AEMON THE DRAGONWOLF

Part 2 - The Son's Song

Brienne I

As soon as the men had broken their fast the next morning, King Jon and Princess Sansa saw them all to the courtyard, where saddled horses awaited their arrival. A rough sled had been cobbled together and loaded with supplies for the journey. It would serve as Prince Bran's ride for the journey back.

"Lady Brienne, I wish you the best of luck," the king told her solemnly. "Bring our brother home."

"I will, your grace," she promised.

"Keep the fires going throughout the night," he advised her. "You may need them, should any wights appear."

"Surely they would not appear south of the Wall?" Brienne asked, startled.

The king grimaced. "Wights attacked Castle Black, once. We found the bodies on the other side and brought them there, but still—if there is any chance that the Wall's magic is weakening, be prepared. Fire for wights, and Valyrian steel or dragonglass for White Walkers."

"I have Oathkeeper at the ready, your grace," Brienne promised him, fingering the sword's hilt with gloved hands. "But my sword and Ser Jaime's are the only Valyrian steel weapons in our group."

"I know. There's no help for that now. Go, then, and keep your eyes open, all of you," King Jon ordered, pitching his voice so others could hear.

Brienne ordered Pod to mount up. Her squire did so at once, and a Stark man-at-arms handed him a gray direwolf banner, which the boy rested on his stirrup. Brienne vaulted onto her own horse, and the rest of her group followed. Jaime's men would ride behind them, but they were not her command, or her problem.

The Lady Commander gave the signal to move out, and they rode past the gates to the Kingsroad. The twelve Vale knights Lord Royce had chosen were younger, more serious, and less likely to make trouble for a female commander than others she'd seen. The Mormont men were a grim lot, dedicated to their duty and sparing no time for meaningless chatter. The Wintersguards Brienne had selected for the journey could not have been more different.

Dorren Blackmyre, the only crannogman, had been her first choice. He was excellent at blending into shadows, and handled daggers and darts better than swords. When the Wintersguard needed to make noise, she could go herself, or take some of the louder clansmen. When she needed stealth and cunning, she would send Dorren. He was also a fair hand with the horses, and eager to please.

Artos Norrey, called Young Artos though he was well over forty, had been her next choice. The man was large and intimidating—though not as tall as Brienne—and a fierce supporter of the Starks, as was his fellow clansman, Alyn Flint. Both men were serious and spoke little; she did not know much about them except for their loyalty, and their skill with bows and axes.

The remaining two were wildlings. Not the red-bearded bother; she'd left him at Winterfell to protect King Jon and Princess Sansa, since the king seemed to trust him more than anyone. She had brought along a loud, black-haired spearwife named Geisa, and a man, Joren Stargazer. She had heard whispers that the man was a warg, though Brienne had no idea what sort of animals he might skinchange into. Still, one never knew when such a skill might be useful.

The day was fiercely cold, but the sky stayed clear. On the first night, Brienne halted her group at suppertime, and set the men to build three fires. The two wildlings set to work at once, knowing how important the fire was. The Vale knights were more skeptical.

"My lady, we are exhausted from the day's ride," complained Maren Belmore. "Why waste more of our energy cutting wood at this hour?"

"King's orders, ser," Brienne replied briskly. "Fire is our best defense against wights, should any appear."

The younger Templeton knight next to him snorted, but hid his reaction when Brienne turned to glare at him.

"Move. Now," she commanded.

To her surprise, they obeyed without further comment. They had just sat around the new fires, warming their hands with hot bowls of stew, when the Lannisters caught up, led by Jaime Lannister. Once they had dismounted beside the road, just behind Brienne's group, she heard Jaime ordering them to set up camp. The red tents looked ridiculously garish against the white snow and dull brown wood of the winter forest.

"Well, fancy meeting you all again," called a cheerful voice. Ser Bronn hailed the wildlings, and was promptly invited to join them. It was odd to see a southron so comfortable with them, though Brienne supposed they'd have more in common with a rough-spoken sellsword than a highborn knight.

Brienne finished her stew, ordered Ser Selric to take the first watch, and went for a walk, needing to stretch her legs before sleeping.

