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There was blood in the snow.
No, Jaime thought, correcting his tiring mind before the next undead opponent was on top of him, raising the tip of his sword from where it had been resting. There was so much blood in the snow the ground had been turned a violently rich scarlet, much like someone had claimed the land by laying down a forsaken Lannister sigil.
He'd lost track of most of his men, though his wench kept darting in and out of his eye line, her boiled leather dripping in blood and ice, but, as he ran Widow's Wail through a wight in tattered red and gold, he supposed they must have been falling all around him since before the moonrise, only to be resurrected as the magic of winter claimed their body for another fight.
Several battles ago, as they tended to their wounds over firelight in the relative safety of a temporary barracks, he'd had her promise that he wouldn't go out the same way, that she would burn him down to bones and beyond if that was it took. He couldn't trust anyone else, there was only Brienne, with her scars and her oaths and her big, beautiful eyes. Her lower lip had wobbled as he asked, her eyes clouding over with a sentiment he knew all too well but hadn't yet put in to words, almost tempted to break the bonds of friendship before she was nodding and blinking away whatever moment had passed between them. It was much too late for that anyway, he knew, despite how often she had been by his side, at this back, in his heart. There was no happiness to be found in the wasteland of winter, only endings, cold and alone, the bleakest of fates hanging heavy over them all in its inevitability. If only...
There was too much blood in the snow.
The thought brought him back from where his mind had been wandering like a flash of sudden lightning across the sky, drawing his attention to where it mattered, to where Brienne was disappearing beneath a near unstoppable wave of wights and walkers. Her sword gleamed as he fought his way across the field of ice towards her, Valyrian steel turning frozen blood and bone to dust as if the paired blades were calling to each other, a red, flickering flame clutched like a shield helping her to cut through the undead.
She shot him a pointed look as he carelessly reduced their odds one by one, irritation tinged with gratitude, determination with concern, all of the things Jaime had learned to so easily read from her familiar freckled features. He only flashed her a grin before spinning away again, though, protecting his weaker, barely armoured, right side as she stepped forward to do the same. Her cheeks were red from the cold as much as the exertion, lips parting to take another sharp breath, calling out a warning despite the wind whipping the words into a whine above their heads.
He didn't notice the thrown spear until it would have been too late, though Brienne had, her sharpened reflexes reacting to the danger with a less than graceful shove, allowing the weapon to sail past them as the air rushed from his lungs. Staring up at her from the frozen ground some moments later, Jaime felt like he was coughing back into existence, taking her hand as she dragged him back to his feet.
"Be careful," she hissed, her lips as red as summer strawberries and just as inviting, before spinning away to face the next foe.
There was only blood in the snow, but, at least today, none of it was theirs.