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The Long Night ends like this:
They’re slashing, hacking, fending off the wights with a fearsome skill borne of sheer desperation. Jaime is back to back with Brienne, twin blades burning blue. Even knights of song would falter in the face of unrelenting death but they are only human, and they do not, cannot waver. Besides, if she is a knight, which she is, then she is one of dream, not song—he still remembers that long ago dream of her. Almost a beauty, almost a knight, but here and now he will admit it is not only almost. As one, they strike and stab at their foes. They do not falter; wounded they may be but they stand their ground unshaken. There is only them and the ever advancing enemy.
And then, dizzying in its suddenness, the undead fall, like puppets with strings cut.
He doesn’t—he doesn’t even know what to think, what to feel. It doesn’t really feel over. He can hardly fathom it. Jaime stares at the wights, frozen. So terrifying in raving half-life, and so still in true death.
When he turns to Brienne the sight of her bloodied and bruised and breathing fills him with such an unspeakable relief that it snatches the breath from his lungs. She’s still clutching Oathkeeper, her knuckles white on the golden hilt. Her blue eyes look at him with disbelief, and he knows she’s thinking the same thing as him. Is it over? Is it really over?
“Jaime,” she says.
It is only his name. It is only his name but from her mouth it is almost divine, almost a prayer. The familiar, inexplicable tangle of emotion in his chest makes itself known once more, and it hits him, then, like a strike of lightning. He is in love with her. He is in love with her and he thinks, with a wild hope, that she might be a little in love with him too, with the breathless way she is looking at him. She has never looked so beautiful and they are alive and he wants to kiss her—
Jaime drops his sword to the hard ground. Wordless, he seizes her face with his good hand, and then his lips are on hers. He can taste the iron tang of blood and war but he doesn’t care. He can’t find it in himself to care. Brienne must have let go of Oathkeeper, too, because her hands were suddenly free and she was jerking him closer.
The sounds of the wounded and dying smothers any noise she could have made, but she is kissing him back, and she is kissing him back so fiercely. His world is focused solely on these star-bright points of skin contact: Her mouth, hot against his. Her fingers, threading through his hair. Her body, pressed flush to his.
Brienne pulls away first, breath ragged. His body follows. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and murmurs her name into her bruised skin; she lets out a little sigh and cards her fingers through his hair.
“Pod?” she whispers.
“Don’t know,” Jaime rasps. He peers behind her. He thinks that boy over there, slumped against the wall, might have Podrick’s mop of hair. “There?”
Brienne turns just as the boy staggers to his feet, and relief breaks out on her face. “That’s him,” she whispers.
Jaime reaches for her hand, his heartbeat stumbling, and laces her fingers with his. Brienne smiles, dazzling.
Then she sways, teetering dangerously toward him, and passes out.
There is a wound.
When Jaime carries Brienne in, clumsy with the lack of his right hand, the rise and fall of her chest assuring him she lives, he thinks nothing of it and lays her down on a bedroll. Everyone is wounded. Everyone is tired.
And then one of the healers examines her and pales.
There is a wound, the healer tells him, and it is a miracle that she still lives. There is a wound, a mortal one, the healer says, and she is like to die soon. If she wants, the healer can have her given the gift of… mercy.
Jaime clutches Brienne’s hand so tightly he almost expects her to wake and scold him.
Don’t leave me, you can’t take her —
Eyes flashing dangerously, he hisses, “No. Heal her.”
The healer trembles ever so slightly and nods.
Jaime stays in a chair at her bedside. She will not die, he tells himself. She has had worse injuries in the Riverlands. She cannot die, not yet.
He holds her steady when her unconscious body thrashes in pain as a healer cleanses her wounds and stitches her flesh together; her pulse is weak and thready under his trembling fingers. He helps a maidservant scrub the battleborn grime from her skin. “Live,” he demands of her hoarsely, when he tries to coax watery porridge down her throat. “You will live and fight, wench. And take your revenge, although you’re too bloody honorable for that most times.”
But there is no revenge to be taken. The Others had already been slain.
