Chapter Text
‘You're a virgin!’
‘That's a statement, about the present’ Jaime corrected his brother, swirling the wine in his goblet.
‘At no point in the past, up until this very moment, have you slept with a man.’ Tyrion’s eyebrows elevated, ‘Or a woman’ he added, the suggestion titillating it seemed.
She stood, holding herself stiff as she fought the urge to sway a little to the left where her centre of gravity seemed to have set up residence. Always so clever, Lannisters with their clever tongues and quick-witted jibes, mocking with razor-sharp tongues.
‘I have to piss.’
If they wouldn’t treat her as a lady she wouldn’t speak as one. What was the point? Still too manly to be a woman, too female to be treated as an equal. Disgust and disappointment warred with unaccustomed inebriety as to what sickened her more.
No one corrected Tyrion, no one defended her, just silence and embarrassed, awkward glances between them all. She was a joke, the joke just like always, even with those she thought were her friends, even with those she had fought with, against death itself!
Tormund’s arrival and drunken vulgarity gave her an excuse to leave. With head high and back straight she left the heat and fecund fustiness of the feast, her military bearing disguising her unsteady steps.
Her room was warm, the freshly laid split timbers spitting and sparking in her hearth smelled of resin and pine and mountain rain, almost like home.
She would survive this hurt, this slight, as she had survived all others. She had been foolish to expect anything different, to assume she had garnered respect enough to be treated with dignity and due regard.
A cup of water reminded her of how much she had already drunk.
‘Fool’ she chided herself as she stripped herself of her worn-out clothes. Her eye throbbed, the bruise there yellowed but still tender. She was silly enough to drink to excess, coaxed and cajoled to partake in a rigged game that lowered her defences as well as her inhibitions where she was the butt of the joke.
On the morrow, it would hurt less. She would hurt less.
She blew out the candle and slept.
Breakfast was a quiet affair, too many sore heads and too many still exhausted she presumed. It’d been a week since the battle was won. The feast had been delayed until those who survived recovered, or didn’t, morphing into a wake for the fallen and a celebration of sorts. She sat in her usual spot, the long bench where she had gathered the night before with her so-called friends. It still stung but she was good at hiding her wounds. She had practised and perfected nonchalance in the face of belittlement for years, she could shrug off whatever ‘banter’ she was needled with today. She was ready for it, for them.
But Pod didn’t appear, and neither did Jaime. Lord Tyrion was thankfully nowhere to be seen.
She didn’t mean to wish them harm but she hoped their hangovers were punishing them as much as her own currently was. She pushed the half-eaten bowl of porridge away, not even the apple sauce topping making it appetising enough and went to her duties.
Her stomach had settled by midday, well, it had quit with its queasy complaining. The physical work had sweated out the worst of her excesses, both alcoholic and vitriolic. She was past the point of caring now. It was done, the slight was inconsequential in the vast scheme of things. She needed to find Podrick, it was past time he crawled out of his pit and quit ducking his obligations. All able bodies were needed in the repair effort.
Always a hungry lad she was sure he’d be ravenous by now, having missed the earlier meal. She waited blagging an extra loaf but declining her meal until he got there. She decided she wouldn’t scold him, he was young and alive and what was one missed work detail, she thought indulgently. The hall emptied and neither her squire nor her-, Ser Jaime made an appearance. Scowling she hailed a serving girl and took a bowl. She barely tasted the stew, her head turning to the doorway and back to the bowl so frequently it nearly made her dizzy!
The yards were empty, fighting the last thing on anyone's mind after the horrors of the Long Night but her drills and practising her forms calmed her.
Vexed and fretful, not a good mix. Vexed that Pod had seen fit to miss their training session and fretful because he’d never been absent before.
Yes, it was Pod she was worried about and annoyed with though admittedly, it was unusual not to see Ser Jaime-, he was usually lurking about. The only days he hadn’t been constantly at her shoulder of late were the three after the battle when his wounds were angry and serious enough to warrant he stayed in the make-shift infirmary in Great Hall.
