Notes: Thank you so much for all your faves and follows!

This chapter is with Jaime and Brienne after the White Walker attack - but we're back at Winterfell soon! Let's just see what Jaime thinks of the whole thing, first.

Jaime read it in the window seat, bathed in the light of that cold white morning. Qyburn's words were terse and to the point, Cersei's fevered and fervent. Come at once, she said. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

Vyman was hovering by the door, waiting, and Jaime sensed that Peck was watching too. "Does my lord wish to answer?" the maester asked, after a long silence.

A snowflake landed on the letter. As it melted, the ink began to blur. Jaime rolled the parchment up again, as tight as one hand would allow, and handed it to Peck. "No," he said. "Put this in the fire."

(A Feast for Crows, Chapter 44, Jaime VII)

Chapter 9

Brienne stepped back from the makeshift pyre, and staggered to the side.

Jaime caught her before she fell to the ground. It was only when he asked her if she was well, and received no reply, that he realised she'd fainted dead away. He tried to support her as best he could, while holding on to his sword and watching out for . . . what had they called those walking corpses? Wights?

Why hadn't he listened when Jon Snow talked about his experiences and what they faced? All he could remember thinking was of Cersei, and how to get back to her as soon as possible. He remembered planning to play along, to fool the others, until he could somehow escape. Granted, his conscience did twinge when he thought of Brienne, and her faith in him.

But he brushed it away, and his conscience did not trouble him again, rotted and festering thing that it was. All of this worked, right until the Kingsroad took them through the Neck. Had it been that bad when he'd first ridden to Winterfell, with King Robert? Or had he just been younger then, less burdened?

It was then that Jaime had realised that this was not a game, that this was life or death to all of them. He shuddered at the memory of that horrendous place, the eerie silence, the cloying, suffocating air, and the enormous lizard-creatures watching them from every slimy pool of water they passed. Then, when they'd emerged, he'd found out that there were worse things than swamps, and murderous beasts.

Was Jaime imagining things, or was the attack slowing down? Brienne killing the ice warrior might have taken the heart out of the ambush, but he was not reassured by this. It had been a simple skirmish, and they had shown themselves to be woefully unprepared. As he watched, the last few wights burst into flames, courtesy of a now familiar large white dragon, and it was easy enough for Bronn and his sergeant to cut them down.

"Bronn," he called, and the man looked up, catching sight of them immediately.

"Still alive, I see," Bronn said as soon as he walked up, and Jaime fought the temptation to roll his eyes.

"You're very observant. Do you know how to revive her? After Podrick, she . . ."

Bronn nodded, and Jaime felt a wave of shame wash over him. Podrick had been Bronn's friend too, and now he was dead. Defending him, naught that he was. Bronn turned to where the sergeant was, and called to him, just indicating Brienne slumped over Jaime's shoulder, which was starting to pain him.

The sergeant didn't even change expression. He fished in his bag for a very small flask, and carefully unstoppered it, wafting it under Brienne's nose. Just as Jaime caught a hint of the smell, and his eyes started to water, Brienne gasped, and came awake. The sergeant nodded, and walked away.

Brienne tried to turn, murmuring 'Pod' under her breath, and Jaime pulled her around to face him. He deliberately shook his head, and watched as her eyes filled with tears.

"I wanted to save him," Brienne whispered, her voice broken.

"You did," he answered. "You saved him from servitude to that monster, from wandering around, dead-alive. You saved him from killing the ones he loved."

Brienne nodded, but wouldn't meet his eyes. "I must take my leave, Ser," she said, and she was turning away before she even finished speaking.

A short distance away, Jaime could see Bronn and the sergeant arguing with Jon Snow, while the dragon flew above, occasionally screeching. He rubbed his face and the back of his head, and decided to join them, even though he'd rather reassure the men. Though what could he tell them? That everything would be well?

"They must be buried!" The sergeant sounded like he was clinging to something familiar in a world gone mad, but Jaime couldn't blame him.

"No, they must not!" Jon's Northern burr was stronger than ever, Jaime thought. He also couldn't blame Jon for what he was sure the man was insisting on – not after watching Podrick, so clearly dead, get up and prepare to attack the people who'd been his closest companions in life.

