Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"I am the Imp and I demand to know!"

"I knew you were fuckin' her."

The familiar voice sends chills down Jaime's spine as he turns from his brother to see Bronn walking straight to them with a sway on his hips and a crossbow on his hands. "Pair of tall blonde toffs," he goes on. "Must be like lookin' in a mirror."

"Ser Bronn of the Blackwater," Tyrion greets the man. "Where is your drink? What… what are you doing up North?"

"What are you doing with that?" Jaime hisses, anxious to get to the matter at hand—he has his suspicions already, but he'd rather get confirmation first.

Bronn doesn't miss a beat. "Oh, this? This is for you." He gestures to Jaime as he grabs a chair and sits down across the table, in front of them. "For both of you," he adds as he positions the crossbow on his lap, ready to aim at either of them whenever he wishes.

"You're supposed to be south," Tyrion cleverly counters. Jaime swallows a snort.

"You boys are a pair of gold-plated cunts," Bronn retorts, "do you know that?"

"Now that's a bit rude—"

Bronn cuts him off. "Year after year, I've shoveled Lannister shit, and what do I have to show?"

Jaime really, really hopes the man did not come all the way here just to complain about not getting his thrice-damned castle. "You're a knight," Tyrioun counters, "thanks to me."

"Thanks to me," Bronn scoffs. "And that title's worth as much as a blond hair from your brother's ballsack."

For you, cunt, it must be. But to some people, it still carries value. He wishes his mind could just wander back to the night he granted that title to Brienne, but he has to focus. His and Tyrion's lives are at stake. His brother, however, does not seem to be as keen to find out what is happening as he is to keep bickering. "Power resides where men believe—"

"Shut your mouth," Bronn snarls, and for once Tyrion obeys.

Or not. "I'm just trying—"

"I've never hit a dwarf before, but say another word and I will belt you."

"See, I don't believe you'd do that—"

Bronn doesn't cut him off with words this time; instead, he bends over the table and punches his brother on the face. Before he can think twice, Jaime stands up, but Bronn is quick to his feet as well. "You couldn't do it on your best day, you one-handed fuck," he reminds him. "And your best days are long gone."

Beside him, Tyrion groans. "You... broke my nose!"

"I did not break your nose," Bronn retorts, sitting back down.

"How do you know?"

"Because I've been breaking noses since I was your size, and I know what it sounds like. Now listen." Jaime sits down as he realizes Bronn doesn't want to hit either of them at this very moment. If he wants to talk, he'll listen. He still has suspicions to confirm, after all. The sellsword does not disappoint. "Your sister offered me Riverrun," he begins.

He doesn't need to hear anything else, but he goes on, listing all advantages of the place until the former Golden Lion (nowadays half-grey) can't take it anymore. "And you trust Cersei—"

Bronn is as impatient as he is, it seems. "I knew your sister was dead the second I saw those dragons," he retorts. "Now, your army may be torn to shit, but I'd still bet on your Dragon Queen to win. And it just so happens I'm a betting man. If Cersei's dead, she can't pay up." He grabs the ale and takes a couple sips. "Mmm, that's good", he comments as he returns it to the table. "Of course, the odds change if the Dragon Queen's Hand turns up dead. Maybe a few of her top generals get picked off one by one. All of a sudden—"

Tyrion groans again, rubbing his bloody nose. "May I speak?"

Bronn snorts and rolls his eyes. "Why not? Only death will shut you up."

He sniffs. "We made a deal long ago. Do you remember?"

"If anyone offered me money to kill you, you'd pay me double," Bronn replies. "What's double Riverrun?"

A beat. "Highgarden," his brother offers. "You could be Lord of the Reach."

Okay, that's enough. He turns his head to Tyrion. "Highgarden? Are you mad?"

"It's better than being dead!"

He turns back to Bronn, an idea suddenly coming to him. "You don't want Highgarden."

Bronn snorts. "And you know me this well, Lannister," he retorts, "to tell me what I want or what I don't want."

"You once said you wanted your death to be boring," he replies, raising an eyebrow. "You won't get that with Highgarden. You know what you will get with that castle?" Bronn doesn't answer. "A war at your door. You may not care about bloodlines and succession issues, and neither do I, but those fancy, plump lords in the Reach do. They won't accept someone with no Tyrell blood at all as Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach."