She’d sat with him as much as she could, in case he needed anything, the healers were so busy with the dying. He teased her about her ‘scowling diligence’ on the second day and she knew then he'd be alright. And he was stubborn enough to leave his cot on the third day though he looked deathly pale and the slice to his flank still oozed more than she would like.
It was not her place to order him to bed. Sam Tarley did though and she was glad of it.
In the few days since, he had rallied and almost returned to his role as her shadow. Excused from work schedules he had sat nearby, helpfully ‘directing’ the slogging, sweating, hammering and hauling workers with his ongoing and relentless commentary.
His mouth had him closer to death more times than ever before the hoard of wrights!
He was bored he said when she reminded him he should be resting, in bed, as Sam had prescribed. She demanded he be useful if he must follow her about. He offered to boost morale, well her morale, he apparently didn’t give a shit about the other labourers. He talked and talked, hardly taking a breath, ridiculous tales and far-fetched stories. Her head ached for the want of peace and quiet. He delighted in her aggravation it seemed, that wry smile of his irritating her more than his outlandish chronicles. In some ways, now that they knew each other as they did his teasing was worse now than during their trudge through the Riverlands all those years ago. It was different now, careful, cautious but no longer caustic. A push and pull rather than an attack.
But Gods he was relentless!
And that’s why it felt strange now not to have him here, poking her with his idiotically infectious wit.
It was too quiet. As much as she griped about it, she’d gotten used to his incessant banter, his never-ending teasing, his constant soft voice droning in her ear.
Perhaps he was ill? Her breath caught. His wound might have opened or a fever, a sudden onset of blood poisoning from whatever foul, rusty blade had ripped through his flesh. A blade meant for her blocked with his body. Her human shield.
Maybe she should look for him? Her feet were moving before she had finished the thought.
She made her way towards the North Wall garrison. Podrick was billeted there. Some of the upper lodging rooms housed the Westerosi officers and leaders, who unlike herself, were not part of the Stark household. Podrick would tell her which chamber was Jaime’s and accompany her to check on him. She was not blind to the inappropriateness of a lady entering a barracks and seeking a man's quarters unchaperoned.
She had just passed the Wolfwood gate when the wayward stumbling of a familiar figure caught her eye.
‘Podrick?’
‘Ser My Lady!’ he beamed, his plump cheeks rosy even in the muted light of the overcast day.
Fumes wafted towards her on the breeze. ‘You're drunk’
‘A little bit’ he admitted candidly while blinking owlishly at her.
‘A lot’ she tutted, ‘Have you been drinking all day?’
‘Not yet My Lady Ser’ he hiccupped, prompting something to regurgitate. He swallowed manfully but the flush had turned decidedly green-tinged. She took a cautious step back, mindful of the possibility of a splash-back finish.
‘Podrick, have you seen Ser Jaime?’
‘Yes. Definitely’ he snortled a laugh that rapidly descended into titters. There was little to no chance of getting any sense out of him.
‘Where?’ she prompted him impatiently.
With exaggerated effort, he squished his finger against his lips shushing himself.
‘Oh, for heavens’ sake!’ she snapped. ‘Go to bed Pod, we will talk about this when you are in a fit state-, and if you chuck it up you clean up! Understood?’
He stood to attention and nodded, ‘Yes, my lady ser’ he slurred, somewhat abashed.
She decided to retread her squire's footsteps. The farthest field between the Wolfgate and the primordial forest itself hosted the Free Folk encampment, they being uncomfortable behind the walls of the Keep now the Dead were dead. Tented tarps and grey-flecked skins sprawled higgledy-piggledy across the landscape in the distance, campfires smoking and smouldering in the cold, heavy air. She set out at a decent pace, wanting to get back should this direction prove a fool’s errand.
She had not reached the first tent when she was met by Jon Snow and Ser Davos.
‘Ser Brienne’ the older man addressed her with a polite bow which she returned. Both had the bleary-eyed look of men well in their cups.
‘Gentlemen, have either of you seen Ser Jaime?’
‘Rather more than I needed to if I'm honest,’ Davos chuckled shaking his head.
His glibness confused her, Davos was always a straight talker, and she liked him for it.
