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Jaime sees her across a battlefield. Again. He should be used to it by now, but he is not.
Every time it happens the first thing he feels is relief so palpable it’s like air rushing into his lungs.
Brienne is alive.
Right there. He can see her.
Alive.
And then the terror sets in.
Because she is here.
Where avoiding death is as much a matter of luck as it is skill.
Where death is just a matter of time.
And every day it seems they have less and less time left.
*
He looks for her every day, no matter where the war has brought him. Always. Scans the horizon, the enemy ranks, until he finds her. Today it takes almost no time at all to spot her walking in the distance. She’s wearing the armour he had made for her, carrying the sword he gave her, and she is alive. So very alive.
Relief.
Then terror.
Always.
*
When the exhaustion of warfare is too much, the horror too great, he tries to go away inside, to see without seeing.
It doesn’t work the way it used to.
No matter what Jaime does he is always seeing, always looking.
He is always looking for her.
*
Sometimes he imagines that she can feel when he’s caught sight of her.
Sometimes he imagines she’s looking for him too.
*
He’s resolved himself to the fact that this is the only way he will ever see her. For the rest of his life, he will see her across a battlefield until one of them dies. In his head it is a cold, cruel fact of his life, like mortality or his missing hand, at least until he spots her across the battlefield.
Then it’s something else entirely.
*
“She’s over there, my lord.”
Jaime snaps back to paying attention, looking where the other knight is indicating. He is right on both counts, both about Brienne’s location and the reason why Jaime wasn’t entirely paying attention to the conversation happening around him.
Jaime nods once. (Relief.) Straightens. (Then terror.)
He has to focus.
He still keeps track of her as she moves in the distance.
*
Brienne is on horseback today when he sees her, well back from the front lines, thank gods. It seems neither side is keen to start a battle today. He certainly isn’t.
She is safer today than she has been in days. Moons even. She is not safe, but she is safer. He breathes just a little easier.
He lets himself watch her until she is out of sight.
*
Battle breaks out and it is horrible and terrifying and exhilarating, as it always is. Certain death is never more than a moment away as soldiers scream and fight and fall around him, the smell of blood and sweat and much much worse so strong he chokes on it.
But he lives.
And even in the chaos he manages to catch a glimpse of her.
*
She’s not there today.
He spends half the day trying to confirm it. She was there yesterday. He is absolutely certain of it.
But she is not there today.
*
She’s not there the next day either.
*
Nights go by and she is not there.
Many times a day he wonders where she is.
Many more times a day he wonders if she is alive.
He drafts ravens to send in his head. Anything to get some information. Anything to ask after her wellbeing.
But he sends no ravens.
He does not know what he would do if he found out she was dead.
*
Another day, another battlefield.
And Brienne is there.
Right there, in the distance, her blonde hair bright in the sunlight.
Sweet relief hits harder than ever before, and for one whole moment he can breathe.
And then the terror sets in again.
Jaime has no delusions about why he cares about her wellbeing so much.
*
The war goes on.
*
Jaime’s fucked up. Miscalculated. Made at least twenty decisions in the past four days that have backfired and stacked and woven together to put him where he currently is: stranded in the woods, alone, probably two days hard-ride back to his army. But his horse is dead, so who knows how long it will actually take him to rejoin them. And last he knew the army was moving. Away from him. As fast as they could.
Jaime sighs.
He’s fucked up.
The only good news is that he is alone in this gods forsaken woods. That wasn’t part of the plan, but it’s not the worst thing. There’s no one in this forest looking to capture him or kill him, at least not in numbers he couldn’t deal with if he had to. He doesn’t fear the odd enemy soldier stumbling across him.
But even that is feeling unlikely. He hasn’t seen or heard anybody since the day before yesterday, and it was so distant it barely qualified as a potential threat.
He’s just about to thank the Seven for at least granting him safe passage through this miserable woods when he hears it. There’s someone out there. Someone wearing armour. Wolves and bears don’t sound like that.
He curses the gods for their cruel sense of humour as he draws his sword, silent as night.