"Then give the damn second title to some other cunt," the sellsword says dismissively.

"It doesn't work that way," he retorts. "Families come and go, but castles remain. The West was ruled by the Casterlys, then the Lannisters, but always from the Rock. Same for the Reach. No matter who ends up sitting on that throne, Highgarden will remain its most important seat. So, war. None of them will let you keep that castle without a fight."

"Half of the Reach Houses hated the Tyrells," Tyrion points out.

Jaime shrugs. "So? Half of the West can't stand the Lannisters either, but they'd still never accept a random sellsword as their new overlord. If Bronn wants power, alright, give him Highgarden. But I know it isn't what he wants."

"Then what would your offer be, Kingslayer?" Bronn asks, clicking his tongue and shifting the crossbow from one hand to another.

"The Twins," he says easily. "No one wants the Twins nowadays, not after the Frey massacre. You won't face competition, you'll earn a lot of coin controlling the river, and you have no bannermen to bother you with petty fights. And, unlike with Riverrun and Highgarden, no one cares whose ass sits at dead Walder Frey's chair. You'll even get a lady easily, because the Frey massacre spared the women."

Bronn looks upon him up and down. "Alright," the man says eventually. "But I'll hold on to your word."

"You're one of the few people who'd say that and mean it."

"Well, I'm countin' on that old sayin' about Lannister cunts and their fuckin' debts."

Then he just gets up and leaves, carrying his crossbow on his back and whistling. Only when he can't hear the sound anymore does he relax. "You know," his brother says, taking a sip of his ale. "That was very clever of you."

He blinks, surprised. "You think so?"

"Of course. You used his own words against him and made a deal that benefits everyone involved." Another sip. "I don't think Edmure or Daenerys will oppose handing the Twins to Bronn, which is not something I'd say about Highgarden."

"It would be a mess for all involved," he points out. "No need to be clever to figure that one out."

"Perhaps not, but few would have convinced Bronn that a lesser castle was a better offer."

He looks down to his half-empty mug. It's odd to hear Tyrion calling him clever when his last fight with Cersei—the one that finally drove him away from her—began when she called him 'the stupidest Lannister' and featured her taunting him about his lack of interest in Father's economy lessons.

Then it finally dawns on him: Cersei hired Bronn to kill him. He had dismissed the almost order to the Mountain as a heat-of-the-moment thing; he was leaving, she was angry because 'no ones leaves her', she wanted to make sure those words remained true. But she had over a month to cool her head and think over what they said and did to each other, and still wanted him dead.

This is not something one would do to someone they claim to love. It's not even something one would do to a sibling. Suddenly, everything is clear to him. "Tyrion," he begins, voice hoarse. "I'd like to take part in your queen's next war council meeting."

His brother startles. "Why?"

"As someone who knows Cersei's forces from inside out, I think I can bring valuable information to her commanders."

Tyrion blinks twice. "I'm sorry, Jaime, are you saying you want to give Daenerys Targaryen information on how to defeat our sister?"

"She hired Bronn to kill both of us, in case you've forgotten," he deadpans. "She's taken a side; so must I."

"Jaime, as much as I appreciate your offer to help, I can't let you join out of impetuous revenge."

"This isn't revenge," he argues. "This is about doing what's right. I'm not overly fond of your queen, of course, but I'd rather try her out than keeping Cersei on the throne." He glances ahead, to nothing in particular. "I didn't really want to be by her side when she was crowned, you know. She'll never admit it, of course, not even to me, but I knew from the beginning she was the one behind the explosion of the Sept."

"Then why did you stay?" His brother sounds earnest and genuinely curious.

He sighs. "I thought I could talk her down and calm her. But…" He shakes his head. "I'll spare you the details. It didn't work, and when she revealed to have lied about sending her armies North… I had already run out of excuses to stay. If I wanted to do the right thing—if I wanted to be the man Brienne saw when she looked at me—leaving was the only option. So I left."

"So it all boils down to Ser Brienne, then."

"Did you not hear anything I just said?"