"Your Grace," he called as he walked up, hoping to interrupt his sergeant before the man said something they'd all regret. "Can this . . . Night King bring back any mortal who has died? Whenever they died?"

Jon Snow nodded solemnly. He pointed at the men who were dragging bodies towards others who were digging ditches. "Ask any of your survivors and they'll tell you they fought with dead men who were just bones. Cut off any of their arms and the arm will keep fighting you. The only remedy," he insisted, "is fire."

"Then so it must be," Jaime said, keeping a steady eye on his sergeant as he spoke. "I have heard that some Houses burn their dead as a matter of course."

Jon Snow, who was rubbing a scar on his forehead, seemed relieved. "The Tully family do so, and of course the Targaryens, my kin."

"Our fallen should be treated with respect," the sergeant insisted, and Jaime bit his tongue before asking how much respect any of them had afforded defeated soldiers, betrayed allies, in the past. Was throwing bodies on a heap a sign of respect? At least fire cleansed, he thought, and managed to control a shudder which threatened when a memory came to him, of a crazed voice screeching, "Burn them all!"

"And they will be," Jaime answered instead, keeping his voice gentle. He marvelled at himself. He was recovering from the shock of seeing the impossible come to life rather quickly, he thought.

Jon Snow looked up at his dragon, and the creature swooped down, landing close enough for Jaime to struggle to keep his balance when its enormous wings flapped. Snow vaulted onto its back, and spoke quickly.

"Say what prayers you must over the dead. Signal us when you are ready."

Jaime nodded. Next to him, Bronn sighed. "Is there a septon with the army?"

Jaime rolled his eyes. "No. Of course not. Was there even one septon left in all of King's Landing when we marched away?"

They walked towards the men as they spoke, with the sergeant simmering as he kept pace. Jaime felt a niggle of worry – the man was a good soldier, one of the best. They couldn't afford to lose any more.

Later that day, Jaime watched Brienne say a prayer over the bodies of the dead and wondered whether he was awake or dreaming. As it turned out, she was the only one versed in the knowledge of the The Seven-Pointed Star, enough to pray over the dead. She finished, and strode away, but not towards him – towards the spearwives. Brienne had told him that the wildlings worshipped the old gods and carved faces into the weirwood trees, but that some of them were curious about the Seven, and wondered if those gods would be more potent. Not if one judged by what was left of the Sept of Baelor, Jaime'd answered, and regretted it when Brienne's face fell.

"So, what are you going to do about her, then?" Bronn was standing next to him as they watched the dragon set the dead aflame.

"What?" Jaime answered, only half listening. They'd all be dead if that bloody Northerner hadn't flown in on his dragon, and was that all they were for him? A distraction from Winterfell? Or were they fodder for this Night King's army, instead? "Maybe I should have stayed at the Twins, let Tully put me in a cell, sent you back to King's Landing."

"Have you lost what little wits you had, my lord?" Bronn was glaring at him. "Do you think I'd last two heartbeats with your sister if I came back without you? Your twin brother? He's chained to the wall in a castle in the Riverlands. Aye, I enjoy being tortured, how'd you guess?"

Bronn spun around, glaring, trying to find an outlet for his rage, but there was no-one close by. "And that's not the woman I mean, and you know it. Do you know what they call the Maid of Tarth when your back is turned?"

Jaime blinked. Since when did Bronn care about what they said about Brienne? Of course, he knew what they called her.

"Since when do you care what they call her," he answered, not bothering to mask his irritation.

"Podrick cared," Bronn ground out, and Jaime couldn't hold back a wince. "And so should you," he concluded.

Jaime did care, he really did, but what could he do about it? He opened his mouth to say the same to Bronn, but was interrupted by a screech, and the great flapping of mighty wings.

That evening, Jaime was instructed to call a council in his tent. It had never seemed that small, but it was now full to bursting with his sergeants, Bronn, Brienne, Jon Snow, and the spearwives. The latter had just looked at Bronn blankly when asked who was their leader – then one of them had spat to the side, answering: "Tormund Giantsbane". And that was the end of that conversation. Jaime was just wondering peevishly if the dragon wanted to squeeze in too, when Jon Snow gave him a significant look.

