I wanted to mention three books I read while working on this that I really liked/influenced me:

A Time-Traveler's Guide to Medieval England: This is great for how many details it has about daily life and people's mindsets. It's a history book with lots of surprising facts, like what horsebread is.

Sex with the Queen: Another history book about royal women and their love affairs. I lifted some details about Sansa, Sandor, and their children from the true stories in this book.

Kristin Lavransdatter: It's such well-researched fiction about a lady in medieval Norway. Kristin falls in love with a man she isn't supposed to, but that's all I'll say. If you love epic, classic books, it's amazing.

This chapter is the conclusion for Brienne and Jaime.

CHAPTER 45

JAIME

"The harvest will be bountiful, milord." The village girl knelt forward as she reported to him, squashing her breasts together to accentuate the voluptuous cleavage visible in her square-cut dress and gazing up at him with adoring doe eyes. She fancied him, that was obvious. She was not unattractive—with her lithe frame and straw-colored hair, she could have played the part of Cersei in a minstrel's show.

Yet this girl had been just a child when he came to Moat Cailin, and he was unprepared for how time had flowered her into a beautiful young woman with a full bosom and a vixen's heady desires. Has that much time passed? he asked himself, unnerved by her attentions. "I'm sure it will be," he answered about the harvest and excused himself, using some charming apology he was too used to giving women. He hated the tasteless cattail plants the smallfolk grew for food anyway.

Jaime headed to the safety of his fort, Moat Cailin. It made the causeway to the North impenetrable. Despite this martial function, it represented for Jaime years of a steady if uneasy peace between the North and South. Cersei had sent him to hold it for her years ago, planning to march her army up the Kingsroad when the time was right and take the North back from Sansa Stark. But Brienne had come down with a ragtag force of men, promising to battle him if he didn't turn it back to Winterfell. She'd looked steeled to fight him, gazing defiantly from the back of her horse. He'd held off on a response to her peace proposal purely because it amused him. He still teased her about it. Now she held it for the North as much as he held it for the South, and Jaime was happy. Since losing his hand, he had come to disdain war and all it had cost him, all it had cost the people of this continent.

That was, what . . . five years ago? Jaime eyed himself in the reflection of a walled silver plate inside the foyer. The years had caught up to him. His hair, once flowing gold and flaxen, was now coarse and grey. Most people's hair turned white and thinned with age, but his turned darker and harder than it had been in his youth. It made him look . . . common. He was still handsome—when he put on a cheeky grin—but his skin was lined with furrows made by the thoughts and feelings he'd been unable to hide throughout his life. There were thick lines of worry across his forehead, a stitch between his eyes from years of accumulated anger, and crinkles around his eyes from laughter. Even my lighthearted moments caught up with me.

He made his way upstairs to the war room. He and Brienne kept their armor here, and the Valyrian steel swords Oathkeeper and Widow's Wail, but those things found little use these days. Instead, the room functioned as their common quarters; the two of them made frequent use of the large table, maps, and other implements. Brienne was hunched over the table, penning a letter by fresh-lit lantern. To Sansa, he knew—she sent one to her a few times a year detailing the situation at Moat Cailin and as much as she knew about any other regions. He knew it included anything he'd said about Cersei, direct or implied.

Cersei had tried to send her army up the Kingsroad a few times, but he always had an excuse for her. There's a blizzard. It's still too cold. The snow's blocking the path. We sent a few men up to scout it, and they never returned. Shouldn't we just wait for spring? The recent snowmelt meant that her army was itching for the fight more than ever, to be sure, but he'd still managed to delay them. And he would, for as long as he was able. But he wondered sometimes, did Cersei suspect his betrayal?

And he had betrayed her. He had no desire to see her army go up the Kingsroad and massacre that beautiful young woman whose father they'd killed on the steps of the royal sept. He had no desire to fight anymore, to see any more bloodshed in this terrible war that had cost him his hand in one fell swoop. And with it gone every hour of sword training I based my life on, my whole reputation. Ah, well, at least I'm alive, he told himself for the thousandth time. That's something.