It didn't take her long to cross into the Lannister camp, where the men sat around their own cookfires. Ser Jaime was not among them, but sat alone in the commander's tent. An untouched plate and mug lay on his cot.

"Are you well?" Brienne asked him.

"Oh, I am just fine," he replied dully. "I'm a condemned man headed to his death, Brienne. Don't ask me to be cheerful on the way there."

"It may not come to that," she pointed out again.

"I will not pin my hopes on a boy's mercy, not when I ruined his life. Leave me be, wench."

Brienne had not seen him so dejected since he'd lost his hand. He said nothing more, despite her efforts, and she left the tent shaking her head. It was an impossible situation; she'd never met anyone who so deserved and didn't deserve his punishment at the same time.

Over the next few days, life on the road became routine. Brienne, her Wintersguard, knights, and Northmen would pack up and ride, stopping only to relieve themselves and to eat their noonday meal, and they'd meet the Lannister men in the evenings, when the second group reached their campsite. There was little interaction between the two groups, except for Bronn, Pod, and Brienne herself. The Vale knights had little in common with the wildlings or the Mormonts, except perhaps some First Men heritage, but they did not mingle with the westerlanders at all. For a side that had remained neutral throughout the war, they were far too suspicious of them.

When they were eight days away from Castle Black, Brienne's group set up camp as usual, and she sent a Mormont man named Leor to scout ahead. It had started to snow, and her men were having a difficult time lighting the fires. The westerlanders had fallen further behind, unused to the weather conditions.

"Could do with some of that magic fire the Mad Queen used in King's Landing," muttered Dorren, huffing in disgust as the wind put out his kindling. "My lady, would you mind—?"

"Not at all," Brienne replied, stepping between the snowy wind and the crannogman. Dorren took up his flint and steel again, and they fanned the tiny flames together. Slowly, the fire caught and grew.

Her men huddled closer to it than usual that night, listening to Young Artos' tales of the barrow kings and the marsh kings, all conquered by the Starks of old. Brienne was fascinated. Princess Sansa had told her weeks ago that she'd never paid much mind to northern tales, being so eager to escape to the south. Brienne suspected it was one of the many reasons why the Northmen had chosen her brother—cousin, rather—to rule them instead. But to her, a Stormlander, the old tales of the north were just as interesting, if not as full of courtly language.

"BOLTONS!"

Suddenly, Leor and his horse galloped into the campsite at full speed. "Milady," the man cried, eyes wild, "At least three dozen Boltons approach from the east!"

The camp jumped into action, with men dropping their ale and reaching for their swords, bows, and axes.

"If they're coming from the east," Alyn Flint thought aloud, "then they must have been hiding at Last Hearth. But the Umbers are dead," he concluded. "So who is sheltering these treacherous sons of whores?"

"Mayhaps they sacked the place and took it when they lost Winterfell?" offered one of the Vale knights.

"I don't know, but it ends today," Brienne promised them. "They are traitors and their lives are forfeit. Are they ahorse?"

"No, milady, they were on foot."

"Weapons at the ready, sers," she ordered. Princess Sansa had sent her away from the battle of Winterfell, but she would not fail her here.

They stood in a single file, Brienne, her squire, and her seven-and-twenty men. Oathkeeper shone red in the firelight, and no one spoke. It was deadly silent.

Suddenly, a shadow moved behind the sentinel tree in front of Brienne. She raised her sword, and the man in Bolton colors emerged, followed by his companions.

"What in the seven hells!" cried the knight of House Sunderland. A few of the men stepped back in horror.

The five men across from them had been Bolton men once, surely. Now, they gazed at Brandon Stark's rescuers with otherwordly blue eyes full of malevolence. Dried blood and filth dotted their clothing and faces.

"Wights!" shouted Brienne, realizing what they were from King Jon's council meetings. Freeing herself from her panicked paralysis, she lowered her sword and turned, seizing a branch from the fire. "Torches, now!"

Her men obeyed. There weren't enough branches for them all; the struggling fire had held on despite the snow, but it wasn't the roaring blaze they usually had.

"Double up, one torch, one bow!" Brienne ordered. "Fire arrows if you've a bow!"

Before she had uttered her last word, the wight in front had charged at Brienne, shrieking. The others followed it.

