Chapter Text
Brienne hardly dared look at Jaime, so sure was she that he must loathe her for her betrayal. But when she raised her eyes, there was no anger in his. In fact, his expression was rueful, more than anything. He sighed, looking down at his golden hand.
"I am a prisoner, then?" Jaime's tone was light, though his other hand was clenched at his side.
"You have two options, my lord – stay here in a cell, or come North. With us."
"I know which one I'd prefer," Edmure muttered, and Brienne was sure she saw the king roll his eyes.
"Why can I not return to King's Landing?" Jaime pleaded, and Brienne felt her heart sink. "My sister needs-"
"No." King Jon remained implacable, and even though her heart ached for Jaime, she knew that it was the only way to keep him alive.
If he was in King's Landing once Queen Daenerys arrived – Brienne shivered. What death would she reserve for the man who'd murdered her father? She thought involuntarily of Rhaenyra Targaryen, fed to a dragon while she lived, and had to control her stomach with force of will.
"I need your army, Lord Lannister. If you will not agree, I must come to some arrangement with Ser Bronn." The king's expression indicated that this was not his preferred option.
"Bronn? Just offer him a castle, that's what's worked in the past." Jaime had regained his usual light tone. "Why do you need an army, anyway? I thought you were acclaimed by the Lords of the North, and you seem to be on friendly terms with this Queen Daenerys. Who on earth could you be fighting now?"
King Jon shot Brienne a querying look, and she shook her head. They hadn't even believed her about the dragon, she thought in despair. If she'd come with stories about the Night's King and his White Walkers they'd have done worse than put her in shackles.
The king leaned back in his seat and scratched his eyebrow – the scar there pained him, she could tell. He looked at Jaime, considering, and glanced at Lord Edmure, who'd fallen silent, no doubt also wondering why the king needed the Lannister army.
"What do you know about the Wall, Lord Jaime?" King Jon started, and both men gaped at him like he'd lost his wits.
"It was built . . . many years ago. To keep the wildlings out of the seven kingdoms." Jaime spoke hesitantly, and his brow was furrowed. "What, wildlings? You need to fight them? But no, that can't be right – I'm told you let the wildlings through the Wall, thousands of them. Even their women fight for you, now."
"You let wildlings through the Wall?" Edmure spluttered. "Are you insane?"
King Jon continued, as if Tully hadn't spoken. "Truly, Lord Jaime? A wall seven hundred foot high, three hundred miles long, to keep out a bunch of what you call savages?"
Brienne had wondered at it herself, once she rode through the gates of Castle Black. No-one who saw the Wall with their own eyes could truly believe it had been built to hold in a few ragged tribes, clad in furs. Perhaps growing up in the Stormlands had prevented her from being blinded by the hatred of the Free Folk – blinded enough to believe in such a ludicrous thing.
"Up until some years ago, they were all scattered tribes. Even when Mance Rayder joined them together, they didn't manage to come over the Wall. As my wildling friend Tormund put it, King Stannis and his horses cut through them like piss through snow. No." King Jon shook his head. "The Wall was not built for that."
Lord Edmure was still staring ahead like a dullard, Brienne thought, but Jaime . . . Oh, Jaime's mind was like quicksilver, making connections as fast as lightning, even though he didn't truly believe it yet, she could tell.
"I hesitate to speak frankly, your Grace, lest your pet dragon turn me into roast pork, but I can't believe that . . . It's just stories, isn't it? Tales one's nurse tells one, of the Night's King and his servants, of Azor Ahai and his flaming sword . . ." Jaime trailed off, his eyes staring at nothing, and the king snorted.
"You will not persuade me, Ser, that your father, Lord Tywin, would ever have allowed any nurse to tell you such stories."
"No, of course not. And I hated reading. No, my younger brother used to devour books, and then he'd tell me all these tales. But even for him, they were just tales." Jaime smiled, seeming to remember those far-off days of childhood. "And I never believed any of them were true."
"Jaime, you never believed dragons were real, either!" Brienne knew she was being too passionate, too urgent, but she couldn't help it. He could not go back to King's Landing, he just couldn't.
"Are you going to tell me you have seen such things, my lady?" Jaime asked, his voice light once more.
