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Wave after wave the dead come.
To Brienne’s left, she guards Jaime’s right, and to her right, Podrick guards her. They’ve been backed into the wall and wave after wave, wight after wight, they keep swinging.
She’s hoarse from yelling, and Jaime is too, but being hoarse never managed to shut him up. He’s been babbling for hours it feels, in between hacking and slashing. There was no need for technical skill here, the dead only had one aim. Jaime had called out earlier he only needed the one arm. It would be annoying, if his voice and Pod’s occasional quip in return had not kept her grounded and aware.
As long as they spoke, they were still alive.
“What do you say to a wager, Ser?” He calls over the squelch of another wight, slashed clean through.
“I don’t gamble.” She hacked through another a little more viciously than the last.
Through another grunt and thrust of effort, another dead, dead again, he calls amends, “Not exactly a wager then, my lady.” He had been doing that throughout the battle, switching between ‘ser’ and ‘my lady’. “A competition!” In between the glint of Valyrian steel still shining underneath the viscera, Jaime offered her a grimacing grin. She couldn’t see it, but she could hear it. “And I know you partake in those.”
“What would be the competition, Ser?” Podrick’s voice rang out from between the guttural shrieks of two wights.
Another down, and another, and another. “You’ll love this young Podrick.” Another. Jaime announces the game with a winded effort. “The one,” Another and another. “The one who can kill the most--” the next word is lost to the dying screech of a wight to her right, “--will not have to clean their armor. Instead the losing pair will clean all the armor together.”
Podrick laughs outright as he slashes. A gleeful sound she had never really heard before, and Brienne resists the urge to shake her head, but her mouth quirks up despite the Other she has just run through. The game, win or lose, would work in her squire’s favor. If he won, he would not have to clean his armor as well as her own. And if he lost,
he would have assistance.
"Fine!" She acquiesces. The spittle of one dead sprayed in her face.
Another and another and another. Wave after wave, she's not really counting; she will give Podrick this; but she can hear Jaime call out ridiculous numbers; Podrick gives them out higher in turn.
"M'lady ser!--" Another. "--I just may wi--"
The remaining sheen of her chestplate is splattered with something too warm.
Podrick falls forward to her arms, Jaime springs from the darkness to cover.
Another wight dies.
She can’t feel her arms, but she sees them hold Podrick. She can feel his weight against her chest. She can see his mouth moving. He’s choking.
He’s drowning.
Then all at once, the dead shatter and become like the salt spray of the ocean breaking on the rocky shore. Jaime is saying something to her, but it’s muted. Podrick keeps trying to say something but the words bubble and distort. Brienne keeps trying to hear him, but someone keeps yelling. Ordering. Bargaining. Begging.
It’s her, she realizes.
She is sinking underwater. Pod’s weight anchors her to the ocean floor.
****
She is chasing Galladon through the waves, but her legs are so much shorter than his. She spies his face turned towards her in between the crests. As one wave falls, his face disappears from view. She squints through the salt spray, and Podrick’s face appears instead. He is gone again with the next.
Suddenly, Brienne is eight, screaming at the ocean to return her brother to her. She is as she is now, and the cliff she stands on crumbles to the wights. She is still screaming at the ocean. Return her brother to her. Return him.
****
Brienne starts with a gasp, grasping for Oathkeeper and coming up empty. She’s sore where she’d rather feel nothing, and numb where it’s important. Where is Oathekeeper? Where is--?
Her armor has been removed. She sees it in a gruesome and filthy pile in the corner of her room. She sighs in relief.
Jaime awakens too, from an uncomfortable chair next to her bed, with the alertness of a weary and wary soldier. He is still armored, still covered in the grime and dirt and blood.
“Brienne,” his voice is hoarse, underused or overused, lined with relief. “You’re awake.”
Brienne nods and creaks out of her bed, “As are you. Why are you here, Ser Jaime? It is...improper.”
“I could not leave you to awaken alone.”
Ignoring the sure flush creeping down her neck, Brienne hums disbelievingly. His eyes are searching her face warily, and she can’t decipher why. She fumbles with her thoughts, for a way to break the silence. He, as usual, breaks it first.
“Could you spare a hand with my armor, Ser? I seemed to have woken up with only one.” he offers with a grin that does not quite reach the green of his eyes.