Dawn breaks; the first proper day in ages. Jaime continues to sit vigil. He has done this before; on the Quiet Isle the brothers tried to kick him out of Brienne’s rooms but he smiled dangerously, and lied through his teeth, and told them they were secretly wed long ago.
They accepted it easily enough. Perhaps the lion-hilted sword at Brienne’s side helped with that. Or perhaps it was the Elder Brother's expression. He looked like he almost expected it.
And so Jaime had sat and held her hand and dabbed her brow with damp rags as her fever broke and her body healed. He does the same now. It is easy to slip into the familiar movements. The knowledge of how to care for her is ingrained bone-deep.
Tyrion visits, a nasty scar peeking out of his tunic. Even he is not spared of injury. But Tyrion’s wounds had been much less severe than most so he is in relatively good health. His brother sits next to him. Offers him some wine. Jaime refuses, and Tyrion shrugs and chugs it down. There is a somber air around his little brother.
Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow did defeat the Night King, but died in the process, Tyrion says. Her dragons had flown off to gods know where. The Dothraki and the Unsullied are going back to Essos. Sansa Stark is Queen in the North. They are holding a feast tonight, Tyrion adds. Will he go?
Jaime cannot find it in himself to care, not for the dragon queen or the North or the Dothraki or the damned feast. He shakes his head.
“Jaime,” Tyrion says at last. “You need to eat. Have your bandages changed. And sleep, for gods’ sake.”
Jaime is tired, but he will not sleep until his body makes him. He will not rest unless he has to.
“No,” he says. “You are welcome to have food brought here. But I am staying. And I will not sleep, not yet.”
Tyrion is silent for some time. Then he sighs. “Alright. I’ll do that. But you will be unable to take care of her if you are dead on your feet, dear brother.”
“And if she wakes? If she— if she dies, in my sleep?”
Tyrion gives him such a pitying look that he would be angry, if he had the strength for it. “I will watch over her if you like. Or I can send for her squire. He has been asking about her health and he is well enough to walk.”
Jaime purses his lips. He glances at Brienne’s sleeping form. “...one hour. And then you, or someone else, will wake me.”
“Three,” Tyrion counters.
“One and a half.”
“Two and a half.”
“Two.”
Tyrion sighs, but he relents. “Fine. I will stay until you fall asleep, and then I will call for Podrick.”
“Fine.” Jaime crosses his arms. “And I will sleep here.”
“Don’t you want a bed?” Tyrion drains the dregs of wine from his goblet, looks up and catches the look in Jaime’s eyes. “Oh, fine. For the love of the Seven. Do whatever you bloody well wish.”
When Jaime wakes up, night has already fallen. It has clearly been more than two hours. Inwardly, he curses Tyrion to the seven hells and back, but he cannot deny that he does feel better. He glances over at Brienne; the rise and fall of her chest is faint but there. Unlike him, she has still not woken.
“Did you have a restful sleep, ser?”
Jaime jolts.
Sitting at the desk on the other side of the room is Sansa Stark. Parchment, quill, and ink lay scattered on the wooden surface; she sets them aside to face him properly.
“Lady Sansa.” He rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Is something the matter?”
“It is Queen Sansa now, or Your Grace,” she tells him, Tully blue gaze fixed on him. He thinks Brienne would be so proud to see her charge so… well, queenly. “I have come to visit Lady Brienne. And I have come to talk to you.”
Jaime raises an eyebrow and says nothing.
“I will admit, Ser Jaime, that I had my doubts when Lady Brienne vouched for you,” she begins. “When I first met Brienne I had my doubts about her too, what with the rumors of my— of Lady Stoneheart, and that sword on her hip was so very… Lannister. Of course, she proved herself during our time in the Vale, and thereafter won my trust when she aided me in escaping Littlefinger’s clutches and returning to Winterfell.”
Jaime nods. He knows some of this already. “And you were displeased to find she regarded the Kingslayer as a… close friend?”
“Yes.” Sansa Stark regards him. “But you fought with us for months on end, even when your sister sent you ravens for help. I will never fully trust you for all your crimes against my family. But.”