The Sunderland boy ran forward, swinging his makeshift torch wildly. "I'll distract it!" he cried, attacking the wight on the far left. "Emmon, Maren, get the torches!"

"Watch out!" Brienne cried, swinging her own branch at the wight nearest her. It shrieked and moved back, but not before kicking at her legs. Fortunately, the wight was shorter than Brienne, and skinnier besides. The kick caught the back of her left knee and her leg buckled, but she did not fall.

With a grunt of effort, the Lady Commander stabbed at the creature's eye with her torch. As it wailed, she pulled the branch free, and dragged it along the wight's neck and flailing hands, hoping the remains of its gambeson would catch fire under the plate. It did, finally. The wight went up in flames.

Next to her, Joren and Geisa had tackled a larger wight. Geisa had managed to pin it against a tree with her spear, while Joren scrambled to set it aflame. Behind them, Emmon Templeton and Maren Belmore were lighting and passing torches. The cookfire was dying under the fresh snow, however.

"We need more fire!" Brienne cried, choosing two of the Vale knights. "You, build up the fire, fast!"

They dropped their bows and obeyed, finally understanding the need. Meanwhile, the Mormonts on Brienne's right were burning the remaining wights. Before she could catch her breath, five monsters lay dead in the snow.

"How many did you see, Leor?" Brienne asked, her heart sinking into her boots.

"Three dozen or so, milady," he replied, gasping for breath.

Fourteen wights broke through the trees next, all wearing the flayed man sigil. The defenders were better prepared this time, with torches instead of branches snatched from the fire, but even the stoutest man felt terror at the sight of those cold blue eyes. To make things worse, they were still fighting the wights when reinforcements arrived, at least another dozen wights. Out of the corner of her eyes, Brienne saw the Templeton boy fall, a wight on top of him as the monster bit at his unprotected throat.

Filled with fury, Brienne skirted around Jonnel Lynderly, who was fighting a wight on his own, and attacked the creature that had killed Emmon Templeton. The young Vale knight's blood dripped down its rotting chin and beard. It was worse than anything she'd seen in the desecrated Riverlands. Though they were the worst possible examples of the species, at least the Bloody Mummers and the Mountain's Men were human, and died as humans, pissing themselves in fear. This thing showed no fear, only a cold cruelty past all reason.

Her injured knee throbbed, and the exhaustion of the journey grated, but Brienne kept fighting, cutting off the sword-arm, and then thrusting Oathkeeper so hard into the wight's thigh that it fell backwards, leg bone shattered. Holding the thing's chest down with her foot, she dragged her torch to any unprotected skin or cloth she could reach. Its clothes and hair were wet from the snow, and not easy to burn.

Looking up, Brienne was surprised to see the Lannister men had joined the fight. Looking terrified, the westerlanders were shooting flaming arrows at the remaining wights, while her own men regrouped. She had lost Sers Emmon Templeton and Kyle Donniger, as well as a Mormont greybeard, Edwyle. Near the tree line, she could see three corpses in Lannister armor, surrounded by scorched wights. Several others were injured. Burning, arrow-studded corpses littered the clearing.

"My lady, are you alright?" cried Pod, running to her side. He still held his torch, and Brienne saw a long cut along the boy's left arm.

"I'm alright," she replied, hoarse. Had she been shouting? She could not recall.

Pod handed her a skin of wine, eager to return to his normal routine.

"Thank you," Brienne told him, watching the dead wight burn at last. "Any serious injuries?"

"That last Bolton whoreson broke my wrist," complained a Mormont boy, holding up his right hand for inspection.

"I must say, Lady Commander, we expected a more welcoming campsite," joked Jaime Lannister, appearing on her left side. Beneath the humor, she saw a hint of terror in his eyes. "Were those the White Walkers the valiant King in the North mentioned?"

"No," she replied, "those are their slaves. They're dead men that the White Walkers raised to fight for them."

Jaime swore. "And nothing stopped them but fire."

He looked up at the sky, and Brienne's eyes followed. The snow wouldn't let up anytime soon.

"Move under the trees!" he ordered his men. "And I want more fires! There could be more of those things!"

"My scout saw only these," Brienne informed him, "but it would do no harm to send more scouts."

The Kingslayer nodded, and picked two of his men to scout east and west. Brienne sent Dorren to scout the Kingsroad to the north, then paced restlessly around the camp.

