Excited murmurs ran round the great hall at the news of Jaime's death and the defeat of his army, as Sansa went on to tell them that the dragon queen had rounded up the survivors and demanded they bend the knee. Lord Randyll Tarly and his son, Dickon, had refused and been burned to ash by Daenerys' dragon. The rest of the survivors had quickly knelt, and were spared.

Some in the hall laughed at this news, while others thumped one another on the back, confident that Jon had made a powerful ally in the dual war against Cersei and the white walkers. Lady Sansa sent the servants scurrying for ale for Winterfell's folk to toast the great victory.

Brienne was immobile for long moments, only the stone wall at her back keeping her upright. The sound of the people she lived side by side with, celebrating the demise of thousands of men by fire, was a wordless roar in her head. Several were looking her way, to see if the warrior woman who was sworn to the Starks, yet still carried a Lannister sword, would be joining in the celebration.

She saw Pod struggling to reach her from the other side of the hall, his face full of concern. A horn of ale was thrust into his hand and he was pulled, unwilling, into a circle of other young men. He caught Brienne's eye and she somberly shook her hand, gesturing for him to stay where he was. Someone was holding a cup out to her, but she noticed nothing more than their cheerful smile as she blurted, "I'm not thirsty," and stumbled from the room.

Her taper was gone, perhaps dropped when she had heard that Jaime was dead. It didn't matter; no amount of light could guide her now, as her vision blurred with tears. She fled down the hall on wobbly legs, her fingers scraping over stone walls to keep from falling. The emptiness between torches stretched until it seemed as though her whole world had been plunged into darkness. How would she find her way?

In despair, Brienne stopped, panting, and leaned her back against the rough wall. If she were to lie down right where she was, to curl into a ball of misery there in the dark, perhaps no one would notice, and eventually she'd become one with the lifeless earth beneath her.

But no, it was unlikely she'd be left in peace. Someone coming back from the revelry would stumble over her eventually, and an alarm would be raised, a maester would be called to see to her and questions asked. Brienne forced herself to go on, liberating the next torch she came to from its sconce to guide her.

Arriving at her door at last, she replaced the torch in the nearest empty bracket, just a few yards past her door, and shut herself inside, grateful that she'd left her candle burning.

Ever since the day they'd parted at the Red Keep, Brienne to find Lady Sansa and Jaime to continue as Lord Commander of the King's Guard, Brienne had comforted herself that she'd somehow know if Jaime were killed. She'd feel it like the shock of sword striking bone, like the searing pain of an arrow strike, no matter where either of them was…

How can he be dead? He couldn't be… she'd have sensed it somehow, would have known it the instant

Yet that 'instant' had been days past. And she'd sensed nothing. No jolt to the heart, no Stark swan flying over her grave, no sudden, crushing –

Suddenly, she couldn't breathe, the truth crashing down on her like the sorrows of the Seven, bearing her down to her bed to clutch at the furs, gasping as waves of grief swept her into a place of such profound misery that she almost wished that she, too, had perished there beside Jaime.

There would be no such oblivion of death for Brienne, nor, she realized, any peace from the living world. Someone was pounding on the door to her chamber and calling her name. Though it took two tries to find her voice, Brienne called out, "Yes? Who's there?"

"Podrick, my lady."

"What do you need, Podrick?"

"I wanted to check on you, my lady. I mean, with the…news, and all. I know that you and ser –"

Brienne got off the bed and wrenched open the door. She mustn't let anyone hear Pod, lest all of Winterfell come to know of her grief. To everyone else, he's just the Kingslayer. "Ser Jaime and I are not – were not –"

Pod's eyebrows went up in alarm. She must look just as she felt. "My lady, you need to sit down," he pushed his way inside, taking her hand to pull her to the bed.

"I was sitting down," she said dully.

"Here," Pod set his candle down and pushed down on her forearms. Brienne dropped onto the bed without protest. He trotted the few steps to the door and shut it. "You need something to drink, my lady."

While Pod poured from the pitcher on the bureau, Brienne struggled to arrange her expression into something less tragic. Podrick was a sensitive lad, and the news of so many people burning to death all at once might have triggered memories of the Battle of Blackwater. The shores of the bay, he had told her once, had been foul with ashes and charred, greasy flesh for weeks afterward. Was dragon fire as explosive as wildfire?