She glances at Brienne, and her eyes soften. For a moment the Queen in the North looks so terribly young.
“But,” she says, “although I do not know exactly what connection you share, I am glad Brienne has someone who cares so much for her.”
Jaime swallows; ducks his head. “If only the wench was awake to properly appreciate said care.” He is aiming for light-hearted, but it comes out rather pathetic.
“Yes,” she says softly. “For the nonce, you may continue to stay at Winterfell. I assume you wish to wait until Lady Brienne wakes up to make a permanent decision regarding your stay.”
Sansa doesn’t even bother phrasing it as a question. Jaime supposes that their… well, whatever they are, really is rather obvious.
“Podrick came to visit earlier. The food he brought for you is over there.” Sansa stands and shakes her skirts out. The little queen gathers up her things and nudges her chair aside. “And now I take my leave. Farewell, ser.”
“Your Grace.” Her new title will take some getting used to.
The door shuts behind the Queen in the North. Then there is only the crackling of the fire, the bustling sounds of the castle, and the almost inaudible sound of Brienne’s breathing. Wake, damn you.
Jaime stands. His feet are unsteady and his joints ache. He is old, no longer the lively lion of his youth, and winter has helped wreak havoc on his health. He grabs the bowl Sansa pointed out and grimaces. The stew Podrick brought is now cold.
Brienne will need to eat, too, he muses, as he chews on the gamey stew. He will attempt to wake her soon. Surely her wounds have improved by now. Surely she will have enough strength to find consciousness so she can be fed some sorely needed meals.
The window is in his line of sight. Outside, the night sky glitters with stars, the waning moon shy behind a grey haze of clouds. Jaime searches for the evenstar and is rewarded with its brilliant gleam.
When Brienne wakes at last, he is, to his eternal shame, nodding off.
It is night, again. He attempted to wake her yesterday, like he had promised himself. But a healer had walked in, found him shaking Brienne and proceeded to fiercely reprimand him. She needs the rest to mend, the healer had chided. She will wake in her own time. She is lucky to still be alive.
Now she stirs, but he has seen her stir often in her sleep, so he does not pay it much mind, eyelids already drooping. It is only when she groans that he looks over at her.
Her eyes are open, and that astonishing shade of blue is glazed over and bleary.
“Brienne,” he says, scoots his chair close enough that if he wants he can catalogue every detail of her face. When he brings his hand (the left one, he scolds himself when the handless right moves on instinct) to her cheek it is trembling.
“Jaime.” Her voice is rusty with disuse.
“Took you long enough, wench.” Damn it, Jaime thinks, I sound so fond. At this point he might as well scream from the battlements that he is in love with Brienne of Tarth. (Which, yes, he is. But still.)
Brienne furrows her brow. “Long enough? How…”
“You were out cold for around four days,” he says, and it’s a wonder that his voice shakes only a little, because voicing it aloud rocks him to the very core with the remembrance of fearful days and nights by her side, unwilling to believe she would only continue to slumber forevermore.
He does not tell her this. Jaime closes his eyes for a moment, letting the tidal wave of relief crash over him. He presses a kiss to the palm of her hand clutched in his. Then he opens his eyes and summons a smirk. “I hope you enjoyed your beauty sleep, wench,” he tells her. “Because I’d rather not go through this a third time.”
Brienne does not laugh, but those blue eyes are now bright with mirth. “As you say, ser.”
Jaime suddenly remembers she has not had proper food or drink ever since the battle. “Wait here, wench.” He strides to the door and arranges for a servant to bring the Lady Brienne food and drink. That done, he resumes his position by her side, stroking her straw-blonde hair as she closes her eyes and sighs.
The next few minutes, waiting for the food to be brought up, are spent in a silence so relieved it feels impossible. Jaime just sits there, thumb rubbing small circles on her hand, drinking in the sight of her. She is still pale and clammy with sweat. Still gaunt from exhaustion and mottled with bruises. But she is undoubtedly alive when she shoots him a tired smile, and in that moment it does not matter that she is objectively ugly because the way she smiles at him is breathtaking.