He will have to kill one man before he rests tonight.
*
He moves into better position. It is so dark he can barely see by the moonlight that’s managing to filter through the trees above. Whoever they are, they are close. Whoever they are, they will not be amongst the living for much longer. But whoever they are they have gone quiet. They know they aren’t alone in this forest. But Jaime can feel the the proximity of another sword, another knight.
The dance is about to begin.
He steps out from behind the tree he was hidden behind and swings his sword in one brutal motion but his enemy blocks it easily. Both of them step back to get their bearings.
And then stop.
Because it’s her.
Brienne of Tarth.
Jaime laughs for the first time in ages.
Because maybe it’s fate.
*
She hasn’t moved. Her sword is still held at the ready, but she hasn’t moved a muscle, and neither has he.
“I don’t want to kill you.”
“I don’t want to kill you either.”
Silence.
“A truce then,” Jaime says, letting his sword drop so its end is pointing towards the ground between them.
Her expression is devastating and so wholly Brienne it hurts. Neither of them have that power. To call a truce. To put an end to this madness. To stop the bloodshed.
But their armies are not here.
They are alone.
“Just for tonight,” Jaime says. “Until morning. When we’ll both get up and go back to our armies like none of this happened.”
She nods once. Lowers her sword.
A truce.
*
Jaime can’t believe his luck, his incredible, perfect, glorious luck. What were the odds?
He keeps looking at Brienne as they walk side by side as if afraid she is an apparition, a vision, a dream. But she is real. Real and right here beside him.
She is guarded, almost as guarded as she was when she first met him. Back when she only called him Kingslayer and led him across Westeros on a leash. They do not speak of their current circumstances. Of what brought them to this forest. Of why either of them is alone. They do not speak of their armies, of the sides that they have found themselves on, of battle or war.
For a long while they do not speak of anything at all.
They walk a small distance away from where they almost tried to kill each other and sit down on a large rock in a small clearing.
Jaime looks at her again, just to make sure.
Brienne is still right there.
*
They don’t speak for ages.
Then they talk about the weather.
Quietly agree.
It’s a nice night.
*
Supplies are thin but he pulls out the remainder of the food he has on him and offers her some which she accepts with her thanks.
When she has eaten her piece she takes a sip of whatever is in her flask and passes it over to him. It’s water, and somehow it is more sweet and refreshing than any drink he has ever tasted.
“It’s good to see you,” he says as he passes the flask back to her.
She takes another sip of water. Doesn’t quite look at him. “It’s good to see you too.”
*
They shift a little closer together where they sit, to better pass the meagre rations they are sharing back and forth. He’s sitting on her left, so he has to reach across his body with his left hand every time something is passed between them. Their armoured shoulders bump against each other every so often.
When they finish eating they do not move any further apart.
*
“You look well,” she says.
A strained bark of a laugh escapes him. He’s sleep-deprived and battle-broken at best. Older and greyer than he’s ever been, but she of all people has seen him look worse. Far from the first time he catches himself musing about how she thinks of him. She, more-so than anyone, has an abundance of Jaime Lannisters to choose from: Broken and filthy, tied to her on the back of some poor horse? Cocky and chained? Clean-shaven and fumbling to present her with a sword? Half-dead and naked in her arms? Standing by his sister’s side? Jumping into a bear pit unarmed to help her? Commander of the opposing army?
Jaime knows how the world sees him (Kingslayer. Oathbreaker.). Brienne used to see him that way too. She doesn’t anymore. He may not know exactly what she sees when she looks at him, but he stopped being the Kingslayer some time ago. He’s been Jaime to her for a long time now, and that is a comforting thought.
Then she adds, “Relatively speaking.” and his chest aches with affection for her.
“So do you,” he replies. “Relatively speaking.”
She smiles at that. Just a little.
Gods he’s missed her.
*
“I’ll take first watch,” she offers but he shakes his head.
“I’m not tired.” A lie. He is exhausted, so much that fatigue is what his bones are made of now, but it is also the truth. He has never been more certain he will be awake all night. The gods have granted him a night with Brienne. He will not waste it on sleeping. He will sit here and marvel at the fact that Brienne is here beside him until the night is through, “I can take the first watch.”