Brienne resists the urge to roll hers. Instead, she lifts herself off the bed and moves for the shoulder straps of Jaime’s armor. She picks at the buckle holding them to his body, not quite adept at undoing the clasp.
“You know,” she says, still fiddling, “You could have asked Podrick to help you with this.” Jaime stills under her touch. “He’s a good lad, I’m sure he would not have minded helping. I didn't even expect him to remove mine after that battle but--”
Jaime grasps at her wrist suddenly and Brienne stops mid-sentence. She looks up at him startled, and he is searching her face again. His eyes shine now, like a tide pool filling with the surf.
“Brienne,” she hopes he can’t hear her pulse thrumming underneath his grip. “Lady Sansa helped remove your armor last night. You had nearly collapsed. I half carried you here, and Lady Sansa helped remove your armor.”
Her face burns in embarrassment at the very thought. “Nonsense, Podrick would never--”
“Brienne.”
Her name again from his lips. Not jesting, never japing, not with her true name. His grip on her wrist is softer now, looser with her sudden trembling.
No.
No.
The tide rises again.
*****
Another and another and another.
Her axe comes down on another log of wood with as much force as she could muster. There’s so much work to do still. So few hands left remaining. Sansa had ordered her to help with rebuilding and the preparation for the mass funeral they were set to give. But Brienne could not stand the stench of the dead, or bare to look on faces that she had been responsible for.
So she was here, cravenly hacking at wood for the pyres. One for every wight defeated. One for every life lost. Another and another and another. Face after face. Men and women whose names she can’t recall. They dined together. Stood together. Fought together.
Another wight. Another soldier. Another wight. Another solder. Another piece of wood for the pyres.
Podrick.
She brings down the axe hard enough to splinter the log. She spits and puts another to split.
Podrick’s face amongst the waves of dead.
Another.
She had become complacent in the rhythm of battle--
Another.
Podrick’s laugh--
Another.
If she had trained the soldiers harder--
Another.
Podrick’s drowned last words--
Another.
If she had trained Podrick harder--
Another.
Were she a better leader--
Another.
If. If. If. If.
Brienne brought down the axe again with an anguished cry; she dropped it as the shock of her own blow rippled violently through her arms; she wiped the sweat that had built despite the cold, swiped her arm across her eyes where they had gotten damp; she flexed her hands again and watched the blood from split blisters trickle into the lines of her palms.
The blood on her hands is warm.
“The battle is over, my lady.” Jaime’s voice calls to her. “You can stop murdering the wood.”
A sparse chuckle spreads across the others working around her. She clenches her fists and moves to pick up the axe again.
She spits out, “How can you jape at a time like this?” She can barely grip the axe.
“Someone has to have a sense of humor around all these Northmen. It certainly won’t be you.”
Brienne inhales sharply through her nose. “There’s too much to do for you to be running your mouth.”
Jaime looks pleased at her rebuke, the tiny crinkle at the corners of his eyes tear at Brienne’s nerves, it makes her angry. Angrier.
“Where have you been anyway?”
“If you must know--”
She doesn’t hear the rest. She storms off. She can’t be here. She can’t be there. She can’t--She ends up back in her room. The funerals were meant to happen at sundown, and there were a few hours left.
Brienne leans against her door and from the corner of her eye she catches a dull glint--her chest aches with the weight of knowing her armor is there. That she’ll have to put it on with Pod’s blood still on it, she can’t bear herself to clean it. She can’t--she turns to it fully and gapes.
The armor is clean.
It’s balanced precariously on the same chair she had found Jaime in, mornings ago. Not nearly as clean as it could be, but the metal shines well enough. On the desk by it, she sees an unsteady scrawl.
He would’ve not liked it if you honored his death in dirty armor. -J
Brienne clutches the note in a shaking hand, braces herself on the desk. With a yell she shoves the chair with her armor; it clatters in the room and the sound of it echoes in her rib cage.
If. If. If. If. If.
She steels herself and begins to pick up the pieces.
*****
At sundown, she meets Lady Sansa. For the first time since the Long Night, she is dressed in full plate. Belted around her waist is Oathkeeper and Podrick’s sword. She wonders if he had named it. She regrets that she’s never asked.