‘The North can be cruel’ Jon intoned, rocking back and forth on his heels. ‘The cold is unforgiving,’ he shook his head morosely and Davos covered his smile with his gloved hand.
‘Is he hurt?’
‘Only his pride,’ the older man huffed, ‘perhaps his reputation has taken a bashing too’ he grimaced, adjusting himself uncouthly. She blamed it on his ale-sodden state.
‘Ser Jaime’s reputation is in the past, he fought bravely and honourably-,’
‘Ser Brienne, we mean no disrespect to the Kingsl-,’
She growled. She hadn’t meant to, it just erupted from her chest. Jon Snow was a Stark, she was a Stark swore-sword and both men were decent, fair-minded.
‘Apologies,’ Jon held up his hands, ‘I meant no disrespect, just an old habit.’
‘I actually quite like the bastard,’ Davos shrugged cordially, ‘once you get to know him like-,’
‘Where is he?’ she snapped anxiously.
‘He’s all right lass, last I saw, these folks will confirm it.’ She looked to her left and saw Sansa in her familiar dark grey cloak, her auburn hair vivid amid the drab greys of the northern day. Her tall elegance was in contrast to the younger brother of the very man she sought.
‘My Lady, Lord Tyrion,’
‘Just Tyrion when among friends,’ he offered urbanely.
‘Hmm,’ she replied noncommittedly, unconvinced the complicated Lannister’s warranted that status. ‘I didn’t know you had left the keep, Lady Sansa. I would have accompanied you.’
‘It's all right Brienne,’ she waved her petite gloved hand negligently, ‘there were quite a few of us curious as to the outcome, but it's getting too cold now so we’ll leave them to it’.
‘Have you seen-,’
‘My brother? Yes, definitely’ Tyrion chuckled gleefully, apparently another man well in his cups.
Was everyone drunk today? Was there another feast she had missed, or had she simply not been invited?
‘I’ve never seen one as hairy’ Jon interrupted, several conversations apparently going on simultaneously between the four.
‘Pardon?’ as he seemed to have addressed his remark to her.
‘I could knit a decent pair of socks with just his back fur,’ Davos agreed, wiping a tear from his eye.
‘Who? What?’ she tried to get their attention, seeming lost in the hilarity
‘Maybe that tale about the bear wasn’t as far-fetched?’ Sansa smiled, instantly looking younger.
‘Are bears ginger beyond The Wall?’ Davos asked of Jon quite seriously.
‘There're snow bears, black, grey and brown, but I never heard tell of red-,’
‘He calls himself a Lannister, he should bleed vintage Dornish like the rest of us!’
‘I’ll admit,’ Sansa- was that a giggle? ‘I’ve seen another side to him.’
‘You’ve seen every side to him-,’ Jon sassed, ‘Ouch!’ he groused, rubbing his chest where Sansa had playfully backhanded him.
‘My lords! Ser Jaime?’
‘Enough teasing Jon and you, Tyrion! I’m sorry Brienne, I should’ve put a stop to it before but they were so determined-, and we deemed the silliness good for morale,’
‘Put a stop to what?’
‘Just some friendly competitive sport with our Free Folk brethren,’ Tyrion shrugged placatingly.
‘Competitive sport? But Jai-, Ser Jaime’s not well enough-,’
‘I assure you Ser Brienne, he’s holding his own,’
‘Yes, he has it covered’ Sansa added sagely before they both snickered.
‘Will someone please tell me where-?’
‘They’re just over there’ Sansa was holding her slim side, still chortling at their private joke. She pointed with her other hand towards the centre of the camp. ‘Brienne wait, I should warn you-,’
She didn’t hear the rest. Following the cacophony of music, raucous laughing and catcalling, she rushed through the tented village, the odours of roasted meat, and unwashed bodies heavy in the air, until she reached a crowded clearing and in the centre -, a sight she was unprepared for.
Perhaps she should have heeded Sansa’s warning.
Her eyes were assaulted with a very naked, entirely beautiful and still golden Jaime Lannister, facing an equally unclothed, spectacularly hirsute yet surprisingly toned Tormund Giantsbane. Both men rattled with shivers, shuffling and bouncing as they stood on top of barrels as gusts whipped up eddies of icy snowflakes that flayed their blotchy skin.