"My lady, I brought my poultices," Young Artos offered. "I can tend to our wounded."

"Good, please do so," she replied, relieved. When she'd volunteered for this mission, she had not thought of taking the Starks' borrowed maester, and she had no wildling woodswitch or healer with her. Only now did she see the folly of it. She'd never expected the Kingsroad to be this dangerous! A bandit or two, perhaps, but the undead?

"How is your leg, my lady?"

Brienne looked down. She'd been limping noticeably since the wight had kicked her knee, and Artos had clearly noticed. Her armor had protected her from other injuries, however.

"It's nothing, Artos," she assured him. "A kick. It will bruise and swell, nothing more. I'll sit for a spell, until Dorren returns."

She sat on the trunk that held their cooking gear, staring into the flames. She felt at least forty years old. To her right, Artos went from man to man, bandaging cuts and applying poultices.

"I never believed in Others and wights, you know," Jaime spoke up suddenly, squeezing onto the trunk to her left. "I didn't hear much of it while I was the Starks' prisoner, but when I returned to King's Landing? I thought the men of the Watch were taking us for fools, mayhaps distracting us to help the North."

Brienne snorted. "You don't know the Northmen very well, then," she answered. "If Jeor Mormont was anything like his great-niece, he meant every word he penned."

She paused. "If you didn't believe in this, why did you come?"

"I thought the Northmen were scheming," he replied, gazing at her meaningfully, but Brienne didn't understand. "Then you told me that they were real. You're the most honest person I know. If you say wights exist, then they must exist...and tonight has proven us both right."

Brienne felt oddly flattered. In this world of corruption, honesty was usually hurled as an insult. She'd heard the Lannister opinion of Honorable Ned Stark, and knew that her own reputation was similar. But to her, it would never be anything other than a compliment.

They sat in a companionable silence. Eventually, Jaime got bored and reached for his sword, Widow's Wail. Holding it in place with his golden hand, he cleaned the wight blood and guts from the shining blade, and Brienne did the same with Oathkeeper. Side by side, they cleaned the Valyrian steel blades free of the filth of battle, then shared the remains of Brienne's wineskin.

"Well, that was an interesting night, and no mistake," Bronn said, appearing behind them. "It's nice to know my wildling friends were not pulling my leg. Though of course, that means they're all dead now," he realized, frowning.

"I'm sorry," Brienne told him sincerely.

"Eh," the sellsword shrugged. "Friend is a relative term. A few of them tried to eat me."

Wine flew everywhere as Jaime choked. "What?"

Bronn grinned wickedly. "You didn't know? Some wildling tribes are cannibals."

"I don't believe it," he said, green eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"He tells it true," said Geisa the spearwife, appearing with a bandage around her forehead. "The men of Skagos will eat careless sailors that wander too close to their island, and the ice river clans went to war every few years. The losers became supper for the winners."

"Why would you go there, Bronn?" asked Jaime, aghast.

"Because I was paid to," the sellsword answered simply. "The more dangerous the job, the better it pays." He shrugged again, and raised an eyebrow at Jaime. "Are you regretting your trip to the north, Ser?"

"Every second of every day," he muttered at last, draining the skin. "And yet, I refuse to leave. I suppose I've gone as mad as my dear sister."

The Kingslayer stood, groaning as he stretched his back and arms.

"I'm going to bed. Wake me if the dead return."

Brienne took one last look around the camp. The Mormont men, bandaged and bolstered with some ale, had taken on the task of burning the dead. Alyn and two Lannisters had taken the watch, and the fires were as high as they could be for now. The scouts had not yet returned, but she knew her men would wake her if anything went amiss.

She decided to follow Jaime's example. Brienne found a quiet corner under a thick evergreen, where the branches would block most of the snow, and placed her bedroll near the trunk. She was too tired to bother with her tent. Princess Sansa had made her the cloak she wore, declaring that her sworn shield deserved to be warm as she fulfilled her duties. The thick, fur-lined cloak came in handy now, as Brienne covered herself up and went to sleep.