"No," she answered, reluctantly. "And neither has Podrick, before you ask." His eyes mixed merriment with apology. "But the king has, and most of the Free Folk have too. They are coming, Jaime. Winter is coming. Will you join us in fighting it?" Will you be the true hero I know you to be, Jaime?
"Or will I forever be known as a curse on men's lips," he answered, as if he'd heard her unspoken plea. "Sisterfucker. Kingslayer."
"You can't honestly trust this man," Edmure blustered, and Brienne thought the king was almost ready to break his jaw. "Not after all his family has done to ours, to yours . . . "
He trailed off when he caught a glimpse of the king's face. Lady Sansa had told her that the king had a temper. That Tormund fellow had laughed when he told all who would listen how obdurate Jon Snow was, but it was the first time Brienne was witnessing it for herself.
King Jon stood up, and started pacing in front of the fire. "Families! Our families." He almost spat out the word. "Let me tell you about families, my lords. And lady." He rubbed his forehead. "All my life I have heard how mad King Aerys massacred my uncle and grandfather – now it turns out that he was my grandfather, too! And a Lannister killed him, while another Lannister had my uncle, who I thought was my lord father, butchered in front of a baying crowd."
King Jon somehow sensed that Jaime was going to protest and whirled around to face him. "Do not deny that King Joffrey was your son, my lord. No one believes otherwise anymore."
Jaime raised his hands in surrender, the golden one catching the light from the fireplace.
"I won't even go into the part your father played in the Red Wedding, and the fact that my parents . . . " King Jon's voice hitched, and he had to clear his throat. "My parents caused a war which tore the land apart, ripping wounds which are still open today."
He stalked to the table, where he'd left his sword, and drew it with a flourish. The Valyrian steel blade shimmered in the firelight, changing colour, drawing everyone's eye.
"The fact is, none of that matters." If he'd been almost shouting before, now he was quiet. "None of it. Not the wars, the secret murders, the plotting . . . Baelish is behind so many of those plots, and yet, he matters less than the filthiest street-rat in Flea Bottom."
She noticed Jaime start at hearing Littlefinger's name, but he said nothing.
"None of it matters, because he is coming." The King continued, not having noticed Jaime's reaction. "Winter is coming. We never asked ourselves, did we, why our House has no mention of wolves in our words. Oh yes, my fa- my uncle used to talk about the importance of the pack, but still. Winter is coming. Yes, he is. I have seen the White Walkers. I have seen the Night's King. I have seen the dead come back to life."
"Do you think the Lannister armies can stop him?" Jaime's voice sounded strange, Brienne thought, until she realised that the sarcasm had been stripped from it.
King Jon, still staring at his sword, sighed. "I don't know. I told the wildlings at Hardhome that at least we'd give the fuckers a fight, but now I'm not so sure we can even do that. All that kills the White Walkers is Valyrian steel, and to be sure there are still many of those swords left, but where are they? Dragonglass hurts them too, but where are we going to get enough of that? Perhaps dragonfire will hurt them, but Viserion is only one dragon."
"If they reach the Riverlands," Edmure started, only half convinced of what he was saying, and seeming glad to be interrupted by the king.
"If they reach the Riverlands, all will be lost, Lord Edmure." The king's voice was tired and hoarse. "Your best chance at survival will be to take your people and go South, as far South as you can. Put some water between you and them."
Edmure looked at all of them in turn, his expression suggesting that he thought they'd all gone mad. Before he opened his mouth to speak, the king put a hand on his arm.
"Lord Edmure, come with me to see what kind of forces this castle can muster. Your first task will be to secure your wife and son." He looked over Lord Edmure's shoulder and winked at Brienne, raising an eyebrow and glancing at Jaime.
Brienne blushed, and waited for Jaime to speak, which she was sure he would as soon as the two men left the room, dragging an unwilling Podrick with them.
"Did your great king just suggest you try to seduce me, Lady Brienne?" Jaime asked, his eyes merry.
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Brienne answered, primly.
Jaime leaned back in his chair, and she fidgeted slightly under his keen observation. "How much of all of this do you believe, Brienne?"
She bit back her instant reply, and considered his words. Did she believe all the talk of White Walkers and wights? She looked at Jaime more closely, and noticed once again the new lines around his eyes, the general air of fatigue about him. Returning to King's Landing would mean his death – of that, she was sure. Could she let him take that road? Perhaps he wanted to die.