While the redheaded wilding had his privates covered with his two meaty paws, Jaime could use only his flesh one, the hore-frosted metal hovering close but not touching his chilled skin.
It left little to the imagination.
‘What is the meaning of this madness!’ she roared breaking them both out of whatever staring brinkmanship match they had going on.
‘We’re duelling Brienne’ Jaime explained proudly.
‘You don’t have a weapon,’ she scoffed, her mouth suddenly dry as she redirected her gaze from his taut stomach muscles and the puckered line of thick, black sutures that marred his perfection.
‘I assure you I do’ he winked, actually winked at her!
‘Mine’s bigger Kingkiller, see?’ she averted her eyes with a grimace before she was scarred for life.
‘Hard to tell when she’d have to shear you find it.’
‘Adds to the mystery,’ the wildling sniffed, cocky and confident as always.
‘Adds to the lice’
‘Big Woman! I can keep you warm!’
‘Her name is Ser Brienne!’ Jaime erupted, cutting off her own protest. Her heart squeezed unexpectedly, which made her feel ridiculous.
‘Yes, yes, you’ve told me!’
‘And I’ll keep saying it Wilding! She is a highborn lady!’
‘She’s magnificent,’ the man licked his lips salaciously and she was flummoxed, no one had ever looked at her with such naked attraction...the evidence was staring her right in the eye!
‘She’s not a piece of meat!’
‘Hello! I’m right here!’ she snapped. ‘Stop this farce, right now!’ she barked, flushing with fury and embarrassment she was being dragged into their very public argument.
‘You first, Kingkiller!’ he goaded, his bearded face lit with that maniacal grin of his.
Jaime jutted his chin stubbornly. ‘I’m not moving.’
‘Neither am I,’ the other declared defiantly, looking to her for approval.
Her head switched back and forth between the two of them in amazement, this was ludicrous, juvenile, territorial…
‘Is this some kind of pissing contest?’
‘Oooh, we didn’t do that! Is that how Kneelers decide such things?’
‘What things?’
Giantsbane opened his mouth to explain but Jaime interrupted. ‘Noooooooo... No! Sshhhh! -,’ he paused for a hiccup ‘I would get a big punch right here...’ He pointed to his cheek, ‘or we’d both-,’ he sliced his finger across his throat, exposing his…everything. She belatedly turned her burning face away.
‘A good death,’ Tormund nodded in understanding. ‘I could piss further’ tugged out his manhood to full length, jiggling his hips, ‘cos I’m longer.’
‘I could piss more, I drank more than you!’ Jaime declared adamantly, widening his stance as if he would indeed relieve himself.
‘Prove it ya Southron cunt, someone get a bucket!’
‘ENOUGH! You will both cease this obscene spectacle and put some clothes on before you lose appendages neither of you can afford!’
‘Oh she’s angry,’ Tormund rubbed his palms together gleefully, leaving all out there to be seen, ‘I like it when she’s fired up and flushed, makes her eyes pretty.’
‘Her eyes are always pretty,’ Jaime retorted. She coloured slightly at the unexpected compliment but it was short-lived. ‘And Brienne is not a she-,’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘She’s a Ser, Ser Brienne of Tarth, the Sapphire Isle-,’
‘And an evening star?’ Tormund asked clearly baffled by the turn of their debate.
‘The Evenstar, E-ven-star! See you know nothing about her whereas I know the wench better than anyone.’ he put his finger on his lips, ‘not wench, Brienne…’ he mumbled his correction.
‘Get down off those barrels!’ When neither moved, she let rip, ‘NOW!’
They complied but it wasn’t pretty, she rolled her head back looking skyward for divine patience and to save what was left of her innocence from the sight of two grown men naked as their nameday, the cold having diminished their claims of proportional prowess.
Once again covering their essentials they stood before her like infantrymen ready for inspection.
‘Tormund. I’m disappointed in you.’
His hairy jaw dropped.
‘I’ve never disappointed a woman in my life! Ask anyone here!’
