It seemed like a lifetime before he arrived in Tarth.
Gerald met him at the gates. "Ser Jaime-"
Jaime cut him off. Time was too short to dispense with the courtesies. "How is she?"
"She isn't well, Ser Jaime. She-" Gerald's round face crumbled and he broke into a sob.
Jaime's heart, flighty thing that it was, skipped a beat, and he couldn't imagine not seeing Brienne again, not ever seeing that warrior glint in her eyes as she looked at him. It was a fate he couldn't bear.
Gerald took him to her bedside. "She does nothing but speak your name," he explained. "She won't eat, or drink, or feed the babe, just whispers Jaime."
As Jaime approached the bed, a dread came over him. What if she'd already gone? What if she'd stolen away into the undeworld in the night, gone before he'd had a chance to tell her - to tell her...
"Jaime..." the sound was hoarse and small coming from the canopied bed. No princess voice, but warrior, hoarse but somehow still strong, and Jaime rushed to the beside, crouching down to hear her.
When he saw her, all the color left his face.
Her skin, always ruddy and glowing with sweat before, had become a sickly grey. She had lost a good deal of weight, and her nightdress laid on her like a rag, her hipbones and collarbones protruding. Her eyes were closed, and he could see tiny blue veins running through them like a labrynith.
"Brienne," he said, meaning for it to sound strong, to help her come out of her sickness, but it came out a whisper, a prayer.
He touched her cheek, found it hot and clammy, and his throat felt full of sand.
"Jaime," she murmered again, as if they were lovers, and tears sprang to his eyes and down his cheeks.
She opened her eyes, and looked into his face. She smiled, then, a weak smile just turning up one corner of her mouth. "I dreamed of you," she said.