After

Didn't plan on writing these two, but this came to me yesterday and wouldn't leave me alone

It has been this way for some time now. Whenever there is peril, whenever she feels displaced or when threat is imminent. The dream returns. Sapphire waters. Sapphire skies.

There is the blur of a memory; a touch to her arm and in that second she realised it was over. Jaime was still by her side and the moving swamp of death that had clawed relentlessly at them for hours is still.

"Injured?" He breathes by her ear and she shakes her head, though her leg pounds in pain; she will inspect it later. For now, they scramble over corpses searching for movement, breath, signs of life, and bodies still living are carried indoors. She is weak and trembling with exhaustion and shock, but she carries men to the great hall and lays them down to be treated.

She dare not stop to reflect on the fact she is alive. Nor that her first thought was that he was too. And where did life go now? For she had fully expected this to be the end for the both of them.

Who did he serve now?

Whilst the women attend the injured, the soldiers retreat to the heart of the castle. She remembers finding water, of rinsing blood and gore from her face and hair and hands. And somehow she is guided forward by the movement of others, into the halls that still stand, that remained strong, and there is a fire being built and candles lit and they slump in silence and shock. She is by a wall, eyes wide, adamant she will never be able to sleep again.

A goblet is pushed into her hand, though she doesn't see the face of the person that gave it to her, but she drinks deeply partly for her parched throat, partly to numb the racing heart, her adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

She does not remember her mother. But sometimes she thinks it would be nice to have a memory of being rocked to sleep, lulled to sleep, and then she could retreat there now and hide in it. Bury herself in the warmth of it. She has few memories which offer such comfort.

She doesn't even recall falling asleep; utter exhaustion drives it into her even when codes of honour compel her to sit watch the fire. But her mind slipped away and the cradling arms of the dream return to sway her.

The dream of blue.

The depths of blue.

Her haven since childhood; the water is warm in the lagoon, naturally so, and as always she is naked as she swims. There is no need to hide herself away, nobody follows, no guards, no onlookers. She finds freedom here. The rhythm of the water lulls and she rests at the edge, leaning back and allowing it to rock her body, her long lean legs floating out in front of her, the lap of water by her ears, the scent of it so familiar. The sun is on her face, deliciously so, and she feels clean and healthy.

Energised she dives forward, into the spot where the sun spills over the surface in a flower of light, she turns beneath the water, a sea of green and blue gemstones seem to surround her as the water sparkles. When she was young, she would dive from the rocks and into the water, fearless. She wondered sometimes if she would make a mistake one day, misjudge it, break an arm or a rib, injure herself beyond returning home. She figured it wouldn't matter, if she died floating in the warm seas of her home land then it was fitting and right.

Moving to the shallows she can stand, she takes a handful of sand crystals and bathes them along her arms, rubbing the grains in and washing away the invisible stains. She has battled and is tired and scarred. She thinks, for a moment, that she can smell the rot of flesh, but no, the sea replaces it. It is saltwater she can taste in her mouth, not sweat.

Her hands continue their movement, over her neck, her chest, the small buds of her breasts, until she feels she has been enwrapped in the sand and cleaned by its rough texture.

Leaning back, her eyes flutter closed, and she focuses in on the sounds of the isle, and once again thanks the Gods she was born and raised amongst such beauty. She thinks she will always come back here, no matter where honour takes her, she will come back.

She would like to bring Jaime.

Jaime. His name comes to her now even when she isn't thinking of him. Like some worm that's burrowed into her brain and which she can't remove. Her heart flutters and the water moves around her. She opens her eyes, blinking into the sun, wiping a damp hand through her thick jut of hair she sweeps it back from her face and pictures her freckles browning as the sun worships her pale skin.

There have been countless hours wasted wishing she was prettier, or even just a little less different, if she had something of the women of Westeros. But dreams don't allow for such concerns, and here, in this place, she is as beautiful as the cove in which she swims.

Before her there is a shadow in the depths; instinct tells her to move, to reach for the dagger she has laid carefully on the edge amongst her tunic. Something deeper compels her to stay.

The shadow moves fluid, as if it's another lap of a wave, another vibration in the water, and she finds herself slipping back, relaxing, in time with the shadow darkening, forming shape and breaking the water.

When she met him his hair was blonde, sand, now he is darker, greyer, but his beard has gone and he looks younger again. Perhaps it is the sun.

"I must thank you, Lady Brienne, for bringing me here."

"I have never shared this spot with anyone."

"Then I am truly, doubly blessed."

He pauses in his swim, twists his body and stands, she thinks of the pads of his feet brushing the rough floor. It amuses her that he is naked, but she is not uncomfortable at the fact; there is a feeling she has seen him this way a hundred times before, and he her. He is moving towards her with that smile he has, a kind of twisted knowledgeable smile; a cocky little runt is what her father would have said. But his eyes shine sapphire like the water and her stomach has twisted in the most delicious way as she anticipates his touch. She is warm between her legs, aching, and he moves between her thighs as smoothly as silk.

His hands press into the rock by the side of her head, his chest presses against hers, and she finds her arms entwining around his back as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if she has done this all before.

Part of her must know this is a dream.

They fit together. And as he gazes so warmly at her she wonders again how this came to be – she has never had a man before. She has never known love. Nor passion. But here they are making love in the waters of her home with the sun on their bodies.

His hand is in her hair and he kisses her forehead, down her nose, and she hums something like a smile as he enters her body and then she jolts –

– She is breathless when she wakes. Mouth open, sweat on her body, she can feel it moving down her chest and between her breasts. She can smell it on herself. For a second she had forgotten where she was, forgotten herself, the room seemed to swim in green and blue, and the fire was so warm. She is still in her armour and her neck aches having fallen asleep in such a position.

Her ears seem to ring, and her brain struggles for a minute or two to make sense of sizes, shapes, places, memories: it is all so tangled now, on this, the longest of all nights. What she wouldn't give for a bed.

Beside her there is movement, Podrick's body gives up and slumps to the floor, exhausted, and she watches as he curls into a ball and sleeps. He has defended himself well and she is proud; she can admit that now, the chink of feeling she lets in.

When she looks up from her squire, his eyes meet hers, intense as they drill into her soul, and she remembers the dream and the heat of his body between her thighs and it makes her feel tangled up all over again. Her body has never betrayed her before.

"I didn't plan on being alive," he whispers.

"Well, I am glad you are," she whispers back. There are men asleep around them, and the stench of blood, mud and sweat has risen to a kind of dank mist.

"You were dreaming?"

She worries she gave herself away; perhaps a sound, a moan.

"Of my home," she admits, "Of the waters back home."

He stares at her for the longest time, so much so, she wishes he would speak, say something rude and dismissive to break this spell. But he doesn't. She wonders momentarily if he somehow developed the skill to read minds and then berates herself for such thoughts; he is only a man after all, and she has never lost herself over men before.

When he rises his eyes are still on hers, and he stands and waits. She is unsure why she stands too, and is even more surprised that she follows him, but she does, despite being unsure of where they are going.