Screaming. That's what he heard.

But when he opened his eyes, it was quiet, save the scream of his back. Jaime Lannister looked around…he didn't recognize the place he was in, and he was in a good amount of pain. It was quite dark.

He had no memory of what he was doing, of where he was.

A sound from another corner of the room made him look; and a nursemaid came in. "Oh. You're awake, are you?"

He didn't answer.

"Can you feel your legs?"

Jaime thought. He nodded slowly…but when he tried to move them, he couldn't. He started to gather his arms in a propping up position.

"Now, just a moment, Ser," she came over to him. "Can you move?"

He looked up at her. "No."

"Well, we'll have the Maester come and have a look. Maybe it's temporary," she helped him up to a sitting position.

"Where am I exactly?"

"Why, you're at Winterfell."

And suddenly he remembered. It was the war. The great war. And there was an army of the dead, and…"Where is everyone? Is the battle still going on?" he looked frantically for a window.

"Somewhat, Ser. The fighting's nearly done. I'll tell …well. Whom should I tell that you're awake?"

"Has anyone come?" he doubted it. Perhaps Tyrion.

"Yes. The little man."

Jaime nodded and smiled. Tyrion was so loyal a brother. Pity Cersei never appreciated that. "No one else?" but of course, she was likely still fighting. (he wouldn't think the alternative, it was too horrifying)

"Not that I know of. I'll go and alert him," she left.

So he laid there, thinking about the battle, the fact the he couldn't move his legs. This was disconcerting, but at least he could still feel them. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he was hopeful.

Part of him resented the fact that he wasn't able to fight long. He had struck them down as he could, but it was rather embarrassing…he. Captain of the Kingsguard. Left the battle in its infancy.

"Jaime?"

He looked up and smiled. "Come. Have a seat."

Tyrion went and sat next to his brother, a concerned look on his face. "They tell me you cannot move your legs."

"Not yet. I have feeling in them. That is the more concerning thing in this," he paused. "Outside of the battle. What is happening?"

"There are stragglers."

He nodded. "And? The Night King?"

Tyrion's gaze drifted. "He never came."

"He never…" his tone was one of bemused terror. "But then…"

"He has Daenery's dragon, Viserion. He could be anywhere."

Jaime's face fell. He looked at his left hand, his right stump…they had removed his golden substitute. "King's Landing," he breathed.

"That is what I was thinking as well…he can summon half a million dead at King's Landing. Journey North. There will be nothing left of us."

He felt sick. "Were there many fallen? Here?" he looked at Tyrion.

"Not as many as you'd expect. Most are with us still."

He let out a slow breath. He would not ask about her, for he felt that Tyrion suspected things, and he wasn't prepared to answer questions he barely knew answers to. He was a broken man. He felt as though he was only now regaining some semblance of understanding. Everything heretofore had been clouded by his devotion to Cersei, save a few things.

His friendship with Brienne of Tarth was one of those things.

And perhaps, because it was yet unsullied by speculation and definition, or even declarations, he meant to keep it close.

Or perhaps he was so accustomed to subterfuge that he knew nothing else.

But yet nothing had been admitted, even to himself. And his mind was swimming with thoughts. "Whom have you seen?"

Tyrion looked at him with a sad sort of look. "Sansa Stark. Jon Snow. Bran. I've heard the Queen is burning the edge of the forest atop a dragon as we speak."

"Not Davos? Not Podrick?"

"No. But as I said…there are plenty more just outside, finishing the rest of them."

Jaime nodded, and the door opened. "Ser Jaime," the Maester entered.

"I'll go, then," said Tyrion.

"No stay, won't you? He won't be saying anything to me that you won't hear in an hour."

Tyrion looked at his brother, then the Maester. "All right, then. I'll wait just outside the door."

He watched his younger brother leave, then looked at the Maester. "Do not mince words, Maester. I need no bedside manner."

The man nodded, then pulled on his arm to help him sit forward, allowing a better look at his back.

A quarter an hour later the Maester was readying to leave. "There are other wounded, so I should go. You'll certainly walk again, it's not broken. I'd venture to say a week at most. But you'll need to move after a fashion, Ser. Staying put won't get the medicine working," he set something down next to him. "Twice a day, and milk of the poppy if needed."

"No milk of the poppy," he grunted, sitting back and feeling tired.

"As you like," he bowed and left.

…and Tyrion came in. "Well?"

"A week or so. And I'll walk again."

"Wonderful news! What did he say about your face?" he sat next to him.

"My face?" Jaime's brow furrowed.

"It's terribly disfigured," he smiled. "Not to worry, brother. You have your charms. Unfortunately for you, I inherited all of the wit."

"Tyrion, what's the matter with my face?" he looked for some glass.

"You have words written all over it. Looks suspiciously like L-O-V-E."

He blanched. "Not funny. Don't bring her up."

"No?" he sat back.

"You hate her as much as I. Likely more."

"I barely know her."

And Jaime felt his pulse quicken. "Whom are you speaking of?" his voice was small.

"Why, Ser Brienne of Tarth, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. By the way, that ceremony last night was one of the most intimate, most romantic things I've ever witnessed. I felt as though the rest of us were intruding. Tell me, how long have you loved her?"