"My lady? My lady?" Brienne looked up at Podrick vaguely. He was holding out a goblet of water. She took it in both hands and drank as Podrick opened the wooden chest at the foot of her bed, "As I was saying, my lady, when Lady Sansa read that in the hall, I tried to get to you then. But I was stopped by that big fellow, from House Woolsfield? By the time I looked up you had gone." He handed her a bit of fabric and went to refill her cup, "You can wipe your eyes with that, my lady."

"Thank you, Podrick," Brienne said, swiping at her nose. The tears seemed to have already dried. She balled the bit of linen up in her fists and held it in her lap.

"When Lady Sansa said that ser Jaime was dead, my lady, I knew I needed to get to you! Jaime was your –"

"No, he was not." Whatever it was, he was not mine.

"But…but Bronn hinted that..that the two of you were..."

Bronn would. "What, Pod?"

He handed the goblet back, "Um, together, my lady."

"Together?" Brienne said, trying to scoff but only managing a small hiccup, "He was mistaken. Ser Jaime and I had no...understanding." She felt her face heating.

"Oh, he didn't mean it that way," Podrick assured her.

"Certainly not," Brienne sipped some water and set the goblet aside, morbidly curious as a child picking at a newly-formed scab, "What did he mean, specifically?"

"Bronn?"

"Yes."

"Um," it was Podrick's turn to blush, "he said he thought you were fucking. Pardon my language, my lady."

"And why would he say that?" Again, Bronn would. Brienne wondered what rationalization the man had come up with: Oathkeeper? The armor? Just being a woman, any woman, in a tent with a handsome man?

"It was on account of how you look at each other, my lady," Podrick told her warily, "He...he said Ser Jaime would want to, for sure."

Oh. "Ser Jaime and I..." Brienne took a shuddering breath, "Well, it doesn't matter now, does it?" She took another sip of water, trying to swallow the painful lump in her throat.

"It does matter," he looked like he wanted to stamp his foot, "Bronn's not blind and neither am I, my lady. You loved him."

Brienne shook her head, tears starting again, "Pod –"

"And he loved you. Bronn saw it back in King's Landing."

A dozen denials went through her head, but she wasn't going to start lying now. "Thank you, Podrick. I really need to be alone right now."

His face creased with worry, "Is there anything you need my lady? Anything at all?"

Jaime, alive. "No, thank you. Thank you…for caring."

"If you're certain, my lady." Pod hesitated by the door, came back, "At least let me get your boots and cloak. Would you like me to hang Oathkeeper for you?"

"No, I can see to myself," Brienne said, "but I...I feel as though I've got a sore throat coming on...I think I might need to miss practice tomorrow."

"It's probably just sore from crying, my lady. I could fetch some nice tea -"

"No. No, I think I'm getting sick."

"You? You're the healthiest person I know. Even when I got the runs after we both ate that gravy -"

"Nevertheless," Brienne emphasized, "I don't feel well. It might just be the morning sessions. Just until I feel better."

Pod gave in, "As you wish, my lady." He reached for the handle, "I'm very sorry. Truly. Ser Jaime was a hero. Tyrion worshipped him."

"Yes," Brienne nodded, "He was. More than anyone knew. I'll be back in the yard by tomorrow afternoon." She watched the door shut behind Pod, listening for the door to latch for his footsteps to fade away.

He loved you.

Was that true? Brienne crumpled on to her side like a tower made of loose, wet sand, a formless lump only occasionally jolted by the sobs breaking loose from the very heart of her, until she slept. Her dreams were mired in memories, spinning her about and making her tears run even in sleep.

Jaime, wheeling his white horse around to flash his mocking grin at her before leveling his spear and galloping away, away to the horizon, where the red-gold flame of the rising sun embraced him, flaring so brightly when they met that the sight was seared from her eyes.

A golden afternoon, and Jaime again, this time standing on an outcropping, younger and dressed in a simple tunic with no blazon. He still had both hands, and a laughing arrogance that he wore like a summer cloak. Gusts of wind rising from the sea below riffled his sun-bleached hair and he laughed, his face still soft and rounded with youth. He barely glanced her way as he strode past, calling over his shoulder as he disappeared down a fall of boulders, "Coming, Brienne?" She stumbled after him.