"I did, every word. But, with all due respect, Jaime, I don't think you'd have realized any of this if it were not for her. The man who believed himself to be Cersei's mirror image would never have knighted her—actually, if I try to list all the things old you would never have done, this war would be done before I could finish."

Tyrion chuckles at his own jape, but Jaime remains silent. His brother is right; his acquaintance with—and his feelings for—Brienne changed him, seemingly for the better. She showed him it was never too late to aim for honor and goodness, and she believed him. She trusted him. She vouched for him, defying her liege lady and risking Daenerys' wrath in the process.

And last night she let him into her bed. He smiles to himself as he remembers their lovemaking. Their slight drunkenness cut their time together short, as they fell tired sooner than he wanted, but the experience itself was a wonder. Jaime woke up even more in love with Brienne than he was when he stormed inside her chambers.

"By the gods," he hears Tyrion exclaim. "You don't even have to be near her to be sappy about her."

He chuckles, but all mirth dies as another realization dawns on him. "Bronn knows about Brienne and I," he says, looking at his brother with wide eyes. "He greeted us revealing he overheard our talk. If he tells Cersei—"

Tyrion's grin falls and he finishes his mug. "We must warn Lady Sansa," he says. "If our sister finds out about you two… I'd wager Ser Brienne would be in more danger than anyone else." Jaime gulps; he's right. "But if Bronn tells her about it, it'll take a moon turn at least."

"If? You still think that cutthroat won't give the information away?"

"If she doesn't pay him, no." He stands up. "And, since he gave us time to talk and make a better offer instead of killing us straight away, he may walk around his cutthroat ways by not saying he has new intel to sell."

"I won't rely on that," he retorts dryly. "We must warn Brienne and Lady Sansa. And I ask you to consider allowing me in the meeting."

"I've already considered. I'll speak to Daenerys during supper. She may not trust you, but I think she will be inclined to give you a chance to talk after I tell her what happened."

"Don't mention Brienne to her," he pleads.

Tyrion raises a questioning brow, but nods anyway. "We should check if Bronn is out in the streets."

"We definitely should."

Bronn wasn't out in the streets, nor hidden in the short road between Wintertown and Winterfell. Jaime and Tyrion go back to the castle without trouble, but Jaime stops his brother before they actually enter it. "I have another request," he says, bending down so no one else will hear them. "Cersei's life should be spared if she is still pregnant."

To be honest, Jaime questions whether his sister was truly pregnant to begin with. The timing was too perfect, precisely what she needed to keep him at her side. Besides, neither of them are young as they were when Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen were conceived; he'd not be surprised if Cersei's childbearing days are, in fact, gone. Even if she indeed got pregnant, the chances that the child is half-Greyjoy are higher than being completely Lannister. Still, it isn't impossible, and Jaime would rather spare an innocent life, regardless of who fathered it.

Tyrion nods. "I don't know how possible it will be, though. It all depends on which strategies are picked." He nods in return. For all they know, Cersei will kill herself before allowing her enemies to lay a hand on her. For all they know, the city will burn under dragon or wildfire before she can be seized.

They walk inside the castle, and Tyrion asks a guard for Lady Sansa and Ser Brienne. The maid who overhears his requests offers to lead them to the room the two women are meant to be in. They quietly follow her.

She opens the door to reveal both women sharing supper with Bran Stark and Podrick Payne. The two brothers exchange glances, silently agreeing that both young men can be privy to the information they are about to share, and walk in the room.

"Lord Tyrion," Sansa Stark greets them. "Ser Jaime. What brings you here at this time of the evening?"

"No good news, I'm afraid," his brother replies as the two of them take seats. Of course, Jaime picks the one closest to Brienne. "We were tracked in Wintertown by Ser Bronn of the Blackwater."

All of them, except Bran, flinch at the mention. "What did he want?" The Lady of Winterfell asks.

"Cersei ordered him to kill us both," Jaime replies. He feels Brienne's hand on his and clears his throat to continue. "He gave us a chance to up her offer, but… well, he's not the most trustworthy man in the realm."

"He isn't," Brienne agrees, squeezing his hand. "How did it go, then?"

