A/N: Um yeah – thought I was done with the first chapter, but apparently not…
Later, once the survivors have reassured themselves that the attack is over, once the grieving Dragon Queen is back inside what remains of Winterfell's walls, once the Warden of the North and the Lady of Winterfell and Bran and Arya Stark – Arya Stark: Quick Knife, Saviour of the Living, (and oh, what songs they will sing of her from this day) have been accounted for, once the injured are helped as best they can be, the universal need is rest.
Fresh snow has begun to fall. Undamaged space is at a premium; everyone crams themselves in where they can, slumping against walls, against each other. In the courtyards fires are lit from the bodies of the dead, though an effort is made to separate the unholy corpses from those that gave their lives to fight them. Winterfell succumbs to a strange kind of quiet. It's a hush made both of relief and fear, for they all know this is only a respite, not the end. Jaime wonders where Cersei is now, considers warning Tyrion that her forces may already be far further North than they think, but there is little point. His brother will have thought of that already and besides, without sleep there's not a living being in Winterfell who could now wield a sword.
Pod refuses to rest himself until he finds Ser Brienne an unoccupied room – a study, perhaps, at some time, or a parlour. It is small, square, bare except for a single table and chair, but it has a fireplace and in this her squire lights a blaze fit to heat a furnace. He finds her blankets too, and pillows, filching them from elsewhere to pile in front of the fire. They've not spoken, not since that whisper of his name in the immediate wake of battle and her shout of concern to Pod. They're all too tired, and perhaps after all there is nothing to say, or else too much. Once Pod has lit the fire, he brings water, too. Then he steps to the knight's side, ready to help her with the task of removing her armour.
"Help Ser Jaime first," she says.
"That's not necessary," Jaime says. "I'll go, find someone else-"
Brienne turns and looks at him. He stops speaking. Pod gives him a faint smile and then helps Jaime to shuck his heavy armour, leaving only his linen shirt and pants. As the metal is discarded he begins to ache; he imagines the bruises that will be forming beneath his skin. Then Pod turns to Brienne and though Jaime has lingered with them until this point, dazed from the battle, aching and sore and almost beyond exhaustion himself, now he takes his leave. He is still shaken by something that he does not want to name and is having trouble rationalising to himself. He is not the only Lannister in Winterfell, after all, but it is Brienne of Tarth he has shadowed in the wake of battle, not his own kin.
"I'll go," Jaime says. "Thank you, Pod; Ser Brienne."
He leaves Brienne's room but then realises he has nowhere else to be. Tyrion will be with Daenarys and he does not want to show the Dragon Queen his face, not at this moment. He is adrift now that the purpose that allowed him to stay in Winterfell is discharged, and that he survived where her beloved champion did not – he doesn't give much for his chances against the tidal wave of a queen's grief. He should find a deserted corner, settle down and sleep, but then it strikes him that Pod's next task will be to find Brienne food and drink. Her squire fought as valiantly as any beside them; the least Jaime can do is lessen one of his burdens. Besides, it gives him something useful to do. Jaime finds half a loaf of stale bread and an almost empty pitcher of wine and then retraces his steps. As he reaches the door again, Pod is closing it softly behind him. The two men look at each other.
"Here," Jaime says, holding out his offerings. "I thought I'd save you one task, at least."
Pod smiles faintly. "Thank you, my lord. I've left Ser Brienne to rest."
Jaime nods. "For later, then."
Pod doesn't take the food. "The water is still warm, ser. You should bathe before it chills."
Jaime frowns. "Oh, I don't think-"
"She won't begrudge you that, Ser Jaime. Could you honestly imagine that she would?"
Pod turns without another word and opens the door. Then the younger man glances up at him with a look no less eloquent for all the exhaustion it overlays. There is a moment of silence.
"Get some sleep, Pod."
"Thank you, ser. I will."
Inside, the room is warm, dark aside from its thrown orange light and the uncertain glow of candles, still save for the crackle and spit of the fire. He sets the bread and wine on the table and turns to look for Brienne. She's lying curled on the pile of blankets Pod has found for her, propped up slightly in front of the fire, one hand beneath one cheek, face turned into the pillows. She is fast asleep.