‘I thought you a sensible man, a prudent leader. Jon relies on you, on your leadership. Your actions should set an example to others, illustrating the comradeship between our peoples and here you are in a stupid display of petty rivalry,’
‘Not petty-,’ he denied vehemently, looking uncomfortable.
‘-Pitting yourself against an ally for fun, for japes when there is so much to be done. You wasted a day here at these frivolities while I and others, Freefolk, Unsullied, maimed and sick, women and children have toiled, pulling more than our fair share to cover for your absence.’ She shook her head ‘I thought better of you.’
‘I, I am sorry Lady Knight, the Free Folk do not shirk their work, I’ll prove it to you, I’ll work all day and night, I’ll do the work of ten, I’m strong enough. I’ll prove my worth-,’
‘Just get dressed and see to your duties, that’s all I ask,’
Shamefaced he pulled on his oiled sealskin trousers and boots.
Jaime smirked at the chastened Tormund.
She wheeled around to face him ‘And you!’
‘Yes, Lady Brienne’
‘How could you be so irresponsible? Just a sennight ago you could barely swallow the broth I spooned into you! Those stitches are all that’s standing between you and your innards splattering into the snow and you would risk life and another limb-,’
‘For you,’ he muttered hissing as his bare arse landed in the snow.
‘What?’
‘I would risk it for you.’
‘Stand up!’
‘Nope.’
‘Jaime Lannister, I am still your commanding officer and I have given you a direct order!’
‘And I would obey, I swear it, but my legs refuse to acquiesce to your request,’
‘Ha! I win Sisterfucker!’ Tormund crowed, thumping his still bare chest in triumph. ‘It was last man standing,’ A few wildings cheered along but as the snow was pelting down now the rest of the crowd had dissipated being sensible of the freezing conditions.
Her chest froze.
‘You win? What do you win?’
‘The bet’ the ginger giant of a man told her as if it were obvious and cause for congratulations.
Silence. She had no words. Memories of hurt, shame and humiliation swelled up from where she had buried them deep. But she couldn't tamp down the distraught emotions from showing on her face. Even as drunk as he clearly was Jaime knew she was upset.
‘Brienne?’
He knew. He knew her past. That stung a million times more than the wildling's involvement.
‘You made a bet, a wager on me?’ she kept her voice calm, well as calm as she could, even though her left fist was already clenching and unclenching and her right thumb brushed over the rubies set in Oathkeeper’s filigreed hilt.
‘Not like that, not-, Brienne, no!’ shaking his head adamantly while Tormund looked on confused at the sudden change in the tone. ‘It was just a jest-,’
‘A jest? I’m a jest to you, to both of you?’ Gods, and to all who knew of this farce, the whole castle who had cheered on his drunken wager.
‘You are not the-! No! It was just who you liked best, me or him,’
‘Who I liked?’
He nodded blinking nervously, ‘Yes, me or him?’ he repeated pointing to each of them, their faces alight with hopeful expectation as if she should choose.
‘Neither Ser, you are both idiots!’
Jaime’s shoulders sagged, utterly crestfallen and annoyingly she felt a twinge of sympathy for him.
‘Yes, but I’m a bigger, stronger still standing idiot!’ Tormund laughed arms aloft, though the cheering supporters had long departed.
‘Fuck off Giantsbane, you cheated with the fisheyes!’
‘Sore loser! I drank your brother’s red piss. It was fair. I win, yes?’ he demanded of her, his bright blue eyes intent.
‘Yes, you win,’ she scoffed sarcastically, ‘you’re a marginally bigger idiot than this fool, happy?’
‘Not until you claim me. Little Crow says I can’t steal you as I would a Free woman,’
‘Try it and I’ll geld you’ she sighed tired of telling him and several other wilding men the same thing, repeatedly.
He clapped his hands in delight, ‘Such passion! Oh, the babies we will make-,’
She ground her teeth ‘No claiming, no stealing, no passion, no babies, Tormund!’
Jaime belched loudly and collapsed into a fit of giggles, a sound totally incongruous to the man she knew. ‘Yeah, piss off Tormund’ He flipped up his only middle finger with childish glee at her rejection of the Wildling’s advances.
She turned her glare on him.