“Ser Brienne,” Sansa addresses her kindly, “Podrick’s body is near the front. If you wish to pay your final respects.”
Brienne nods, “Thank you, my lady.” She doesn’t trust herself to say anything else. Sansa goes to stand with her brothers and sister.
She stands with the remainder of her men. She doesn’t look, but she can feel Jaime on her left as soon as he walks up, just as sure as she felt his presence during the battle.
Brienne’s right side feels cold and empty.
The pyres face them, loaded with bodies of their fallen allies. On one of them is Podrick. When the time comes, she sees Lady Sansa approach Theon’s body. Sees Jon approach Lady Mormont’s. She feels herself step forward and approach Podrick.
He looks like he’s sleeping. She stops herself from running her hand across his hair, it’s neat enough.
Shakily, she reaches for her buckle. Her fingers tremble as she undoes the clasp to the belt that holds his sword.
“Podrick, you’ve been a good squire. The best squire. It was my honor to have you.” she quavers. The buckle refuses to loosen. “But, it’s time for you--” She breaks off and the belt falls from her waist, her grip on Podrick’s sword is trembling.
“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.”
I won’t slow you down, Ser...M’lady. I promise I’ll serve you well.
“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”
Catelyn Stark would be proud. You kept your vow.
“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.”
I’m proud to be your squire.
“Arise, Podrick Payne, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”
Arise. Arise. Arise.
Brienne's chin wobbles as she places his sword on his chest. She steps away. She keeps her eyes on Podrick’s body, but he remains still and gentle. In the distance she hears Jon speak.
“We’re here to say goodbye to our brothers and sisters. To our fathers. And mothers. To our friends. Our fellow men and women, who set aside their differences to fight together. And die together, so that others might live. Everyone in this world owes them a debt that can never be repaid. It is our duty and our honor to keep them alive in memory, for those who come after us, and those who come after them, for as long as men draw breath. They were the shields that guarded the realms of men, and we shall never see their like again.”
Arise. Arise. Arise.
Please.
She watches the pyres burn. She watches Podrick disappear in between furls of smoke.
*****
Alive. Alive. Alive.
They’re alive, and the great hall of Winterfell is alive. Everyone here is alive. It helps her forget for a little while that Podrick is not. There’s food and wine and music and chatter. Jaime is smiling at her, happier than she’s ever seen it, gentle too. It makes Brienne ache.
Around them, people dance; they hug and kiss; they grope indiscreetly. Brienne watches with a blush as a boisterous soldier picks up two willing ladies, and that’s when Tyrion says, “You know who would thrive in this? Podrick.” He gulps down his entire glass. “One time, Bronn and I left him at the best brothel in King’s Landing,” Tyrion guffaws at Brienne’s grimace. “I left him there with a hefty bag of coin and three of the best whores the city had to offer, and you know what that lad did? He--”
Brienne stands abruptly, the rush of emptiness flooding her rib cage. “Excuse me--I have to piss.”
She retreats.
She catches a kind servant girl that’s been changing her linens, “Please, could you have a bath sent to my room? If you have time to spare it?”
The servant girl smiles, “It is there already, m’lady. M’lord Ser Lannister requested it earlier for your return this evening.”
Brienne can’t contain her gape, and at that the servant girl giggled and curtsied, rushing off back to the feast. In her room, she finds the tub, large enough for her, steaming with water that would be too hot to dip in now, but would not have been had she returned to her room later. She needs the bath now though, so she disrobes and cautiously steps in.
The heat seeps into her skin; it burns; it prickles. She holds her breath and sinks into the water, lets it swallow her completely.
It’s more than she deserves.
The sting of the water reminds her that she’s alive. She’s alive when countless others under her care are not. She’s alive when Renly is dead. Lady Catelyn. Podrick. What kind of knight was she? She could not even keep her squire alive. Pod’s face comes unbidden to her mind, proud expression flickering in the firelight before the last battle. His last battle.
No. She’s unworthy of her title. Unworthy of this life. Un--
A hand pulls her by the arm and she breaks through the water tension with a sputtering gasp. Jaime is staring at her with wide green eyes, his tunic half soaked through. His hold doesn’t weaken and she’s still sputtering as he all but yells, “We’ve gone through too much and lost too much, for you to be lost to a damned bath.”