She wiped her brow. There were bits of wights scattered about the ground, the White Walkers had retreated, but they had not all perished. She watched them, looking for the King.

He never came. Maybe twenty thousand. Maybe. And Winterfell had suffered but little.

She wasn't sure if there had been places where there were more dead, who had been resurrected and then killed, but it seemed unlikely. There just wasn't the numbers they had banked on.

She looked for Podrick…she hadn't seen him in a spell.

And she suddenly saw Jon Snow approaching her, looking weary. "Lady Brienne," he nodded. "You're still here, at least."

"Have we lost many?"

"No. And I'm beginning to wonder at that."

"It doesn't seem right. What…?"

"We will be convening in a few hours," he said, interrupting her. "We can discuss all of this then," he smiled at her. "Go in. Clean yourself and eat. There's nothing left out here to do."

Brienne watched him go. She swallowed. People were burning the remains, starting fires to keep warm, but to be rid of the dead at last. "Podrick!" she called.

There was no answer.

Since she was merely staring out into the winter landscape, she decided to make herself useful. She helped for a while with the disposal of the remains, then went in. She had spoken with some of the people at the fire, and they were all wary that there'd be another attack that night.

She didn't have an answer for that, for it was indeed possible.

But somehow, she thought, a full scale attack was unlikely.

Perhaps some wights trying to get inside the castle. But nothing like a battle.

Brienne walked into Winterfell, and leaned against the wall. She was exhausted. And starving.

And she suddenly thought of Jaime…wondering if he was all right. Perhaps she'd clean herself and then find him.

"Lady Brienne?"

She turned. "Lady Sansa," she bowed.

"It's good to see you," she smiled. "Are you hurt at all?"

"No. Just a few scratches here and there," and she started walking toward the door to the innards of the castle.

Sansa walked with her. "Did you find the charge not as bad as you'd imagined?"

"Yes," she opened the door for her. "And that's troubling."

"That's what we were saying. Lord Snow and I."

"He told me that we were to convene once everyone is cleaned and fed," they walked through a narrow passage.

"Are you interested in meeting?"

"Of course I am. I'll change. Peek in on Ser Jaime, then…"

"Was he injured?" she stopped.

"He was. Kicked in the back by a giant wight. But he slew many…served for a couple of hours before he was hurt," she felt like she needed to justify her voucher.

Sansa nodded. "I see. Do go and see him. Ask him if he's well enough to come to the meeting as well," she nodded, then turned.

…as Brienne bowed. She walked along and up some stairs to the small room she had been assigned.

After she dressed and cleaned herself up somewhat, she went and found the makeshift infirmary and asked a nursemaid about Jaime Lannister.

And she was directed to a corner room.

Brienne approached it, and suddenly, with some nerves, rapped on the door.

"Come in," he called.

And she felt some relief at the sound of his voice. At least he was lucid and awake. She pushed the door open.

"My lady," he said, adjusting himself so that he was sitting more upright.

"Well, Jaime. We'll need to postpone our conversation. I need to find my Queen," Tyrion slid off the chair.

"You needn't leave, Lord Tyrion," she said, touching the door handle.

"Don't be silly. Jaime and I have talked long enough. He's overdone with my banter. Likely needs a softer tone," he smiled to her. "To speak of the battle, and all the wonder it incites."

"Enough, Tyrion," Jaime admonished him.

"And there is my dismissal. I'll see you both soon," he bowed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Jaime cleared his throat. "Sit, please," he motioned for her to sit next to him. And he wiped his left palm on the blanket.

"Ser Jaime," she nodded, sitting next to the sick bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you. Tell me, what happened?"

"You were kicked in the back by a giant wight."

He shook his head. "And…then?"

"Then I brought you back. And they carried you away."

"What is the state of things out there?"

"Better than anyone anticipated, I think. The numbers are low. There is talk of another attack tonight, but I don't believe it will be of the same scale."

"No," he said, looking at her earnestly. "How are you?"

"Well. Just some scratches."

"You look well."

Brienne cleared her throat. "Are you in much pain, then?"

"No. Not that much. The Maester said I should be walking in a week."

"You can't walk?" her voice held shock.

"I can't move my legs."

She searched his face. "I didn't know."

"How could you?" he smiled, then dropped his gaze. "Tyrion and I were talking…the King never came, did he?"

"Not that I'm aware."

And he looked at her again. "What if he's going to King's Landing?"

"King's Landing," she repeated, and her face fell, stone white. "That would mean…"

"That if Cersei is taken unawares, there could be half a million wights on the march in less than two weeks."

"Lord."

"Just so."

"What can be done?"

Jaime cleared his throat. "We'd need to alert everyone, including the Iron Born, to take up arms. Apart from that, I'm not sure. Dorne? Tarth? Whoever we can recruit. It would be a monumental undertaking."

"We'd never get them all here in time."

"That's the sprit."

And despite herself, she laughed a touch. "They're meeting soon. Can you come?"

He swallowed. "Will they listen? I'm a Lannister."

"You're an honorable Knight, and a lion. They'll listen to you," she smiled.