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It will be easier to slip away in the night, she thinks.
When the stars are high and everyone is warmed by dying lights of the fires, Brienne of Tarth will make her exit from Winterfell. She will say goodnight to the Stark girls over dinner – meaningfully, perhaps even a little tearfully – without telling them she plans to go while they are sleeping. It will be better if she just vanishes under the gentle glow of the moon, and that they wake up in the morning with only a note informing them that she has returned to her father.
I have duties on Tarth, Brienne will write, trying not to let her tears smudge the ink. My father is growing old and has asked me to come home. He wants to find me a husband. I should go and spend his final days with him in safety and comfort, never failing to do my duty to my house.
Brienne won't tell them her father has already written to her of an arranged the marriage – to a young man of House Hayford of eight-and-ten who seems a mere boy in her eyes – because she knows neither Sansa nor Arya will understand how she could enter such an agreement of her own volition. Neither will she tell them she dreads the thought of giving herself to a man she barely knows, or that is not what she truly wants. Such things will hurt them, and Brienne would give her life before doing that.
Yet her upcoming marriage is not the worst of the secrets she refuses to tell the Stark girls. They are just young girls who do not yet know the bloom of womanhood, have not felt the softest of petals unfurl, so she does not wish to burden them with her most painful secret. They could never understand the unending need Brienne has for Jaime Lannister: for his carefree smile, his bad jokes, his imperfectly beautiful body, his bad tempers, his sharp tongue, his wounded soul. In fact, they would be quite disgusted if they did know. Part of Brienne is ashamed of the way she pines for Jaime and would be mortified if Catelyn's daughters discovered the truth of her feelings. Their mother had loathed Jaime in life and hated him in death, so if Brienne confessed her feelings for him to Sansa and Arya, she was sure she would only see Catelyn's disappointment reflected in their eyes.
And to make it worse, all this pain, all this shame... is for nothing.
Jaime Lannister can never be Brienne of Tarth's. Even putting aside that he is not pining for her in the way she is for him, the details of his intended marriage are being discussed right at this very moment. The hand of the Lord of Casterly Rock is one of the greatest prizes in the Seven Kingdoms, and there are vested interests that will decide who will be his bride. In fact, to answer the question, Jaime has been locked up all day with the leading lords of the realm hammering out the deal. Will it be virginal Talla Tarly, the Lady of Horn Hill? Or one of Wyman Manderly's granddaughters? Or even a fourth husband for Lady Margaery? She knows Jaime will have a say in the matter and fight his own case capably, but it seems extremely unlikely he will suggest Brienne as a suitable candidate. He will want someone young, nubile, and beautiful by his side. Someone who will make a fitting bride.
Someone like Cersei, an evil voice whispers in her ear.
Swallowing down her painful feelings, Brienne looks up at the sky and tries not to think of Jaime. She thinks of him too much as it is. It is him she dreams of at night, his clothes that her dreamed-of future husband wears, him who makes her blush when their eyes meet across the room. Her love for him is so great that it almost hurts to talk about it. So, for that reason, she will not tell the Stark girls that her heart is breaking more and more each day as the negotiations for Jaime's hand go on. They wouldn't understand. To Sansa and Arya, Jaime is little more than the detested Kingslayer, so why should he have ownership of Brienne's heart?
"What are you doing out here?" comes a familiar voice, wrenching her out of her thoughts.
Startled, Brienne turns round, as if to counter a riposte. Ready to strike, she does not even drop her position when she sees who is waiting for her, his stance like a lion stalking his prey.
"Jaime, you scared me!"
There are a couple of flakes of snow in his hair, mingling with the gold and silver. He smiles at her, teasing and taunting, and she momentarily imagines what it would be like to kiss that expression away.
"You scared me," he counters. "We are meant to be feasting, and yet you are out here hiding. I feared you had run away."
Sensing some genuine concern behind Jaime's jovial tone, Brienne turns away from him, choosing instead to look at the moon. It is high in the sky, bright as a silver penny, and it is the only thing in Brienne's line of sight that can rival Jaime for sheer beauty.
"I'm not hiding," she says, a little tersely. "I just wanted to get a little air, that's all."
"So you choose a snow covered balcony? How romantic."
Desperate to hide her blush from him, Brienne tries to ignore Jaime when he comes and stands beside her, his golden hand resting on the stone parapet. She had thought to have some time alone, so she could think of the exact words she was going to say to Sansa and Arya before she left for Tarth. Jaime interrupting has put a stopper to all that.