Jaime stares. He's never seen the strong planes of her face so relaxed before. She is bruised and scratched, her bottom lip is split. But there's a faint pink flush carving out cheekbones sharp enough to cut steel and no frown furrows her brow. Her hair, dried in the heat of the fire, radiates softly against the pillows. In the dim light, cushioned by the darkness of the blankets, she looks ethereal, otherworldly: inconceivably beautiful.
Jaime registers dimly that she's wrapped in a fur cloak. It has parted a little below the fastenings at her neck. It reveals a glimpse of bare skin that is at once entirely chaste and wildly erotic. It begins at her chest and runs down between her breasts, crossing her belly before hitching over her hip to part over one slightly bent, impossibly long leg. Her feet are bare, elegant like a dancer's, despite the decades they have spent in heavy boots. Against the black fur her skin looks like pale marble.
Brienne of Tarth, he thinks, stupidly, still staring: sculpted, not born.
A hot curl of unbidden lust twines itself low in his belly and he turns away, guilt warring with confusion in his gut. He rubs one hand across his face, half thinking that he should leave immediately, get as far away from this room as he can, half already knowing it's the last thing he wants to do. He is filthy with the stench of death, and there in front of the fire is the half-barrel full of water Pod slaved to carry and heat. Then he sees the second fur cloak draped over the back of the chair, and knows it must be intended for him. He slips out of the last of his clothes, unstraps his golden hand and kneels beside the water, naked. The feeling of it sluicing the grime and sweat of battle from his body is exquisite. He cups it in his single hand, tips it over himself, lets it run freely until it drips onto the flame-warmed stones beneath him. Jaime drenches every inch of his body. He dips his head and shoulders into the barrel, momentarily drowning everything beyond his own self.
When he resurfaces, he can feel her.
He breathes out, scrubs his hand through his wet hair, wipes his face, and turns. Her eyes are open, but she hasn't moved. Brienne of Tarth is lying bare beneath her furs, watching the water run over his body. They look at each other for a moment. Then Brienne sits up, and glances down at herself to see how loose her fur has fallen. She goes to close it, and-
"Don't," Jaime says, before he even knows he's going to speak.
He stands, still dripping wet. In one swift movement he picks up his own cloak from the chair and throws it around his shoulders. He drops down beside Brienne and knocks her hand away before she can hide that glimpse of marble skin. He slips his hand between the edges of fur at her chest, running the backs of his fingers down between her breasts, down over the flat lines of her warm stomach, and kisses her as she gasps. He slides his arm around her beneath the cloak, pushing her back down into the blankets. Despite her scars she is not made of rock: no, pressed against his wet skin she feels softer than silk. He pulls back and looks at her. Her eyes are wide, and for a second he sees doubt flit through them. It creases that familiar line between her brows, pulls her face taut.
"Don't," he says again, whispers it this time, leans in to pull her bottom lip between his in a kiss more gentle than he's given in years. "Don't think the worst. Not of me, Brienne of Tarth. Not now. Please."
"I don't," she says, strong voice quiet. The guarded look in her clear eyes makes him loathe every man outside the field of battle that ever made her doubt herself. "Post-battle, this happens, I know. And that was the worst any of us have ever seen."
He kisses her again, cups her face with his one good hand. Then he traces his fingers along her cheekbone, over her lips, passes his thumb over that line between her eyebrows.
"That's not what this is," he says. "I swear it."
She smiles slightly, the corners of her lips lifting.
"You have no faith in me?" he asks.
"In everything, Ser Jaime, but this."
"Why?"
She glances away. He can feel her heart beating against his chest. They are skin to skin and it feels like bathing in sunlight.
"I am not the sort of woman who attracts a man like you."
He raises both eyebrows and pointedly shifts his hips. "And yet…"
She actually blushes and he thinks the sight might just rival the colours of the sunrise he had never expected to see. How did he ever see her as less of a beauty than Cersei? How?
"Trust me," he says, softly, slowly pulling on the ties that fasten her cloak closed at her throat. "You know me better than anyone, Brienne. You do."
The cloak falls open. He strokes his hand beneath the fur. He pushes it back over her shoulder, smoothing his palm over her breast. She makes a sound in her throat that thrums right to his core. Her head drops back against the pillow, lips parting.
She lets herself give in.
[END]