Chapter Text
Brienne thought it was even worst having Ser Jaime Lannister near at Winterfell than it had been to assume never seeing him again. At the least when he had been away it had been easier to pine after him with the knowledge he would never be hers. But to have him near, to have his companionship and nothing further despite her desires was certainly worst.
“And again.” Brienne strolled to the other side of the sparing field. As dark fell, always earlier and earlier, the slush beneath her lined boots began to freeze. She easily raised her blunted practice sword.
Jaime puffed out a sigh that frosted before his face in the chilling weather. A light snow of fluffy flakes floated to the ground. His cheeks were rosy, from both the cold and the exertion. He insisted that they do these practice sessions at night, after his duties with the war council ended, when few would be around in the cold to watch him fumble.
He raised his own practice sword. It wobbled a moment in his tired arm. He had relearned the movements of fighting for his left hand, and he still had good instincts, yet he held little of the grace and ease she had once fought against. Her words afterward had been true, she had been unimpressed then with the “kingslayer's” ability. Yet, hands bound, weakened from a year in captivity, it had still been a sight to see him fight. A great thing had been taken away from him with his hand. Brienne shrugged off the thoughts and took a step into their next round. Best to think of what remained than what was lost. So much more would be lost before the battle with the undead was done for good or ill.
Jaime used a dirty trick to strike a good blow, and for a moment he almost had the fight. Brienne quickly reacted and with one broad move had Jaime on his ass in the freezing slush. “Again,” she said.
“Fuck you, wench.” Yet, Jaime rose again on unsteady legs and raised his sword.
Brienne had not realized how lonely she had been before Ser Jaime Lannister had come north with no army, no house and no family he said he desired. She and Sansa had gotten along but never been truly friendly. While Brienne admired Arya for her abilities and they often sparred together, the younger Stark sister seemed emotionally too broken for friendship. Brienne had taken to a comfortable relationship with Sandor Clegane, of all people, yet again it was not truly friendship. Jaime Lannister, however, was a friend, and she knew he thought the same of her.
“Again.” Brienne wondered if perhaps this time Jaime would remain down, state they should go in from the cold for dinner. Jaime stood and readied himself.
Often, Brienne wondered if Jaime's friendship and means of driving away her loneliness was worth how it hurt to yearn for him in secret. Frost forming in his thickening beard, a sneer on his chapped lips, flakes covering his longer gray streaked hair, and he was still the most handsome man she knew. She saw how the women of Winterfell mooned over him, how the serving wenches flirted, how even the ladies like Sansa watched him with interest. It would be only a matter of time before Jaime got over his sister and took one or many of them into his bed. He most certainly did not want a large muscular woman like herself for anything but friendship and her skill in training him at the sword.
Jaime would never be the warrior he had once been, yet he still had skills to give the war effort. He knew armies, was good at strategy, his suggestions as surprising as some of his father had been, although never as ruthless or heartless. Ser Jaime had the ear of his brother, even if they were cold to each other. He and the King of the North had reached a good standing and Jon Snow listened closely to Jaime's council. Somehow as a hated Lannister and southerner, Jaime had still gained the confidence of most of the common soldiers. He listened to them, remembered about their families and lives and genuinely seemed to care.
“Enough.” Jaime slammed his sword into the wooden rack, rattling the other practice swords. A sprinkling of snow sloughed off. “Least I risk losing the few fingers remaining to me.” He blew warm air into his balled fist.
Brienne nodded and gently placed back her own sword. They trudged in silence toward the dinning hall. A trencher of food and mug of dark northern ale quickly appeared before Jaime as they sat at the far side of the hall. Two serving girls, Brienne thought she recognized, seemed to fight over his affection tonight. It rose jealousy in Brienne even if Jaime paid them no mind.
It was finally over with Cersei, for good he had told her. Though, he had mentioned little else of why he had come north alone, or of why he had finally come to realize his twin and lover's mistreatment of him. 'Everyone grows up, eventually,' Lord Tyrion had said to her the one time she had dared ask the Queen's Hand about it.
A raven had managed to brave the cold winds to bring Jaime word from Queen Cersei the other week. Whatever she had written worried him, and Jaime had finally, when asked, told her of the babe his former lover might carry. Oh, he said it was likely a lie and manipulation, and Brienne hoped Jaime was correct about such. Still, the fact that there could be another child, that he had still loved and lain with his twin less than half a year hence was more reasons why after such beauty Jaime would never truly want Brienne as such.
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“You loved your children though?” Brienne asked, her pale, plain face stoically honest.
