Jaime lay in bed trying to sleep. He watched the fire in the hearth, he watched the snow fall against the window, he watched Brienne's open door. She would not come to him, he knew she would not. Fear, or stubbornness, or honor, or some combination thereof would keep her firmly in her own bed. He cursed her for it and he blessed her for it, and in the end he rose and threw his tunic back on and strapped his sword back about his waist.

The dining hall still bustled. Around the hearth some of the younger crowd was gathered, Sansa awkwardly seated between Ser Harry and Lady Myranda as they all played some game involving sips from two goblets of wine passed amongst them.

Lord Nestor and the Blackfish were seated with some of the older knights around the center of the high table. Jaime noted the way they all surreptitiously glanced at him in turn. Plotting, he thought.

At one of the smaller tables, Sandor sat drinking; Hyle Hunt was seated next to him picking through a bowl of dried fruit. The looks they gave Jaime said they'd noticed when Jaime had followed Brienne earlier. Pod was seated at the end of the table curled in one of the lordly arm chairs fast asleep.

"That didn't take long," Sandor said when Jaime sat down across from him. "Should've given her the whole night, you being a bloody knight and all. Chivalry, courtly wooing, whatever the fuck it is you pretend to abide by. She's no tavern wench."

Hunt rolled his eyes, shifted in his chair and gave Clegane a warning glance. "She is a lady."

"So she is," Jaime said, pouring himself some wine. "And very much a maiden, if anyone cares to hear the truth."

"Not for lack of effort on your part," Hunt said, giving him a challenging look.

"Nor for lack of effort on your part," Jaime said, tired of dancing around Hunt and his pathetic attempts to woo the Maid of Tarth.

"I'm not some bored white-cloaked tourney knight amusing myself whilst far from home," Hunt said. "I'd marry her."

"You'd marry Tarth, or the hope of it, let us not fool ourselves," Jaime said, dropping his golden hand onto the table as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Your faint affection is meaningless to her, she'd never have you."

"And you understand her so well. I respect what she is and I would treat her well-I would treat her honorably," Hunt said vehemently.

"Go to her then, ask her to wed you again and hear her reply. Creep into her bed and see how you fare. I am not the cause of your spurning if that's what you think," Jaime said. "You have yourself and your gold dragon to thank for that."

"I've already heard your thoughts on the bet," Hunt spat.

"And felt them," Jaime said softly, remembering the feel of his fist meeting Hunt's jaw after they'd discussed the bet while sparring.

Hunt started to lunge across the table for Jaime, but Sandor stopped him with a firm hand to the chest. "You'll upset the ladies," Sandor said sarcastically with a swift nod toward the group at the hearth who were watching Jaime and Hyle with eager expectation of a brawl.

Hunt sat again and gave Jaime a glare. The man leaned forward shaking his head slowly and in a low voice whispered, "I don't love her, it's true; but I care for her and I would wed her. A husband could keep her from killing herself; I could keep her alive. Give her children, take her home. What will you give her? Another hopeless quest? Dishonor? What will happen to her when you're no longer snowbound in the Vale and you are bound for the Westerlands? How will she fare when you see her side by side with your sister? Do you imagine that will be a kindness?"

It was Jaime who stood this time, knocking his chair over and waking Pod with the crash as he leaned over the table and grabbed Hunt by the front of his tunic.

"You will not speak of my sister," Jaime hissed, knowing the whole hall heard. But, for the space of a breath, he did not know why Hunt's eyes suddenly widened with triumph.

Hunt looked all innocence and raised his hands in surrender. "Forgive me, my lord, I forgot myself."

With a grunt, Jaime released Hunt and the hedge knight stood and gave Jaime a nod before he walked toward the end of the hall where Brienne stood quietly in the doorway, risen from her bed where he'd left her. She was wrapped in her fur cloak, snow dusted her hair and shoulders as though she had just come in from outside, the muscles of her jaw were pulled taut and her chin was held high.