She shakes her head. She isn’t tired either.
They’ll both stay awake tonight. Keep watch together.
And it has nothing to do with distrust.
And everything to do with knowing that all too soon the sun will rise.
*
“What will we do if someone comes across us here?” Jaime asks a little while later. He’s been thinking about it because no matter who finds them… One of her men. One of his. Either way, it’s a problem.
Jaime doesn’t know for sure what he would do if she was threatened tonight, but he has a pretty good idea. He’s killed men for less. He doubts the colour of their armour would slow him down, not if it came to that.
But Brienne… he doesn’t know what she would do if one of her people found her here with him. He might be able to talk his way out of trouble if it was a Lannister man who found them, but he knows how men are. Knows how much harder Brienne has to work to command respect. Knows what an enemy solider would see if they saw her with him.
“I won’t let any harm come to you tonight,” she says, and he believes her, but that wasn’t what he asked.
“I don’t know,” Brienne admits after a long silence, her hand absentmindedly moving to the hilt of her sword. “Let us hope we don’t have to find out.”
For a moment he sees flashes of them fighting as one, back to back, covering each other, cutting down anyone who was foolish enough to try and harm them. He hopes more than anyone that they remain undisturbed tonight, but he would fight alongside her in a heartbeat if given the chance. It would be glorious. People would sing songs of them for generations.
One warrior with two bodies, wielding two halves of the same sword, unstoppable.
It feels like that is what they are supposed to be.
*
“I’ve thought about what I would do,” Brienne says a little while later, “if I ever met you out there.”
It’s the closest they’ve come to acknowledging what they’ve been doing for moons on end, about the endless battlefields they call home now, “And what did you decide?”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out.”
Jaime nods, “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
She laughs at that, like she can’t help it against her better judgement, and it is so real and unexpected that all he can do is stare at her in awe that such a sound could still exist in this world. That they are here and alive and together and having this conversation at all is so impossible and miraculous he doesn’t know how to process it, can’t do anything but laugh along with her. Because if he didn’t laugh at the thought of Brienne politely informing him whether or not she’ll kill him one day he fears what he might do instead.
When their laughter subsides and the silence of the forest surrounds them once again Jaime looks up, feeling lighter than he has in ages. He’s trying to get a sense of time, of how much night they have left, but the stars he can glimpse above reveal no such information so he glances back towards Brienne.
She’s not looking at him.
“I missed you,” Brienne says like she’s admitting something else, so honest and gentle he’s almost not sure she said it out loud. That he’s not just imagining her saying what he wants to tell her. But she said it. She did. She was always the braver one.
And it’s not just the words that slice through him, though they are so heavy he can feel their weight in the night air between them, but the way she said them. Like all of the things she can’t say snuck into those words and made their escape when they could. Jaime knows the feeling. His feelings for her have been bleeding out of him for ages, one way or another.
He should say it back, he thinks as he looks at her, say it back in exactly the same way: loaded with everything they’re not saying. Let that truth settle between them, unsaid but at least somewhat spoken. That could be enough. To share that quiet understanding with Brienne, here in the middle of a war, in which one of them will be on the losing side, sooner or later. That could be enough. I missed you too.
Brienne would understand.
What Jaime says instead is “Marry me.”
He knows he means it the moment he hears himself say it. In another life, he’s caught himself thinking more times than he cares to count, in another life maybe… But fuck that. He only has this one, and not for much longer by the looks of it. The seven have granted him this improbable night so he shall speak. What has he to lose?
She rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness there, like she’s missed his little jokes, “Will we live at Casterly Rock or Tarth?”
“Tarth.”
“How many children will we have?”
“As many as you like. Four or five at least.”
She’s still humouring him, indulging him to speed his route to the punchline, “What will we tell people?”
“The truth,” Jaime says at once. “That we don’t choose who we love. And that one night in the middle of a terrible war we had the good fortune to meet again and made the most of that opportunity.”