They were only ever his when Cersei asked him to do harm for their sake. “They were never mine to love,” he gave his stock reply. Not that he did not note she had called them his, as if it were normal that they should be thought of as such, his not Cersei's. Brienne who more than anyone accepted him for his past with no judgment.
“Yet you still loved them.” Not a question this time, a statement of something even Jaime was uncertain he wanted to admit to himself. How much he might have loved Mycella and Tommen, perhaps even Joffery, how much he had truly lost in their deaths.
He frowned. “They're dead. It matters not.” Still his heart ached a bit at the thought. And what of the babe possibly growing in Cersei now? He pushed that thought away, reassuring himself it was a lie to manipulate him into remaining at her side.
Brienne frowned back at him, but remained silent. She might be the only friend he had left in the world. Or at least the only one who was not blood, since Tyrion considered them friends. Jaime himself wasn't sure he would ever forgive his little brother, despite loving him.
When he had finally made his way north, through the ruins of the Riverlands and across the neck, it had been Brienne who stood up for him. Ramrod straight, chin lifted, Lady Brienne, heir of Tarth, vouched for his honor. She explained to Daenerys why he had killed the Mad King. She told Jon Snow how Jaime had sent her to find his half sisters and been the reason Sansa had been saved from the Boltons. She spoke of how they needed a man of his means to help in the war, spoke of his skills beyond swordsmanship.
Before Jaime had to find another subject to speak of, Clegane clanged his mug of ale down on the table beside Jaime. “Kingslayer,” Sandor Clegane huffed at Jaime. “Lady Brienne.” He actually dipped his head to the warrior woman across from him. Jaime should be upset about that, about the title given only to Brienne.
“Hound,” Jaime replied.
Clegane, in usual fashion, started in on a rant of something or other, full of more bad language than complaints. Brienne nodded along adding a few well timed words of wisdom and insight.
Truth was Jaime was jealous of the casualness Clegane had with Brienne. Just like Jaime was a bit jealous of the wilding who seemed to have a crush on her, even if Brienne herself had only ever strongly denied the man. He had been truthful, if sparse, about Cersei to Brienne. He had even finally told her about the possibility of the babe Cersei might carry. Why would she want him after such.
Oh, Jaime knew how despised he was as a Lannister, and not without cause, even if Jaime by his own hand had harmed only one Stark. The wildings were even worst. Jaime had heard their new term for him, sister fucker, said behind his back, spit out with visceral disgust. It was not like he could deny it. The old words he and Cersei had told each other about the Targaryens marrying brother to sister for generations falling flat now to his ears.
Brienne finally silenced Clegane's ranting. Clegane ribbed Jaime's side. “What are you brooding about now?” the large man asked.
“Brooding?” Jaime cocked his head and tried to look dismissive, failing at properly schooling his features. What do I not have to brood about? he wished to say.
“You're fucking glum for a Lannister.” Clegane took a deep swallow of his ale. Jaime might actually like the man Sandor Clegane had remade himself into. Odd where they both were today, versus where they had been the last time both had been in Winterfell.
Clegane's wounded side of his face was turned toward Jaime, the melted flesh glistened a bit in the dim candle light of the hall. They were all freaks, wounded and ugly Clegane, abnormally tall and mannish Brienne, hand-less and crippled Jaime.
“You're rather kind and caring for a Clegane,” Jaime countered. Not that the Hound had ever been heartless, just a tool of Cersei and Tywin, never such a monster of a man as his brother.
Clegane snorted at that. He downed the last of his ale. “Got fucking guard duty tonight. Freeze my fucking balls off.” He shoved back from the table.
“Talk to the King about it.” Brienne's voice spoke reason, her chin tilted up.
“Fucking bastard king.” Clegane shook his head. “That's your fucking advice?” He sighed at Brienne, shook his head again. “Kingslayer,” he said dipping his head to Jaime as he turned to leave.
“Hound.” Brienne had repeatedly informed Jaime that Clegane using the moniker was not out of disrespect. Jaime didn't use 'hound' out of disrespect either. It was a reminder to both of them who they had been, who they did not want to be again.
He and Brienne finished up their meals and ale in comfortable silence. He longed for these moments, when he could be himself.
Jaime knew he would never meet another person who completed him as well as Brienne did. Even Cersei had never done such. He was not certain when he had fallen in love with her? Harrenhal perhaps, when she'd left Kings Landing? He knew when he finally admitted it to himself, as he waved goodbye to her again on the walls of Riverrun.
He was a damaged man though, beyond being a kingslayer, oathbreaker, sister fucker. Thinking back on his relationship with Cersei now, Jaime knew what ill it had done him. Everything he knew of relations between a man and woman wwas flawed, wrong. Whyever would Brienne ever want such a man?