"Our sister offered him Riverrun in exchange for our lives," Tyrion answers for him. "I nearly offered Highgarden to keep us alive—"

Lady Sansa gapes at her former husband. "What?"

"I know, I know. Bad offer. I was dizzy from the punch he gave me, in case you haven't noticed the bleeding nose yet. Anyway, the offer did not stand for long, as my brother convinced him the Twins suited his needs better."

"The Twins?"

"It's a long story," Jaime replies dismissively. "Suffice to say I know what he wants. Still, whether he's thinking of Highgarden or the Twins, Bronn is not to be trusted. He knows where Tyrion and I are, he might have caught a glimpse of Daenerys' forces, and…" He looks at Brienne and squeezes her hand. Then he turns back to the Starks. "He overheard us talking about Brienne."

His lover—oh, he hopes he can call them lovers, really—takes a sharp breath. Lady Sansa's face hardens. "You fear he may sell this information to Cersei," she states. He nods. "We must be even more careful then. Brienne," she turns to her sworn sword. "I won't release you from your vows just yet, because they can grant you protection as much as it grants me. But you won't be scheduled for guard duty any longer."

"My lady, I hardly think this is necessary—"

"I know you can defend yourself," her liege lady replies, going a bit softer, "but you should be your own last stand, not your first. I'll assign a few guards for you, one at a time."

He caresses her knuckles, and she nods. "May I have a word with your sworn sword, my lady?" He asks Sansa.

"If she wants to." Brienne nods. "Then you are both free to go."

He doesn't let go of her hand as he guides her to the room he knighted her a couple nights ago, only doing so in order to grab a chair to sit down. He positions himself so their knees are touching. He always wants to touch her, one way or another, especially after what they shared; he hopes she wants the same, which is why he is here, doing what he is about to do.

"I'm glad Sansa gave you a reprieve from your duties," he begins. "I worry for your safety, and, selfishly, I'm glad you'll have more time for me to steal for myself."

She inhales deeply and reaches for his hand again. He gladly offers it. "Are you alright? I know it can't be easy to hear your sister wants you dead."

He sighs, grabbing her hand tightly. "It's not her first attempt," he replies. Her eyes go wide. "When I told her I'd leave the city, she ordered the Mountain to kill me, but aborted it at the last minute. I… I dismissed it as something she'd do in ire, but—she had enough time to think things through and still…" He shakes his head. "If I wanted any more confirmation she's no longer the girl I was once in love with, I got it tonight."

She frowns. "You don't love her anymore?"

He brings her palm to his lips and gives it a feather kiss. "Brienne," he breathes out. "I thought I made it clear last night where my affections lie."

Her breath intake is sharp this time. "You didn't say a word," she replies quietly.

"And I apologize for my silence," he says evenly. "Had I known my actions would not be enough…" He kisses her palm again. "It is you who holds my heart now, Brienne. I brought you here to ask you to marry me."

Her hand trembles under his hold, and so does her lips. He really, really wants to kiss her shock away, but he doesn't think the gesture would help her answer him. "Really?" She asks timidly. Disbelievingly—and fuck everyone who ever made her feel unwanted, including himself.

"I love you. I have for years, and there is absolutely nothing I'd want more in this world than to be yours in the eyes of gods and men." He drops her hand carefully. "Of course, I only want this if you are on board too. I know I'm not much of a prospect—"

She shakes her head with and a lovely smile. He can barely breathe. "I gave you my maidenhead willingly last night, for one reason only: I love you, Jaime Lannister. Yes, I'd very much like to marry you."

He surges forward to capture her lips with his own, smiling wide as he does so. Afterwards, he takes her to their shared chambers, where they make love once more, even better than the night before.

In the morning, he wakes up before her and finds their legs are tangled, unlike the previous night in which they slept apart. He has ample view of her sleeping face, of her chest rising up and down. Greedy and selfish, he leaves open-mouthed kisses on her neck until she wakes up with a gasp that makes him lose what little restraint he had. Only after does he greet her. "Good morning," he purrs, kissing her collarbone.

She hums. "I could wake up every morning like this," she admits.

"You will," he promises, rising up to kiss her lips. "Soon."