Jaime's heart sank. The king's intention was clear – Jaime needed to speak, and he'd been dreading it. He hadn't said much to his men; about where they were going, what they were doing here, in the North.

The guards who'd been on duty when Brienne had joined them in the Riverlands had known about Jon Snow and his dragon, long before anyone else. Even though they hadn't believed any of it, they'd still spread the news far and wide. Then, when the truth came out, they'd been smug about having knowledge denied their betters. One of them had died during the White Walker attack.

Jaime bit back a sigh, and stopped himself from fidgeting. His father's voice intruded on his thoughts, threatening to tie his hands behind his back until he learned to stand still, like a man. He knew what he had to say to his sergeants. More or less.

"Have the men been made to understand why the bodies must be burned?" Jaime decided to start with the uncomfortable questions.

Only one of the sergeants would meet his eyes. "They saw their friends die, and then get up again to fight them. So yes, they understand that."

"What they don't understand," another burst in, "is what we're doing here, in the North, fighting monsters. Begging your pardon, m'lord," he added, belatedly obsequious.

"We are here," Jaime said sharply, "because I have sworn fealty to Jon Snow, the King in the North."

All eyes in the tent fixed on Jon Snow, while the latter quirked an eyebrow at him. Perhaps Jaime was stretching the truth slightly. He hadn't got on his knees, as such, but he'd known there was no turning back once he'd realised the Others were real, and were attacking the living, everywhere.

"I would have thought that this battle made everything clear," he continued, unable to strip the anger from his voice. "There is no more North and South, no Kingsmen, no Queensguard . . . there are only the living and the dead. We must stop them here, before they march further."

The sergeants exchanged looks, but said nothing more.

"Is there rebellion amongst the men? Tell me true!"

His most trusted man gave a shrug. "They have heard tell of dragons, and a dragon queen. Now that they've seen one, and he's on their side, they'd rather be behind dragons than in front of them."

Jaime looked at Jon Snow, silently asking if it was enough, and the king nodded. It was clear that he agreed – not much more would be got out of the soldiers. And even though he'd threatened them, Jaime didn't think Jon Snow was the type to burn common soldiers.

"How many camp followers do you have?" Snow asked, and Jaime felt a crease between his brows start to form, along with a stabbing pain behind his eye. Camp followers? What camp followers?

The sergeants were looking everywhere in the tent, except at the man who'd asked them the question.

"Why do I feel I'm commanding a flock of sheep at the moment? Answer the king!"

A sergeant cleared his throat. "About two hundred, women and children."

"About two hundred?" Jaime couldn't believe his ears.

"They're not all whores, my lord," the sergeant hastened to add.

"I should think not," Jaime answered, but the sergeant went on, not comprehending what Jaime was getting at.

"When we marched for the Riverlands again, after the Sept of Baelor . . . uh . . . collapsed, many of the soldiers' wives refused to stay in King's Landing, or the Crownlands. They only felt safe with their men. Of course, no one thought we would be heading North, my lord."

So, it's my fault that they're in danger, Jaime thought, and suppressed a wince. He didn't dare ask what they thought of him turning his cloak for this King in the North.

Jon interrupted his thoughts again. "We will be marching on Torrhen's Square – it is lightly garrisoned, with half a hundred, a hundred Ironborn, at most. Once it is taken, the greater part of the army will stay there. The camp followers will be in the keep, of course. Also, I am raising Ser Bronn of the Blackwater to lord of Torrhen's Square."

Jaime felt as though Robert had risen from the grave and slammed him in the chest with that monstrous Warhammer of his. Bronn, lord of a castle at last.

There was silence for a few heartbeats, then Bronn cleared his throat. "Those Ironborn are bloody madmen, or so I've been told. Are you going to burn them out?"

Jaime winced, thinking that perhaps Bronn should moderate his tone with royalty, but Jon hadn't protested, was simply shaking his head. As were the sergeants.

"Begging your pardon, my lord, your . . . Grace," one of the sergeants answered, and Jaime raised an eyebrow. So, they'd decided, had they?

Both Jaime and Jon gave the man a nod, so he continued.

"The men need a victory – a clear victory. A battle they understand, and one they can win."

Jon Snow looked like he agreed. "They need to not be fighting their own companions, risen from the dead. Viserion will burn the gate, and that is all. We don't have time for a prolonged siege."