It was dark. They were in a cave, its walls shimmering with moisture. The sand beneath Brienne's feet was soft, the ankle deep water cold and biting. The smell of salt and rot told Brienne that the sea was close. Jaime's back was to her, and she heard him cry out, "Don't leave me here alone! Don't leave me here in the dark -" His voice was anguished, afraid, "at least give me a sword!"

"I gave you a sword," said a cold voice from above them. Jaime's father, Lord Tywin.

Jaime hesitated, then bent to retrieve a sword from the shallow water. As he raised it, a silvery blue light flared at the tip, trickling down the blade almost to the hilt he held in his right hand. He was whole, and in the shimmering light Brienne could see that he was naked, but healthier than he'd been in the baths of Harrenhal; his arms and legs were solid with muscle, and there was a sheen to his hair even in the uneven light. Jaime's shoulders tensed as he crouched low, ready for battle.

"I swore to keep you safe," Brienne said into the silence, I failed. Jaime whirled to face her, "I swore a holy oath," she insisted, lifting her hands in supplication; they were chained, the irons heavy on her wrists. Jaime's eyes were wide and dark but for the spark of silver-blue reflecting from Widow's Wail. Why does he have Joffrey's sword?

She held out her arms, "Ser. Please, if you would be so good," and he used the Valyrian steel to sever the chain, the links falling away to splash in the water. Jaime regarded her somberly for a long moment, and Brienne realized that she, too, was naked. "A sword," she begged, shivering, to keep you safe.

Oathkeeper, in its scabbard on the Lannister-red belts Jaime had given her, was suddenly in her hands. She quickly strapped them around her hips and waist as Jaime watched. She drew forth the long sword and it, too, lit with ice-blue flame. The hilt was warm and familiar in her hand as she swung it experimentally, the flame streaming and reflecting in the water like a wisp of winter itself.

"Do they keep a bear down here?" She asked.

Jaime smiled grimly, "No, no more bears for us, wench."

"I mislike this place, Ser Jaime," she took a step nearer him, and their swords flared brighter, thought beyond their circle of light the darkness deepened.

"I'm not fond of it myself, lady Brienne," Jaime agreed, "but as long as our swords remain lit, we will survive."

Brienne put her hand on his shoulder, surprised by how solid his skin felt beneath her fingers. "Jaime, I must return something to you. Your father, Lord Tywin, he said -"

He put his left hand on her bare hip, drawing her closer, "My father is dead."

"He gave you a sword," Brienne rushed on, "but not that one." She felt the heat of his skin, and her body's familiar response to being near him. She held up Oathkeeper, the blue flames flickering from the lines and whorls in the Valyrian steel, "He gave you this one. Please, take it back. To keep you safe."

"I told you already, Brienne. It's yours," Jaime raised Widow's Wail, its blade alongside Oathkeeper. Silver-blue flames joined, fed on each other until the darkness was forced back by the ghost of Ned Stark's great sword, Ice, its blade glowing brighter and brighter until it shattered into a thousand, thousand shards of palest blue and silver white, whirling around them where they stood on top of the world.

Both swords were sheathed and hanging from sword belts buckled over layers of leather and fur. Jaime's stump was swathed in leather, and his hair was longer. Their gloved fingers were interlaced as they stared out into the blizzard. Jaime brought Brienne's hand up to kiss her snow-dusted knuckles.

They'd been nothing. He'd been everything. Jaime was looking intently into her eyes, and when she parted her lips to question him, he rose up on his toes to kiss her. They were alone in the vast nothingness, and Jaime was kissing her like he meant it. Like they were everything.

He pulled away and stinging crystals of snow blew between them, mixing with the grey in Jaime's hair. Within her dream, Brienne shuddered with grief to see him older, and watching her with the eyes of a lover. "Please don't leave me," she begged.

He squeezed her hand once and let it go. "Follow me," he said over his fur-covered shoulder, drawing his sword as he walked away.