"I must speak to Lady Sansa," she tells him when they break their kiss. "As her sworn sword, I cannot marry without her consent."

He doesn't like the idea, but knows it's a necessity. Brienne is safer in Winterfell if she remains sworn to the Starks, and he has no intention to wait until said protection is no longer needed to call himself hers. "We will speak to Lady Sansa," he replies. "I must make my case and use all my wit to convince her I'm a good choice for you."

"I love you," she says, solemnly and casually at the same time somehow. His heart skips a beat. "I love you, and I choose you, and that should be enough if she trusts me as she claimed when I vouched for you."

The memory of his mock trial makes him kiss her all over again, and he nearly loses himself in her touch—until he remembers something else that must be discussed. "Tyrion will ask Daenerys to let me in her next war council meeting," he says.

"Because of last night?"

"Yes," he confirms, pulling her close in an embrace. "Up until now I thought myself the one person she cared about—that still lived, at least. I even thought of writing her a letter—under someone's supervision, of course, as to not raise suspicion over me—asking her to surrender and spare her life… and her child's."

She frowns. "Is she pregnant?"

"Supposedly," he replies, "and she says it's mine. Frankly, I've doubted both of her claims of late, but… well. I was going to put in on the letter anyway. But alas, sending Bronn to kill me shows how wrong I was about her assessment of my person." He grimaces. "I'd rather try Daenerys Targaryen than let Cersei on that cursed chair."

She rests a hand on his cheek, caressing it with her thumb. "Are you sure this isn't revenge?"

"Yes. I've known Cersei is a terrible queen for… well, since she was crowned. But, even if I'm no longer in love with her, she's still my sister. I wasn't overly fond of the prospect of killing her, even if indirectly. I still am not. Her assassination attempt freed me from such guilt, however." He sighs. "I do hope there is a chance to save the baby, though, if there is indeed one."

"You could ask Lord Bran," she suggests. "Surely he can see if she is pregnant right now."

He frowns. "I could, in theory, but I don't know if it's wise. Not after… well, you know."

She nods slowly, and suddenly he's overcome with gratitude. This woman knows all of his worst sins, including shoving Bran out of a window and killing his own cousin—actions that tie both as his cruelest and dumbest acts, in hindsight—and still loves him. One could argue loving someone is not a choice—hells, he told her that once—but she also acted on that love. She gave him her maidenhead and gleefully accepted his proposal. She saved him from death by dragonfire and shielded his back during the Long Night. He doesn't deserve her love, but who does? All he can do is thank whatever gods graced him with such a miracle and hold on to it until his dying day.

"I could ask for you," she says, taking him out of his daydreams.

He shakes his head. "No, this is my burden to bear, not yours. I'll be a man about it and ask him."

"We are to get married soon," she says softly. "Your burdens are mine as well."

"Not yet," he replies, kissing her soundly. "But soon, indeed."

As they dress up, she asks him, "Why do you not believe Cersei's claims that she is pregnant with your child?"

He sighs and glances away as he laces his breaches. "My first doubt was whether the baby was mine." He is not eager at all to talk about sex with his twin to Brienne, but his past with Cersei cannot be ignored for long. "I only laid with her once after her coronation. Not out of real desire, mind you, but because I feared how she'd react if I said no."

He feels her hand touch his arm and looks to see her eyes wide and sad. "I'm sorry you had to go through it," she says sincerely, and he falls a bit more in love with her for that.

"Thank you," he murmurs. Then, a little louder, adds, "She tried to convince me we'd be able to be together out in the open. I didn't believe her, nor did I care if she was being honest—we had just lost our last child, I couldn't care less about whether we'd fuck in the open or in the shadows."

"Was she honest?"

"No. Not long later, Euron Greyjoy showed up swearing alliance in exchange for her cunt. She did not even blink before saying yes, and I could scarcely be bothered about it. The only thing stopping me from being relieved was Euron's taunts about getting the queen for himself and how he'd do it better because he had two hands."

He pauses for a breath, and she comments quietly, "I don't mind that you have only one hand."

No, she didn't; in fact, last night she reacted to his stump almost as strongly as she did to his hand. "I know," he replies quietly, smiling. "And I love you even more for it." He can't resist kissing her then, although it's a light touch on her lips. He sits down on the bed to lace his boots. "Anyway, either of us can be the father and, but it's more likely to be his than mine."

