differences and difficulties, they are here together in this moment after the battle, and she's glad, for both of them, a gladness that raises a smile on her face and cheerful lilt to her voice when she finally responds, incredulously:
"I told you that!"
"You didn't."
"I did."
Jaime shakes his head and smiles. "I surmised it."
"You—"
"Drink!" demands Tyrion, thumping his fist on the tabletop, and she complies, draining her cup of its last dregs and not even complaining when Podrick refills it for her.
The game continues, the next few rounds alternating between Podrick and the younger Lannister, whilst Brienne nurses her wine and watches the exchange with increasing fondness. The alcohol is singing through her veins, warming her from the inside out. She laughs whole-heartedly at one of Tyrion's awful jokes without feeling the need to rein herself in; she knows it's the wine lowering her inhibitions, but she is enjoying herself too much to care.
Suddenly, her focus is drawn elsewhere, as Jaime's hand touches hers – feather-light, the merest brush of his finger against the back of her knuckles where they are clasped around the goblet – all of her attention honing in on the point of contact. She glances down briefly before lifting her head to meet his gaze, and finds him staring at her with an unreadable expression. His smile is wistful, his face softening slightly as their eyes meet, all of the background noise of the Great Hall fading to a dull thrum.
"Ser Brienne!" yells Tyrion, jolting her back to reality. "It's your turn to guess!"
Jaime's hand moves away, and he seems to take all of her courage with him. She wracks her brain for something to say, but the wine has made her slow and she gives up.
"I'm sorry, my Lord – your early life is an elusive mystery. I think I'm all out of guesses."
"Then I'll go again," he suggests, readily volunteering, and Brienne snorts out a laugh.
"You've had more goes than all of us combined," she points out, failing slightly to get her indignation across when she is so clearly amused by his antics.
Tyrion puffs out his chest with an air of self-importance. "It's my game."
She leans back in her chair and waves her hand in his general direction.
"Very well. Go ahead. I'm sure Podrick has already shared all of my secrets."
"Fear not, Ser Brienne, my goblet is full," Tyrion assures her, "though I'm certain it will not be needed."
She rolls her eyes, at that, because there's nothing else remotely interesting about her past that Podrick has not already divulged.
In the ensuing silence, Tyrion adopts a thoughtful expression as he weighs up the options ahead of him, appraising Brienne from across the table. His analytical gaze sweeps across all three of his companions, collating evidence in his mind. Brienne's own gaze flits between the two brothers, Jaime's countenance becoming suddenly troubled, as though he can sense exactly what Tyrion is about to say and would very much prefer him not to.
Tyrion's face suddenly lights up, as though he has figured out a particularly difficult mathematical equation, and he leans forward conspiratorially towards Brienne.
"You," he says, pausing to give his announcement greater emphasis, "are in love with my brother."
Panic and embarrassment both slam into her, settling like lead in the pit of her stomach and stilling her tongue with indecision. She does not want to deny it with Jaime present, but equally she does not want to admit anything.
Jaime attempts to interject – "That's a statement about the present," – but Tyrion holds up a hand in a halting gesture to silence him, before correcting his assumption:
"You have been in love with my brother for some time. Years, I would say."
She can feel her face burning, eyes stinging with tears of abject frustration that it should come to light like this. A sideways glance towards Podrick tells her that he had no part in it, as he is staring into the depths of his goblet and trying very hard to be invisible. When she risks a glance towards Jaime, his own face is openly apologetic and somehow that's worse, because now it looks like a polite rejection.
She attempts to stammer out an explanation that will not incriminate her further, but is once again interrupted by the younger Lannister.
"Wait. I hadn't finished my guess. There are two sides to this situation. You see, Ser Brienne, my brother is also very much in love with you."
At that, she is unable to tear her gaze from Jaime's face, as it flits through murderous intent towards his brother, to acceptance that the secret is out, to the softness she has grown so accustomed to. For several long seconds, they merely stare at each other in silence, until Jaime's expression becomes a little mischievous. She is unsure as to why until he tilts his goblet very slightly in her direction, as though suggesting a toast. Understanding dawns just as Tyrion is lifting his own cup in defeat; she lifts her goblet to tap gently against Jaime's and they both take hearty gulps.