‘Where are your clothes, Ser Jaime?
‘I took them off.’
‘I can see that. Where?’
His puzzled look would be comical if he were not in real danger of freezing his flagrantly flaunted cock off.
‘Never mind’ she tugged off her heavy fur-lined cloak and wrapped him in it as she spied his belongings in a heap that was flecked with snow. She needed to get him dressed before he got hypothermia.
‘How could you participate in anything so foolish Ser Jaime,
‘Jaime, just Jaime’
‘Have you no consideration for all the hard work Sam went to, to save your life? Did I waste my hours sitting by your side as you healed just to have you throw your health away as if it were a triviality? Have we not lost enough people already?’
He did look remorseful but she wasn’t finished scolding him.
She harrumphed lifting his ice-cold foot by the ankle ‘Look at your toes’ rubbing them briskly, ‘you know how easy it is to get frostbit in these conditions. Poor Sam is heartsore amputating wounded limbs you would have him toil some more for a dare’.
A booming voice came from behind her. ‘Quit nagging the man, Tarth! Choose, put them out of their misery.’
‘This does not concern you Sandor’ she snapped, and the scarred man shook his head. ‘Lift’ she ordered Jaime, examining each of his toes on his other foot for the telltale signs of chilblains before pulling on a damp sock reasoning it was better than nothing.
‘I will go then, Lady Knight’ Tormund mumbled despondently. She thought he was already gone but gave the man a curt nod over her shoulder as etiquette among allies demanded. Sandor slapped the wildling on the shoulder in some kind of commiseration. She returned her full attention to the man before her.
‘I have no idea what you were thinking, why you would even consider trying to outdo a wildling at standing in the cold, the very people who’ve thrived in snow and ice for millennia! Have you taken leave of your senses altogether-,’
That thought piqued her anxiety, her hand already on his brow before thinking, ‘Perhaps you are fevered? Sepsis can be a silent killer, I’ll ask Sam to look over you-,’
‘I’m well Brienne, Please do not worry yourself,’
‘I’m not worried, I’m furious!’
‘Then I am sorry to have angered you, that was not my intent,’
‘Well, you have. Between the two of you, and this ridiculous endurance contest or whatever this was you have exposed yourself to all and ensured half of Winterfell is drunk, Podrick could barely stand straight-,’
‘That’s not my fault-,’
She glared again.
‘Sorry, I apologise for my part, and for getting him, the lad …?’
‘Podrick’ she supplied helpfully as he seemed to have forgotten.
‘Yes Pod, Podge… Podgieboy-,’
‘Don’t! One nickname is quite enough!’ she warned as she threaded his legs into his breeches.
With a groan, she hauled him up by his waistband fixing her gaze over his shoulder as she closed his laces. She leaned over to retrieve his top-half clothes but he tottered sideways until he sloped against her, his face uncomfortably close to her own.
‘How much did you drink?’ she asked, awkwardly tugging his clothing up his arms while keeping her cloak in place around him.
He listed again, his glazed eyes gyrating. ‘What, today?’
‘Yes, when did this madness begin?’
He gave the matter serious consideration, his face scrunched in thought, ‘After you left.’
‘Left?’
‘Yes, after you left me-, the feast. Tormund said something, something, something,’ he waved his hand airily as if she could interpret the significance of what had passed between them.
‘I see.’ She didn’t, but he had slumped further against her and she would need to reposition him before he headbutted her. She slung his arm around her shoulders to shift a better grip on him.
‘Anyhow I didn’t like what he was implying so I challenged him to a duel-,’
‘You did what?!’
‘But then Lady Sansa forbade all fighting, biting, baiting and boxing,’ he ticked off the prohibitions on his chapped fingers. ‘Non-contact contests only’ he puffed disdainfully, his breath warm and pungent against her face. ‘Women are too soft-hearted, don’t you think?’ he burped, and she turned her face away.
‘I can hardly answer that objectively’ she bristled, pushing him back until he righted himself but within a moment, he pitched forward flush against her. ‘So, you’ve been standing naked in the snow since then?’