She sits beside him. "And why do you suspect there isn't a baby?"

"The timing," he replies instantly. "Too convenient. I wouldn't put it past her to lie about it to keep me in line if she suspected I wasn't as devoted to her as I used to be. By the time I left, her stomach was still flat. I remember her previous pregnancies; she always showed early." Okay, she had put on some weight over the years, but still. When he saw her bare, he found her slim enough that she'd show early as usual. "Well, as you said, I can talk to Bran Stark about it. It solves many problems. I can sense Tyrion is hesitant to attack her full force and lose another nephew or niece. Neither of us is happy with the idea of killing an unborn innocent."

She caresses his cheek, and he turns to look at her. "If she is pregnant, and they manage to save the baby… I could raise them with you. Whether you're the father or not."

He kisses her again, more deeply this time. "You're amazing," he breathes out as he breaks the kiss. "I imagine Yara Greyjoy will want the baby if they're Euron's, but, if they're indeed mine… You'll be a wonderful mother."

She kisses the cheek she just caressed, and he can feel her tiny smile against his skin. He silently vows to make her smile every day, for as long as he's allowed to live.

Brienne timidly allows him to hold her hand on their way to breakfast, and he doesn't hide his smile at her consent. His joy seems to be contagious, as she smiles back at him. They are late, of course, so there isn't much left. No matter; they are in a hurry to eat anyway. They break their fast in silence, and Jaime focuses on his food to avoid getting too distracted by her eyes—yes, he is that much of a besotted fool. He reaches for her hand on their way to the solar Sansa Stark usually is in the mornings, but Brienne says no this time.

"We must be careful," she says quietly. "She may not like that we show up at her door holding hands."

His jaw clenches at that, but he can't argue. Like it or not, Jaime isn't exactly 'someone dear' to the Starks. Lady Sansa made it clear when he arrived: she blamed him for his actions and those of his House, regardless of whether he approved them or not. Just like her father, she never bothered asking anything, only judged.

(He may have aided Brienne to rescue her, and she may have allowed him to stay as her guest, but he is in no way obliged to like Sansa Stark.)

They find her writing letters to gods know who. She raises her head and greets them with a nod and a polite smile. "Ser Brienne. Ser Jaime. May I help you?"

He glances at Brienne, who gives him just the tiniest of smiles. Let me handle this, it seems to mean, and of course he does. "Ser Jaime proposed to me last night," she begins. "I've accepted, but, as my liege lady, I need your consent as well."

She's kind about it, but he feels warm at the fact that she made it clear that she isn't asking Sansa's consent because she values her opinion to the point it would change her mind. No, it's out of obligation only; she wants to marry him, no hesitation on that.

Lady Sansa straightens her back and glances at the two of them. "I'd like to speak to Brienne privately," she states.

He makes a point to kiss Brienne's cheek before leaving.

Brienne gets out rather quickly. "Don't worry," she whispers as she kisses his cheek. "She is just concerned about me. Now go, she wants to talk to you as well."

He nods, planting a quick peck on her lips before going inside. As much as it irritates him that Sansa thinks Brienne would be coerced into marrying him, he has to appreciate her concern; it means she cares about her sworn sword as a person, and for that Jaime can't really be frustrated.

"Please have a seat, Ser Jaime," she says, gesturing at the chair across her. He obeys and waits for her to talk. "Brienne claims your proposal is born out of love."

He raises an eyebrow. "According to my brother, my feelings for Brienne have been written on my face since I arrived."

She narrows her eyes. "Well, do forgive me for not being so trusting when you sired three children in your sister's womb."

"Sometimes," he says slowly, "people fall out of love with each other, my lady." He crosses his legs. "I won't explain how my relationship with Cersei crumbled. It is fairly obvious it did, otherwise Tyrion and I would not have come to you last night reporting an assassination attempt on her orders."

For a while, she stays silent, studying his face. Just as the silence grows uncomfortable, she says, "I know Cersei. Maybe not for as long as you did, but I do. She likes to play games, twisted ones. Who's to say this wasn't some wicked move to let you think she still felt something for you? Who's to say you are not in the game?"