He had no desire to see Cersei ever again. Even if she was the only woman he had ever known intimately and the father of his children. All dead now, and he'd never even been able to acknowledge them. He felt . . . tainted, by her. He was not a bitter man, but thinking of her left him feeling vile. He didn't think that opinion had spilled over to the entire female species, but it struck Jaime how unlike himself it was that he hadn't taken another lover. That he hadn't just gotten over it and bedded another woman. He had trained himself to fight, ride, joust, and hunt with his left hand, after all. Why hadn't he ever been with another woman? Maybe that village girl did have the right idea . . . .

The lamp illuminated Brienne's face as she concentrated on the parchment. The years had been kind to her. Her freckles and button nose made her perpetually youthful. She hadn't cut her hair in a while and the long blonde curls that reached just passed her shoulders fell over her forehead. It gave her an easy, almost careless look. The hard winter had made her thinner, and peacetime meant that she didn't train as much so she had lost some of that ungainly muscle tone. What was left was a tall, athletic body that finally had the grace to match its stature. She was natural, if tomboyish; and if not gorgeous, guileless and pure.

Jaime was struck by a devious flash of lust. It surprised him, and he quickly pushed it down—but not before he had crossed the room to stand beside her. Brienne paused, set down her quill, and looked up at him. Her face was serene. Jaime was startled, though he could not have explained why. A part of him had expected to see the desperation he so often saw in women's faces, the agonized torment of arousal. But this was Brienne. At least he expected the naïve insolence he was so used to whenever he teased her. She is a maid. What does she know of lust?

Brienne met him with calm blue eyes filled with acceptance. I know you, Jaime. He was unsettled. So many women wanted him and watched him with desire and curiosity. Brienne showed none of that. She saw him straight and bravely, but innocent; a maid, he knew, with no guile in her. He looked at her intrigued. What was she really doing here, with him? What she really just such a good-hearted person that she wanted to stop the war? Could he ever be good, like she was?

He took her face in his hands. She was the honorable one who could rise him up, not the other way around. Brienne closed her eyes, as though this intimate touch was the most natural thing in the world between them. As though she had known this moment would come, and waited for him. Her delicate blonde eyelashes pressed against her cheeks. I know who you are, Jaime. I have known it since before you knew it yourself. Her strawberry pink lips parted enough that he could just make out a thin exhale of breath. You have come so far, to reach me here. He found his thumb tracing her jawline, this fair woman who wanted nothing but gave freely in order to bring peace and love to others.

You cannot take the good from me, she seemed to say. That isn't possible.

For once in my life, Jaime thought, let me have something pure, and just, and good. He leaned closer . . .

The moment was broken by an inhuman, animal scream. It was unlike anything he had ever heard before. Brienne's eyes flashed open, the tender blue finding in his their mutual confusion. He held her cheeks in his palms a few seconds longer, reluctant to end the tender moment between them even as it was ripped apart by the demonic sound. The scream tore through the air again, forcing them apart, the moment lost.

Jaime and Brienne headed for the window where they could see a line of fire blazing in the field. He thought of the tasteless cattail plants growing in the wet field and wondered what could have forced such a tremendous blaze. It was no accident, to be sure. Human shouts and screams reached their ears as the farmers ran with their clattering tools to the safety of the fort. It was dark already, the shadowy figures of the panicking smallfolk barely visible in the night.

"What's going on?" Brienne asked, but Jaime had no answer for her. A shadow passed overhead. He craned his head out the stone window in time to see a dark shape in the sky.

Brienne wasted no time arming herself. When he turned back to the room she was already pulling her dusty armor off the stand and putting on as much as she could without the help of a squire. After years of peace, Jaime was discomfited to remember that she thought herself a warrior. And a better one than me, he thought, glancing down at his golden hand. Still, he didn't want to see a woman he considered a lady in the context of battle.

"You mustn't," he crossed the room and stayed her wrist with his good hand. "We don't know what's out there."

"And let you have all the fun?"

Surprised by her cheeky comment, he gave her a lopsided grin, his brow furrowed. It was more like something he would say. The door flung open, and a manservant burst in. "My lords!" he begged, "The fields are aflame!"