And there it is. Her eyes go wide and then there’s the little furrow in her brow as she processes. Considers. Considers the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he means exactly what he is saying. Because what he just said… it is as direct as he’s ever been about how he feels about her without a sword being exchanged. He’s speaking of love. He’s speaking of tonight. She’s looking at him and there’s something close to fear in her eyes, like she’s afraid to make the wrong assumption, afraid to say the wrong thing. Like she’s waiting for the joke at her expense.
“Brienne,” he says, and seven help him his voice is so rough with the truth of it and he knows she hears it because she’s still looking at him like she can’t quite believe…
“Jaime.” She shakes her head a little, looks away. Gives him an opening to dismiss what he said and never speak of it again. She wouldn’t hold it against him.
He can explain. He has to explain. He would never joke about this. Never. “Brienne, I-”
And then she’s looking at him the way she once looked at him across the bath they were sharing. Seeing him. Really seeing him. The way no one else does. And all he can do is look back at her and let her see until she reaches the conclusion he has already come to, “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“We’re on opposing sides of a war.”
“I’ve noticed.”
And that’s always been true. The war was always there. But somewhere in the middle of it, there they were.
And then it hits him.
What she said wasn’t an answer.
What she said wasn’t a no.
“You’re actually considering it!” Jaime exclaims. Shock and delight rush through him but then give way as hope, all-consuming hope, takes over.
“You asked me to consider it.” Her guard is back up, like she can’t believe this is a conversation they’re actually having, but there’s a storm of something else happening behind her eyes.
“I did. But I didn’t think…” he trails off, looks at her again, trying to get a read on what’s happening right now, her eyes are so magnificent. “I thought you’d dismiss me. That I’d have to convince you I was serious.”
“I won’t break the oath I swore to Lady Sansa.”
“I would never ask you to.”
“But you would ask me to…”
“Marry me,” he says again, savouring the opportunity to say those words to her with more forethought than last time. “Absolutely.”
Brienne goes quiet.
She’s actually considering it.
*
“If we were married… when all this is over I might be better able to protect you,” Brienne says with a measured sort of care in her voice. “If…”
If her side wins.
He fights the urge to laugh at the sky. She’s thinking about this tactically, rationally, trying to protect him. All he’s thinking about is how if he meets the Stranger tomorrow he would like to do so belonging to Brienne. He swallows hard as he wonders if she is right, wonders if the honourable word of Brienne of Tarth really could keep him alive one day. It’s just as likely that whatever respect she has rightfully earned will disappear the moment anyone finds out she married the Kingslayer. Now he’s considering if by marrying Brienne he would be putting her in unspeakable danger, beyond the immeasurable danger she is already in. They might kill her outright. He knows this, knows she must also know that possibility exists.
They lay with lions.
He exhales.
And those are just some of the possible dangers.
“If we were married, and we’re both still alive when the war is over and if,” he pauses and lets her fill in another potential outcome of this war in his silence, “Cersei will kill you.” She snorts and he feels himself sharing her dark amusement though what he said is the furthest thing from a joke, “I won’t let her, but she will try. She will want you dead.”
“Doesn’t she already?”
“Probably. But you’re not at the top of the list.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It should be,” he says. “People don’t stay at the top of that list for very long. But if we do get married, there is no one she will want dead more than me.”
“I won’t let her harm you,” she says, which sounds like exactly the kind of promise the honourable and true Brienne of Tarth would make and keep against all odds, but then she finishes the sentence with the word “anymore.” and there’s an entirely different kind of truth in it that Jaime wasn’t prepared to hear in her voice.
He looks away from her and nods, unable to find any words that would make it past the painful lump that just leapt into his throat.
Her hand finds the place where his golden hand meets his wrist, touching him where she knows he will feel the contact through the leather of his armour. Her grip is firm for a moment, but then she releases all pressure as if she means to pull away, as if she’s not certain the gesture is welcome.
He can’t speak but he puts his hand on hers to assure her that it is.
