The day of reckoning came; the inhabitants of Winterfell, Dothraki, Wildlings, Northerners, Unsullied, Starks and a scarce smattering of Southerners were to begin the trek North-East; Bran and Sansa were to stay in Winterfell with Samwell Tarly and Gilly, Tyrion was to travel with Daenerys and Jon Snow, and Jaime… Jaime knew he was meant to be fighting at the front line. And that he would.
The Winterfell courtyard was chaotic. Leather bags were being stuffed with supplies by every man, woman and child who had been taught to fight by Brienne, Arya and Podrick, and recently Jaime; dried mutton and hard breads were forced inside sacs beside sleeping mats, lined with sheep or goats wool. The bronzed Dothraki sharpened their Arakhs, finally at some ease with the bitter cold in their winter clothes, while the Wildings conversed loudly with Tormund, easy to spot with his booming laugh and fiery beard.
Jaime sauntered through the yard, his leather sac stuffed to the brim with his sleeping mat and tent, Widow's Wail (gods, he needed a new name for it) tucked safely into its scabbard. The cacophony of voices and weapons and whimpering children and arguments over food rations was not enough to drown out Jaime's thoughts of his conversation the night before with Brienne. The way her eyes had sparkled with tears, her accusatory tone when he had, somehow, said that she was worth fighting for. Which was undeniably true, but he could not say that to her, not now! Idiot, he thought, what was he thinking? This situation was too complex, and it always had been. It always would be.
He knew that she was with Sansa and Arya Stark presently, as he had seen her earlier that morn in the Great Hall; she had avoided his gaze and had excused herself from breaking her fast. Jaime forced himself not to be hurt by it; she would not, could not, be a distraction from the Great War. Life is what they were fighting for, not…
"Well, this is it," he heard a voice come from below his shoulder, where Tyrion's eyes were scanning the busy courtyard. Jaime sighed heavily.
"This is it, indeed," he replied. "Are you afraid?"
Tyrion snorted, his beard twinkling with flecks of ice. "I'm a dwarf who cannot fight, whose only weapon is my utmost wit and social skills, whose closest friends are a sellsword and squire. Of course not."
Jaime smirked down at his brother. "Don't do that."
"Don't do what?"
"You're not going to die. I won't let that happen, and you can fight. I swear I taught you something in our youth."
"Well, I've made it this far," said Tyrion, smiling softly. "I assume you will be on the front lines with Jon Snow and the other seasoned warriors?" he clicked his tongue. "Even with one hand, you can do what most men can't."
"I'd assume so, but I do not know yet. Snow said he will speak with the soldiers in the Great Hall soon." Jaime toyed with the pommel of Widows Wail. "You will be fighting, yes?"
"Yes, but not in the front line. I will be quite far behind you." He paused. "Are…" Tyrion began, but stopped. Jaime looked at his brother quizzically. "No, no matter." Jaime raised his eyebrows, and Tyrion rolled his eyes as he was nonverbally forced to continue.
"Are you… concerned? For her?" The courage in Tyrion's voice dwindled. Jaime's mouth went dry. Did he mean..? "Cersei." Tyrion finished.
Oh. That name was a dagger in Jaime's gut. "I don't want to talk about her, Tyrion," he spat harshly.
"I know, and I'm sorry. I just… want you to know that you made the right decision. Despite it all. And I know it was difficult for you," said Tyrion. Jaime shook his head, his jaw clenching. He knew Tyrion was right, but if it were the right decision, if it were honourable, why did it have to cause such pain?
"If its any consolation, I do know how you feel. I was betrayed by the one I loved once. You were there." Tyrion's eyes were slightly glazed, but his voice was steady. The clang and clatter of packing men, women and children caused them both to snap back into the present moment.
"Can't linger on the past anymore, brother," said Jaime, turning to Tyrion. His brother's inquisitive, bearded face turned upwards. "Tyrion… stay alive. I'll be ahead of you, and you can come and find me if need be. But if you die… I'm not burning your body." Jaime tried not to let his voice quiver as Tyrion gave a sad smile.
"There's not much to burn," he replied simply.
Jaime paused, then knelt and enveloped his brother in a warm hug. Tyrion's breath was ragged, and snowflakes melted in his hair. "If this is goodbye…" said Tyrion, "know that I…"
"I know," said Jaime. "Me too." He would not cry. They pulled away from one another, smiling.