Jaime considered the plan, though he'd already decided it was a good one. "Very well. When do you suggest we march?"

They marched through the night, a strangely silent company, with torches all along the perimeter, and a dragon flying above them, occasionally lighting up the sky above and before them. Jon Snow rode with them, not looking happy at all, even though they were not attacked in the hours before Jaime saw light in the east signalling the sunrise.

They camped for a few hours, the men instructed to get some sleep, before they started another forced march. Jaime rode around, making sure no-one was being left behind, exchanging nods with Brienne and the spearwives. Gods, he knew he needed to talk to her, but what could he say? It was his fault that she had lost her most trusted companion – what could he possibly offer her, in compensation?

Jaime rode to the van once more, and his horse trotted in step next to the King's.

"Your Grace," he started, and the king gave him a sideways look. But he persevered. "I noticed that you seemed to be looking around you as we marched."

Jon Snow sighed. "My friend Samwell, in the Night's Watch, was at the Fist of the First Men, when they were attacked by the Others. A force three hundred strong, but fifty men were left to try and reach the Wall. Tormund Giantsbane, the leader of the Free Folk, has told me how he and his people were harried all the while as they tried to reach the Wall . . . all of this, at night."

Jaime had been nodding, pretending he understood, when Snow's last words hit him. "You expected another attack."

The king nodded. "Isn't that what you would have done, Ser Jaime? Keep hitting the enemy, making soldiers disappear? But we weren't attacked again . . . so, where are they?"

Jaime had no answer to this. The one attack he'd witnessed had taken place early in the morning. He shuddered as he remembered the racing clouds, followed by a thick fog, falling snow. Afterwards, he'd gone around, trying to reassure his men, and he'd found young soldiers who, having never even seen snow, were almost as shaken by that as by the fact that dead men had fought them.

A few days later, Torrhen's Square rose in the distance as they marched. It was a castle close to a lake, which could have been useful, except it wasn't close enough for defensive purposes, Jaime thought.

As the army approached, Jaime saw that the battlements were filling up with Ironborn, all in chainmail, all holding swords and shields. But, just as Jon Snow had promised, they were not many. Not more than a hundred. Still, they could have held off the army in a siege. For a short while, at least. The Ironborn leader seemed to be reading Jaime's thoughts.

"Get the fuck away, Southron scum!" The man hawked and spat over the battlements. "You're not getting over these walls, not if you throw all your men at them!"

A mutter of discontent went through the Lannister men, but they'd been warned to keep quiet and wait.

"What're you waiting for, cowards?" the Ironborn jeered, but he was interrupted.

The sound of enormous flapping wings filled the air, and a hot wind threatened to push Jaime off his horse. The men on the battlements were no longer looking at the armies surrounding the castle. Instead, they were staring into the sky, behind him, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to look around, or dive for cover.

"Every time I hear that bloody thing, I think I'm going to be on fire!" Bronn complained, and Jaime bit down a laugh, glad for the distraction from his own terror.

Viserion flew overhead, and screeched as he hovered in front of the leader of the Ironborn. Jaime saw the man's eyes widen as he glimpsed the rider on the dragon's back.

"I am Jon Snow, the King in the North, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, last Dragon Prince! I come to give you word from your Queen, Yara Greyjoy. She is allied with Queen Daenerys, and bids you and your men join her, on Pyke!"

Jaime saw the Ironborn's expression change – from terrified wonder to disgust, as soon as the man heard Yara's name.

"Fuck that cunt! She has no right to the Salt Throne! Fuck her and her cockless brother! We follow Euron! He is the rightful king!"

All the men on the battlements started banging their swords against their shields, shouting "Euron! Euron!", until Jaime thought he would go deaf, or mad. Or both.

"I am giving you a choice," Jon Snow shouted back, the anger clear in his voice now. "Leave this castle, go home, or die here!"

Nothing changed, except their words. "What is dead may never die!" they screamed. "But rises again, harder and stronger!"

"What is dead may never die!" and "Euron!" they shouted, working themselves up into a frenzy.