Eight days later, Brienne breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the familiar sight of Castle Black. Her men and Jaime's had spent a tense week, watching every shadow in case new wights appeared. They'd been lucky, however; the eight-and-thirty Boltons they had killed and burned were the only men, living or dead, they'd seen on the road. Brienne and Jaime had decided they were survivors of the Battle of Winterfell, cravens that had run away and died of exposure or from their battle wounds.

After their brush with the wights, Jaime had returned to his old self. Instead of moping in his tent, thinking far too much of his future death and past sins, he had become a man with a purpose. He was learning all he could from Brienne's men about the threat beyond the Wall, and sparring with Bronn during the noonday meals. For their safety, Jaime had suggested traveling together, instead of meeting only at night, and Brienne had agreed. Though her men and his were not friends, fighting the undead together had erased some of the mistrust.

"Lady Commander Brienne," hailed the dour-faced Edd Tollett. Brienne could see why the men of the Watch called him Dolorous Edd. "Welcome to Castle Black, once more. And Ser Jaime Lannister," the man went on. "When Jon wrote to say you were coming, I thought he was japing."

"I'm sorry to spoil a good joke," Ser Jaime replied. "But alas, I came to help the Watch."

"Mighty kind of you," Edd said dubiously. "If I were you I'd run to Dorne or the Summer Isles, but suit yourself. Who could resist the biting cold, uncomfortable beds, and the prunes stuffed into every meal?"

Brienne saw that Jaime could not tell if Edd was in earnest or having a laugh at his expense, but she had more important matters to discuss.

"Lord Commander, we came across eight-and-thirty wights on our way here."

Edd Tollett swallowed hard. "South of the Wall?"

"Yes, they attacked us near the Last River. They wore Bolton armor, so they did not come from beyond the Wall; they were Northmen turned into wights."

The Lord Commander swore. "I suppose I should thank you for killing them. King Jon will have to tell every house to burn every dead man, woman, and child from here to the Neck, unless they want more undead Northmen attacking live ones."

He sighed. "If that happens, we're deader than dead. We can't defend Castle Black if we're attacked from the south. Seven hells, we can barely defend it from the north, and that's with a gigantic wall!"

Before he despaired more, Brienne changed the subject.

"Where is Brandon Stark, Lord Tollett?"

"He and Lady Meera are in the King's Tower," he replied, pointing.

"I'll see him at once, if you'll pardon me," she answered.

She dashed up the tower. Brienne knew from her previous visit that this was the tower reserved for important guests, so it was only fitting that Prince Brandon should be housed here. She wondered who had carried the poor boy up these stairs.

She knew she had reached the correct door when she spotted a small woman, brown-haired and green-eyed, guarding a particular room. Brienne had seen that shade of green only once, on Lord Howland's face.

"Lady Meera?" she asked, and the girl nodded. "I'm Brienne of Tarth, Commander of the Wintersguard."

Meera smiled. "We've been expecting you. Please," she added, opening the door. "Come in."

Brienne stepped into the bedchamber. Brandon Stark lay on a heavy bed, which had been pushed close to the fire. He looked like his mother and sister, all Tully, but his eyes were much older than Sansa's, or even Brienne's.

"Lady Brienne," he said, smiling. "Thank you for coming."

"It was my honor, your grace," she replied. "I promised your mother I'd get your sisters home. If she had known you were alive, she would have asked me to protect you also."

"Sansa was lucky to have you," he told her. "You are a true knight in deeds, if not in name."

Brienne smiled. She'd never been an object of admiration for little boys, but it was much nicer than the usual derision.

"I understand Ser Jaime Lannister came with you," he said, and her smile froze. "I'd like to speak with him."

"I will fetch him at once, your grace," Brienne promised, her heart sinking.

She left the tower, passing Meera on the way down. Her men and the Lannister men had gone to the common hall to warm up and drink something, but two westerlanders remained out-of-doors, watching the pitiful remainder of the Watch in the training yard. As she approached, Brienne heard Bronn's honest but painful commentary.

"Ohh, that one's holding his sword like a meat cleaver," groaned the sellsword. "Watch 'im now, he's about to break the little fella's fingers."

There was a cry of pain from the group of trainees, but Brienne did not turn to look.

"If they are what guards the realm from the wights and White Walkers, Seven, R'hllor, and old gods help us, because we're well and truly fu—"

"Ser Jaime," Brienne called, interrupting the one-sided conversation. Jaime turned abruptly.