"I believe that something, or someone, is attacking us from the North. Are you so lacking in imagination, Jaime, that you must see something with your own eyes to believe it exists?"
Jaime looked away, abashed, she thought.
"Besides, the point is moot. You will not be allowed to go South."
"Why, because otherwise I will interfere with his aunt's plans for King's Landing?" Jaime answered, his words laden with bile.
"Perhaps. But besides your sister, there is nothing calling you there. And even she does not-" She bit back her words, worried that she'd gone too far.
But Jaime did not look angry. "No, you are right. She sends me away, can hardly bear to look on me, after . . . " He looked at his golden hand, turning it this way and that in the firelight. "It seems that I have but one choice," Jaime continued, giving her a tired half-smile.
Brienne nodded, and got up. She did not know where she was going, only that she could not stay there – not with Jaime the way he was now, broken. Would he eventually blame her for being kept from the only woman he'd ever loved? Time would tell, she thought, and left him there, staring into the fire.
It took some days for the great Lannister army to ready itself to move into the North. Brienne and Podrick rode in the vanguard, with Jaime and one of his most trusted sergeants. Bronn had his own group of men-at-arms, on horseback so that they could quickly ride to the rear to make sure that no stragglers were drifting away, or being attacked behind them. The group of spearwives also stayed with them, though not as part of the main force. They rode ahead, reluctantly keeping their Northern clothing and the pennants of the King's Houses, though as they rode further into the North, various fur items seemed to appear out of nowhere.
The army's progress North was painfully slow, compared to the speed at which she and Podrick had ridden there. At this rate, Winter would be over before they even sighted the battlements of Winterfell, she mused, only half joking. The King and his dragon flew in ever widening circles around the army, at times flying ahead to various castles in their way, at times disappearing for a day of two and returning with news from Winterfell.
They took the Kingsroad through the Neck, having been told by the King that Lord Howland Reed had given assurances of safe passage past Greywater Watch, though Brienne noticed that none of them were invited to rest in the seat itself. She also noticed that King Jon seemed shaken after his meeting with the crannogman. She put it down to the reputed strangeness of the bog-dwellers, and thought no more of it.
In truth, there were other events which troubled her on their journey North. She hadn't been sure that she really trusted Jaime to keep his word and come North with them. The further North they rode, the more restless and tense he became. Still, he led his army into the swamps at the Neck, and thanks to King Jon's intervention, no soldiers were lost to the lizard-lions that lurked just beneath the surface of the water in some areas. She could not help watching him, certain that at any moment he would turn tail and run off to King's Landing, leaving them all behind.
"My lady Brienne, do you trust me so little?"
Jaime's voice startled her. She thought that he had not noticed her surreptitious glances in his direction. Once again, her skin betrayed her true thoughts with a deep red blush.
Brienne looked around her, hoping vainly that the light was still too dim for her bright red face to be easily noticeable.
It was early in the morning yet, and the whole army was preparing to set out once more, packing up the camp after a night's rest. They had, at last, traversed the treacherous swamps, and now were only a few days' march away from Winterfell. She hoped.
"Forgive me, Jaime. I-"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I'd be more surprised if anyone trusted me." Jaime sounded rueful, as though he wished he could go back and change his past. He lifted his head and smiled at her. "It just pleases me to watch you blush."
Brienne narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps we should spar some more, my lord," she said meaningfully, and was gratified with a wince.
"Let my bruises heal, my lady. And my hurt pride," Jaime said, and, with an easy grin, walked off to direct the dismantling of his tent.
Once they had left the Twins Brienne had soon realised that Jaime needed to practice fighting with his left hand if he wanted to become any sort of swordsman again.
So, she set up sparring sessions for him. Not with his own men – Jaime had refused that, not wishing to show weakness. So Brienne had to fight him, and the spearwives helped too. One of them had even confided that she enjoyed dumping the tall kneeler on his arse. Jaime never got offended though, or showed any hurt pride. He'd get up, with a twinkle in his eye and a compliment on his lips, and returned to the task at hand. So, when she saw Karsi approaching, Brienne assumed that the woman wanted to ask whether Jaime wanted to spar that morning. She hadn't expected to hear that some of the spearwives were interested in bedding Jaime. Brienne was struck dumb with shock, and the spearwife, raising an eyebrow, offered her apologies, saying that she hadn't known that Jaime was Brienne's man.