Tyrion halts with his drink mere inches from his lips, staring at them in disbelief, and even Podrick is gaping at them in surprise. Jaime sets down his cup and immediately reaches for Brienne's hand, bringing it to his mouth and bestowing a tender kiss to her knuckles. This time, her blush is from self-consciousness more than anything else.
At her side, Podrick is grinning delightedly at the display, as things finally fall into place in Tyrion's brain, and he raises his arms in defeat.
"Well, I see my attempt at matchmaking came too late. Do I presume congratulations are in order?"
"As long as they're subtle," suggests Jaime, as he releases Brienne's hand again. "This isn't public knowledge yet."
"I shall be as silent as one of Varys's little birds," he promises, which does not fill either of them with confidence, and raises his cup. "A toast, then. To Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne, Knights of the Seven Kingdoms, Heroes of the Long Night, and two of the most oblivious idiots in all of Westeros."
Jaime shoots him an accusing glare. "Careful, brother. I assured Brienne you were pleasant. Don't make me a liar."
Tyrion laughs heartily. "I am the Imp, and I will celebrate my dolt brother and his lady love however I like!"
"Oh, please be quiet," implores Brienne.
Tyrion mutters something unintelligible and takes a swig of wine, but he does at least lower his voice.
"Fine. If you insist on pleasantness, hopefully you will take me at my word when I say how happy I am for you both. If you could just hurry up and tell everyone else, I can collect my winnings."
"What? What winnings?" she asks incredulously.
"There's a wager on how long it would take the two of you to finally admit your very obvious feelings," explains Tyrion. "I stand to win a small fortune. That is, assuming this did in fact occur before the battle?"
Jaime looks thoughtful for a moment before asking: "Just how specific were the stakes?"
"Jaime!"
At Brienne's incredulity, Jaime merely shrugs, shooting her a winning smile. Tyrion is more than happy to oblige with details, as Brienne merely watches the exchange with growing disbelief.
"Let's start simple. The confession – before or after?"
"After."
"Excellent! So I must assume the same is true for the kiss?"
"Ah, no, that was before."
"Of course it was. Why would you do anything in the right order?" He tilts his goblet towards Brienne's squire. "Podrick, it appears we both came out winners."
"Not you as well!" Brienne admonishes him with an appalled tone, and he flinches under her gaze.
"Sorry, m'lady. It was just a bit of fun."
"At my… at our expense. Honestly, I expected better from you, Pod."
"Just how many of you were in on this?" asks Jaime, more amused by the wager than anything else.
Tyrion lists them off, counting on his fingers. "As well as Pod and I – Davos, Tarly, Gendry, and Arya. I was close to persuading Sansa, but as Lady of Winterfell she thought it would set a bad example. Oh, and Tormund, who rather optimistically bet on himself. Poor fellow."
"Oh, he's going to be devastated," says Jaime, looking inordinately pleased with himself.
"Arya, too?" For some reason, Brienne finds that the most difficult to understand. Arya has barely given Jaime the time of day since his arrival, and it seems impossible that she would have observed their interactions enough to form an opinion either way.
"Yes. She suggested it happened years ago," explains Tyrion. "So she's definitely down a groat or two. That is, unless…" He looks suspicious.
"Unless what?" asks Jaime.
"Unless you are truly the most backwards man in existence and you've actually been fu—"
"Enough!"
"—ing each other this entire time." Tyrion takes in his brother's incredulous expression and Brienne's evident discomfort. "Based on your reactions, I'm assuming not."
Jaime takes a deep breath, reining in the overwhelming desire to strangle his little brother.
"I will never understand how Daenerys hasn't fed you to one of her dragons yet."
"You wound me, brother," he says with mock horror, pressing a hand to his heart.
"No, wounding you is what I'll do if you don't keep that vulgar little mouth of yours shut."
They continue bickering, eventually resorting to personal insults that are more childish than malicious, until Tyrion accidentally – or so he claims – kicks Jaime in the leg and is rewarded with a smack around the head. Jaime has the good grace to reach over with his left hand to deliver the blow, rather than risking serious injury from the impact of gold upon flesh.