"Will you…" Tyrion looked at the sky, "will you watch out for Daenerys? She will be out front." He frowned.
"I will," Jaime promised. Gods, there was something he'd never thought he'd say or do. Protect the Targaryen girl. "If you need me, please, come and find me, no matter how far you are fighting or camping behind me."
Before he could say another word, Jon Snow's northern-accented voice rung out around the courtyard from the Keep's wooden gallery. "All experienced warriors are to meet in the Great Hall immediately!" he commanded, and Jaime could see no one but Ned Stark himself looking down from his honourable height. And what an honourable man he was, Jaime thought, fathering a bastard when he had two children already and had planted a third in his wife's belly.
Jaime looked at Tyrion. His brother nodded. Jaime took in his face, all of it, then strode over to the Great Hall.
When Jaime entered, all air of life and joy from the feast the previous night had evaporated. Instead, it was cold and quiet, save for the murmurings of Jon Snow and… ah, wonderful, Jaime thought, as he spied Tormund Giantsbane beside the King in the North. Around the table stood the Unsullied leader (Greyworn? Gayborne? Qyburn?) on behalf of the entire army, Jorah Mormont, Daenerys, Arya Stark and Davos Seaworth (questionable), a young man with a shock of black hair he had never seen before but looked startlingly familiar, various Dothraki, Northerners and Wildlings, Bronn… and Brienne. Her eyes still avoided his own, so he kept analysing who he would be fighting alongside. His gaze stopped dead when it rested on a familiar, hideous and burnt face.
What in seven hells is he doing here? Thought Jaime. He'd seen Clegane at the Dragonpit, but he had not expected him to be here of all places,. He must've arrived during the night.
What was even more shocking was the weathered man next to him who sported an eyepatch. Jaime approached the table to get a better view, and he was sure his eyes were deceiving him. Dondarrion had been killed years ago… hadn't he? He arrived beside Bronn, uneasy. Bronn acknowledged his presence with a nod. "Can't wait to see you fuck up some dead men with the training I gave you," he murmured. Jaime nodded, but couldn't stop looking at the Hound and Dondarrion.
"Lannister," said Jon Snow in a gruff tone; yet, it did not hold as much disdain as it had the previous days, so Jaime considered that a small victory. Jon looked around the table, taking them in, weighing them up as warriors. Jaime knew he was where he was meant to be. He looked at Tormund, whose lip was swollen and split. The Wildling scowled through his matted beard.
"Apologies for last night, Giantsbane. The drink must've taken over," quipped Jaime.
Brienne flushed deeply, looking away, and Tormund guffawed. "Til the next fight," he responded keenly. Jaime straightened, concealing a smirk.
"Enough, both of you," snapped Jon Snow. "Alright. We are marching North-Easterly towards the Breech of the Wall today. We no longer have times for festivities; the dead are here, and we are the people who are going to fight against the coming storm. The front line," Jon pointed to a rough diagram he had sketched of the battle plan, "will consist of the Dothraki who will have new arakhs of Dragonglass that have been forged, the Unsullied, Ser Jorah, Clegane, Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne, Bronn, Tormund and his fighters, and Ser Beric. Daenerys and myself will also be taking the dr…"
"What about me?" said the dark-haired boy and Arya Stark in unison. While their tones were livid, Jaime could not help but smile at their stubborn similarity. Gods, that swarthy youth's face was familiar, though.
Jon Snow sighed and looked at the pair. "Arya, I know you're as good a fighter as any of us-"
"I have to be at the front line with you," she interjected, her grey eyes huge, her jaw set. "I've been training for years…"
"As have I!" blurted the young man, his voice thick with a flea-bottom accent. "Seven hells, we're as experienced as Ser Davos, for fucks sake!" he said. Jaime's eyes flicked to Brienne, who had a small, warm smile on her face. When she saw Jaime looking at her, that smile faded.
"Arya, Gendry," said Jon Snow calmly, "I know you are both strong warriors, and that you have had as much experience as we have. That is why I need you here, guarding Winterfell. Sansa, Bran and Podrick will also remain." Jaime noticed Brienne's neck tighten at the mention of Podrick.
