Jaime:

Winter had been described as powdered sugar and icicle crowns in his childhood nursery books; a fantastical fiction his mother would read to him when he had trouble falling asleep. Winter meant large fireside hearths and warm, spiced cider; winter meant cold sunshine and gently falling snow. Winter was meant to be a mild, unobtrusive time—the antithesis of threatening.

But how wrong the songs were.

Winter was harsh and unforgiving; a servant of nature's snowy abode, brother to the icy winds that slashed across the skin and cut deep into the core of one's youth. Snow, ice, and winter—it soaked through one's flesh and seeped into the bone, bringing with it a piercing, uncomfortable ache that stung and bled from the inside.

It was for this reason Jaime had always lived in his own head. The golden lion—gilded and beautiful—swinging his sword and standing tall amongst the Kingsguard, bright sunshine reflecting off his gleaming white armor.

It took a civil war, the loss of his sword hand, and a warrior-maiden to make him see what he'd been willfully ignorant of.

After all, nothing gold can stay and what was Jaime but golden, golden, golden?

Brienne—that lamentable wench with her big blue eyes and honor too strong to bend—had forced Jaime to see the world for what it was and part of him wanted to hate her for it. He could have ignored Westeros in its entirety—could have continued loving Cersei and feigning carelessness because what else was there to do? He was the Kingslayer, there was no honor to be found in his heart or in his actions. Every joke he made was taken as an offense, every quip he uttered was condemned as blasphemy. If the world didn't care about him, why should he give a damn about it?

He kept himself insulated, forever loving Cersei because she was all he had.

And then Brienne came lumbering into his glorious, golden world with her ideals and bravery and stupid, valiant intentions. Even after the world mocked, degraded, and tried to kick her down, the damn stubborn wench refused to give in. She stood back up each and every time. To the knights who tried to knock her down, she honed her strength and valor. To the abstruse, powdered noblewomen who ridiculed her appearance, Brienne endured and trained until her sword could slice them open from navel to throat—though she refrained from exacting her pound of flesh because of her heart.

Her heart—no, her entire being—was too good for this hateful little world of petty vice and useless sin.

If Jaime was a fisherman lost in the fog, Brienne was his guiding light shining on the harbor. He'd always liked the water—liked how expansive and free the waves were, how they could go anywhere, weather any storm…how the waves could wash away the blood, tears, sweat, and shame of humanity. And here she was, this brutish, ungraceful amazon who loved too tenderly, protected too fiercely, and forgave too easily. A woman who even stood above the ocean Jaime loved best, a pillar of light and strength and lost, forgotten honor.

And gods, did he love her.

"Find Sansa Stark. Take her to the north, east, west, south—wherever it is you're planning to send her. Do with her what you must to keep your vow of honor." And then come back to me.

Jaime bit his tongue so hard he could taste blood.

She was still standing in front of the metallic blue armor, sapphire eyes wide with awe and wonder.

Hadn't anyone ever given her a gift before? She was a knight worthy of praise—worthy of admiration—and yet here she stood, looking at this suit of armor with something akin to affection.

"Well?" Jaime prompted. He was impatient by nature and abrasive by nurture, and this moment carried with it something ominous—as if this were the last time he would ever see her. As if this farewell was going to be permeant.

Brienne turned to face him, plain faced and crooked nosed, and he felt a swell of irrational pride well up in him.

She was the only one (apart from Tyrion) to look at him without prejudice. But even his baby brother held some reserve—some bit of hesitation—whereas Brienne…Brienne's eyes passed no judgement, none at all. The clear cerulean color was untainted by mistrust or disgust or hatred—it was free of condemnation and bias and gods, if it wasn't the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

She made him feel, against all odds, like a man worthy of honor.

"Ser Jaime." Brienne's voice was low, filled with suppressed emotion. "How can I ever—how could I ever—"

"Don't even consider thanking me for this." He dismissed. "It's a token—a bit of vanity, that's all. Everything this armor represents—honor, courage, steel-plated stubbornness—" they shared a smile, one that was too brief and too quick to last "—you already possess."

Brienne looked surprised (appalled might have been the better word but Jaime was feeling rather generous at the moment) and took a step towards him. "Your rebukes are becoming softer by the day."

"Perhaps it's because I was attempting to compliment you, wench. Can't you ever take anything at face value?"

"Like others, I used to—until a knight with more bravery than the lion itself taught me otherwise." She paused. "You're a good man Ser Jaime."

He smirked. "Are we going to pass this afternoon complimenting one another? Because if so I'm going to run out of things to say rather quickly while you go off on a soliloquy about my many virtues."

She glared at him.

"Come now wench—admit it. You find my audacity charming."

Brienne turned back to the armor.

"Be honest! You'll miss hearing the sound of my voice once you're on the road."

Rather than looking at him, Brienne's eyes remained focused on the detailed metal pleats of her armor, though she flinched when Jaime walked closer.

He'd always had little regard for personal space. "Who else will fill the hours with witty conversation?" Jaime demanded playfully. "Pod? He's a good lad but poet? I think not."

"I hardly remember you reciting sonnets, Ser Jaime."

"Did you want me to?"

"No, I—"

"I grant I never saw a goddess go/ My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground/ And yet, by the gods, I think my lo—"

"Ser Jaime!" Two knights of little consequence burst into the room, both wearing masks of worry and question. "The—the horses, Ser Jaime. They're waiting—"

"Then let them wait some more!" Jaime snapped, emerald eyes thunderous and voice sharp enough to slice through glass. The two guards glanced at each other and then, deciding tardiness was a better fate than death, quietly slunk back into the shadows.

Their interruption, however, had drawn Brienne's attention. She looked at Jaime for a moment before a rather unbecoming flush covered her face.

"By gods wench, are you ill?" Jaime raised his hand—as if wanting to comfort her—and was surprised by how close they were standing. He was barely half a foot away from his wench, their breathes intermingling as he looked into her eyes.

Bluer than all the sapphires, lovelier than the sea's rolling crests.

This moment could have remained in stasis. For a hundred years he could have stood there, looking into the Maid of Tarth's eyes.

Never had he seen anything so pure.

Never had he seen anything more beautiful.

Naturally, he decided to blame all this on her.

It was the wench's fault, really. She'd been too honorable. Too good and kind and easy to rile up. If she'd been less decent and more philosophical, it would've been easier to dislike her—no matter how beautiful her eyes were.

Of course it was the wench's fault—didn't she know? He was Jaime Lannister and it was in his nature to disregard and disrespect. Then she'd come along, holding all of Jaime's dreams in one hand and she made him—well, she made him feel something. It was the most reluctant form of admiration but Jaime dared not go further.

After all, what was that old saying?

With respect, dear heart, came admiration and with admiration comes love.

Jaime exhaled.

(And Tyrion too. He'd blame Tyrion for making him read all those ridiculous books on love.)

Notes:

- The sonnet Jaime quotes is William Shakespeare's Sonnet 130. (I grant I never saw a goddess go;/ My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:/ And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare/ As any she belied with false compare.)

A/N: OTP. OT-fucking-P. This was originally supposed to be a really deep, melancholy introspection but it somehow devolved into this. Idk, I just needed to fangirl over how wonderful/perfect/astonishing the Jaime/Brienne pairing is. I've only ever had two OTPs in my life and this is one of them.

Reviews would make me smile :)