Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones in any way, although I wish I owned the good ship Braime.

Rating: M for coarse language and reference to adult themes

Author's Note: I know it has been too long since my last posting, I apologize! Thank you so much for all the reviews, your encouragement is so nice to hear!

~Chapter Three~

In the days to come, they discovered that each of them had reached an unspoken agreement not to mention the words that had been said on Jaime's first night in Winterfell. The only references made were tactical— how would they mount a defense without the Lannister army? What would Cersei do while they were distracted by the wights? Could there be truth to her claim that Euron Greyjoy was bringing the Golden Company across the sea from Essos?

"Even if it is true, we can't afford to worry about it now." Jaime gazed out across the courtyard from his perch upon an abandoned wooden stool. "It will take time for the fleet to sail all the way there, collect the army, and get back to the south. Time none of us have." There was a rare bit of sunshine this afternoon, although the snow still fell unceasingly. He was still tired, not only physically, but there was that place within his spirit that felt a thousand years old. Gods, he felt the weight of each year of war as a fresh chain hanging upon him.

Brienne stood beside him, and from his seat, she looked even taller and more formidable than usual. They had both just gotten out of another council meeting with the queen. It still felt odd to think of a woman other than Cersei as the queen. A lot of things felt odd without her.

He had been surprised that the Targaryen girl (Queen Daenerys, he mentally corrected himself, in a voice that sounded a lot like Brienne's) had wanted him present, all things considered. He wasn't sure, if their positions had been reversed, that he would have offered such a courtesy. But he had Tyrion and Brienne to thank for that. For a lot of things.

"Lady Sansa has been ensuring that the grain stores are properly shored up, and that all the provinces of the North contribute their share. But most of them are struggling just to get by now that winter is here," Brienne said, breaking him out of his reverie.

"Never mind the grain stores, what are we going to do about men? We can't hope to face a hundred thousand of these creatures with our numbers, even if they are well-fed."

"As we were recently reminded, 'Sixty-two properly trained men can stand against a force ten times as large.'"

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly at Brienne's words as he recalled a particularly barbed comment from little Lyanna Mormont earlier that morning. She had been most adamant that the men from Bear Island not be overlooked in their contributions to the North's defense.

"Lady Mormont's tenacity is admirable," he said smilingly, emphasizing the title belonging to the small girl. "As is the dedication of her men. How is she getting on?"

Brienne had undertaken the task of training the women who wanted to fight. None was more serious than the young Mormont girl.

"She's making good progress. She hasn't had much in the way of formal training, but I don't think I've ever seen a fighter more determined to learn."

Brienne was smiling slightly.

"Oh, I think a young Brienne of Tarth could have given her a run for her money." Jaime grinned. "I can just imagine it— little Brienne, ten years old, already taller than all the boys, outside swinging her sword around while the other girls fawned over their dresses and dolls."

"Well you got it mostly right." She rolled her eyes.

"What did I get wrong?"

She paused. "I was eight when I started sword lessons."

Jaime laughed. "I have you beat. I was six."

"Yes, well, everyone wanted you to be a knight. You're a man."

He looked down at himself, as if in surprise. "By the gods, you're right. I never noticed it until now."

"Oh, grow up."

"Never!"

She glared at him. "Has anyone ever told you that you're an idiot?"

"Just my loving brother." His smile faded abruptly. "And…"

The warmth of the sun, the warmth of Brienne's mocking, was swallowed up in the chill of memories of Cersei. This time though, a hot surge of anger burst through the sadness.

I always knew you were the stupidest Lannister.

The curve of her mouth, the hardness in her eyes— qualities that had used to make his blood boil with lust— now made his blood surge with hatred. The curve was no longer sensual, but a sneer wrapped around her words; the hardness in her eyes did not invite him into her embrace; it pushed him away. It had pushed him all the way up here.

But as he looked at Brienne, her face growing uncomfortable in his silence, he felt that perhaps he hadn't been running away, so much as running towards…something else.

Where Cersei's comment had been a weapon, a truth hurled in his face, Brienne's was nothing more than exasperation, the teasing of a friend.

She seemed to sense that the joke had lost its humor, and quickly changed the subject.

"So, about our defenses. I've been thinking that we need some sort of barricade around Winterfell, something layered that will stop each type of creature as it passes the threshold. Fire destroys some, Dragonglass others. The most powerful ones must be cut down with Valyrian Steel, and we know how precious little of that we have."

They both looked to the hilt of Brienne's sword, Oathkeeper, which was wrought from the ancient metal. She pulled the hilt up a few inches, making sure the blade was free in its scabbard. It was a comforting gesture, to both of them. Whatever confusions the rest of the world held, they both knew what was required in war.