"What? No, of course not! I don't have a- They call me the Maid of Tarth: don't you know why?"
Karsi looked at her quizzically. "You kneelers. I'll never understand you lot, not if I live to be a hundred."
She walked off to where the other women were saddling their horses, and shook her head in response to questioning looks from her fellow spearwives. There were some disappointed looks and phlegmatic shrugs, but that was all.
Jaime must have known they were interested in him, Brienne thought. Yet he had pretended not to notice. Why, though? Some of the women were comely enough, though none as beautiful as Cersei Lannister.
"Well, Brienne?"
She started. She hadn't heard Jaime come up behind her, and he snickered. It wasn't often that her caught her by surprise like that. She looked at him, raising an eyebrow, and he grinned.
"What did Karsi want?"
Should she tell him? Perhaps he'd want to . . . have some companionship, though she'd never noticed him frequenting the camp followers. Her Septa had always told her that men had needs, and a dutiful wife would always suffer them gladly. That was when everyone in her father's household still thought Brienne would have a husband one day. She realised that Jaime was still waiting for an answer, and blushed, once again cursing her fair skin.
"Some of the women are interested in your company," she answered, conscious that her tone of voice sounded surly.
Jaime's grin widened further. She really shouldn't have worried, earlier. Even though at first he'd seemed restless, the further North they rode, the more his easy smiles had returned. The pinched and tired look on his face had started to fade away and become less frequent, too, something Brienne was glad of.
"Good to see not all women are disgusted by my deformity," he said, lifting his golden hand.
Brienne rolled her eyes. "They've never seen anyone with such an injury who didn't die of it," she said. "They think it's lucky. Besides," she went on, as she tightened the straps on her saddle, "I was never disgusted by your . . ."
Her voice trailed off as she considered what she was saying. Gods, she was pathetic. As though Ser Jaime ever considered her to be a woman – to him, she was nothing more than a fellow warrior, albeit an exceptionally ugly one. She tightened the strap with unnecessary vigour and the horse snorted in protest. When Jaime's voice came, it sounded deeper and much closer than before.
"I know that, Brienne." She was as tall as Jaime, and when she turned her head, his face was close to hers. The look in his eyes was stormy. She felt like she'd been running a race – it was an effort to catch her breath. "You have never treated me like a cripple, like something lesser."
No, she wanted to answer, but the words wouldn't leave her mouth. He was looking at her lips, gods, he was close enough to kiss. The tension between them stretched almost to breaking point, she did not know whether to scream or laugh to break it, or even kiss him herself.
The high, yipping bark of one of the camp dogs made them both start, and Brienne looked towards the camp, feeling almost guilty. What had she been thinking, here, where anyone could see? And what was wrong with that dog? Before she could ask anyone, the dog was joined by others, until all of them were howling, the sound eerie, even though it was morning.
The spearwives who had also been saddling their horses exchanged looks. Brienne opened her mouth to reassure them, when the first snowflakes began to fall. And Brienne remembered.
She remembered the lords and free folk gathered inside the great hall at Winterfell, after they'd all eaten, listening to Tormund Giantsbane tell of the fall of Hardhome. His words had cast a spell on them, and they listened entranced as he told his tale. She would never forget it, she knew; particularly how it began, with the camp dogs howling, and the snow falling.
Brienne looked around her – Karsi caught her eye, and nodded. No-one was taking notice among the foot-soldiers, who had been busy dismantling the tents, and preparing for the march. Podrick was approaching her, a look of puzzlement on his face, but it would take too long to explain to him. She had to be sure, how could she be sure? She looked at Jaime wildly. He'd noticed her exchange of glances with the spearwives, and he raised his eyebrows.
"Brienne-"
She interrupted him before she lost her nerve. "Jaime – something's wrong; something's coming."
Grey-white clouds were gathering in the distance, gathering fast. The wind was rising, and the snow was drifting ever faster. Soon it would be hard to see, but last night's red sky had promised a beautiful clear day. She was of the Stormlands, and she knew weather patterns. This was not natural.