*
“Even if… Even if we wanted to…” she says some time later and his heart leaps at the way she says the word wanted, like she wants to, like she wants him. “There’s no septon.”
“We know the words. And I would honour them, septon or not.”
“As would I,” she says, as if he has any doubt that she is a woman of her word. “But without a septon officiating it’s doubtful anyone would acknowledge it as a valid marriage.”
“Just treason then,” Jaime provides.
Brienne sighs, “This conversation might already be treason.”
“It kind of sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?” he says, meaning for it to be a joke. Even to his own ear it does not sound remotely funny.
“No,” she says, glancing at him and then looking away when he tries to meet her eye. “Not this time.”
*
Silence falls between them.
She’d said that she’d thought about what she would do if she ever met him in the midst of all this.
He can’t help but want to know if this was one of the options she had previously considered.
*
“If we get married… we’d be married.”
“That thought had occurred to me,” Jaime says.
“One flesh, one heart, one soul,” Brienne says carefully. “Now and forever.”
“Yes.”
“You and me.”
“Yes.”
“Cursed be the one who would seek”
“To tear them asunder.” Jaime finishes the sentence with her. “I don’t know about you, but I could certainly use the might of the Seven when I’m cursing this war.”
Her expression is full of such weary amusement that his heart swells. Gods he missed her.
“What I mean,” she tries again, colour creeping into her face. “Is that we’d be married.” Ah. The inflection she gives the word is unmistakable in its meaning. He was wondering when they’d get there. There is only so much war strategy one should include in a marriage negotiation. There are far more interesting components of a marriage to discuss.
“Yes,” he replies with the emphasis she was using, but he adds a touch of intention, of desire. “But if you don’t want—”
She touches his jaw and guides his face towards hers as she leans in and kisses him all in one overwhelming motion. The kiss is not delicate or soft or particularly skilled and it is over almost as soon as Jaime realizes it is happening as Brienne pulls away looking shocked and horrified by her own daring.
“Jaime,” she says, suddenly stiff and formal, as if she hadn’t just grabbed him and kissed him in the midst of discussing their potential marriage in the middle of the woods in the middle of a war. “I apol—”
He interrupts what would have been the most uncalled for apology in all of the seven kingdoms by surging forward and kissing her again.
*
He’s got his hand cupping the side of her face and her hands are on him, holding him close, and they’re still kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing like they have no idea how they survived this long without doing this. She’s been right there, just across a battlefield, for ages now. One lousy war between them. That’s it.
Armour is not the ideal thing to be wearing because there are only so many places he can touch her and feel her under his fingers but it’s not stopping either of them.
He never wants this to stop.
*
When they do stop they stay close, leaning into each other’s space as if they fear that pulling too far back out of each other’s orbit will allow reality to catch up with them.
Jaime removes his golden hand and the leather cuff that holds it in place and sets it aside. Then he unwraps the cloth he covers the end of his arm with to prevent chafing. The cloth has seen battle. Dirt and grime and shadows of blood are all there, but it is the best he can do.
Once he’s got it off his wrist he uses his teeth to start a rip which he then makes worse.
Brienne watches him do this. He sees the understanding come over her face as he holds one end of the cloth tight between his teeth as he pulls hard with his hand, a long and thin piece of fabric forming before their eyes.
They have no cloaks. No septon. No ribbon. But they have this. This strip of cloth that has seen better days.
He stands. When he offers her his hand to invite her to do the same he does so with the makeshift ribbon hanging over his open palm.
If she’s going to talk some sense into him this is the moment. This is her chance.
She looks up at him.
Takes his hand.
Rises.
*
They hold their wrists together, his right to her left so they can work together using their free hands to wrap the makeshift ribbon around their wrists as Jaime says, “Let it be known that Brienne of House Tarth and Jaime of House Lannister are one heart, one flesh, one soul.” He speaks to the trees, to the dirt and the breeze and the stars as they tie the knot with shaking hands.
“Cursed be the one who would seek to tear us asunder,” his voice is low and rough and deadly serious. “In the sight of the Seven, we hereby seal our two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”
He looks up from the cloth wrapped around their wrists as she does the same. There’s no septon to direct them to do so but they look upon each other and say the words, speaking in unison:
“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger.”