"If we can eliminate the sheer number of the creatures that are able to get into the keep, we can concentrate on cutting down the most powerful, and focus our resources," he replied thoughtfully. "That still only protects Winterfell though. What about the rest of the North? How on earth can we stop them from flooding in all at once?"

Brienne turned to him with an eyebrow raised. "Have you so quickly forgotten about the queen's dragons?"

His brow lowered darkly. "No, I haven't." I will never forget them for as long as I live. Memories of charging Daenerys at the Battle of the Loot Train flooded his mind: their screeches of fury, the gusts created by their gargantuan wings, the searing heat of flame as it was angrily expelled. He had stared into the mouth of hell that day, and had been perfectly convinced it would swallow him.

After his arrival at Winterfell, Tyrion had informed him that the dragons were being kept in a neighboring valley, for their own safety as well as the people's. They had been raised in tropical locations, so Tyrion had feared that they might not endure the harsh winter very well, but their tough hides seemed to be keeping them warm enough. Tyrion had even offered to show Jaime where they stayed, at which point Jamie had emphatically declined. He couldn't fathom his little brother's fascination with such deadly creatures. Then again, Tyrion had never understood Jaime's fascination with his own dangerous liaison.

He mentally shook himself and realized that Brienne was staring at him inquisitively. "It's true, they do even the odds somewhat," he said quickly. "But as we know, they can be killed. And even dragon fire won't stop the most powerful Walkers."

Brienne sighed. "Well, it's a start."

Jaime scowled darkly.

"Yes, the beginning of the end."

"You don't have to sound quite so grim about it."

"Nevertheless, it's true." She looked as though she were about to interrupt. He forestalled her. "You're a warrior Brienne, and one of the best at that. But you've never led an army, never tried to mount an attack, never had to think of which lives are going to be cannon fodder and which are going to win the fight; which men you will send home to the warm embrace of their wives, and which bodies you will leave for carrion crows. Even with numbers ten, a hundred, a thousand times those we have now, we are still talking about an enemy that cannot die! What hope do we have against that? What hope do any of us have?" He sighed.

Brienne was silent for a few heartbeats, and then she spoke in a tone he didn't think he'd ever heard from her before. It was soft, approaching pity, but not pitying. It was almost— gentle disappointment.

"I was wondering if that Jaime Lannister was still in there. I thought your decision to come up here had finally banished him for good."

He looked sharply up at her.

"What do you mean?" he asked in a barbed voice.

"I mean the Jaime who wouldn't eat for days after his hand was cut off; who made light of Sansa Stark's imprisonment at King's Landing, the Jaime who whines and moans about things not going his way and never stops to think that he is not the only one in pain!"

Jaime had risen from his seat by this point, a buzzing growing in his ears as his temper flared.

"Have you not heard a word I've said? I'm trying to point out the obvious fact that all of us are going to die and there's not a damn thing I can do to stop it!" He was pretty sure some heads were turning in their direction from across the yard, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"And I'm saying that in the face of death there are things worth living for! A true knight does not let fear stop him from doing what is right!"

"I see, so now I'm not a true knight because I'm not stupid enough to think that a handful of hopeful men can defeat the largest force of undead terrors this world has ever seen! If that's what it takes to be a true knight," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'm glad no one has ever called me one. I'd rather be the Kingslayer and live, than be an optimistic simpleton and watch everyone I have left in this world die!"

"It is not simple to keep hope when reason says you must throw it away!" She snarled. "Everyone has to hold onto hope for something."

"Well I may just be a washed-up captain of the Kingsguard, but I do know that 'hope' can't wield a sword or hold a shield!"

"Well I know you didn't have a shred of hope when you returned to that witch and she turned her back on you, after you'd followed her around for years, murdering in her name and spitting on your own principles because it seemed too hard to do otherwise!"

At the insult to Cersei, Jaime's hand had moved halfway to his sword grip before he realized what he was doing. He pulled it away slowly. There was thunder in his ears and blood singing through his veins as he glared at Brienne, her blue eyes piercing him with flames of ice.

"Too hard?" He hissed through gritted teeth. "'Too hard to do otherwise'? You think it was easy, do you, keeping faith in her, all the while murdering who she wanted me to, listening to her command me to kill my own brother, watching our children suffer and die because she couldn't let go of the power, all for the hope that she still loved me, only to find that she no longer needed me, that she had solace in the throne, and when she was done with me, I barely had anything left inside of me?"

The words had flown from his lips as they came into his head. He had never told a single soul any of this, and yet it felt like some of the pressure behind his chest was easing as he let the words escape, the anger weaponizing them, pushing them out and into Brienne's face. And then the fight left him as he saw her face crumble, as she realized what she had said. He watched her face turn from anger to shock, to embarrassment, to something else— was it fear? — before he saw tears begin to well in her eyes and she turned abruptly from him, leaving him in the cold, pale light of a false summer day.