“Why are you here?” She pulls her arms to shield her chest, ignoring the voice in her mind whispering that he’s seen it all before.
He opens his mouth to answer, but Jaime just swallows and says instead, “I came to check on you. You left so suddenly.”
“No, I mean why are you here?!” She can’t hold it back anymore, she stands in the bath, she imposes her height, she wants to scream. Instead, “Why did you arrange this bath? Why did you clean my armor? Why did you stay by my side until I awoke? Why did you knight me?”
Brienne’s arms are open now, propriety be damned, all she can feel is the notches in her rib cage, one for every life lost under her command, the deepest cuts closest to her heart. Renly. Catelyn. Podrick.
Podrick.
Podrick.
Podrick.
She rushes to step out of the bath. She cannot be bare to Jaime like this. Like an open wound. But the wine and steam spin her head and she slips and suddenly she’s wrapped warm in his arms so completely, her willpower fails her and she clutches to Jaime like a buoy. She soaks the rest of his tunic with bathwater and tears and cries and cries and cries.
“Pod died in my arms.” she says finally, rough with tears, and she doesn’t know if Jaime can make out the words, but he holds her tighter. “Pod died in my arms and I could do nothing.”
“Men die in battle, it’s the way of war. You did all you could to prepare him. You did what you could.”
“But not enough.” she presses away from him to search his face, and his eyes look at her intently.
“Not by any fault of yours.”
She continues to watch his expression, every line of his face, the way the green seemed to smolder, how his beard became him. All of Jaime’s face was familiar to her now, but this--
“Why are you being so gentle with me? We have never been--”
“Would you prefer me to be rough?” he answers, his voice hitting low in the pit of her belly.
He clears his throat and shakes his head, “You act like we’ve never been gentle with each other, yet I remember you. I remember your hands, when I first lost mine, when I was lost to fever and hopelessness. When I lost my right hand, you were there to carry me through it against my will. This is not so different now.” He adds dryly, “I’m a Lannister, I always repay my debts.”
Brienne moves to separate their bodies, but his grip persists gently. “So this is to repay your debt? You have none to me, Ser.”
Jaime winces slightly and moves his left hand to cup her cheek. “No, this was not that at all. I--” he hesitates now, “I care for you. I would have died happily in your arms in place of Podrick, have him live so that you don’t feel as you do now.”
The words strike Brienne like a slap.
She shoves him away. No. “No! I would not have you replace him. I would not have you die. I would not have him die. Why does anyone have to die?! Why--” Her voice chokes, “Jaime, I would have you live. You should live. You’re a good knight. A good man. Just as Podrick is. Was.” Her face crumples again.
When he reaches for her again, she doesn’t resist. She’s so tired. She’s so sad. He cradles her face in his one good hand and pushes up on his toes to press his forehead to hers.
“You should live, too.”
*****
Brienne blinks awake just as the sky begins to grey. She can hear the waves crash upon the shore. The storm season never truly recedes in Tarth, but this morning it's calm. Her body hums with well-rested energy, and she knows there’s no returning to sleep now. She moves to get up from the bed, briskly as she’s always done, old habits dying hard. However, Jaime's right arm, unhindered by his prosthetic, tightens around her waist instead. He burrows his face at the nape of her neck, murmuring in a sleep-roughened voice, “It’s too early, Brienne. We defeated pirates yesterday, we deserve to sleep in.”
Her body shakes in a silent laugh. “We left a mess of armor across the room.”
He burrows harder, “You were not complaining when it was coming off last night, love.”
She turns in his arms and brushes his forehead gently with her fingers, “It won’t do to keep them dirty.”
He opens his eyes blearily at her, before reaching up and pressing his stump to the back of her head. She lowers her face willingly and brushes a warm kiss to his mouth. Only then does he relinquish his hold on her.
“Do you need help?” he calls out, halfway back to slumber as she’s slipping on her robe.
She hums a negative and sweeps across the room, grabbing the discarded pieces of armor. They’re dim and dirtied with grime and blood. Brienne sits with all the parts in a handsome pile in front of her window, and begins to clean them. She starts with the boots, just as her squire once did, and goes from there. She scrubs at the plate diligently, and watches as the sun breaks over the horizon.
Brienne thinks of Podrick and she smiles.