"No. No, I want to go with you, Jon!" Arya's voice, usually quite enigmatic and dark, was verging on a desperate note. Her young face did not look like it belonged to the face of a warrior. The boy- Gendry- crossed his muscular arms, shaking his head. Various Northerners who had not been named on the frontline seemed elated to not have been called to fight on the front lines.
Jon shuffled past Gendry to talk to Arya. "You need to do this for me, little sister. Please. I have important things that need to be done, that only you can do."
"No, Jon!" she was furious now, and it was unnerving to watch- Jaime looked at the floor. "I won't leave you again, not when we've only just found each other again, I can't…" Snow put his hand on the nape of Arya's neck, and began whispering inaudibly in her ear. She calmed at his touch, a wolf in every sense. She's as wild as that animal of hers, a dim voice echoed in his head. Arya's eyes widened, and as he pulled away, she nodded.
Her eyes were moist. "I can't lose you again," said Arya.
"You won't," said Jon Snow. "I will return to Winterfell. I promise. But you must stay here, and protect the Starks of Winterfell."
"I'll stay with the fucking children," interrupted a rasping voice, shattering the quietness of the Hall and the tender moment between the Starks. Thank the gods. Jon Snow turned from Arya, and looked over to the Hound.
"Har! No, dog, we need you on the front lines," said Tormund. He looked towards Jaime. "More than we need some others, anyway," he grinned, eying Jaime's golden hand.
"Tormund," warned Jon. Jaime's eyes glinted in response to Tormund. He noticed in the corner of his eye that Brienne was looking more than slightly uncomfortable. Don't flatter yourself, Wench, Jaime thought, this isn't about you anymore.
So he told himself.
"No you fucking don't need me," said the Hound, "remember the last time you took me that far North?"
Tormund laughed, and Beric and Jorah muttered. An eyebrow raise from Daenerys said that it wasn't anything good that had happened. "If it is what you want, Hound, then you shall stay." Snow turned to Gendry. "You must stay here to protect those who cannot fight. You will not be alone. You will have many Wildlings, Samwell Tarly, and Northmen and the younger Dothraki here with you. You will be in charge of dispersing every man, woman and child who has been recently taught to fight in holdfasts around the north- and you will be in charge of protecting Winterfell with Sansa and Arya."
Gendry dithered, then looked to Ser Davos, who nodded, then to Arya, who held his gaze. Gendry grimaced as he hesitated, his internal battle evident on his face, but he finally nodded.
Jon bobbed his head, successful. He turned to the rest of the large group. "I know full well that you are frightened," he said, "and you have every right to be. We leave today. We all have our packs and tents prepared, and weapons sharpened. We will be riding and trekking some distance today, and once we reach our encampment for the night, we will go over battle plans for our first battle.
We must be vigilant and have either Dragonglass or Valyrian steel on your person at all times, as the Wights and their creators can appear at any moment- you will feel a cold mist, and then you will know. Fetch your packs, your horses and prepare for the long day ahead. We will stop at nightfall; you must also stay warm. We will be bringing wood for fires, but it will not be easy." He took a deep breath, looking between Arya and Daenerys, then around at the many faces of the fighters. "Take time to say goodbye to your loved ones," he said solemnly, "because chances are, we may not return. Most likely, we will not." He did not look at Arya.
Jaime's stomach twisted, but he did not look towards her. He would not. He did not want to see those stupid blue eyes and that dour face, nor did he want to remember that embarrassment of what he had divulged the previous night. It was difficult enough as it was, with Tyrion; someone else to worry about would be too distracting.
And yet.
Arya stifled a sharp inhale, a half-dead sob. Jaime noticed Gendry, beside her, had dropped his hand down by his side. Jaime was surprised when he saw the smith's hand was entwined with Arya's as he whispered into her dark hair. They looked like they belonged with one another. That boy was so familiar. Jaime looked to Daenerys and the Unsullied leader, whose eyes were sad. Daenerys whispered something to him.
The hall emptied as the fighters left to prepare and say goodbye to their families and friends. Jaime would not see Tyrion again; their farewell had been too much for both of them. Brienne swept past Jaime, her head down. Tormund followed her eagerly, and Jaime had to restrain himself as to not to grab the ginger Wildling by the arm and hold him back. Jon Snow's sullen face was sombre as he left, presumably, to say his goodbyes to Arya, Sansa and Bran. Davos Seaworth left with the Unsullied leader, Jorah Mormont and Daenerys, and Beric and Clegane followed suit.