He’s wondering if Brienne would let him kiss her again when there is a knock on the door.
It’s the servant, and she’s not only brought porridge but Podrick, too. The lad lights up when he notices Brienne’s eyes are open. “Ser! You’re awake!”
“Pod,” Brienne says roughly. “You are well?”
“Yes, ser, my lady,” Podrick stammers, overwhelmed. “You are the one we are worried about, my lady! I, I was so scared you would die—”
“Oh, Pod.” She says it so warmly that the poor boy looks like to cry on the spot. “Come here.”
Podrick scurries over and Brienne engulfs him in a hug, as best as she can without stretching any stitches. “We were so— I was so worried — ” Podrick breaks off with a choked sob. “Please, my lady, ser, don’t die again.”
“I am not dead, Podrick,” Brienne says chidingly. But there is a tender smile curving her mouth. “Don’t fret. I will be hale and healthy soon.”
“And then you can beat me sore when we spar again, my lady,” Podrick sniffles.
“Yes.” Brienne pats his shoulder. “You did well, Pod. You should know that I’m proud to have you as my squire.”
Podrick only swipes tears from his eyes and hugs her again.
After a few seconds, Jaime coughs. “Don’t you think Lady Brienne would like to eat now, Pod?”
Podrick scrambles to his feet. “O- Of course, my pardons, ser!”
Brienne laughs, the sound raspy but oh, so very sweet to his ears. “Jaime,” she says, his name a fond rebuke.
Jaime waves at the bowl of porridge. “I’m only looking out for your health,” he says innocently.
She laughs again.
(In the end she only manages to eat half the bowl, but she’s smiling at his idiotic japes and her sky-blue eyes are dancing with mirth.)
With each day the wench grows stronger, the color returning to her cheeks. It no longer pains her to move, and in no time at all she is out of bed. Soon she is by Lady—no, Queen, he has to remind himself—Sansa’s side again, taking up her duties as a sworn sword.
Jaime has not kissed her again, and they have not talked about it.
It’s not as if he doesn’t want to kiss her; in fact it’s the complete opposite. The thing is, the days he spent by her bedside she was much too sick to appreciate that sort of thing, and now that she’s regained her health, her day is spent mostly in Sansa Stark’s company. And everytime he catches her eye and tries to get her alone all she does is blush and look away and avoid him for the rest of the day. It’s been a sennight since, and at this point Jaime has half-convinced himself that she had never returned his kiss, or his romantic affections. Mayhaps, he tells himself, she is avoiding him because she does not know how to reject him. After all, why would she ever love someone so dishonorable as him? Someone who has gotten three children on his own sister and done despicable things in his family’s name?
The warmth of her smile and the flush of her cheeks can be explained away as him being her good friend. That is all it was, he tells himself, even when his lips tingle with the memory of her mouth pressed against his, even when he lies awake at night recalling her smile and how it makes him feel dizzy and weak in the knees. That is all.
(He dreams of her and wakes with her name on his lips, aching and wanting.)
One day he receives a summons from the Queen in the North.
The servant leads him to a solar. Inside, Sansa Stark sits regally. The fire flickers cheerily in the hearth. Jaime steals a glance at Brienne, who stands guard behind the northern queen.
“Your Grace.” He bows shallowly.
“Ser Jaime.” Her lips are pursed. “It has come to my attention that you and my sworn sword have some… issues to work out.”
Beside her, Brienne jolts. Jaime is blinking rapidly. “Issues, Your Grace?”
Jaime swears there is a slight smirk on Sansa Stark’s lips. “Yes.” She rises from her seat. “The two of you will stay here until it is resolved.”
“My lady— my queen, I don’t—” Brienne looks horrified.
Sansa sweeps out of the room. “Best of luck,” she calls out over her shoulder, and then the door is shut.
Jaime opens his mouth, finds he does not know what to say, and closes it.
Brienne has gone red, and her gaze is firmly fixed on the stone floor. The silence rings louder than any bell could. Would she rather he stay? Or leave and disregard Sansa Stark’s orders? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know if he wants to know. He has been trying to talk to her and he supposes this is as good a chance as any.