The air filled with yelling and banging of sword and shield, and Jaime realised that there would be no negotiations, after all. Not that he had expected the Ironborn to surrender. He and Bronn exchanged looks, and Bronn shook his head. Then the dragon turned towards the great gate, the main entrance to the castle. The noise which followed was so loud, Jaime didn't hear the word which Jon Snow had said was High Valyrian for dragonfire, but he must have said it, for the gate exploded into a fiery ruin. Jaime signalled his sergeants, who started waving the men through the breach, and soon the air was full of clashing and clanging, screams and curses.

His men shouted "Lannister", and "Casterly Rock," "Hear us Roar!" Jaime said nothing. Would they be made to shout "Fire and Blood", now, or "Winter is coming"? A huge white shape landed next to his horse, which rolled its eyes nervously. Jon Snow bounded off, and got on his own horse, whispering a few words to the dragon, which flew away.

Then Brienne rode up, accompanied, as always, by the spearwives, and they all waited for the battle to be over.

It didn't last very long. The Ironborn fought to the last man, refusing to surrender. Before he knew it, Jaime was sitting behind a large table on an ornate chair, and Bronn was on one side. Jon Snow was standing at the other, arms folded. The expression on Bronn's face could only be described as skeptical.

"What's all this then?"

Jon answered before Jaime could. "You're their lord now, Ser Bronn. That means you need to hear grievances."

It had been worth it, Jaime thought. The whole battle with the Ironborn had been worth it just to see the look on Bronn's face.

The servants and all the smallfolk who'd been living in the keep filed in, looking nervous. There were fewer women than men, which was a message in and of itself. One of the women pushed her way through the others, though, glaring at all of them. A small boy was clinging to her skirts.

"What's going to happen to us, now? Are we to be used by the Lannisters the same way the Ironborn used us?"

Jaime opened his mouth to answer, but Jon shook his head, and glanced at Bronn.

After a pause, Bronn answered her. "No. Of course not. King Jon, here, has freed you from them."

The woman folded her arms, not placated. "Who are you, then?"

Jon Snow cleared his throat. "This is Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. He will be your new lord, now. Unless there are any Tallharts left."

The woman shook her head. "They were taken away, by the first Ironborn who came here. We don't know where they went."

The boy pulled at her skirts, and she seemed to notice he was there. Her face hardened. "This keep is full of bastards! What will you do about that, hey?"

Bronn looked at Jaime helplessly, his store of Flea Bottom wisdom depleted. Jon Snow wasn't much help either, Jaime realised. It was too painful a subject for a man who'd been called bastard all his life. Jaime cleared his throat.

"What is your name, good woman?" he asked, in his most smooth and cultured voice.

She gave him a suspicious look, but answered, her tone surly. "Nettles."

"Very well, then, Nettles. Do the women in the keep wish to bring up these children? "

She considered, ruffling the boy's hair all the while. "I can't speak for the others, mind. But I do love him, though he is my shame. . . "

She looked to the side, seemingly lost in a horrendous memory, but then she brushed it away, and glared at Jaime again. "But what will he do, when men call him bastard and treat him ill? Which father will want him for a goodson?"

Jaime paused, as if to think. He had something in mind, though, and hoped Jon Snow would agree with what he was about to propose. "This,' he said, with a grand gesture at the man, "is Jon Snow, the King in the North. He will legitimize these children."

Nettles looked blank.

"I will decree that these children are no longer bastards." The king seemed to have understood that the woman needed simpler language. "The maester of the Lannister army will write down each child's name, and the name of the father. If that is your wish."

The woman stared into space for a heartbeat. "A boy needs to know who his father was," she mused. "Even though I never want to hear his name again. Still," she added, looking down, "it's not his fault."

The boy had put his thumb in his mouth and was swinging from side to side on her skirts.

"I will tell the other women – they're all in hiding."

Jaime gave Jon Snow a sidelong look, and saw his face harden.

"There's no need for that. Lord Lannister's soldiers know that any rapers will be beheaded."

Jaime nodded. Oh, they knew.

The woman was looking at him. "You're the one they call the Kingslayer?" she asked, and Jaime had to raise an eyebrow, impressed.

"That I am."

Nettles considered him for a few moments, then turned back to Jon Snow, and fell into a deep curtsy, pulling the boy to his knees beside her.

