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1
The first night, she hardly noticed he was there.
She was feverish, slipping between waking and dreaming without knowing which was which. The pain in her cheek and arm and ribs had been dulled somewhat from the dreamwine, but the visions it gave her instead were almost worse. Lady Stoneheart’s terrible dead face, looming up before her as though she were right there in the room. Pod hanging from the rope. Biter bearing down on her, his teeth closing on her cheek.
She was dimly aware that she was screaming something, a name, Jaime, and then he was beside her, his arm wrapped carefully around her, warm and solid and comforting, his voice in her ear saying hush, Brienne, I’m here now, you’re safe. But she did not know if that was real either.
Whether he was real or not, Jaime’s presence made the other dreams go away. He coaxed her to lie down, gingerly to protect her broken bones, and let her rest her head on his arm.
“Sleep, sweetling,” he said, and she did.
2
When she woke in the morning, he was gone; and when he came to see her later, he made no mention of having visited her in the night, so she decided it must have been a dream. A sweet dream, though, she thought with a pang of longing. She remembered how safe she had felt with him lying beside her; the safest she had felt since she’d left Tarth for the first time.
That night, though, he came again. She was just on the verge of falling asleep when she heard the door open, then softly close. The bed dipped beside her as he pulled off his boots and lay down, his movements gentle so as not to disturb her. She knew it was him, though. She wondered when she’d come to recognise his presence so easily, to know the way he moved and breathed as well as she knew herself.
She was wide awake now, but she kept her eyes closed, not knowing what to say to him now that she was clear-headed and sober. She could feel him beside her, close but not touching her, radiating warmth. Something about the sound of his breathing, slow and gentle, made her feel, absurdly, like crying. He was alive and warm and breathing beside her, and she loved him, and she had betrayed him.
She lay beside him, afraid to move, afraid to breathe in case she broke the spell. She knew she did not deserve to have him there, and yet she could not bear for him to leave.
Eventually, the slowing of his breath told her he had fallen asleep. It took her a long time to do the same.
3
On the third night, she was certain he would not come again, but he did. A little after midnight, she heard the same quiet sounds as before: the door, the footsteps, the slight creak of bedsprings as he settled down beside her.
Again she feigned sleep, and when she was certain he was sleeping too, she turned her head to look at him.
How bizarrely intimate it felt, to lie beside someone like this. To share a bed. It was for married couples, she thought, and lovers. (The word lovers made her cheeks burn.)
She had shared a bed with Pod, of course, but that was different, even though it was exactly the same. She and Pod had lain beside each other exactly like this, the same distance apart, not touching. And yet with Jaime it was something else completely. Her senses felt heightened, hyper-aware of his every movement, every breath.
She let her eyes roam over his face, allowing herself the rare luxury of looking at him properly. When he was awake, looking at him was dangerous. If her gaze lingered too long, his smile would cut her. But in sleep he was soft, unguarded – lips slightly parted, forehead smooth, untroubled. All of his sharp edges gone.
He was so beautiful. A slant of moonlight from the window illuminated his face perfectly, and she drank him in, committing every detail of his face to memory. The golden stubble on his jaw, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, his ears. She had never had the chance to notice his ears before. They were pointed slightly, and pierced at the lobes, though she had never seen him wear earrings.
She looked at him until it grew painful. Every new thing she noticed made her want him more, and the more she wanted him, the more it hurt. Eventually, she had to turn away, chest aching.
4
On the fourth day, she felt slightly better. The pain was beginning to lessen, and the fever was gone. When he came to see her during her midday meal, Jaime remarked that her colour was returning, and she felt sure that he would stop coming to her at night now. It was too great a risk to keep breaking the Quiet Isle’s rules without necessity.
That was a good thing, she reminded herself.
But as she lay awake that night, trying not to wait for him but waiting regardless, she heard the door open. Her heart did its now-familiar leap at the sound, and out of habit and shyness, she closed her eyes again.
But when he lay down beside her this time, with a soft sigh and a creak of bedsprings, she decided that she could not avoid it any longer. There was too much they hadn’t spoken about, and too much she needed to ask. Gathering her courage, she opened her eyes and turned her face to look at him.
Her heart leaped again when she saw that his eyes were open, too, and looking back at her.
“I knew you were awake,” he murmured. There was a small, tired smile on his face. “How are you feeling?”
She swallowed. “I am well. Getting better.”
He nodded. “You look better. I am glad. For a while I feared we might lose you.”