Seven Hells. "It may be a game on her part," he says, although he doesn't believe it, "but not one I'm eager to play along. I don't take murder lightly. Even if she somehow didn't mean it, which I doubt…" He sighs. "I can see your real question. You wonder whether I'll leave Brienne for my sister. You're pretty sure I will, eventually." He lifts his chin. "You don't believe me capable of loving her. You don't think I'm willing to be good, for her sake or anyone else's. You don't see me as a person, only another limb of the Great Lion of Lannister."

She flinches and opens her mouth to reply, but he isn't done. "I did bad things. I have my sins to atone for. I won't deny it. Brienne knows all of them, better than you do. Come to think of it, your mother was also aware of them, and even though she judged me, she trusted me to fulfill my oath to return you and your sister safely to her arms. You've seen this very oath fulfilled—as best as possible anyway—you've seen me honoring my pledge to fight for the living, and you still find me unreliable. Somehow, I doubt Catelyn Stark would be so judgemental in your place.

"Everything Brienne said when I arrived is true. I lost my hand in an attempt to save her from rape—thank the gods it worked. In King's Landing, I discussed ways to get you out and, when you disappeared, I gave her fit armour, a Valyrian steel sword, a horse and a squire to go looking for you. There are many more things I did for her, and countless things she did for me beyond vouching for me here. If you want the full story, feel free to ask her. I won't disclose it to you without her permission, and frankly, neither of us owe you the story of how we grew to love each other despite our circumstances.

"Yes, I fought your father in the streets. Yes, I fought your brother in the riverlands. I won't apologize for any of these things. However, I did not execute your father—that wasn't even Cersei's idea, it was all Joffrey. You should have known it better than me, since you were there. I did not help orchestrate the Red Wedding—I wasn't even aware of it until Brienne and I arrived in King's Landing. I am not responsible for what my father, my sister, my son or my brother did, just as they are not responsible for my actions. You'd do well learning that if you are to be Lady of Winterfell. If you let entire Houses be defined by one person's behavior, you'll turn them into your enemies, and soon you'll have no allies left."

He clears his throat and relaxes against the table, taking a deep breath. There is a real chance his words and tone will make Sansa deny Brienne's request to let them get married, but he's had enough of everyone's nobler-than-thou attitude towards him. Your brother showed more compassion than you, and I crippled him. He didn't even have to explain himself to Bran; he did it himself, and in better words than he had available at the moment. If the boy he pushed out of a window can be forgiving, Sansa, who he never directly wronged, should not be this harsh.

Eventually, she sighs and speaks up. "I suppose I owe you the benefit of doubt." She shakes her head. "I've already told Brienne she is free to marry you if that's what she wants. Besides, marrying her is the least you could do after taking her maidenhead—"

"I didn't take anything," he snarls. "Nothing she wasn't willing to give."

At that, Sansa grins. "She told me as much," she notes. Her grin falls. "I warn you, though: if you ever hurt her, in any way, consider yourself unwelcome in Winterfell for as long as I breathe."

And there it is again, the genuine concern. "Good to know we share an unwillingness to see Brienne hurt, my lady," he says, allowing himself a grin of his own. "We have a deal."

She blinks, probably surprised at his reply. "Good," she agrees. "Then we're done here. I told Brienne you can use the sept in Wintertown for the wedding, as our old one was never rebuilt. Ah," she exclaims quietly, "I received news from Tyrion that you'd join us in the next war council meeting."

He lets himself smile a bit. "Thank you," he replies as he stands up and leaves.

Brienne is waiting for him outside and asks how it went. He grabs her by the waist and kisses her before answering, "Oh, it went well."

He and Brienne part ways when she goes looking for Podrick, so he decides to look for Bran Stark. He finds him roughly at the same place they talked when he arrived, but it's the young man who greets him first. "I was wondering if you'd ever talk to me after the battle."

He stops in front of him. "Is there anything you wanted to tell me?"

"Nothing specific, no. I just wondered if you'd come after our last talk. After what I said."