"Thank you, your Grace."

She chivvied her boy out of the great hall, and the male servants seemed to get encouraged all in a rush. Jaime sent a guard for the maester, hoping he knew how to make tansy tea. Jaime had a feeling some of the women would want that, instead of more babies.

He took the opportunity to sneak out of the hall, and was soon joined by Jon Snow. Jaime raised an eyebrow.

"I have enough people waiting at Winterfell, storing up grievances to air to me, my lord," the king said ruefully.

Jaime smiled, and then glimpsed a shock of blond hair out of the corner of his eye. No use putting it off, then, he thought. Might as well get it over with.

"Excuse me, your Grace. I have a matter to attend to . . . " Jaime trailed off, but Jon Snow followed his line of sight, and his lips twitched into something that was almost a smile.

Jaime managed to catch up with Brienne before she entered the courtyard of the keep, and called her name.

"If I could have a few words, my lady," he ventured, and she glared at him.

"I'm not a-" She rolled her eyes. "What is it, my lord?" she answered, stressing the last word.

"I am so sorry about Podrick," Jaime blurted out, even though it wasn't why he'd stopped her. "I can't help but feeling it was my fault."

But Brienne was shaking her head. "If it was anyone's fault, it was mine," she whispered. "I should have trained him better, or left him at Winterfell."

"No – he wanted to be a knight," Jaime said, "I will never forget his sacrifice. But I need to speak about another matter."

Brienne's eyebrows rose, and her eyes filled with trepidation. Jaime swallowed hard and continued.

"I would like to write to your father, Lady Brienne."

The look on her face changed from puzzled to murderous as he watched.

"Are you still trying to send me home, my lord? You have no right to send me anywhere, Ser!"

"No, that's not what I meant. I want to ask him for your hand in m-"

The blow to his stomach took him by surprise, and a few moments passed as he gasped for breath. He took the time to thank the Seven that he'd started this conversation in a deserted passage.

"Have you lost your mind?" Brienne hissed in his ear. "Do you think I want your pity, that I desire it?"

Jaime looked up, and his face was so close to hers that he could kiss her, but didn't dare. He could hear Bronn laughing in his head, as he stared into her eyes. They'd never looked more beautiful, even as they burned with rage. Bronn's gales of laughter were joined by others, and soon everyone he'd ever known was pointing at him and laughing – his sister, his father, Tyrion – laughing at the ridiculous situation he found himself in.

"It's not pity," he gasped, when he could breathe enough to speak. Brienne was on the verge of storming out, but she paused.

Her face was closed off, in anger, perhaps. But there was a brittleness to it, as though she could just as easily burst into tears as punch him again. He took off his glove with some difficulty, and cradled her cheek.

"Tell me you love me and I'll spit in your face," Brienne said, and her voice shook.

I don't know what I feel, Jaime thought. I only know I can't bear to think of men thinking ill of you, treating you without respect.

"Are we not friends then, my lady?" he asked, trying to dispel the tension in the air.

"I think we are," Brienne answered, giving him a smile through trembling lips.

"Can I not protect my friend from evil tongues, from ill-will?"

Brienne looked away. "Marriage is rather a drastic step in that direction, my lord."

Jaime smiled. She hadn't run away. She was still listening to him. "Back at the Neck, we had an unfinished conversation, my lady."

Brienne's cheeks turned a deep crimson, and she dropped her eyes. Then she frowned, and fixed her eyes on him. Her lips met his almost angrily, almost as though she was trying to prove something to herself and to him. Just as she tried to pull away, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, kissing her in return. He kept the kiss gentle, as he stroked her back, and she gasped, which was his chance to slip his tongue into her mouth. She pulled away almost immediately, looking startled.

"Is that how lovers kiss?" she blurted out, her cheeks flaming redder than before.

"Yes, my dear," he answered, and the puzzlement on her face increased.

Then her face hardened. "You take me for a fool, my lord. I know you love your sister, above all others."

"I have loved her all my life. She is the mother of my children. But she never loved me. Not like you do. Can that be enough?"

"I never thought I'd marry at all, much less to someone I lov- have feelings for. Septa Roelle always said that someone who looked like I did-"

"How can I hate a woman without ever having met her?" Jaime fumed, interrupting.