Jaime, I can't follow you in death - Yetshe tried to catch up to him, her heavy boots sinking in the snow. The more she struggled to reach him, the deeper it became. But it was no use - the blizzard had cloaked him all in white and he'd vanished.

"Jaime. Don't leave me!" she sobbed, as winter leached the color from the world and left her shivering in the dark, alone in her bed.

Brienne opened her eyes. The candlelight was dim, the small flame almost drowning in a well of melted tallow. Her heavy cloak was tangled about her, and she got up to hang from its hook before unstrapping Oathkeeper and laying it, sheathed, to one side of the bed. She shed her boots and jerkin and blew out the candle before getting beneath the bed furs, her hand instinctively closing around the sword's hilt.

Jaime had told her once that in his dreams he still had his right hand and that he was whole, and had only dreamed that his sword hand was gone. Let me sleep, then, Briennethought, closing her eyes, for only in dreams do I still have you.

Someone was pounding urgently at her door. In less time than it took to fully awaken, Brienne was poised by the door, Oathkeeper in hand. "Who is there?" She demanded. Friend or foe?

"Uh, Podrick, my lady."

Why was Podrick at her door? Had she fallen asleep with the candle burning? No, what dusty light there was came from the tiny, glazed window set high on the wall. Dawn, maybe? Why had she -? Jaime. She'd forgotten, in that scant moment between dream and reality. Brienne felt the weight of sorrow settling back over her like wet snow.

She drew in a shaky breath and squared her shoulders before unbolting the door, "What's wrong, Pod?"

"Wrong, my lady?" Podrick walked past her to light the big candle with his taper.

Though she loved Podrick dearly, his penchant for re-stating the obvious required patience of the sort Brienne could not muster right then. "You were pounding on my door as though the keep were on fire. What could be –" She paused. Jaime. Her heart leapt, could Jon have been mistaken? "Is there news from the south?"

Podrick busied himself pouring the last of the water into Brienne's goblet, "Not that I've heard."

Of course not. A second raven, sent even a day later, wouldn't have gotten here so soon. "What is so urgent then? Is Sansa well?"

"I've not seen her, but she wouldn't be looking for you, my lady. She knows you have responsibilities in the yard." He held out the goblet of water, "I made your excuses to the trainees this morning. About your sore throat, and needing to rest."

"Thank you." Brienne took the cup and set it down, glancing at the chamber pot in its corner, " Would you mind stepping back outside, Podrick? It's a rather small room."

Pod, following her gaze, drew himself up with dignity, "Of course, my lady." He went to the door and stopped just inside, hesitating, "My lady?"

Brienne sighed, "I'll let you right back in." He ducked out.

The rooms in this part of the keep had been constructed with guardsmen in mind; privies and privacy were an amenity no one had considered necessary. Brienne took the time to put her boots and sword belt on before re-opening the door for an anxious Podrick.

"Why are you armed, ser – my lady?"

"Aren't you here to fetch me for our lesson?"

"Lesson?"

Brienne sighed, "Yes. Fighting lessons?"

"That was hours ago, my lady. I came to check on you earlier. I knocked and knocked, but you never answered."

Brienne turned to look at the little window again. "What time is it?"

"Just past sundown. Maybe a bit later."

No wonder he's worried. "I slept all day? I'm sorry Podrick. What about Arya?"

"I told her you weren't well. There are others in the keep down sick, my lady. No one suspects anything." Pod gave her one of his bashful smiles, "I even led the practice this morning."

Brienne dredged up a smile, "You're a good lad, Podrick."

"Thank you," he beamed. "I bet you're hungry."

"I'm not." Released from her obligation to get up and train, Brienne felt a wave of nausea at the thought of food. Perhaps she was ill. "I didn't realize there was sickness in the keep."

"It's been around for a week or two. The maester said to tell him right away if you break out in, uh, pus jewels."

Pus jewels? Oh. "Pustules. You'll be the first to know, Pod."

"It's mostly children getting sick," he explained, "The maester said maybe they didn't have this illness on your island, when you were small."

Was I ever small? "I think I did."

"Well, no one has to know that though, do they? Do you want to take your boots off? I can bring you something to eat."

