The queen remembered the Maid of Tarth, a huge, ugly, shambling thing who dressed in man's mail. Jaime would never abandon me for such a creature.

(A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 54, Cersei I.)

Chapter 17

Brienne wondered if she was the one turned to ice as soon as Jaime said that name. She had never thought she'd have to hear that hated name again, but here she was, on dragonback, looking down at a devastated King's Landing, with the woman she hated most in the world grinning at her.

She gripped her sword hilt tighter and looked at Jaime, wondering what they would do. The dragon, though, had already decided for them, descending in a slow glide. Still, what was there to ponder, she thought. Her decision had been made long ago. She gripped Jaime's arm before her nerve ran out, and the look in his eyes quelled her misgivings. She barely knew what she said, only that it made the relief wash over his face.

When they jumped down to the ground, it was as though they had been in a dream-like silence, now shattered by the sounds of an unearthly battle. To their left, there was a woman who could only be Daenerys Targaryen. Even though Brienne had never seen her in person, the white hair and the enormous black dragon was sufficient to prove her identity. To their right, an unlikely group of people was locked in a cross between a stalemate and a skirmish. Locked in battle were the wights, the Others, and a mix of Dothraki, Unsullied, and some smallfolk: the only mortals left alive in King's Landing.

However, their attention was taken up by the scene straight ahead: a fallen dragon, and Cersei Lannister. Brienne was not about to dignify this woman with the title of Queen. It had never been hers, after all. She had wrenched it out of the grasp of her youngest son, whom she had driven to his untimely death. Now, though, she was reaping what she had sown, over all those years.

Brienne tried to see the woman she had once met in the apparition before her, but that was nigh impossible. There was madness in those glowing blue eyes, but it was not of the mortal variety. Cersei Lannister had lost everything, but had been given another life, or rather, life's imitation.

"So, my lady," Jaime said, voice shaking, clearly trying to hold on to his own composure. "Any ideas?"

"Draw your blade, my lord," she answered, almost under her breath. "Draw your blade and let us end this."

Brienne looked down at his sword, frowning. It wasn't the sword he'd been using when they fought the Others together, and she remembered that he had given that sword, dubbed 'Widow's Wail', to Sansa and Arya. It was the other half of Ice, their father's greatsword, and they'd accepted it with dignity. She noticed a ruby in the sword's pommel – was that the Lady Forlorn?

It was a miracle that he heard her over the wall of noise around them but hear her he did. When he noticed her curious look, he drew the sword with a rueful smile.

"Let us hope the Lady will serve me better than her previous master," Jaime quipped, and Brienne smiled, shaking her head. Nothing brought Jaime down, not for long.

They ran towards the creature, and Brienne wondered if she should stand aside and let him deal with it, let him give the mother of his children her final repose. The Night King, however, had other plans.

A look of grief washed over the creature's face, a puzzled look, as though it had woken from a dream of horrors, only to find the horrors were real. No, Brienne thought, no. This was not real. This was more trickery, a trap.

"Jaime? Have you come back to me?" The sound of the creature's voice had a strange metallic timbre. There was even the hint of an accent from a foreign land, though no land Brienne had ever heard of. But it had the desired effect on Jaime, whose sword lowered, who was stopped in his tracks. Thank the gods, he's still holding it, at least, she thought. Well, it was never going to be him, Brienne mused, drawing her own with a flourish.

Hoping against hope that he would at least not try to stop her, Brienne charged towards the creature that was the last of Cersei Lannister, and swung. The creature was distracted from whatever it was trying to do to Jaime, and hissed at her, teeth bared. Ah yes, Brienne thought, there you are.

Their blades met with a horrible screech, and they fought. This new unlife had given Cersei a new skill in swordplay, or, as Brienne suspected, her guise was a simple mask for the true creature within, one of the Night King's generals, so to speak. The change in behaviour woke Jaime from his trance, and he attempted a swing, but the creature was fast as well as deceptive. Conscious that its ruse had not worked, it must have performed some arcane magic, as the few flakes of snow that had been drifting down aimlessly, quickly transformed into a blizzard, wind howling around them like a living thing.

Still, they fought and fought the creature, who had produced a dagger in its other hand, and was fighting on either side at a speed which did not seem human, and, in fact, was not. After hours seemed to have passed, the blizzard diminished once more, and they once again saw what was happening around them. A dragon roared to their left, unleashing a firestorm; thankfully, well above their heads.

"HERE! WE! STAND!"

Mormonts? What, in the name of the seven hells, were Mormonts doing here? Brienne forced herself to stay alert, using her sword as a cudgel to wear the creature down. When she dared glance to her side, her heart sank: Jaime was tiring. There was another cry, and sounds of a battle nearby, while a dragon flew overhead, the force of its wings almost blowing them off their feet.