Brienne giggled.

"Besides, I'm hardly a great catch," he continued. "When the Queen finds out that I'm here, what's to stop her from flying over on her dragon and setting me on fire? After all, I killed her father."

Brienne cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. It occurred to him that he was supposed to be proposing marriage, not wallowing in self-pity.

"I have feelings for you too," he said, "I don't know about love. I'm not a poet," he added, an acerbic tone creeping into his voice, and she smirked. "I ask you again, my lady. Can that be enough?"

Brienne was chewing on her lips, giving him the occasional hunted look. Then she raised herself to her full height, but her voice was still hesitant. "Yes." Brienne spoke so low he hardly heard her at first. "I accept."

Jaime pulled her in for another kiss, only to find her hand splayed on his chest, keeping them apart.

"Not before we're married," she said decisively, as she grabbed his surcoat and dragged him behind her to the courtyard.

"'tis just a kiss, my lady," he said, even as he allowed himself to be dragged out.

"Not before we're married," she repeated, "and you need to spar, my lord. I think you're growing fat and indolent in the North."

"Brienne!"

Sitting gingerly on his horse, the next morning, Jaime tried to catalogue all the bruises he'd been gifted with during the sparring session. Though it had been worth it, to see Bronn and the king's faces when he'd told them of his hopes for a betrothal with Brienne. If her father agreed, that is.

Jon Snow walked his horse so that they were riding side by side, and looked at him quizzically.

"Lady Brienne is my wife's companion and protector, Ser Jaime. She will not appreciate any insult offered her."

Jaime pressed his lips together in irritation. "I am not trying to insult her! In fact, I want to ward off evil rumors and . . . insults."

"You think being called the Kingslayer's Wife is better than the Kingslayer's Whore?"

"I wish people would stop calling me that. It's been twenty years."

Jon Snow gave one of his half smiles and shook his head. He too must be tired of being called 'bastard' wherever he went. If he even was a bastard – he remembered wondering where Ser Arthur Dayne and Lord Whent had gone, back when he was busily breaking his oaths. Though he hadn't wondered for very long. Gods, he'd been such an idiot then.

"A question, if I may, your Grace."

Jon Snow raised an eyebrow, combining it with a tired look. Jaime ignored it. Jon Snow was going to have to get used to being addressed like a king – things couldn't be that different up North, surely.

"You legitimised what seemed like an endless succession of children, back at Torrhen's Square. But why . . . " Jaime ran out of words, but the king seemed to understand what remained unspoken.

"Why don't I legitimise myself, do you mean?" Jon Snow's brow furrowed, and he rubbed a scar which bisected his eyebrow. "Ser Jaime, what do you think Queen Daenerys would do, if I put it about that I was the legitimate son of Rheagar Targaryen?"

Jaime opened his mouth and closed it again. "You would be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne! Your claim would supersede hers."

"One Dance of the Dragons was enough, Ser Jaime. And I doubt that the Night King cares about our squabbles. No, a bastard I am, and a bastard I'll stay. Though I might take my wife's name." Jon Snow's voice turned wistful. "I've always dreamed of being a Stark, and I remember reading that it's been done in the past."

Jaime nodded. "Yes, it has. And Queen Daenerys will feel less threatened by King Jon Stark, than King Jon Targaryen."

"Aye." Jon Snow paused, his brow furrowed. "Don't misunderstand me, the queen did not seem to feel threatened by me. But who knows what her advisors will say, one day. And the North must remain under Northern rule." The king gave him a friendly nod, and rode off to speak with the wildling women.

Jaime had left half of his forces at Torrhen's Square, along with Bronn, who'd started learning what being the lord of a castle meant. Before leaving, he'd made sure that ravens were sent to Tarth, and he hoped he would have an answer soon.

The ride to Winterfell was uneventful, and the Lannister army soon grew used to having the king they'd sworn fealty to fly around them on his dragon, then dismount, and ride some way on horseback. Jaime often found himself lost in thought, wondering whether he'd done the right thing – whether he wasn't putting Brienne in more danger by allying her fortunes with his. What did he have to offer her anyway? He had no doubt that Casterly Rock was beyond his reach, and he would never return to King's Landing. He couldn't even offer her a whole body.