"Did you not like the food?" he asks.
"The food?" she echoes, not sure where the question comes from. "What food?"
"The food at the feast," he replies. "I assume that is why you are out here while everyone is eating the first decent meal we've had since the end of the war."
For a moment, Brienne thinks about blaming the food for her darkening mood, but the lie tastes bitter in her mouth. No matter how much the truth hurts, it is better than a lie.
"No, it is not the food... I'm just not very hungry."
"Not hungry?" Jaime cocks his head, the joviality gone, replaced by an oddly sincere concern. "Are you sure? You've been helping the blacksmiths all day; you must be famished and exhausted. Come, let me get you something to eat... and help you warm up by the fire."
At his words, a thousand fantasies explode in Brienne's mind, each filthier than the last. Jaime behind her, his arms wrapped around her to keep her warm as they sit by the fire. Jaime's hand under her jerkin, his fingers caressing her belly intimately. Jaime rubbing his face into her neck, his beard itchy against her skin. Jaime holding her close and tight. Jaime naked. Jaime kissing her as he would a lover, as he would a wife...
"Are you sure you are well?" he asks, his voice soft. "You look very pale."
Brienne nods stiffly. "I'm fine. I promise."
Jaime scrutinises her face, as if he is hopes to divine some truth there. When that fails, Jaime reaches out for her, his fingers closing around her wrist. Brienne tries not to shiver.
"You can tell me the truth, Brienne. We know one another. We–"
Pulling her hand out of his grasp, Brienne tries to feign nonchalance, but it is difficult when Jaime is so close, his breath curling in misty tendrils in the air. "The bigger question is how are you?" she says. "Has a decision been made? And are you happy with it?"
Jaime wrinkles his nose in confusion. "A decision?"
"About the wedding."
It hurts to speak of Jaime's upcoming marriage out loud, so she tries to reduce it to the smaller details: the wedding feast itself, with the freshly cooked boar's head, the many notable guests, and the first night tradition... where the groom takes his bride up to their marital bed and steals her maidenhead... and Jaime holds his new wife in his arms and...
Brienne wishes she hadn't asked the question.
"Tyrion wants a big feast, as befitting a Lannister," says Jaime, dropping his hand from her arm. Brienne had thought that would give her a moment of respite, but Jaime somehow manages to use the newfound space to move closer, his body against hers in one warm line. "He wants half the realm in attendance, to use the wedding as a way to mend old wounds and build on our recent comradeship during the war. On top of that, Tyrion has somehow got it into his head that such a spectacle will make me happy."
"And will it?"
Jaime pulls an amused face, as if he is surprised by Brienne's reaction. "It will make me happy because I am marrying the woman I love, but other than that... no. I don't need a fancy wedding. I would be happy with just a small sept, a bunch of wildflowers, and my wench."
Brienne takes a deep breath. She hadn't known Jaime was in love, but she tries not to let the news wound her greatly. She wonders where he met his beloved. During the war, Jaime had barely left Brienne's side – fighting back to back, tending each other’s wounds, holding her when the world seemed so dark – so she thinks that she must have seen this mysterious girl at some point during those long months but cannot put a name to a ghost.
"Can you tell your brother you do not want a big wedding?"
"I can try, but I'm not sure he'll listen," says Jaime, looking at her with an odd intensity. "Tyrion is too focussed on the future of the Seven Kingdoms to think about something as unimportant as my heart. He'll force me into the starring role of the most dazzling event of the year even if me and my chosen bride hate it, because the realm expects it."
Even though Brienne's heart is breaking at the thought of Jaime marrying someone else, someone else he loves, she knows he needs comfort right now, so moves closer to him. She hopes her warmth will slightly lift his spirits on this cold, cold night.
"Is that the only thing you are worried about?"
Catching her eye, Jaime shakes his head.
"What else?"
To her surprise, as Jaime mulls over his words, he reaches out and wraps his arm around Brienne's waist, unmovable. During the war, they had spent long hours by the fire like this – sometimes with her head on his shoulder – but then it hadn't meant anything as they were close to death and night was upon them. What were a few stolen intimacies in the face of the army of the dead? But here, now, it is a different story. Jaime is to be married, Lord of the Rock with the future upon him, and yet he is insisting on continuing with this sweetest torture for Brienne. What does he think he is doing?
"What if I'm not the husband my wife deserves?"
Brienne blinks, confused. "What do you mean?"