“I am hers—”
“—and he is mine”
“From this day, until the end of my days.”
The forest is their only witness when they pledge their love with a kiss.
*
Without the structure of a ceremony, without a feast to attend and guests to greet, they see little reason to stop at a single kiss. So they don’t.
*
In the midst of what they’re doing she reaches around him and finds one of the buckles that secures the spaulder covering his left shoulder. He hums with interest against her mouth and she moves away from his lips just enough to take a quick look at what she’s doing before resuming kissing him. Within a few beats of his heart she’s pulling the piece of armour free from his body.
“We don’t have to do this,” he says as he pulls his gaze away from the single piece of his armour in her hands that’s making him lightheaded with desire. He should have made that clear earlier he realizes with a jolt. Needs her to know that he would never marry her just to bed her, and he wouldn’t assume she wants to be bedded here, “Not now. Not here. Not ever. Not if you don’t want to.”
Brienne just looks at him, “I want to.”
“So do I.”
That settles that.
She turns her attention to the armour on his right shoulder.
*
He wishes fleetingly for a traditional bedding. A dozen hands or more ridding of him of his armour in a frenzied blur, more efficient than any squire. But then Brienne removes another single piece of his armour and touches his arm she has just exposed beneath the metal plates with hushed reverence and he thanks the stars above for this.
*
She’s working on removing his breastplate when it occurs to him that he will require her help to put it back on. Brienne can put her own armour on herself if she has to. He is certain of it, she traveled without a squire before he gave her one. He on the other hand… There is no way he will be able to put his armour back on with one hand. Maybe he could manage to get his greaves and cuisses back on. And his right couter, he supposes. If given enough time he could probably figure out a way to armour his right arm. Anything with straps on his left arm would be left on the forest floor.
But it doesn’t matter anyway. His limbs are hardly the first thing an opponent would aim for, not when his chest would be exposed. There’s no way he could do up enough of the buckles with one hand to keep his breastplate in place.
He wouldn’t even be able to carry all of the armour he couldn’t put back on.
As he watches her carefully place his breastplate down on the ground he shivers with the intensity of the realization that he trusts her to help him back into his armour beyond a shadow of a doubt. There is no question in his mind that she will. None. To the point where if it came to it, he fears she would try to armour him before armouring herself. He wouldn’t let her, but they would fight about it and probably end up killing their attackers still fighting about who should be armoured first.
He doesn’t have a frame of reference for what overwhelms him. He’s never been so defenceless and felt so safe at the same time.
When she stands back up and reaches to continue removing his armour he tries to express what’s taken hold of him. Says her name, pauses to collect himself, says her name again. When he fails to get further than that he kisses her instead.
The feel of her hands on his chest with only fabric between them sets his blood alight.
*
He’s wearing nothing but cloth when she turns her attention to her own armour. He helps where he can, but mostly he admires the way she deftly undoes the hidden straps and buckles with practised efficiency. He takes control of taking the pieces she has removed and putting them on the ground beside his own.
His pulse races at the sight of their armour resting side by side.
*
“I’m sure this isn’t how you pictured your wedding night,” Jaime says. He’s naked from the waist up, clearing the smoothest patch of ground he could find, sweeping aside twigs and rocks and anything else that would be unpleasant to discover jabbing into his spine at an inopportune time.
“No,” she agrees, pulling off her tunic and passing it to him to add next to his own on the forest floor. “This is much better.”
She means it.
He didn’t think it was possible to love her more than he already did, but he finds a way. He always does.
*
They’re down to their smallclothes when he sits down on the poor excuse for a bed he’s made and offers her his hand. She’s a little hesitant, a little nervous as he guides her to settle on top of him, her legs on either side of his thighs as they resume where they left off. He can’t get enough of her skin against his, the way her mouth feels against his own, her breath in his lungs as they share air and space and pull each other closer in the darkness.