"Armor me," Brienne commanded the man, her hint of good humor lost. The man grabbed her breastplate and Jaime went to his own armor, choosing lighter pieces of hardened leather and badgering the man with questions on the status outside. He knew next to nothing, and Jaime headed down to the yard as quickly as he could.

It was in a state of panic. A bevy of farmers poured into the yard brandishing what buckets and tools they had managed to save from the field, their shouting mixed with frenzied commands from his gatekeeper and punctuated by random women's screams. Jaime knew there were more people, trapped on the other side of the wall of fire. His mind raced to make sense of it—what enemy did they have who could attack from the north? Bandits? Or could it be one of his own, turned traitor to destabilize their choke point against Cersei's army at the Neck?

Jaime caught sight of one of his men-at-arms gesticulating wildly to a group of peasants. He spun him around by his shoulder. "Gather the rest of the men! We must ride out and rescue the farmers!"

"My lord," the man's face turned pale, white as death. "We can't go out there!"

"We need to get everyone inside!"

He heard the scream again, ripping through the air above him. His man-at-arms ducked and the people screamed and gasped. Jaime looked up and saw the impossible—a green dragon gliding overhead, tucking in its wide leathery wings as it dove nearer to the fields and blew a stream of fire that ignited a fresh line across the existing blaze.

Jaime felt strange and unsettled. He was far away from the excited emotions like fear and panic flooding the bodies of the people around him. Two worlds existed for him now—the one he had lived in his entire life, where dragons didn't exist, and the new one he had just fallen into, where terrible creatures might descend from the heavens without warning to destroy the cattails of good people's labor.

Brienne was suddenly by his side, breaking his trance. She was in full plate armor, looking like a valiant knight except for her raised visor that revealed the woman inside. She had pulled her hair back in the helm but a few wispy blonde strands around the hairline escaped, framing her blue eyes that sparkled in confusion against the torchlight. "What's going on?" she asked.

"It's a dragon."

"What?"

The people around them scrambled in all directions—people they were supposed to protect. Residents who stayed with them at Moat Cailin, smallfolk from the village outside, the men's wives and children. His castellan attempted to herd everyone to the safety of the towers, but no one knew what to do or where to go and a few people ran against the tide and darted out of the fort. The effect was a swirling confusion like that of water twisting around boulders in a river. Jaime watched as a group carried their burned companion through the gate and his Maester ran to help the wounded. "Gather our men," he told Brienne, and lifted his kneeling soldier from the floor. "He'll help you."

Jaime strode to the group gathered around the burned man. "All of you, get inside! Now!" He ordered. When a few of the older farmers protested, reluctant to leave their wounded companion, he added, "The Maester can take it from here. Save yourselves! Go!"

"Ser, his wounds are grievous . . ."

Jaime forced the Maester's attention away from the dying man. "Listen to me! You must leave this man, and all the others. You must send messages of what's befallen us to Sansa and to Cersei!" It was the first time he had openly acknowledged his divided loyalties in holding this fort. It hardly matters anymore. "And make sure the damn ravens actually make it out of here! Hurry!"

The Maester nodded his understanding, though still in a stupor from the recent events. He ran back to his tower. Jaime steeled his heart and left the burned, dying man groaning in the dirt. Brienne had successfully organized the men-at-arms around her, although from the looks of the size of the group most had already broke. Jaime caught one out of the corner of his eye as he made a run for the gate and caught him mid-stride around the forearm. "Get your pike!" he shouted, throwing the boy to the ground. "We're fighting."

Far from an organized war party, the group argued and conversed openly.

"A dragon!"

"What are we going to do?"

"We can't stay here!"

"How are we supposed to kill it?"

"We don't have to kill it!" Jaime interrupted them. "We just have to chase it away."

His presence calmed them somewhat, but despite his outward confidence Jaime doubted that any strategy they practiced would rid them of the beast. Holding the causeway within the strength of the fort had been an easy feat for years, but what could his small band of men do in the field against a dragon? They came up with a plan to encircle it, as they would quarry during a hunt. He would lead the cavalry and Brienne the footmen. Two of the men ran off to retrieve the horses.