Brienne took a breath. “Jaime, why are you here?”
His mouth twitched. “Always a warm welcome.”
She refused to be deflected. “You’ve been coming every night. I don’t understand.”
“Ah, so you were awake. I thought as much. You’re as poor at feigning sleep as you are at lying, wench, did you know that?”
He does not want to answer. Trying to get a direct answer out of Jaime was impossible sometimes -- he was too quick with his words, always turning it back on her, turning it into a jape. It was not a game Brienne could play, but she persisted anyway.
“Why did you even stay with us, here on the Isle? You weren’t injured – you could have left. You could have gone back to your men at Pennytree.”
Jaime gave a half-shrug, eyes betraying nothing. “You were very ill. I wanted to be sure that you would recover.”
“But why?” Her voice cracked. It made no sense. She would almost have preferred him to be angry – then she could at least have the punishment she deserved. “I betrayed you, Jaime. You should hate me.”
Jaime’s eyes softened. They travelled over her face, lingering on her bandaged cheek. “I did, for a moment or two,” he said. “But you are a difficult creature to hate, wench. The gods know I’ve tried. Besides, I thought that you had been through enough.”
She could not think of anything to say in response to that. Instead, out of habit, she said, “My name is—”
“Brienne,” he agreed, and then he kissed her.
It was only a tiny kiss, no more than a brush of his lips against hers, but it set her heart racing even still. She stared at him, trying to comprehend what had just happened, but he just smiled.
“Brienne of Tarth,” he said, with such inexplicable tenderness that she had to look away – it was too much. “It seems I couldn’t leave you if I tried.”
She tried to think of something to say, but he closed his eyes. After a long moment, she did, too.
5
On the fifth night, she did not bother even trying to sleep. She was sitting up in bed, waiting for him, when he arrived. In the soft glow of the dying fire, she could appreciate just how beautiful he was truly was, and it made her heart ache. In his brown breeches and loose white shirt, unlaced at the neck, he was less splendid than he had been that day in the White Sword Tower, but he looked softer and more human like this. It made her want to wrap her arms around him.
Instead, she said, “I am much better now, ser.”
“Good,” said Jaime, stretching out on the bed beside her. When she said nothing else, he looked at her, eyebrow raised. “And?”
“And that means you need not keep coming here at night. The brothers will make us leave if they catch you.”
Jaime leaned back against the pillows, unconcerned. “They won’t. I always leave well before dawn. I’ve had great practice at that.”
The allusion to Cersei made her shift uncomfortably.
“Besides,” Jaime continued, “it’s a stupid rule. Typical of these pious types. They can’t fuck, so nobody else can either. Petty, really.”
Brienne’s cheeks burned. She hoped he would take it for anger, not embarrassment, though she felt both. “You must not speak about them that way, ser,” she said sharply. “If not for them, I would be dead. They have let us stay here out of pure kindness, despite the trouble it may bring to them, so we should obey their rules and be grateful.”
For a moment, Jaime looked mildly chastised. It was such an unfamiliar expression to see on his face that she was almost disconcerted by it. Then he raised his chin, green eyes flashing, and it was gone again.
“So they would prefer you to be left alone in the height of your fever, wracked with pain and plagued by nightmares, calling for me so loudly I could hear you all the way over in the men’s cells? That does not seem especially kind to me.”
Brienne faltered, all her righteous anger gone in an instant. “I called for you?”
She remembered her fever dreams when they had first brought her to Stoneheart, how she’d cried out for Jaime to save her. The one-eyed man had called her the Kingslayer’s whore, and when she’d asked why, he’d said if I had a silver stag for every time you said his name, I’d be as rich as your friends the Lannisters. It had been embarrassing enough in front of the Brotherhood. The thought of Jaime hearing it was mortifying. She wanted to curl up and hide, like an insect under a stone that had been overturned.
But Jaime did not laugh, as she had half-expected him to. Instead his face was grave. “Aye, and the sound haunts me. I never should have sent you on that thrice-damned foolish quest.”
“I would have gone anyway,” she told him truthfully, thrown by the change of topic. “Without a Valyrian steel sword to protect me.”
His mouth twisted. “That sword is the reason you’re lying here half-dead.” Anger crept into his voice. “Gold and rubies with a lion’s head pommel. What in the seven hells was I thinking?”
She felt tears prick the back of her eyes. “It is a hero’s sword,” she agreed. “You never should have given it to me.”