"Ser Jorah!" she heard a woman scream, and then, for a moment that was shorter than a heartbeat, the creature's eyes flickered at something behind them. That was enough. Brienne drove Oathkeeper right into the Cersei-Other's face, and, as she pushed, its entire body turned into clods of ice, hitting the ground with a wet splat.

Brienne gulped for air, deep sobbing breaths, the cold burning her lungs, while to her side Jaime leaned on his sword, trying to cover his face with his golden hand. But there was no time to grieve, she realised, as the pitched battle, that had threatened to distract them, now drew nearer.

Brienne and Jaime exchanged a look of instant comprehension and headed in that direction, and Brienne realised that she had misjudged him, a veteran of many battles. Of course he would not allow his grief to distract him from what must be done. She wished she could show sympathy, tell him that she understood, hoped he wouldn't blame her, but she knew, the time for all that was not now.

Brienne had never been in a real battle, one between mortals. Even so, the sight that greeted her in the narrow alleys was such that she was sure was not commonplace. There was a multitude of wights and some White Walkers, all fighting the remaining mortals, which, strangely enough, included a knight wearing a bear device, and a young man laying about him with a war hammer. Now, they had been joined by an enraged dragon and an equally enraged Targaryen queen, both of whom seemed frustrated that they could not use dragonfire for fear of harming the living.

The queen still had some Dothraki and Unsullied, who fought well, and Brienne and Jaime also did their best. The turning point came when a tall, grinning White Walker faced the unknown Mormont, and used its blade to cut off Mormont's sword arm. It made to stride away, not even looking behind it, at the mortal it believed to have killed. But Mormont was not dead. Brienne and Jaime stared, eyes bulging, as the Mormont warrior struggled to his feet, let out a strangled shout and stabbed it in the back of the neck. Jaime took the distraction as opportunity and bounded up, using his sword to dispatch the creature.

"How are you still alive?" Jaime barked, and the Mormont shrugged.

"Beats me."

Brienne dodged a wight's crazed stab and swung back, reducing it to two halves. "Can we exchange pleasantries once this is over?" she yelled.

"Ser Jorah!" The shriek came from above, as a huge black dragon flew overhead, close enough to touch.

"Khaleesi!" Ser Jorah breathed, as he looked up at the Dragon Queen. "Khaleesi . . ."

Brienne was sorely tempted to roll her eyes. Instead, she fought on, Jaime at her side, the young man with the war hammer, smallfolk with torches and prosperous gentry in ragged clothes holding ancient weapons following behind. Once the last White Walker had been dispatched, the big black dragon shrieked with joy, Queen Daenerys screamed "Everyone to the rear!" and the firestorm swallowed the remaining wights.

Brienne leaned against a crumbling wall, urging her burning muscles to work, to lift her arms. A hand on her shoulder made her jump, but Jaime's voice in her ear was a balm.

"Are you hurt?"

She shrugged. There were a few nicks and scrapes - nothing she couldn't handle. Jaime pulled her into the safety of his arms, and she buried her face in his neck, ashamed of her weakness, but unable to stop.

"Sweet girl," he whispered in her ear, "my brave girl."

Brienne felt her cheeks heat up and hoped no-one had seen or heard. She looked into his eyes, seeing nothing but love in them. She wanted to answer him but more screaming interrupted and she sighed.

"Later, my love," he said, and they prepared once again for battle.

The now one-armed knight was hobbling towards them, none the worse for wear after having his entire arm sliced off, and she and Jaime exchanged looks. Was there some healing magic in Bear Island that Lady Mormont had neglected to tell them about? The knight started talking as soon as he was within hearing distance.

"The Queen said she saw wights massing, all the way down to the port. But she does not know how many of the living are still in the houses, so she fears that using Drogon will -"

"Kill more people than it saves," Jaime finished.

The man nodded. "I am Ser Jorah Mormont," he said, almost casually.

Out of the corner of her eye, Brienne saw Jaime open his mouth to answer, ever the courteous knight, and she stepped on his foot, heavily. But it was too late, she realised, as Mormont's eyes fixed on the lions on Jaime's gorget, and then quickly went back to his face, widening in belated recognition. Jaime himself noticed, but said nothing, raising his head, nostrils flaring. And now he'll tell Queen Daenerys, Brienne moaned in her head, and she would turn them into a pile of soot.

Except Ser Jorah did no such thing. He cleared his throat. "You'd best hurry," he said. "Once she's finished with the wights on the other side she'll ask me about you. I cannot lie to her. But I can give you some time."

Brienne's eyes were on fire, and it was not from the smoke filling the square, though that didn't help. She nodded, mouthed her thanks, and pulled Jaime by the sleeve, hurrying towards the alleyway Mormont had indicated.

At first Jaime seemed dazed and inclined to follow her without argument. Then he balked, stopping in the now darkened alley.