*
She’s got a few new scars that he can see in the moonlight when they cast the rest of their clothes aside. He wants to ask her about them but now doesn’t feel like the right moment so instead he traces them with his fingers, then his lips, to make sure he remembers where they are so he can ask her later.
*
She rocks against his hand as he watches and learns what she likes, what makes her breath catch and her body tremble above him. He could do this all night, he could do this forever, but it doesn’t take long for her to collapse against him with a gasp as pleasure rolls through her and she shudders with release.
*
“Can I?” she asks.
“Please.” He nods and swallows hard, lost for words. When he used to imagine this moment he assumed he would be the one leading, the one reassuring her. He knows… he knows she hasn’t done this before. She’s told him as much.
He lies back as she adjusts her position above him. They both reach for his cock at the same time, their hands grazing each other. His fingers are slick from where they just were and he knows she notices because she flushes at the contact. He pulls his hand back to have her be the one to guide him inside as she lowers herself down.
He fights the instinct to close his eyes, to throw his head back and groan with abandon. Instead he keeps his eyes open to watch her, to see her face in this moment, this exact moment. Right now.
He watches the first curious shift of her hips. Watches her do it again. Watches her grin down at him.
All the while he feels every resulting sensation from the inside out.
He finds her hand and holds on for dear life as he throws his head back and gives in to his instincts.
*
He moans. Loudly.
“Someone might hear,” she warns, leaning down onto his chest with her hand as she continues to move above him.
Let them, he thinks fiercely. Without their armour they are just people.
Without their armour they are just husband and wife.
*
He warns her when he is so close he can feel the edge upon him like a knife to his throat. She lifts herself off him and shifts back as he sits up and buries his face against her neck as he grabs his cock and breathes her name. A moment later he spills into the fraction of space between them.
*
She rakes both of her hands through his hair, cradles his head in her strong hands to tilt his head back to look up at her, so he does. He feels drunk on moonlight and the solid weight of her above him, utterly enthralled by the feel of her. She leans down and kisses him then, like she needs to, like he’s hers.
And he is. He is hers and she is his. From this day, until the end of their days.
He is Brienne’s.
If he ends up losing his head for this it will have been well worth it.
*
He did not intend to sleep but he must have drifted off because the threat of daylight is in the sky when he opens his eyes.
Beside him Brienne stirs.
*
After a time, they begin to get dressed.
They’re at the point where actual armour is the next step and they both pause. He already misses the feel of her skin against his own and is not looking forward to having more barriers between them.
But when she moves from where she stands she doesn’t retrieve a piece of armour. Instead she returns to him holding her sword and the thin strip of cloth.
She cuts the cloth that bound them together in half with Oathkeeper and ties one of the two halves to his wrist before having him help her do the same. He touches the cloth on her wrist when they are finished, then the one on his own, anchoring himself to this moment, to her. Everything about this night already feels like a dream. He dreads to think how distant it will feel in a few days time.
She kisses him then, soft and slow and solid against him. Real.
Then she starts to armour him.
*
When they are both fully armoured once again they stand face to face, their heads bowed with their foreheads touching, hands clutching at each other as sunlight shines through the trees.
It’s time.
“Jaime… I….” She’s so quiet and so close to him and the rest of the words don’t come, but he feels them as surely as if they had.
“I know,” he reassures her, his thumb moving against her cheek as he settles against her touch and breathes. Gods does he know.
“Please,” her voice is soft, her eyes are closed, her fingers are moving through his hair the way they did not an hour ago under much more favourable circumstances. “Let me say it.”
He nods slightly, lets her feel him moving in her hands on either side of his face, lets her feel him moving against her forehead which is still pressed against his own. Then he waits as she sways into his touch and grips at the back of his neck like she needs to steady herself, like she may never let go. Like this may be their last chance to speak to one another.
When she manages to say the words, he says them back.
*
The war goes on.
*
Two moons pass before Jaime sees her again.
There’s a battlefield between them.
And it is the same as before:
Relief.
Then terror.
But now there’s something else flooding through him as well:
I am hers and she is mine.
It feels like hope.