“I am sorry.” Well. He supposes that wasn’t too bad a start. “If you wish us to forget it happened, that is perfectly fine. I should not have taken advantage of you like that—”
“You didn’t.” Brienne still won’t look at him. “I— Why are you apologizing?”
“Because,” Jaime says slowly, “you won’t look me in the eye and you won’t talk to me properly anymore. So clearly I did something wrong when I kissed you.”
“It wasn’t—” If possible, Brienne’s cheeks go even redder. “I liked it,” she mumbles. “The kiss.”
There’s a breathless, treacherous hope clawing in his chest. “Did you.”
She levels a glare at him. “Do not mock me, ser.”
Ser. His smile falls. It stings more than it should. Perhaps it’s because he knows how his name sounds on her tongue, stripped of all formality, and the way she’s said it has ruined him for anything else. “You know my name.”
She purses her lips. Says nothing.
“Look, wench,” he says, “if you’re going to reject me, just do it already, will you?”
“Reject?” She furrows her brow. Now she looks genuinely confused. “There is nothing to reject. I know you only kissed me because…”
“Because?”
She bites her lip. “Bloodlust,” she offered.
He laughs, the sound rife with disbelief. “Bloodlust? Oh, excellent, wench. And what about the dutiful attention I paid you on your sickbed? Will you blame that on bloodlust, too?”
Her features shutter. “I will not be made a mockery of.”
“You think I’m mocking you?” Jaime scoffs. “Must I truly spell it out for you? Fine. I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to do it for ages and I stayed at your bedside all those days because I’m probably in love with you. You make me believe in all that shit about chivalry and knighthood and I’m unworthy, gods know I am, but we were alive and you were there looking at me like that, so I kissed you. There.”
Brienne reels, like she’s taken a hit to the head. “What?”
“What?” Jaime crosses his arms.
“You,” she says slowly, like he’s being particularly stupid, “love me?”
“I thought that was obvious.” Jaime raises an eyebrow. “Is that so hard to believe? You accepted my confession of wildfire. How is this any more unbelievable?”
“But how…”
“Very easily.” He takes a step closer. “So tell me, will I have to resign myself to leaving my affections unrequited, with only that one glorious kiss to sustain me?”
“No,” she blurts, and the wild thing that is dear, terrible hope rears its head. “No.”
He takes another step, emboldened. “Oh?” He is close enough to count her freckles. He reaches to touch her cheek, and Brienne does not stop him when he caresses the torn flesh. “So if I kissed you again,” he whispers, “you would not stop me?”
Her eyes flutter shut. “No.”
“Really.” His thumb traces the seam of her lips.
A shuddering exhale. “Yes.”
As far as second kisses go, it’s nothing spectacular. A kiss is just that—a kiss. Just lips against lips, his mouth slanting against hers. But she tangles her fingers in his hair, and he loops his arms around her neck, and Jaime has never felt so inexorably giddy. He can’t stop the grin that she can surely feel. His teeth clack against hers, and then they’re both laughing breathlessly.
Jaime presses another kiss to the upturned corner of her mouth, dizzy with relief. “I knew you’d succumb to my charms eventually, wench.”
“Shut up.” She’s smiling, though. That smile should really be outlawed. It always makes him feel all sorts of things. Like someone’s got his heart in a chokehold.
He closes his eyes; listens to their breaths slow. Her hand is warm on his winter-chilled cheek. If this is a dream he never wants to wake up.
“I’m probably in love with you, too,” Brienne finally says, very quietly.
The surge of emotion in his chest is almost too much. “Well. That’s a relief,” he manages.
She laughs again, and Jaime thinks he could get drunk on the sound.
He doesn’t deserve this. He knows this. But Jaime is for all his virtues a selfish man.
So he stays at Winterfell to be by her side. The days go by, and he tucks away the scent of Brienne’s hair, the feel of her skin; packs each memory of her deep inside his heart. He lets himself love and be loved in return. He lets himself be happy.
He almost lost her to the Others—he would’ve lost himself too had she succumbed to her injuries. But here, safe and warm in her arms, he is found.