‘No, no, first we drank many, many, rounds but we ran out,’ he tutted, ‘so then we ate fisheyes. He cheated though because the sick bastard enjoys them,’ he yacked and shuddered.
She jerked back fearing he would spew.
‘So then pickled seal bollox-bollocks- bollockses?’ he looked to her for clarification but unsurprisingly she too was ignorant of the correct term, instead she resisted imagining the process of eating one never mind the numerous delicacies he’d obviously managed. ‘They’re not too bad, bit chewy-,’
She held up her hand to halt him, her own stomach rising. ‘So let me get this straight. You dared each other to drink everything and anything liquid, then consumed-?
‘A jar of fisheyes, this big-,’ he made a hand symbol roughly the size of a quail’s egg.
‘Right, and then the-,’
‘Pickled balls’ he indicated something close to apple-sized before dry-retching again.
‘I see,’ she sighed wearily, ‘How many rounds did you drink Ser Jaime?’
‘A few,’ he confessed.
‘Of?’
‘A few horns of that fermented Wildling brew, mother’s milk to the ginger fucker so Tyrion added a keg of soured red to even the odds and then Sansa offered a bottle of mead.’
‘Why?’ It baffled her why he would endure such a foul-tasting, balls-freezing contest. Tormund was generally considered bat-shit crazy but Jaime-, he was occasionally impulsive yes, but-,
She rolled her eyes; impulsive, impetuous, reckless and rash…Jaime to a tee!
‘I had to win, for you,’
‘I’m hardly a prize.’ It was sometimes easier to humour him, the whole premise for the wager was so absurd anyway.
Looked at her puzzled expression she could not decipher, his mouth opening as if to say something, probably mocking or cruel. His throat moved, his Addam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed words and worked at others. She pursed his lips tightly, clenching her jaw, determined not to show her hurt when the taunt hit.
Icy fingers brushed her cheek, his face moved closer and for a stupid moment, she thought he meant to kiss her.
Then he keeled over, face-planting into a snow drift.
It was more awkward than she had imagined. Firstly, hauling a dead weight up from the slippery, ice-packed ground is bloody difficult! Hoisting him over her shoulder seemed to be the most economical method of carrying him back to the castle but his grunts and groans with every step concerned her. with his head dangling near her waist he might choke on his own vomit. The position might put undue pressure on his wound causing pain. Reluctant to put any strain on the half-healed line of stitches, she sought out a timber pile and lowered him down carefully where he slouched slackly against her.
She stretched out her muscles, arms above her head while considering her options.
Dusk threatened, marking the end of another dull and dreary day. The days still didn’t truly get bright, but the sun rose and that in itself was a blessing they were all thankful for. There was a dampness to the air that the Northerners said smelled of spring. It made travel cumbersome and hard work as the snow, no longer the powdery dusting that could be brushed off, clumped into heavy icy clods on boots and soaked through everything. It was harder to shovel too, clearing the paths a slog, and every scrap of clothing felt cold, dank and damp even after drying before a fire.
‘Ser Jaime?’
‘Yes Lady Brienne’ he answered, his tone so reminiscent of how he had addressed her in his tent at Riverrun. She felt hot and clammy, a sweat blooming that had nothing to do with exertion.
‘Are you well?’
‘Yup,’ he popped his lips on the last letter, his head lolling about laxly. He hiccupped loudly. ‘You like me best’ he beamed smiling goofily like the cat that got the cream.
‘I begrudgingly tolerate you. Can you stand?’
‘Yes, of course’ he replied eagerly and in fairness to him he did obey-, for at least the count of ten before his legs started to give way.
‘Woah!’ She only just caught him in time. It was snowing again. Flakes had started out as pretty, fluffy, gentle feathers on her skin but they’d turned to ruthless, hard pellets stinging every inch of exposed flesh, driven on by a bitter, sustained wind.
Exasperated, she lifted him, one arm under him, behind his knees the other cradling his back, and she fought against the wind-driven flurries and her own flustered emotions treading carefully over the packed ice pathway leading back to Winterfell. She could feel her blood cool and turn sluggish; her skin became icy and numb. Her sweat-dampened clothes stuck to her body, the chill pinpricking her with nasty little needles. They shouldn't have left the wildling camp, not in this weather. They should have waited it out, Tormund, as irritating as he was would have been hospitable.