As he was lost in thought the jingle of a horse's tack made him look up. Brienne gave him a half-smile, followed by a quizzical look.

"Are you regretting your offer, already, Ser Jaime?"

Jaime shook his head, an unwilling smile making his lips twitch. She'd changed, so much, from when they'd first met.

"Of course not, Lady Brienne. I would have thought you have much more to regret – agreeing to marry a one-handed pauper, who might yet be imprisoned for murder by the new Targaryen Queen."

Brienne rolled her eyes at him.

"Don't worry, Ser Jaime. We'll keep you safe."

Just as he was about to ask who she meant by 'we', a shout from the returning outriders drew their attention to the keep which had just appeared on the horizon. Winterfell was in sight. He and his sergeants had prepared for this moment. They couldn't very well change all the colours and devices of his army, but they had enough Stark standards to suffice. Jaime looked at his own shoulder, and winced. Perhaps the lion pauldrons had been a bit much.

As they approached the keep, Jaime noted something which Jon Snow had not warned him about. Looking to his side, it was clear that neither Brienne, nor the king had expected this, either. Though Jon Snow was soon distracted something else: an enormous white wolf racing towards them. Jaime had no idea how an animal could look joyous, but this wolf did.

The king hurriedly dismounted, before his horse took fright, Jaime assumed, and was almost bowled over by the biggest wolf Jaime had ever seen.

"His name is Ghost, Ser Jaime." Brienne sounded sardonic. "Have you met the king's direwolf?"

But then they were both distracted again, because riding towards them were what Jaime could only think of as Dothraki. He'd never seen them before, but faced with men with long braids, braided beards, and who were racing towards them, some standing on their horses, he could only come to that conclusion.

They jumped off their horses and fell to their knees, saying something in their language, but their leader switched quickly to the Common tongue.

"Great Khal Jon! We are your bloodriders!"

At a more sedate pace followed men in leather cuirasses and spiked helmets, carrying spears and shields. They slammed their spears in the ground as one, and were silent. But Jon Snow simply nodded.

"These are the Unsullied, Ser Jaime. I met their general, Grey Worm, at Queen Daenerys's camp."

They too descended to one knee, taking their helmets off. One of them spoke, keeping his eyes on the soil in front of him.

"This unworthy Unsullied has a message, King Jon. From Lady Sansa."

"Please rise, all of you," Jon said, and they got to their feet, with a certain reluctance. "No one is unworthy, who joins the true war."

The Unsullied who had first spoken seemed to be bursting with the task he had been given, and the king gave him a nod.

"Lady Sansa says that Lord Baelish has returned from the Vale, bringing with him more knights to help with the war. She says that some of the . . . Lords Declarant . . . have come with him."

The man stumbled over some words, but the message was clear enough. Jaime could feel the blood running cold in his veins. How had Littlefinger painted the events that had led to Ned Stark's death? He couldn't help remembering the Stark men he'd killed when he'd attacked Ned and his men, after Tyrion had been arrested by Lady Catelyn. But he hadn't betrayed Ned Stark, not like Baelish had. Why was he here at all?

"I wonder why Lord Baelish is back in Winterfell," the king mused, echoing his thoughts.

Brienne snorted. "He thinks you don't know – that he organised your death. He thinks you believe that the sergeant acted alone, and not on his orders."

The king looked like he agreed, and Jaime wondered what they were talking about. He'd ask Brienne later. "I think it is time."

"Time for what, your Grace?" Brienne looked as puzzled as Jaime felt. But the Dothraki and the Unsullied exchanged knowing looks, as Jon Snow looked up, searching the clear blue sky.

"Time to wake the dragon," the king answered, as the air filled with heavy wingbeats and a hoarse screech.

.

.

Notes:

So, I'm posting this a few hours before the Season 7 finale, hoping I don't get Jossed, or scooped or whatever they're calling it nowadays!

One of the things I wanted to make clear is exactly who suffers when jerks like the Ironborn sack a castle. Also, I got a little tired of Bronn yammering about his castle. One thing he doesn't seem to realise is that there's a social contract to being lord of a keep - "With great castle comes great responsibility." He's the lord of the area, so he's responsible for the smallfolk. Time for Bronn to grow up.