Jaime left the hall, and Bronn fell into step beside him. "It's happening," Bronn said. "It's fucking happening." They reached the horses on which they had ridden up to Winterfell, whickering in the stables.
"It is," said Jaime, slinging his pack over the hide of the horse.
"Well," said Bronn, "Don't leave it too late, Lannister." He leant over to slap Jaime on the shoulder.
"Leave what too late?" Jaime asked as Bronn mounted his horse. Bronn shook his head, not looking back as he dug his knees into the horse's sides.
"Un-fucking-believable," Bronn muttered, trotting off.
The ride was cold and miserable and cold and dreadful and cold. Jaime could still not believe that dragons were flying above them, the Targaryen girl atop the large black one. The troops were a horde of mismatched warriors, armies and swordsmen and wildings and two dragons and a direwolf. The white wolf, Ghost, walked beside Ser Davos' horse. Jon Snow was meant to be at the front of the throng, but Jaime could not see him, even when the shivering Dothraki in front of him was moved to the side by the rock of his horse; Tyrion was at the back with Bronn, so he knew he'd be as safe as one could be in these circumstances. Jaime shivered violently, the air so bitterly cold it brought tears to his eyes.
Jon Snow had left his siblings with wet eyes, but the sternness in his stubborn jaw contradicted his sentiments. Sansa Stark was graceful even when crying as she watched Jon Snow leave, Arya and Bran beside her. Daenerys had wept silently when she had left her translator behind in Winterfell, and he knew it would've been just as difficult for Brienne to leave Pod. He had seen them bid their farewell at the gates of Winterfell, and the pain in Brienne's eyes made it plain that she cared very much for her squire.
She was riding around ten metres ahead of his horse, beside the Unsullied leader (Grey Worm, Jaime had found out from Jorah Mormont,) and the back of her blonde head was almost invisible in the snowfall. He speculated if it were himself she was saying farewell to, if it would be any different.
Would she weep for me, he wondered, if I were to die? Would she embrace me as she had embraced Podrick? They had never embraced after all their farewells. Each farewell with her had been difficult, and yet they had never touched, save for when he fainted in the bathtub at Harrenhal. Never a fond pat on the shoulder, never a kiss on the hand. Just looks and words and eyes.
Night had fallen over the troops, so cold that Jaime couldn't open his locked jaw, and the troops had to stop to light torches. The trek felt endless- Jaime could feel his golden hand welding to his skin with sticky frost, numbing any itching. Nowhere near as bad as Locke and his bloody Mummers, he kept reminding himself, not as bad as Robb Stark's cage, not as bad as having your own rotten hand strung about your neck. This trek was unlike anything Jaime had experienced- usually, the chattering and jeering of fighters would echo around him, but this group was completely silent. It was unnerving, to have only the howling wind and crunching of ice echoing in his ears.
Some hours later, Jaime felt blisters forming on his chafed thighs. He tried to lift his behind out of the saddle, but felt his leather breeches flood with blister fluid, which froze almost instantly. Charming, he thought, nibbling on a piece of dried mutton, which was also frozen. How the Nights Watch lived in these conditions was beyond him; but he knew he had it easier than the poor Dothraki. Two had already passed out, toppling from their horses.
"HALT!" boomed Tormund's voice from the front of the pack. Finally, Jaime breathed a sigh of relief. They had reached their first encampment site, an ice flat surrounded by rocks and sleet, somewhere south of Castle Black, with no encounters with the dead; Jaime knew that the moment he was to see one, a real soldier of the White Walkers, that he would have to forget any preconceived notions of single combat. He would need to return to his primal roots and fight without any tact whatsoever. The thought was exhilarating. The thought was terrifying.
They all dismounted and began to set up camp in the dark. It was surreal. Torches were going out each second from the roaring wind, unlike any wind he'd ever experienced, and there were hundreds of men and women attempting to raise their tents with sleet in their eyes and ears and mouths. It was mayhem. The yelling of the other fighters had erupted, a stark contrast to the silence of the ride North-East.