He mentally goes through what they talked about. "I have to admit," he says eventually, "I left that meeting a bit confused." Bran raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate. "First, you said you were no longer Bran Stark."

"You heard me in the war meeting," he replies. "I called myself the Three-Eyed Raven, did I not?"

"Yes, but it meant nothing to me. I had to ask Brienne about it, and even she failed to give me details. All we knew was that you were the Night King's primary target, because of whatever powers you have—powers neither of us understand."

Bran tilts his head. "The Three-Eyed Raven is an entity, so to speak," he begins. Jaime sits down on the snow across the young man, sensing this will take a while. "Many have worn its mantle over history. I'm just another one, though I'm the first to have come south of the Wall—then again, none of my predecessors had access to wheelchairs or someone able to transport them. As the Raven, I can see everything about the past and present in Westeros. Some legends claim me to be the most powerful greenseer, but, by definition, I'm not one. Greenseers see the future, which is outside my domain."

Jaime frowns. "You sounded very prophetic when I talked to you."

Bran (or the Raven, whatever) chuckles. "It's how I talk nowadays as the Raven. It always carries a rather ominous voice, even if impassioned." He glances up for a moment, then back at him. "You know how we try to predict the future based on history?" He nods. "It's the same for me, but, since I have access to all of history, my guesses are better than average. But I didn't know whether we'd come out of that battle victorious or not. When I asked you how you knew there was an afterwards, I meant it. I didn't know, so how could you?"

"So you weren't trying to predict my death."

"No. You could have died, of course, but your odds were as good as any other fighter with your skill."

Jaime hums. "What about Bran Stark? Is he still inside you, or—"

"He is," he replies instantly. "I didn't steal his body. We're sharing, but it's always a delicate balance." He glances away. "My predecessor was Bloodraven. You remember him from history lessons, don't you?"

"Of course. I suppose he got lost beyond the Wall because he became the Raven, then?" He doesn't think the Targaryen bastard was supposed to have lived so long, but it's not like he understands all this magic to evaluate its side effects.

"In summary, yes. When Bran found us, we had long reached a balance. Bloodraven was the one who spoke up most. But I had to enter Bran's mind rather abruptly, because the cave we were in was attacked by wights. Finding balance with a new host is always hard, but the way it happened to Bran and me… We also little time to find our way around together, because I was needed as the Raven here. For many reasons, even ones that had nothing to do with the Long Night." He sighs and looks back at Jaime. "I hope we can find it after these wars are all over."

"What is in store for you?" He asks, genuinely curious.

"My bets are someone will try to make me Master of Whispers, especially if Varys somehow dies. I'd like to stay in Winterfell for a while longer, for Bran's sake, then go back to where the Three-Eyed Ravens belong: north of the Wall, in close contact with the Children of the Forest."

"Does Sansa know about it?"

"No. You're the first I'm talking to about this."

"Why? I'm not—"

"Consider this a display of trust," he says, more gently this time. "A display of forgiveness. As the Raven, I am not entitled to forgive you for a single thing; in fact, I'm bound to thank you, for granting me a new host. It is Bran Stark who forgives you now. It is him who understands why you did it."

Startled, he stands up, trying to find words to reply to that. "What does… what does he think of me?"

"That you are a good man who made mistakes. Not so different from most people who walked through this realm."

The answer is so, so simple, and yet he finds it hard to believe. "Is that all? I'm—Bran Stark is one of the people I wronged the most. A few good actions cannot erase the bad I've done."

"It doesn't," he agrees, "but the bad actions don't erase the good deeds either. This isn't about how many bad and good things you did. That's not how it works. Leave the past behind and commit to do good. It's what we all should do, every single day: wake up with a resolve to be better than we were yesterday."

He doesn't say anything else, and Jaime doesn't know to reply to that, until he remembers his true purpose to come here. "I hate to change the subject after such wise counsel," he says, "but there is something I'd ask you to check for me."

Raven Bran doesn't seem to mind it. "If it's within my power, I'll do it."

"I want to know whether my sister is pregnant," he replies. "She's supposed to be showing by now."

The young man raises his eyebrows and nods. "I'll have an answer right before the next war meeting."

"Thank you," he says quietly before leaving to find Brienne.