"What is it, Brienne?"

"Prince Brandon wishes to see you," she said, watching him carefully. She knew he would hear the sympathy in her voice. She'd prayed to the Seven for the Stark boy to be merciful, but only time would tell if they'd listened. Brienne wished she knew how to pray to the old gods of the North; surely they had more power in this cold land than the Andal gods of the south.

"So be it," the Kingslayer answered. He followed her silently, making almost no noise as they traversed the frozen ground. She wished he'd jape or call her wench again; anything was better than a Jaime preparing to die.

When she stopped outside the door to Bran's quarters, Jaime looked at her seriously. "Remember what I said," he told her, green eyes piercing her own. "Do not hesitate to follow your orders, my lady."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and opened the door, letting them both in. Brandon Stark sat where she'd left him, on his bed near the fire. Knowing her duty, Brienne closed the door and stood against the wall, hand on her sword hilt though she knew it was unnecessary; Jaime meant the child no harm anymore.

"You asked for me, your grace?" Jaime asked the boy.

"Ser Jaime Lannister," sighed Prince Bran. "I've wanted to talk to you for some time."

The Kingslayer flinched.

"All my life, I wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard," the boy said, watching the man with Tully blue eyes too old for his boyish face. "When Father became Hand of the King, I was to go south with him and squire for a knight, maybe even Ser Barristan. But you stopped that from happening."

"I am sorry," Jaime told him, almost whispering. He sounded broken.

"If I had gone to King's Landing with Father, I would have died when Lannister men attacked the Tower of the Hand," Brandon continued calmly. "Or I might be there still, as your sister's prisoner. You tried to kill me, and by so doing, you saved my life."

Jaime's blond head rose. He watched the boy in confusion.

"I cannot forgive you for throwing me from the tower, Ser Jaime," the prince clarified.

"I would not ask you to, your grace," Jaime interrupted hastily, his voice breaking. "It was unforgivable and I know it."

"But the truth is that you saved me. Because I was crippled, I traveled north to meet the last greenseer, and became a greenseer myself. You would not believe the things I've seen through the weirwoods," he said, sounding ancient and eerie. Brienne shivered. "I saw the arrival of the First Men from Essos. I saw Aegon the Conqueror riding Balerion the Black Dread. I saw my grandfather burning to death in the Red Keep. I saw the Mad King shouting burn them all. I saw my father and Howland Reed fighting the Kingsguard, and my cousin's birth in a Dornish tower."

Jaime's mouth had dropped open. Brienne knew she looked no better.

"I saw you, Ser Jaime. I saw you when you saved King's Landing from the pyromancers, and I saw you stabbing the king in the back. I saw you protecting Lady Brienne in the Riverlands, and taking Riverrun without bloodshed. I saw you and Lady Brienne fighting wights on the Kingsroad."

He paused, looking at Jaime's face. "You're not the same man you were when King Robert came to Winterfell."

"He really isn't, your grace," Brienne said, seizing her chance to stand up for Jaime. "He has paid for his mistakes, and done a lot of good in the world since then."

"If I wanted revenge, I could have your head," the boy said, and Jaime nodded silently. "Neither Jon nor Sansa would deny me if they knew what you'd done. I don't want revenge, though. I want the Others defeated, and I saw you fighting them. That means that you must live, no matter what I might think of it."

Jaime Lannister took a deep breath that sounded like a sob.

"You may get your wish after all, ser," the prince said, blue eyes unblinking as he stared at Jaime.

To her shock, Brienne realized that the boy had somehow known Jaime's wish of dying in battle against the Others, a confession he'd made at Winterfell. Jaime looked equally awestruck.

"Yes, I saw you through the weirwoods," Brandon Stark admitted, looking at Brienne. "When I saw Lannisters heading toward Winterfell, I had to see what you were up to. I was pleasantly surprised."

"So you're just...letting me go?" the Kingslayer asked, disbelief oozing out of every word.

Prince Brandon nodded. "You have work to do at the Wall, ser. That doesn't mean I like you, or that I forgive you, but I will not risk the safety of my family—and the whole of the North—just to punish you for crippling me."