Jaime fumbled blindly with his tent's structure and canvas, his teeth chattering so loudly he couldn't hear the men around him who were now yelling orders. The moonlight was the only thing allowing the any vision, and he could vaguely see the outline of… Ser Davos and Jorah? shivering nearby. Jaime's hand was as frozen solid and as useless as his golden one. He couldn't even build a tent. Why have I come here again? He asked himself, is it all for nought if I can't build a fucking tent?
"Fuck! Fuck this!" Jaime yelled into the wind and snow. He was frustrated with himself, this weather, the dark, everything; his nose was running and was frozen solid. He tried to pull off his golden hand, but it wouldn't budge. He felt the beginnings of frostbite on the stump of his wrist where it joined.
It was then that he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He turned. He could hardly make out her face, but he recognised the weight of her hand and the furs around her neck in the dim torchlight. She silently began to help erect the tent, and Jaime was filled with a rush of emotion he did not quite recognise. He was grateful. How she had found him in the darkness, he did not know. All that had passed between them the previous night was forgotten about momentarily- they were just trying to build this tent and survive.
The wind whipped their faces with ice and snow, but the tent slowly rose, their hands numb and their faces crusted with frost. They were puffing heavily from the exertion. Something Jaime had done a million times before was suddenly rendered near-impossible in these conditions.
"Brienne," he puffed, "thank you."
Jaime's eyes had accustomed to the dim light, and he could see her nod. Suddenly, the yelling of others around them grew louder.
"DOWN!" he heard repeatedly in a thick Essosi accent, "DOWN DOWN DOWN!"
Jaime looked at Brienne, and she nodded. They both leapt onto the cold ground, pressing against one another, expecting an avalanche or worse; but to Jaime's surprise, an enormous wave of warm air enveloped them, the camp brightening with heat and light.
Jaime looked to Brienne, and seeing her face in the light reassured him like nothing else. In this light, she could be a true beauty. "Alright?" he breathed, his hand stretching unbidden to touch her shoulder.
Brienne frowned at him. "Of course I am."
"I was just asking." Jaime looked up from their position on the ice beside the tent they'd built. He gaped at the enormous fire that flickered in the centre of the camp, so tall and fierce that it seemed almost alive. Jaime was in awe- he could see all the other tents surrounding his own, and all the Unsullied and Wildlings and Northerners and every soldier that'd come. Jaime and Brienne helped one another to their feet, and when he caught her eyes for a second that seemed a bit too long, suddenly everything he'd said came rushing back and making him feel awful about Tormund and everything he'd ever done again.
His thoughts and gaze were interrupted by the roar of the wind; no, not the wind... the sound of flapping of giant wings overrode the winds howls, and the whole camp cried in shock and amazement as a giant shadowy beast, THE giant shadowy beast, came to a graceful landing beside the giant fire. Seconds later, another shadow, slightly smaller but just as incredible, landed beside it's sibling.
"Seems they do have their uses, these creatures," shouted Jaime. Ser Jorah gave a chuckle over the wind from his tent threshold, around ten metres away.
"She's here," he heard Jorah say, as the silver-haired Targaryen girl slid down the side of the black dragon, wrapped snugly in her own winter coat. As she walked to where her cloaked Unsullied had built a tent, she tenderly touched the green dragon.
"She is," Ser Davos agreed, "and so is he." The Onion Knight's voice was akin to a proud father. It gave Jaime a stab in the gut, because he had wanted to look at his son that way, once.
Jaime shrouded that thought for later and looked to Brienne, who raised an eyebrow, and Jaime's stomach leapt as he looked back to see another rider dismount the second dragon. Jon Snow.
The King in the North looked as windswept as any of them. He joined Daenerys in front of Grey Worm and… Tormund, and shared words, most likely about what they had seen.
"He can ride dragons too?" Jaime spat. Brienne sniffed.
"You did not know?"
"Should I have? Why does a Stark get a dragon as well as a wolf? Hardly seems fair. I never got a pet lion." He smiled darkly. "I was a pet lion."
Brienne smiled sadly. Then her face hardened. "We… we should get some rest." She looked back towards her own tent, impeccably built about fifty metres from Jaime's. "Goodnight, Ser Jaime," she said, her words disappearing into the gusts of northerly winds.
What? Jaime about choked on his frozen saliva. "Brienne, wait," he yelled, then hesitated. She turned back to him, and her eyes were wide.