Gods, if she was wrong this would be the end of her, she thought. But if she was right . . . She drew her sword, and Jaime drew his.
Podrick's eyes widened as he saw them, and he drew his sword too, and then Jaime's voice rang out.
"Sound the alarm!"
It seemed to echo as various sergeants took up the call, and a horn sounded.
"Torches! Men at arms, light torches!" Her voice was as loud as it had ever been, but it seemed weak and shrill against the wind, which was starting to howl.
Brienne had a few moments to wonder if she hadn't made a horrible mistake. And then . . . a shriek in the distance, joined by another, and yet another, ever closer with the clouds, and the snow, and the wind. They were trapped, with the Neck at their backs, and in front of them . . . an army of the dead.
Brienne lunged and slashed, but every time she cut screaming wights down, more appeared in their place. She started to realise why Jaime had seemed worried during their sparring – she'd never been in a real battle before, and it showed.
Somehow, she was separated from Jaime and was standing back to back with Karsi, fighting for their lives. The other spearwives were around her and fought – faster than her. Godsdammit, she was too slow! She'd always been too slow, she berated herself, even as her sword took apart a wight that was more bone than man.
She allowed herself a fierce grin, and turned to Karsi – but the woman was looking past her, face frozen in horror. Brienne turned, and felt the air knocked out of her. A tall figure, with long white hair and blue-white skin was striding effortlessly through the crowd. Its eyes were fixed on only one man – Jaime Lannister. Even as she took a first step through the air, which seemed to have turned into syrup, she saw a running figure in the corner of her eye, running towards Jaime.
"Podrick, no!" Brienne shrieked the words, but the boy clearly couldn't hear her.
Podrick ran so that he was between Jaime and the White Walker, but as he raised his sword, the creature shattered it with one downward slash of its ice blade. Brienne ran, desperately trying to reach them, but in vain. The White Walker drew its sword back, and, without a moment's pause, ran Podrick through.
Afterwards, Brienne never could remember if she screamed Podrick's name, or just a wordless yell. She ran as she'd never run in her life, and the creature turned to face her with a joyless grin on its frozen face. Her first wild strikes were deflected by its ice blade, and the creature looked mildly surprised that her sword did not shatter at its touch.
She spat in its face, and scarcely knew what she did in a red mist of horror and fury. Still, she was already tired and had been cut a few times by the crazed wights. What saved her was the unearthly screech of a dragon above her head, and a heartbeat's distraction was all it took. She swung Oathkeeper in an arc to cut through the creature's neck, but as soon as her sword touched the White Walker, the thing turned into ice and fell apart.
All around her, men were fighting wights, but Brienne only saw Podrick, on his back, his brown eyes open, staring unseeing at the sky. She staggered towards him, sobbing, only to find herself held back, an arm around her waist.
"Brienne, stop!" Jaime's face was turned to hers, eyes wild. "He's dead! There's nothing we can do for him!"
All around them, shrieking wights were bursting into flame as Viserion flew overhead, and Brienne realised what was going to happen.
"No! Let me go, we must help him!"
She pushed Jaime away, only to find more hands holding her back – Bronn was there, and a sergeant, and Jaime again. She fought them as she'd never fought before, catching Bronn in the face with a mailed fist, but they would not let her go to the boy. Still she fought. She didn't know what she had in mind, just that he could not be dead, he could still be saved, they had maesters with the army, something must be done for him! And in fact, he wasn't dead, she saw – his fingers were moving.
"Look!" she said, "he's alive! We must get a maester!"
The men holding her back all turned towards the boy, so they all saw what happened next.
Podrick sat up, his eyes blue as a frozen glacier, yet burning with a ghastly white light. He grinned as he rose to his feet, a look on his face which she'd never seen before, and she moaned in horror.
"Brienne, Podrick is no more!" Jaime was yelling in her ear now. "You must let the dragon deal with him!"
"No!" Brienne shook her head, and blinked away the burning tears which threatened to blind her. "He was my squire. I must send him to his rest."
They let her go, and she walked towards what once had been Podrick. She prayed as she walked, begging the Father to take the boy to his golden hall, pleading with the Stranger to lead him there.
It took one strike of her sword to cut him down. Jaime, who'd come up behind her, handed her a lit torch, and fire did the rest. Then she knew no more.