“That’s not what I…” Jaime sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Then he looked at her; a long, lingering look that made her belly flip. In a softer voice, he said: “You are the closest thing to a hero I have ever seen.”
Her breath caught. There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was “I love you, Jaime.”
If she had not heard herself say it, she would not have believed she had. The words slipped out of her mouth as if they had a life of their own, and now it was too late to take them back. She stared at him, heart pounding, waiting for him to laugh in her face or leave or both; but instead he surged forward and kissed her again.
This was a very different kiss from the last one. This one was fierce, desperate, as though he had been wanting to kiss her like this for a very long time – but that was impossible, surely. His hand cupped her face, and his touch burned. She opened her mouth, and when he slipped his tongue inside she felt herself melt against him, clinging helplessly to his shoulders as he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.
“Say it again,” he breathed against her mouth when they broke apart. His breath was hot.
“I love you, Jaime.” There was relief in saying it this time. She gave into it, let the feeling overwhelm her, and when he kissed her again they both moaned.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “I love you, Brienne. Brienne of Tarth. I love you.”
She opened her mouth to object – because it couldn’t be possible, it just couldn’t be – but he kissed her again before she could speak. “Don’t argue with me, wench.” There was a smile in his voice. “I love you.”
Her head was spinning, her blood hot. They still had much to speak about, she knew, but just now she was tired and sore and all she wanted was one night without worries, without doubts. One night of letting herself believe that he loved her.
Jaime seemed to feel the same. He pressed a kiss to her collarbone, smiling against her skin. “Would that you were not so injured.” His voice was impossibly low and fond; it seemed to warm her from the inside out. “But you are, so sleep. We will speak on the morrow.”
She lay down without protest, and when he rested his arm carefully across her stomach and his chin on her shoulder, she felt even warmer; the warmest she had ever felt in her life.
+1
The next morning, the Elder Brother found them.
He was standing in the doorway with a bowl of porridge in his hands. Brienne sat up, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, and realised with a shock that Jaime was still asleep beside her. Her stomach sank.
“We have one rule for visitors on this island, my lady,” the Elder Brother said. His voice was calm, but she could hear the disappointment in it, and it made her feel worse than any angry lecture could have. “We welcomed you and your friends. We gave you food and shelter and tended to your injuries. In return, we asked that you obey just one rule, and now I see that you have broken it.”
Brienne’s face burned with shame. “Elder Brother, forgive us. I promise you, it was nothing untoward. I was having nightmares, and Ser Jaime heard me calling for him in my sleep, so he came to comfort me.” A sennight ago, she remembered guiltily. She had not had one nightmare since. “I know he shouldn’t have, but…”
She trailed off, unsure of how to finish. But you don’t know how I love him, how I’ve missed him, how I’ve longed for him.
“It matters not what you were doing. The rule that is that men and women must not sleep under the same roof unless they are married.”
“Marry us, then.”
Brienne hadn’t noticed Jaime waking, but suddenly he was sitting up beside her, looking at the Elder Brother without the slightest hint of shame. The Elder Brother frowned.
“I beg your pardon, ser?”
“Marry us,” Jaime repeated. He looked at Brienne. “Unless you have an objection.”
Brienne stared at him, momentarily speechless. When she found her voice, she looked at the Elder Brother and asked politely, “Could you leave us for a moment?”
For a moment, the Elder Brother looked as though he might object. Eventually, though, he nodded curtly and left the room, leaving the door conspicuously open behind him.
Brienne rounded on Jaime. “Have you taken leave of your senses, ser?”
Jaime looked amused. “Is that a rejection?”
“How could we possibly marry?”
“Very easily, my lady. This isle is full of holy men. All we have to do is choose one.”
His levity hurt. “Do not joke, ser. I am sick of being a joke.”
His face softened. “You are no joke to me, sweetling. I am quite serious. I want to marry you.”
She looked at him helplessly. Suddenly she felt a pathetic urge to cry. The softness in his eyes, this impossible proposal. It was too much.
“But why?”
Jaime took her hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “Ever since I sent you away from King’s Landing, I felt as though I were missing something. Something more than just my hand. Fool that I am, it took me a long time to realise that was you. The gods put us together that fateful day in the Riverlands, wench, and they did not intend for us to part.” He brought his hand to her face, touching her cheek just below the bandage. “You were made for me, you sweet, stubborn, impossible girl, and I for you. I am certain of that now. All that time you spent out here on your own, all of these terrible things that have happened to you… I should have been there with you. I should always be with you.”