Podrick is crying with laughter as he watches the brothers arguing, whilst Brienne nurses her final few mouthfuls of wine and observes the exchange with a fond expression. When the fight turns physical, however, she decides that enough is enough and swallows the remainder of her drink in one gulp, setting the goblet down firmly on the table and rising to her feet in the hopes of distracting them.
It has the desired effect, at least, both Lannisters ceasing in their quarrel to turn and look at her with equally surprised faces.
Brienne honestly had not given any thought to leaving the celebration until much later into the evening, but standing has made her head reel and the room start spinning, a sharp reminder of just how much she has had to drink. She grips onto the back of the chair to retain her balance, swaying slightly, and considers that she would probably be better off in bed.
"If you will excuse me, gentlemen," she announces, hoping it does not come out as slurred as it seems to her own ears, "I must retire for the evening."
All three of her companions react with disappointment and a chorus of persuasive noises, but she waves them silent, immediately regretting the movement when it hampers her already-precarious equilibrium.
"I must insist," she responds. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion, the game was most enjoyable."
He raises his goblet towards her with a warm smile. "It was my pleasure, Ser Brienne."
In any usual circumstances she would give Podrick a lecture on not drinking too much, but given her own current state that would be terribly hypocritical. Instead, she merely nods at him with a knowing expression.
Finally, she turns to Jaime, trying to pre-emptively navigate how to take her leave without sharing unnecessary details about their new arrangement in the process. Eventually, she takes a more brusque approach than either of them would like, bidding him goodnight quickly and then turning to leave.
She manages approximately two steps before the alcohol sloshing around her brain causes her to pitch sideways. She manages to brace herself against the table's edge, dimly aware that some nearby people are guffawing at her embarrassing display, before the sound of Jaime's chair scraping across the floor attracts her attention. He rises and moves swiftly around the end of the table to reach her, hauling her upright and encouraging her to drape an arm around his shoulders for stability.
"It's probably best if I accompany you," he suggests, and she does not have the energy to argue, complying with a nod. The thought of her own bed is far preferable to passing out in a corridor somewhere in Winterfell, and she trusts Jaime to get her back to her quarters safely.
Jaime says his farewells to their companions, and together they make their way out of the Great Hall, his left arm settling around her waist to help her along. She's unsteady enough that hopefully, nobody will interpret his actions as anything other than helping a friend in need; they are certainly not the first pair to leave the room in such a fashion.
Somewhere on the other side of the room, Tormund watches them leave, a crestfallen expression on his face.
A/N: So, in the canon version of the feast scene, I legitimately loved every single one of the interactions between Jaime and Brienne, and latterly Tyrion, right up to the virgin-shaming (and even then Jaime did his best to rectify things), and I thought it might be interesting to explore those interactions within the context of them having an established relationship – in particular, an established relationship which is not yet out in the open.
My sincere apologies that this chapter did not live up to my usual standard of fluff – it was supposed to include a follow-up scene which will now formulate part of the next chapter, but I didn't realise quite how many words I'd need for the drinking game. Regardless, drunk!Brienne was fun to write, and whilst I'm still practising with writing Tyrion, hopefully I managed to portray him as affectionately as I hoped. In my head, drunk!Tyrion is the human embodiment of the "I am a goddamned delight" EffinBird. He has been my favourite character from the very beginning so I hope I did him justice.
I am also a sucker for Lannister brothers getting to spend time together, so this story casually ignores all the prior difficulties between them in favour of post-battle relief reminding them of what they had and could have lost. I think we saw a little of that in "Last of the Starks" in the scene with Bronn but it's another thing I would have loved to see more of if we'd been granted more time/episodes. If we disregard most of "The Bells" and their entire conversation, my favourite moment was the Jaime/Tyrion bit, and I'm hoping to explore that a bit further in "The Things We Do", if this story EVER shuts up.
Anyway, probably one more chapter to go before I put this story to bed for a bit, unless it tells me otherwise.
Please do let me know your thoughts. =)