I should just go to the hall, Brienne thought. No, no I really couldn't. I'm liable to kill the first man who refers to Jaime as the Kingslayer. "I'm honestly not hungry, but if you want to bring me something that won't spoil, I'd be grateful."

"Right away my lady. You just get comfortable. No one wants you out and about until they're sure you don't have pus jewels. I made sure of that."

"I'm sure I'll be fine by tomorrow. Thank you again, Podrick. I'm sorry I slept through our lesson." Pod bobbed his head and left the room, seeming pleased to be taking care of Brienne. He would make sure that when she did leave the room, she would be ready to face her responsibilities again.

In fact, she did not leave it again for almost a week. Pod, true to his word, made sure she had food and fresh water, and arranged for a chamber maid to come twice daily while Brienne was confined to her room.

There was little rest for her in solitude, though. For the first day or two after, she'd hoped for a raven saying that Jaime had escaped burning after all. He would be hurt, certainly. If that had happened, who would take care of him? Not his sister, she suspected. Especially not if he'd been disfigured. But Brienne would go to him –

Eventually she realized that no such raven would ever come. No one would send a raven out into this winter just to correct a rumor. Her fantasies of Jaime's miraculous resurrection from the dead – not in the manner Jon Snow had risen – gave way to a sick acceptance of the truth.

He had died fighting the dragon queen. What a horrible, horrible fate for someone who'd once saved thousands from burning. The gods must be laughing at the irony of it. Brienne spent hours pacing in the small room, anger roiling within her. He led an army, and he'd only the one good hand. Why in the seven hells hadn't he left the battlefield to his soldiers?

Brienne hoped the hideous metal hand had burned also. They could gather up the steel and gold puddle once it cooled and present it to his sister. It was all she deserved of him. Did she weep? Would she be able to wring any grief from such a miserly heart?

When she'd worn herself out with fury, Brienne felt like an empty husk. She could live with that. Had lived like that. If thoughts of Jaime intruded, she dashed them away. If she would not allow herself to feel, she would get through this. She'd survived Renly's death. And Catelyn's. Just don't think, Brienne, she told herself.

But she could not go without sleep, and in dreams he still came to her. Sometimes they were on the King's Road, going south. Chained together. Other times they were in Riverrun together, in Jaime's tent with the bright sun making the red tent glow with warmth.

"It will always be yours," he'd say, and for once he would take that single step, closing the distance between them. Time would stretch as she looked into his eyes, longer than she'd ever dared to before, barely noticing that her armor was gone as he maneuvered her to the raised bed in his tent. Sometimes he'd already begun kissing her, and by the time he laid her down their coupling was urgent, unrestrained.

Other times they explored each other slowly, skin to skin, as they'd been when she'd held him in Harrenhal. Harrenhal, where she'd fallen in love with him. Oh, the dreams were there, too. And their truce was consummated in the concealing steam of the baths.

Not all of the dreams were intimate, but those were her favorites. Perhaps because she refused to feel embarrassed or guilty about them any longer. Jaime's death had freed her to admit to herself how much she'd loved him. But you loved him, she heard Cersei's voice in her head, accusing. Yes, yes I did, she'd answer, holding her head high. He saved me. More than once. He might have loved me, too.

And then she would curl onto her side, and weep some more. She had shed so many tears that it was a wonder she hadn't shriveled up and turned to dust. At least when she went among people again, her eyes would be dry, every tear she would ever shed, used up in the space of days.

After five days had passed, Brienne got up one morning and decided that she was ready to resume her life. Pod was overjoyed, though he still threw worried looks her way now and then. Brienne threw herself into training her students, was exceptionally tough on Pod, though he'd actually improved in her absence, and went after Arya as though she were not the daughter of a noble house, and was grimly amused to see the self-satisfied smirk disappear as Brienne out-maneuvered her again and again.

She still took her meals in her room, but she scavenged the food herself. The hall was still full of speculation over the great battle and the dragon queen, and Brienne heard the name "Lannister" often enough to know that she'd not keep her composure long in company.

Nearly two weeks had passed since Jaime's death, when Brienne received a summons from her lady. She immediately felt guilty; she'd barely thought of Sansa, so focused she'd been on drilling her students until they could practically fight in their sleep.