Brienne could have wept from relief.

"You have something that belongs to the Lord of Winterfell, however," the boy said suddenly. "I propose a trade."

He took and unwrapped a bundle that lay beside his legs, buried in faded black cloth. Brienne's mouth fell open as she saw the magnificent swords within.

"Dark Sister and Blackfyre," Brandon said needlessly. The golden dragons and rubies on the pommels glinted in the firelight, as did the Valyrian steel blades. "Brynden Rivers brought them north when he joined the Night's Watch. I will give you one of these in exchange for my father's sword."

For a minute, no one spoke.

"Blackfyre is a hand-and-a-halfer, your grace," Ser Jaime objected, almost reverently. "Even if I wished to, I cannot wield it now." He raised his golden hand so the Stark boy could see.

"It is not meant for you," the boy replied, his blue eyes honest. "This is the sword of the Targaryen kings. It belongs to Jon."

"Then you mean to give me Dark Sister?" asked Jaime, and Brienne caught the awe in his tone.

Prince Bran nodded. "I will take my father's sword home to Winterfell, and you will keep Dark Sister at the Wall once more, where she is badly needed."

Brienne removed Oathkeeper from her belt, hesitating. The sword had become an extension of herself after all this time, and she felt naked without it. Wordlessly, she offered it to the boy.

"Not yet, Lady Brienne," he said, shaking his head gently. "The two halves of Ice must come together, but not now. And you may need it on the journey to Winterfell."

Jaime gave the boy Widow's Wail, accepting Dark Sister in exchange. He looked like a young squire, open-mouthed as he examined the legendary sword from every angle. Brienne could not blame him.

"I have nothing further to say," Brandon Stark told them. "Go, Ser Jaime, and protect the Wall as long as you can. Lady Brienne, I'm going to sleep now. Please wake me when it's time to leave tomorrow."

"Very well, your grace," she replied, then ushered Jaime out of the room and shut the door. Dorren Blackmyre stood nearby, warming his hands by a small fire. Brienne relayed their prince's instructions, and watched with satisfaction when the smallest Wintersguard took up his post outside Brandon's chamber, daggers at the ready. No one would hurt the boy on the Lady Commander's watch, and Lady Meera had earned a break from her duties.

"Am I awake, Brienne?" murmured Jaime, following her down the stairs and out of the tower. "I could have sworn that Brandon Stark just spared my life, and gave me the sword of Aemon the Dragonknight and Visenya Targaryen. I must have died and not realized it."

Brienne could not help herself. She took his left hand and squeezed it gently. "You live, Ser Jaime, and you will live a while yet. You heard the prince; you have a Wall to defend, and a legendary sword to live up to."

His green eyes were wet with unshed tears. "I was prepared to die today. I really was."

She knew it was true. He'd spent at least half of their journey north thinking of his death. But before Brienne could answer, a gust of icy wind rattled her weary bones. Jaime shivered violently.

"Come, you need a warmer cloak," she said gently. "Let's find a steward."

Ten minutes later, Jaime Lannister stepped out of his temporary chambers, with warm black clothing peeking out from underneath his armor, and a heavy, hooded black cloak over that.

"I've traded my white cloak for a black one," he japed, all traces of weeping gone. "My father would roll over in his grave if he could see this."

"Let him," Brienne replied, shrugging. "The black suits you, and it will keep you warm."

"Oh?" Jaime Lannister raised an eyebrow. "I know something that would keep me warmer," he said teasingly, and Brienne's face heated instantly.

"Do not mock me, Kingslayer," she said seriously.

"Who is mocking?" he answered, sounding as innocent as he was capable. "I meant every word. You're my favorite wench at the Wall, you know, and mayhaps in the whole of the North."

There was no doubt about it: her face must be as crimson as the Targaryen dragon by now.

"Will you keep me warm before you go back to Winterfell, Brienne?" Jaime asked her with a grin. If she hadn't known any better, she would have thought him in earnest.

"If it's warmth you want, I'm sure Mole's Town has whores or wildling women to suit your tastes," she told him, unable to keep the disgust from her voice.

Jaime's expression turned gentle. "Will Mole's Town have a stubborn giantess with more honor than sense, and eyes as blue as the sea of her homeland?"