"You should go on - go without me."

"What?" Brienne had almost expected this, but much earlier, when she'd killed what remained of the woman he had once loved beyond reason. "What are you saying?"

"D'you think we can outrun a dragon?" Jaime didn't even need to raise his voice to be heard. Defeated as it sounded, possibly he wasn't even capable of it. "She doesn't know you, Brienne. She has no reason to kill you. Go on, without me, live your life-"

Almost before she knew it, she felt her fist connect with his jaw. Her eyes stung again, but this time with tears of rage.

"I swore a vow, Jaime. We both swore vows and - and - if you say that's why you're known as the Oathbreaker, I will run you through. By the Father I swear it!"

Jaime, still working his jaw, smile rueful, shook his head. "I do not deserve such a love."

"I know you don't. But here we are." Brienne looked around.

The alley was deserted. There were sounds, far away, as of a battle, but they had some time, she thought. She grabbed Jaime's shoulders and pressed a hard kiss to his lips. She wanted to pull back, but he didn't let her, strong arms circling her back, kiss turning deep, filthy, bringing back memories that made her cheeks burn like fire. He kissed her like they were in their bedroom, like he wanted to have her right there, up against the wall, like there was no-one else around. He pulled back and smiled, one last kiss on the tip of her nose.

"Let's go, my lady! Before we become indecent!"

They ran down the alley towards the port, towards the pitched battle they could hear, mixed in with battle cries which sounded oddly familiar to Brienne's ears.

Once they arrived, all became clear. Men wearing dark blue, banners with bright suns and crescent moons, even a war-cry or two. Evenfall! and Evenstar! she heard and the joy she felt was immeasurable. Brienne added her own wordless scream and they attacked, swords flying and slashing, determined to rid the earth of this monstrosity. But they were both tired.

Brienne blamed herself afterwards, that she had forgotten the wights could still use stealth and weaponry. She was fighting a White Walker when she saw a wight gaining on Jaime, on the wrong side, the side with the metal hand. She screamed and dispatched the Other, but once again felt like she was running through molten lead, her limbs heavy and unresponsive. She saw but could do nothing when the wight slashed Jaime's arm. She saw but could only scream when the second wight came from behind, launching itself at Jaime and sinking its teeth into his neck.

She never knew how she got to Jaime's side. She must have flown somehow. But by his side she was, laying about her like she had lost her wits, feeling crazed.

"Jaime! No, no, no -" She fell to her knees at his side, putting a hand to his neck. He was still breathing, there was hope, he was breathing. The neck wound wasn't deep, there was some blood, but it wasn't gushing - oh please, she thought, oh please, Mother, Maiden, Father, anyone, anyone who's listening, the Lord of Light, I don't care. Save him, please.

"Brienne," he slurred, "'tis nothing, have had worse, don't worry."

"My lady! Lady Brienne, is that you?"

She looked up and immediately recognized Owain, one of her father's most trusted retainers.

"Help me, help me get him onto a ship - we have to save him."

Owain looked around them, at his men, her father's men, who had pretty much finished off the remaining wights. Then he looked down at her, scratching his head.

"And this is . . .?"

Brienne narrowed her eyes, rising from her crouch, until she dwarfed him. "This is the heir to Tarth; my husband."

"Yes, m'lady, at once, m'lady . . . " Owain beckoned over some more men who she vaguely recognised under the layer of mud and filth, and they helped a protesting Jaime to his feet.

Brienne kept a nervous eye on the horizon as they rowed out to their ship, which she could now see was anchored a safe distance from the port.

She looked up at the stars to orient herself, and once again turned to face where the Red Keep should be. But she could not see it. There was a strange blizzard encircling one spot – was that it? Was it the Night King, victorious? Had Jon failed? Would the Night King find them in Tarth, too? The questions rose in her mind, one after the other, and she firmly pushed them down. If she had to die, if they were both marked for death, she would rather be home. She had been running away from it for so long – perchance it was fate, that she'd find her end there.

Owain had assured her that they had a maester on board, her father wanting to be sure of all eventualities. He had already been preparing to send a ship off after several cargo ships had been missed. Then a raven had arrived, all the way from Winterfell, of all places, telling them that armed men would be needed in King's Landing as soon as possible. She was going to kneel in front of her father and kiss his feet in thanks for that.

Brienne only allowed herself a sigh of relief once they had raised their sails and set off for Tarth, thanking the gods for the lucky wind. In fact, it was a suspiciously lucky wind. She wondered at this luck, asking herself if Bran had something to do with it. Never mind, she thought, as she watched the maester carefully cleaning Jaime's wounds with grain liquor, ignoring his curses. Never mind any of that. They were clear, for now. Later, they would worry about the future. Now, she gripped Jaime's hand as he winced in pain, and counted herself the luckiest woman alive. Her love was alive, and they were going home.