She thanked the page who'd come to her in the crypt and made her excuses to Arya and Bran. Arya, holding her ribs and panting, waved her away. Bran didn't even look up. The snow was falling heavily when she emerged from the tombs, and walked rapidly across the deserted courtyard to the keep.

The Lady of Winterfell stood before a roaring fire, statuesque and serious. Lady Catelyn would have been proud to see her eldest daughter, now grown into the mantle of leadership. Sansa was holding a couple of sheets of parchment, her greeting to Brienne perfunctory as she scanned its contents.

"I've been invited by Queen Cersei to come to a gathering King's Landing to 'discuss' the war. Discuss!" Sansa threw the papers in fire and turned back to Brienne, still several paces away. "I want you to go."

"Of course, my lady. Will you be on horseback or in a litter? Podrick and I will escort –"

Sansa picked up another sheet of the parchment covered in crabbed, faded writing, and walked back to the fire, "I'm not going to King's Landing. You will go, in my place."

Brienne felt a shiver of trepidation. As a hostage? Or to meet with Cersei Lannister? Gods, no. She'd never be able to face that woman, not with Jaime gone. "I don't understand. What would the queen want with me?"

"You will be my representative. It's all very proper. You are a Lady, and sworn to me," Sansa looked up at Brienne quickly, just long enough for Brienne to catch the twinge of guilt in her eyes. "It is an honorable role, Lady Brienne."

What had honor to do with this? Sansa wanting to send her away - to King's Landing of all paces! Brienne clenched her fists, wanting to remind her that Lady Catelyn had also sent her away to King's Landing. The consequences had been tragic.

"My lady, it is you that they wish to see. If you will not go, perhaps you could send another in your stead, while I continue to guard you here?"

Sansa turned from the fire, her eyes cold, "I have many guards, Brienne. I do not need to be watched over, or minded. I was in no danger while you were ill," she glanced at the paper again and then gave it, too, to the fire. "You will represent my interests at this gathering as you see them."

"My lady, you are the Lady of Winterfell. The invitation was for you."

"I will not set foot in King's Landing while Cersei is queen. If they want another Stark prisoner, they can come and take me." Sansa sat down at the table facing Brienne, "The safest place for me is here."

Here, with Little Finger. With undead wights to the north. With certain northern lords agitating for treason against their declared king. "It's not safe," Brienne said flatly.

"Ser Jaime will be there," Sansa said, picking up a narrow scroll, it's edges curling in, "you said he treated you honorably before."

Brienne's heart lurched painfully, but she kept her composure, "Ser Jaime is dead."

"Apparently not," Sansa said wryly, setting the scroll down on the desk among several other coiled strips.

He couldn't be -"But – but the raven –" Brienne's left hand tightened around Oathkeeper's hilt.

Sansa waved her hand, allowing herself a little smile, "That's Jon, telling exciting stories without having all of the facts. We received a second raven a few days later, from Ser Davos. I could hardly read his writing, but he reports that he's been to King's Landing on some business of Jon's. His sources there confirm that Ser Jaime is re-forming his armies after they were routed a fortnight ago."

"It can't be, my lady," Brienne said, pushing back against the hope swelling in her breast.

"Nevertheless, he lives. Jon wasn't even there; it must have been some other fool that charged the dragon. "

"I suppose so, my lady." Brienne knew she should continue to argue for Sansa's safety, but could no longer find the motivation to do so, "Am I to report to Jaime Lannister when I arrive, or to the queen?"

"I'll leave that up to you, Lady Brienne," Sansa said dismissively, " the trip to King's Landing is long, and you won't be traveling on summer roads. You'll have plenty of time to think about it whilst you travel."

"Yes, my lady," Brienne said, "I shall leave at once."

"See that you do," Sansa said. "And take Podrick with you; he mopes when you're not around."

Brienne assured her that she would, and left the hall, making her way back out to the dark and deserted courtyard. Silent snow swirled around her as she walked toward the stables to request her and Podrick's horses be made ready.

Her steps slowed, and she stopped some yards from the stable gate. Jaime is alive. Alive! Brienne laughed, joy making her giddy. It didn't matter that Jaime would be with Cersei, or that her own feelings for him were stronger than ever. To be near him again, to see him again, would be enough.