Brienne froze. Before she could recover her wits and flee, Jaime Lannister stepped inches away from her, looking at her face with fond amusement.

"Will they have a Lady Commander who can best me with a sword?"

"Is that what you want?" Brienne said shakily, the words catching in her throat.

Two hands, one gold and one flesh, wrapped around her armored waist, pulling her to Jaime. He tilted his face up to hers, and kissed her as gently as a knight from a song. It was nothing like the forceful kiss Owen Inchfield had given her, so long ago, before she'd pushed him into a campfire.

When he pulled away, they were both breathless. Just as Jaime had struggled with disbelief earlier, Brienne could not believe this was happening. She pinched her arm hard enough to bruise.

"I'm off to Rimegate tomorrow," Jaime finally said, "but I will not join the Night's Watch. Should I survive this war against ice monsters and dragons, I would be happy to win glory, hold lands, and father children...with you, if you'll have me."

A warm, indescribable feeling filled Brienne. For the first time in her life, a man had complimented her, and she believed him. She'd always known she was undesirable; she was too tall, too freckled, too ungainly, and too good at manly arts instead of needlework, music, and looking pretty, but she had somehow caught the heart of this irritating, confusing, wonderful man.

"I'd like that," she confessed shyly. "But I vowed that I would not marry a man unless he could best me in a fight."

"Have pity on a one-handed old swordsman, wench" Jaime Lannister breathed. "What if you tie your right hand behind your back before we spar?"

Brienne took a moment to consider the request. "That seems fair."

Jaime kissed her again. "Good. It's a deal."

She knew her smile was too large and unattractive; she'd been told so several times. But now, in Jaime's arms, she could not stop herself from smiling broadly. He didn't seem to mind her crooked teeth.

"I've seduced the Lady Commander," he teased. "That thought will keep me warm until I see you again. Someday there may be a song about us: the disgraced Kingsguard and the valiant Wintersguard, who started off as enemies and died as lovers, in each other's arms."

Brienne had thought she could not blush any redder. She'd been wrong.

"You'll have time to compose the song yourself, while you keep watch atop the Wall. For now, our duties await, ser,"

And, still smiling and red as the setting sun, she returned to her chamber. If the Lannister men and Night's Watchmen gave her odd looks, she pretended not to notice.

The next morning, two groups rode out of Castle Black. Brienne led one group south, back down the Kingsroad to Winterfell, with Lady Meera Reed and Prince Brandon Stark riding the sled they'd brought for them. Two sturdy garrons dragged it along the fresh snow, and Mormont men, Vale knights, and the Wintersguard surrounded it. The gray direwolf of House Stark and the white direwolf of King Jon fluttered above their heads.

The other group wore Night's Watch black over Lannister armor. Before they left the road, Jaime Lannister turned, and gave the Lady Commander a salute and a cheeky grin. Then the westerlanders headed east, and Brienne lost sight of them. Instinctively, Brienne reached for the pommel of Oathkeeper, wanting to touch something of Jaime's.

She dearly hoped she would see Jaime again, alive and busy restoring his honor through bravery against the wights and White Walkers. He owed her a sparring match, and more besides.

"Lady Commander?" called Young Artos, watching her with a puzzled frown.

Brienne shook her head to clear it, and gave the order to move forward. If the gods were good, the journey to Winterfell would be dull and peaceful, nothing like the journey north had been. Either way, she would take Brandon Stark home.

And that's the end of Part II! Will Jaime get his heroic death, or live to see Brienne again? You'll have to read on and find out; he's now on the front lines of the Great War, like our friends in the Brotherhood Without Banners, Jon's Northmen, and the remainder of the Night's Watch under Edd. Why are there wights south of the Wall? You'll find out in Part IV. What's Bran going to do with the two halves of Ice? Are any of these swords Lightbringer? You'll have to keep reading.

In Part III, we will continue to ignore Season 7 of the show, as all our favorite characters deal with the past—their guilt, their shame, their nightmares, and their grief. Arya and Daenerys will make their first appearances in this story, and Brandon Stark will arrive at home at long last.

As always, thank you for reading! Did you love it? A kind review could fuel my next writing binge! Hate it? Flames will be used for s'mores. For now, I bid you good fortune in the off-season to come.