Work Text:
Every time Brienne sleeps, it’s the same nightmare she finds behind her eyes.
She’s back there in that clearing, but this time the swinging bodies surround her, packed together like a sort of prison. Some she recognizes. Podrick. Hyle. Willow and Jeyne. Sansa and Arya. Renly. Her father. Jaime. I’ve failed them all. But most of the bodies are nameless strangers. Some likely innocent. Another failure. There are so many that their feet bump each other as they sway in the breeze. She can smell them, the rotting stench filling her lungs and choking her.
And Stoneheart stands above where she kneels in the dirt.
In her dreams the hangwoman’s voice is raspy and broken, but every word comes out clear, a knife in her gut. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. And behind her the living men stand, leering at her and baring their broken, rotted teeth. The Kingslayer’s whore must die, they chant in unison, as their lady draws closer.
She wants to run, wants to fight, but her body is frozen. All she can do is scream and beg as the men grab her arms, as the ghost of Catelyn Stark wraps her noose around her throat, and she can taste the salt of her own tears as they pull the rope taut.
She wakes with a gasping breath, to a horn sounding outside. It’s still dark. It’s always dark these days. They haven’t seen even a glimpse at the sun in weeks.
Brienne turns to find the figure behind her still sleeping, despite the noise outside, his face illuminated in the dim firelight. He is beautiful when he sleeps, she cannot help but think.
It’s improper, she knows. She keeps telling herself she’ll tell him to leave. Just one more night. But now, when it’s always night, she cannot bring herself to do it.
It had started as a practicality. One night on the road as they traveled to return Lady Sansa home, he’d brought his bedroll right next to hers. “For warmth,” he’d said, shooting her a grin. Her face had swamped with heat, but he surely couldn’t see her blush in the dim firelight, because he didn’t tease her for it. Or, perhaps, her face was too ruined to distinguish a blush from her usual coloring.
And it continued to happen. On the coldest nights even Sansa, who was still skittish around them and preferred to keep to herself, would bring her bedroll over and curl up at Brienne’s side.
But when they’d gotten Sansa to the newly reclaimed Winterfell, Jaime simply never stopped coming to her bed. He didn’t offer an explanation this time, and she was too bewildered to ask. Not that anyone sleeps alone these days, when sleep itself is a sparse and stolen luxury. But this is not like Sansa and Jeyne huddled in the night to fight away the nightmares. And it’s not like the soldiers packed together in the barracks desperate for warmth. She is an unwed maiden, heir to her house, no matter how unlikely it’s beginning to seem that she’ll ever see her home again.
In other circumstances, without more pressing issues consuming their minds, she’s sure tongues would be wagging. They likely are anyway, despite the dead at their doorstep. But at least no one dares say anything in their presence. If she were ever alone, she’s sure she’d hear their cruel, taunting words, but she and Jaime are rarely apart, never one without the other. They even fight side by side, with her as his right hand, using her shield for the both of them. Though none of the rumors would have any merit. Jaime would never touch her. Would never want to. She was no prize when they met, but now, with her ruined cheek and broken teeth and a noose mark around her neck, she’s surprised he doesn’t grimace every time he looks upon her face.
As much as she wishes for things to be different, she cannot help but cherish the closeness they share now. At least in her final days, she will have this.
She rouses him with a soft hand upon his shoulder, the only touch she’ll allow herself. He jerks awake and grumbles something she can’t make out, and when his eyes focus and meet hers, he gives her a look that sends a pang to her chest. He looks at her like this every time he wakes, and in truth it’s part of the reason she lets him stay. It’s a look, bleary-eyed and soft and unguarded, that could be mistaken for love. Selfishly, she craves it, and is grateful that he never wakes to the noise of the horns anymore.
“Ser Jaime,” she says. “It’s our turn.” The horns signal changes in shift, when one group of soldiers will sleep and the next will return to the battlefield to swing their weary swords against the tireless enemy that never seems to dwindle in numbers.
He rises and they help each other with their armor, as they always do, quickly and efficiently. They have no squires now. At the start of the war, before the Others had yet passed Castle Black, she’d sent Podrick to Tarth with Ser Hyle and a letter to her father offering him a reward for his help. She’d tried to send Lady Sansa along with them, but the girl had refused. She hadn’t even dared try to convince little Arya Stark to seek safety. The girl had shown up at Winterfell with a pack of wolves at her back who’d only listen to her direction.
They walk outside together, silent. The darkness is thick and suffocating, despite the torches giving off their now-weak glow, but for the moments when the dragons shoot their flames above and illuminate the sky. Brienne never thought she’d grow accustomed to the sight of dragons in the sky, but now they bring her what little comfort can be mustered in this time of fear. The sight of the dragons means they haven’t lost just yet.
There is something different about this time. She has had a pit in her stomach since they walked outside. Something in the air is different, she can feel it. Jaime must feel it too, since he slides his good hand in hers.
He stops them abruptly, pulls her aside. “We have to –” she protests.
“Shh,” he stops her. “Just listen. If we die –”
“Don’t –” She cannot hear the end of that sentence, doesn’t think she can bear it.
“If we die,” he continues, “I want you to know –” He lingers, thinks for a moment. He reaches his hand up, brushes a snowflake from her hair, and she shivers, more than just from the cold. His fingers fall lower, lingering on the thick skin of her ruined cheek, gentler than she could have imagined. And then lower, tracing the lines at her throat.
“I don’t deserve you,” he finally says, and before she can voice her bewilderment, or even be rendered speechless, he brings his hand up to the back of her head, pulls it down toward him, and presses a kiss to her lips. Chaste, brief, and impossible. She’d mistake it for a dream if she’d ever had a pleasant dream in recent times.
“A favor, for my knight, as I have nothing material to offer,” he grins, grabbing her hand and pulling her from their cove, back toward the fight. She cannot bring herself to respond, doesn’t trust herself enough not to say something stupid.
Instead she settles on squeezing his hand, leaving the words for later. If there is a later.
As they draw their twin swords, perfectly in sync, she dares to dream there is.