There was a lump in Brienne’s throat as she remembered all the times she had wished for the same thing. “You are a knight of the Kingsguard.”
“Not any longer, I would imagine. I am sure my sweet sister lost no time in replacing me as soon as she heard I left my tail at Pennytree. They probably all think me dead.”
Looking at his face was too much, so she stared at his knee. “You will still have to go back there.”
“To King’s Landing? Yes, certainly. I have a duty to my son, and if I am no longer of the Kingsguard then I intend to claim the Rock. But I have a duty to you, too.” He took her hand again, and she looked at down at it. Her pale freckled skin against his, golden and smooth. “I’ve sworn too many bloody vows, but let me swear some more. When we are inevitably parted again, it will at least give me comfort to know that you’re my wife, and that means you’ll have to come back to me.” He smiled. “I know you keep your oaths.”
He means this, she realised. Vaguely, she wondered if she was still feverish and drunk on dreamwine. After all, marrying Jaime was a dream she’d often had. But his hand felt very warm and real in hers.
Jaime misread her uncertainty. “Of course,” he said, “if you’d rather not marry an old, crippled kingslayer…”
“You are the only man I’d marry,” she blurted, then blushed at her own forthrightness. Jaime smiled again. “It’s only that…”
He squeezed her hand. “It’s only what, sweetling?”
There were so many reasons why they should not marry that she could not even begin to articulate them. The Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth. It was just wrong, a poor jape, the kind of thing a mummers’ troupe would make an unfunny play about. The kind of thing that would send her father to an early grave with shock.
And yet her hand in his did not feel wrong at all.
She looked at him, beautiful in the morning light, even more beautiful than he’d looked asleep or in the firelight or in the White Sword Tower; because he was smiling at her, a soft smile for her and only her, and it seemed too precious a gift to ever refuse.
“Nothing,” she said, and felt her own smile growing to answer his. It hurt her cheek, but she hardly felt it. “Yes. I will. I’ll marry you.”
They had to hastily break off his answering kiss when the Elder Brother came back in, still angry but somewhat mollified when they told him of their decision. He married them straight away, with Pod called in as a witness. Pod beamed at her the whole way through the ceremony, and she smiled back at him. It was not the romantic wedding she’d often dreamed of – she could not leave her bed, and they did not even have cloaks to exchange – but it was real and it was better, so much better.
Afterwards, Jaime stayed with her in the cottage almost all day, and when night fell he lit the fire. Brienne sat up in bed watching him, shyness coming over her at the thought of what might happen next. Jaime turned and smiled at her, the blaze of the newly-lit fire turning him to pure gold.
He walked over to the bed, slow and deliberate, and leaned over her to give her a long, deep kiss. His hand curled against her neck, toying with the high collar of her shift.
“We’ll have to change this, won’t we?” he murmured into her ear, and the tone of his voice made her shiver.
He pulled the laces at the collar loose, and when she did not stop him, he moved his hand to the hem where it rested at her knees. “Shall I take it off for you?”
He would not do anything if she did not say yes. Despite the nerves fluttering in her belly, that made her feel safe. She nodded.
Very slowly, Jaime moved the fabric up over her knees, her thighs, stroking the exposed skin as he did so. His golden hand was cold against her leg, but she found she liked it.
“Such long legs,” he murmured. “And so many freckles.” The shift moved up over her smallclothes, over her stomach, and then finally over her head, and then she was naked before him.
Brienne had never liked the way her body looked, especially now that scarcely an inch of it was not mangled or bruised, but the heat in his gaze as it raked over her was undeniable. She felt a blush creep down her neck to her chest.
“You too,” she said shyly, nudging his leg with her foot.
Jaime laughed. “Eager wench,” he teased her, but he obligingly pulled his shirt over his head. She had to stifle a sigh at the sight of him. If she had thought him magnificent in the bathtub, it was nothing to the way he looked now, strong and healthy once again. Now he is all a god.
She wanted him to finish undressing, but instead he leaned over her and kissed her again. “I’m afraid you’ll remain a maid until your ribs are healed,” he said, smiling at the look of disappointment that must have crossed her face. “But until then, I’ll take care of you as best I can.”
She was about to ask him what he meant when his lips found her neck and then made their way downwards, kissing every bruise and scar on her body, and all her words were lost.
They fell asleep entwined beneath the blankets, husband and wife, and for the first time since the Crossroads Brienne felt no pain at all.