She saw Jaime’s face then all bemused and his lips moved saying something garbled but she couldn’t make out what he said.She kept going, trudging through the snow with Jaime hoisted up in her arms, pulled tight against her chest as the wind wailed above them.One footstep after another, head down, teeth gritted, even in the relative trail of the well-trodden pathway the snow was well over her ankles now, her footprints rapidly filling up, covering their tracks which added to her growing anxiety. The storm was getting worse.
She stopped for a couple of moments, checked her bearings and adjusted him again in her aching arms. Though leaner now following his journey North, the siege rations and his recent injury, he was still a substantial weight to carry. He was completely out of it now, snoring loudly, snuggled tightly against her chest, his exposed cheek raw from the chill. Snowflakes and ice crystals sparkled like diamonds on his eyelashes.
The light was failing; was it so late in the afternoon already? She wasn’t really sure what direction she was heading in now. There was no sun, the muffled light didn’t even cast shadows and the bleak woodland stretched in all directions. The land all looked the same. The castle walls should be straight ahead, and she would have reached them by now had she been walking rather than lugging Jaime Lannister’s drunken arse!
Cursing colourfully, she ploughed on knowing disorientation could have her doubling back on herself but not having any other option but to keep going.
She was beyond exhausted now; having already laboured all morning while nursing her own hangover she’d pushed past whatever endurance and pain limits she had ever had a long time ago. Turning her body to protect her face and his from the driving snow she thought she was imagining it at first, her eyes blurry with splinters of icy tears.
A couple of hundred meters more and she was thanking each of the Seven, all the Old Gods and the New as the castle gate miraculously came into view. With a last burst of energy, she waded over through the drifts and mercifully into the shelter of the walls.
She ignored the chuckles from passing Valemen, the odd looks from the washerwomen at the bailey well, she paid no attention to any of the squawking gossips, laughing Northern soldiers or winking Wildlings on her way.
She’d like to say that was because she was indifferent to their silly ribbing. What of it, she was just a friend helping another who was …indisposed? No big deal, hardly worth the whispers and smirks.
In reality, she paid them no heed because Jaime had burrowed himself closer and nudged his whole head into the crook of her neck and was currently nuzzling his nose and she speculated, lips, along her collar, dangerously close to her pulse point.
It was distracting.
His lips were cold.
It was improper.
He was insensibly drunk.
She should tell him to stop.
She didn’t.
She could feel his quivering shivers through her grip. He needed warming immediately; the liquor had lowered his resilience to the cold. Her room was closest and was sure to have a fire lit so she headed there.
Standing him propped against the doorframe, she wedged her hip against his groin to hold him upright, willing her numbed hands to cooperate, as she rooted her key from her pocket and turned the lock. Hoisting Jaime back up into her protesting arms she almost tumbled inside and deposited her now babbling charge onto the leather armchair, slamming the door shut with her foot to keep the heat in.
Out of the cold even for those few short minutes, her body started shivering. She would give anything just to curl up and sleep but she clenched her fists knowing she had work to do if Jaime was to avoid hypothermia. Stoking the embers in the hearth, she added kindling sticks, then logs until flames flared up merrily. She toed off her boots then shrugged out of her damp outer layers, gambeson-,
‘Wench,’ he smiled blinking blearily up at her, his eyes bloodshot and his hair was a mess of tangled icy strands. ‘It's bloody hot in here’ he puffed struggling to untie the laces of her cloak.
‘Oh move aside’ She knelt in front of him, swatting his fiddling hand away. His arms flopped onto his lap while she concentrated on unscrambling the knot he had made.
He reached out, his finger hooking into a gap between the lacing of her shirt, his fingertip brushing against the sensitive skin between her breasts.
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered, swallowing though her mouth was chalk-dry
‘I’m taking your shirt off.’
‘Oh’
‘Brienne-, I-,’ he stared at her, his eyes soft and luminous, ‘I want to-,’ he cleared his throat, almost nervously, which seemed unlikely but her stomach flipped.
His emptied.