"Well... I..." He stumbles over his words for a few seconds, and it is so unlike Jaime that Brienne cannot help but mimic his move to hold her and cross her arm over his. "My wench... is such a singular woman... so loyal, so true, so good. She would be the most perfect wife, the perfect wench, if only I had the courage to ask, but I... I murdered a king and slept with my sister. She deserves so much better than me, so much more... and I love her so that I don't think I could stand being a source of shame for her... the embarrassing mistake she always has to explain away."
That Jaime thinks so little of himself even after all the good he'd done makes Brienne sad to her soul.
"If she loves you, she would be proud to be your wife."
Jaime meets her eye once more, and Brienne sees tragedy in the green.
"That's the thing... I'm not sure she does."
Oh, to be in that woman's shoes. Brienne would love Jaime with the ferocity of a thousand suns, with the coursing strength of a river, with the power and majesty of a lion. While this mysterious woman might be more beautiful while doing it, nobody could love Jaime as well as Brienne of Tarth, and it breaks her heart that he will never be able to see it.
"Then she's a fool," says Brienne firmly. "Because how could anybody not love you?"
The corner of Jaime's mouth turns up in wry amusement. "Quite easily, Brienne. Only one person has ever had the littlest amount of love for me, and he is currently using me as a bargaining chip in an attempt to stabilise the realm."
"I love you."
The words are out of her mouth before she has time to think, time to hide herself, and the young girl in her cringes at her forwardness. However, Brienne the woman – who has seen war and death and experienced the wonder of resting her head against Jaime's bare chest as he sleeps – does not fear the truth. She loves Jaime and even though he can never return her feelings, his sweet vulnerability makes her realise that he deserves to know how much he is adored, even by someone so unimportant and inconsequential as her.
At her confession, Jaime's eyes go wide, and Brienne sees all the stars in them.
"You do?"
She nods, pushing through the parts of herself that are still fearful of exposing herself so completely to the man she loves. "I... I... am a woman of few words, but you... are my greatest friend, the most important person in my life... and... and... you deserve the world. You deserve to marry someone who will not be ashamed of you... and would see the good in you... would see your beautiful heart. So you should tell the woman you love your fears, so you can marry her in truth and light... knowing how much you are loved."
Although she has bared the most secret parts of her soul, Brienne is prepared for Jaime to tell her that he cannot find the woman he loves in the hubbub of a celebrating Winterfell, and for him to ask her to help locate her, but instead something very different happens. Jaime lifts his hand and cups Brienne's cheek, his thumb running softly over her scar. The intimacy of the gesture nearly takes her breath away.
"Wench... that's what I'm trying to do."
Unable to see him properly through the tears in her eyes, Brienne only confirms this is not a joke, jape, or tease when he presses forward and meets her lips in a soft, but passionate kiss. Momentarily freezing, she finds herself going limp, but then Jaime wraps both arms around her and begins to suck at her bottom lip, inviting her to deepen the kiss. It is too much for virginal Brienne and she pulls away, startled.
"Jaime, what are you doing?" she asks, as a tear spills down her cheek.
"Kissing you," he says, wiping it away with gentle fingers. "I would hope the woman I want to be my wife would enjoy my kisses."
"But... but... I can't be your wife!"
A cloud crosses Jaime's beautiful face. "Why not?"
"Because you are in love with someone else, and my father has arranged a marriage for me."
At once, the darkness in Jaime's expression disappears as he bursts into laughter, sunlight breaking through the storm. "I am not in love with someone else. I am in love with you. Have all the nights we spent together during the war meant nothing to you?"
Remembering the tenderness and the closeness, the dirty, real nearness, Brienne shakes her head. "Of course they meant something to me. But I thought it was only because it was the end of the world and that you needed some basic human warmth that you even entertained the thought of sharing your last days with me."
"I spent what I thought were my last days with you because I love you, wench. Nothing more, nothing less."
Seeing the hope in his eyes, Brienne can do nothing but stare in wonder as her wildest fantasy slowly enters reality and wraps her in its arms, as warm and sure as Jaime's. Marshalling all her courage, Brienne leans forward to kiss Jaime and this time does not flee when she feels his tongue beginning its first tentative exploration of her mouth. Lighting up like a candle, Brienne barely feels the snow swirly around her or the darkness of the night, as Jaime's mouth is warm and perfect, and her love for him burns brightly in her chest.
"Marry me, Brienne, " he says, when he breaks the kiss. "Tell your father you want no one but me."
Letting herself drown in her love for Jaime is as easy as falling asleep.
"Of course."
Then, the knight kisses his lady and Brienne is in a song.