Jaime's tongue was leaden. "Thank you. I am truly grateful for your help tonight."
Brienne smiled tightly. "It was the only thing to do."
"Could you help me light my torches? For my tent, I mean." He felt pathetic for asking. "please."
She paused, then nodded once.
The torches inside Jaime's tent reminded him of his candles in his chamber at Casterly Rock when he was a child. The red flames reminded him of Aerys Targaryen, and it reminded him of Sansa Stark, and they reminded him of Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella and Cersei.
"Thank you for everything, Brienne," he said, not looking at her. "Brienne…" He felt his tongue grow leaden. He stared into the flame he'd just lit. "Brienne. Last night…"
"It does not matter, Ser." Brienne's voice was harsh, but when he turned to look at her from across the shelter he saw her eyes were wide and vulnerable.
"It… does not matter?" he blustered. Oh, gods, he thought, what can you say to make this better? he asked himself. He had just said words without thinking last night. He would at least try to think tonight. "You thought I was japing."
Brienne would not look at him. "I do not believe you said what you said with a clear head. You had had some ale, and…"
Jaime took a few steps towards her. "I was not mocking you, Brienne. I swear it."
Her eyes, sapphire blue, were shimmering with an inscrutable emotion Jaime could not discern. She looked at her hands. "You hit Tormund," she said. "I have seen similar farces. Men pretending to fight for my… well, I don't know," she laughed hardly, "I honestly don't know."
"No," Jaime shook his head, a shiver going through him, "no. I hit him because what he was saying seemed… gods, Brienne, didn't it make you uncomfortable?"
"To be frank, ser, men have always made me uncomfortable. With exceptions." She thumbed Oathkeeper in her hilt, and Jaime wondered if she did it subconsciously. She looked at him tentatively. "You said… you said I was the only thing in this world worth fighting for." Her voice was unsteady.
Shit, Jaime thought. "Did I?" Jaime frowned ruefully, then swore internally as her face fell. Shit, shit. "Alright! Alright. Yes, I did, Brienne." He a few more careful steps towards her, until they were only an arm's length, if that, apart.
She inhaled, as if she was frightened. "Why?" she whispered. She was all but pleading, searching for an answer. They were so close that Jaime could feel her warm breath on his face. "Why, Jaime?"
"Because I bloody meant it, Brienne!" His hand shot out, unbidden, to grasp the top of her shoulder tightly. She began to recoil, but left his hand there, as it was wringing into her furred sleeve. He looked up to her, his eyes desperate. "I meant it." Jaime did not know what to say. He did not know how to feel.
Brienne's bottom lip trembled, and her eyes darted to his lips; Jaime felt another shiver, but this time he did not know if it was the cold. "I… believe I care for you, ser Jaime," she said softly, almost embarrassed.
Jaime's grip on her arm softened, and he smiled. Sweet Brienne, he thought, you are too good for this godforsaken world. "And I you, Lady Brienne." Their whispered breaths coiled together, the fog evaporating as it met in the space between them.
"I did not ever imagine telling you that," she breathed a laugh, which Jaime echoed.
"Stubborn wench. Never did want to admit that, either."
Silence fell, except for the yelling and swearing of men outside and the wind, the cruel wind. Jaime's eyes were piercing hers and he could not help but pull her into a warm embrace, sudden and fierce. Before he knew what he was doing, he had bunched his hand into her hair, and pressed his face into her warm, muscled shoulder.
Brienne froze, unsure of how to react momentarily, but instinct took over. She melted into the hug, and that warmth she did not recognise pooled in her stomach, as she clung to Jaime. "Don't die," she whispered.
"If you don't. You'd make a bloody awful white walk…"
Then a voice interrupted. "Jaime, is this your tent? We… oh!"
Brienne and Jaime sprung apart from their embrace, flushed but with full hearts. Tyrion was half-in and half-out the tents, trying to conceal a smile. "Shall I come back later…?"
Jaime snorted. "It's not like that, brother," he said, and regretted it as soon as he said it, for he did not know himself what it was like. He looked to Brienne, whose face had returned to its stern neutral expression. "What is it, Tyrion?" Jaime was frustrated, but he knew he should not have been.
Tyrion looked between the two, but left it. "We have need of you."