Jaime contemplated the most heavily armored figure among them, his sword, Oathkeeper, by her side. He wished she would stay behind. He thought of arguing with her, but he knew she wouldn't listen. And he would lose, anyway, the premise easily turned against him. She was a better fighter than he was now, with his golden hand. She needed to be out there. But he hated the thought of watching her die. Maybe the damn thing will fly up and away, and that will be the end of it.

Jaime and a few others mounted up, then the whole group headed through the north gate and into the fields. The fire agitated the horses, and the sight of a few charred bodies agitated the men. They made their way around the first wall of flames and here, framed on all sides by the inferno of its own creation, was the green dragon.

It crouched over the body of a dead cow, the bovine flesh crackling where it had been blasted with flames. The dragon tore into it like a dog working a bone, ripping off chunks of flesh and swallowing them whole. Jaime and his men held back, mortified by the sound of snapping bones and the creature's imposing size—it was the size of four full-grown horses, if longer, and lighter. Finding the innards past the haunches too bloody, it pointed a delicate blast of flame at the cow's torso and resumed its meal.

Jaime signaled for the horsemen to circle it, though the fires around them forced them too close to be stealthy. The dragon growled at their presence, its scales shimmering and bristling up like a cat's hair as it possessively guarded its half-eaten kill. "Rickard! Prepare to charge!" Jaime shouted an order to the bravest of his men and made a pass at the dragon. It snapped out at him, but he rode away before he was too close. This left an opening for Rickard to make a real attack. He charged forward on his horse and slammed his lance into the dragon's neck, but the cold steel slid off the impenetrable scales without doing any damage.

Rickard and his horse cantered away, unsuccessful. But the men were emboldened now. They saw the logic in their tactics and took turns harrying the beast with their lances, one distracting it and dodging away while another made his attack. Brienne and the footmen stayed on the defensive, ready to make a concentrated attack once a weak point presented itself. Hopefully, the assault would be enough that the creature left the area. But privately, Jaime wanted to kill it. If they did, he wouldn't have to worry about it coming back.

His doubt that they would even be able to turned to dread in the next few minutes. The dragon hissed at its latest attacker while another made his turn carefully on the opposite side. The beast lashed out with a swishing tail that caught the horse behind it under the knees. The animal stumbled and fell, throwing its rider before galloping into the maze of fire. The dragon whipped his head around to its attacker, its mouth opening to reveal rows upon rows of bloodied teeth, its throat opening to reveal the source of the fire within.

Jaime saw his opening. He spurred his horse forward. Brienne leapt forward with her men. She called out an order and they charged forward. It was only her sword that did any damage, he realized. The other swords and spears bounced off it; it was covered in dragon scales, such a strong armor. She brought Oathkeeper down in an overhead swing and cut into the dragon flank. Its roar turned to a scream—but the flames still blasted forth from its throat. The unhorsed soldier was coated in flames, and then so was Jaime, and the air around them—as the dragon tossed its head back and forth in agony from its wound. He was aware of the heat, the pain. But Jaime's golden hand felt nothing and did not loose its grip on the lance as the whole weight of his dying horse charged forward. It struck the armpit where the scales were weak and slammed inside the animal.

Directly in the heart! Jaime hoped. Blood poured from its chest and back legs. The dragon looked so wounded. It would die. Jaime's horse crumpled beneath him, dead. Brienne was still hacking away. The dragon picked up men in its jaws and flung them aside. It would reach her. Run, Brienne! He tried to shout to her, but he could not speak. His vision was fading anyway. He looked down at himself, crushed for the most part beneath his horse's charred body, and saw the fabric parts of his attire aflame. He was on fire, all except his golden hand, reflecting the flickering light, a quarter of the snapped-off lance still in its grip.

All that armor. Brienne, you must run. He tried to yell to her again. She would be roasted inside of it. Even if she didn't die, the heat would bake her alive. He thought he struggled beneath the weight of his horse, but it seemed he didn't move. He thought he saw the dragon rear its head back, but he couldn't be sure. His vision was too bleary. He heard a strange voice call out, "There! Bring me the sword!" It sounded like a woman, but it wasn't Brienne. The darkness fled and he was encompassed in a glowing light.