Jaime had known she was there as soon as Hunt's demeanor had changed. And when Jaime met her gaze she almost seemed to smile as she inclined her head toward him in an acknowledgement of some sort, almost as though she'd expected to hear what she'd heard. Then she looked at Pod and beckoned him silently with a flick of her eyes. Her squire jumped to follow her out of the hall.

Leaving his fallen chair where it lay, Jaime sat where Pod had been at the end of the table and glanced around the room, daring them all to keep watching him. The buzz of conversation returned as the rest of the hall turned back to their own business.

"You won't get in there now," Sandor said softly as Jaime resumed drinking his wine.

He glanced at the big man at his side. "If I could, I'd kill you," Jaime said quietly.

Sandor gave his deep, raspy laugh. "You shouldn't have given the sword back to her if you want to kill me."

When Jaime had held Oathkeeper the morning before, it had purred sweetly for him, seduced him with its edge, lured him with each thrust. It had made him want to roar, it made him want to weep with joy, it made him want to fuck. For the time he had wielded that blade, he had been a whole man again. He had wanted to shout with triumph when he knocked Brienne to the ground, but then he had looked down to see her stricken face. She had given Oathkeeper to him, must have known what it would do for him, and only the thought of the wench facing her foes without it had forced it from his hand.

"I liked you better when you weren't drinking, Clegane."

"I like you better when I am drinking," Sandor said with his ruined smile.

"Maybe it wasn't the drink you missed most while you were with the brothers; it may be a woman is what you need," Jaime said softly, noting the way Sandor's gaze flitted to the crowd before the hearth.

"Do you think everyone needs a woman just because you can scarce go a fortnight without one?" Sandor snapped back at him.

"I think you long for one woman," Jaime said softly. "I think you left Joff because he had something you wanted and you were sick of watching him treat it poorly."

"She's only a girl," Sandor said, giving him a dark glare.

"Yes. And you've pledged your service to that girl."

"Go find your girl. She deserves better than you, but she's too stupid to know it," Sandor said with deadly softness. "And if you ever talk to me about women again, I'll remove your head and send it to Doran Martell to use as a footstool."

Jaime only smiled.

His brother's wife watched his exchange with Clegane from the corner of her eye and if she guessed what they spoke of, her face did not give her away. Jaime wondered if Tyrion had known of the bond Sansa had formed with Joff's Hound.

With one last sip of wine, he rose and made his way to the balcony doors, slipping out into the softly falling snow.

Across the courtyard, in the glow of firelight spilling through a window, he saw Brienne talking with Pod. Their words were lost in the distance and the cold night air, but Jaime could guess what they spoke of when he saw Pod's chin fall forlornly to his chest and watched as Brienne bent her knees to crouch before her squire, her hand awkwardly patting the boy on the shoulder. Pod threw himself at her, his arms flying around her neck in a way Brienne seemed lost to understand for a moment before she put her arms around the boy and squeezed him back.

Jaime watched them, wondering if Tommen would ever hug him that way, knowing his son would not, and feeling a strange envy as Brienne set the boy away from her. Her gloved hand clapped Pod's shoulder again as she sent him off to bed. Brienne had turned to walk through a cleared pathway back toward the hall. Jaime left the balcony and the hall, intercepting her at the foot of the stairs, a torch lighting the dim entrance as she closed the door from the courtyard.

"You told Pod goodbye," he said.

She glanced his way, but her eyes did not meet his. Where is the woman who just dared me to take her maidenhead?. "I told him he will stay with Ser Brynden when I go," she said.

"He knows you care for him. You would have sacrificed the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for his sake."

It was beneath him and he didn't know why he said it, but her face clouded at his callousness and something of the wench he'd met in the dungeons of Riverrun flashed in her eyes. She raised her chin and challenged him with her gaze. "Draw your sword if you wish to fight, Jaime; I'm weary of sparring with words."

Hunt is right. You deserve better than anything I can offer you.

"Hunt wants you."

"I will not discuss him with you again."

"He likely wanted to marry you from the beginning, even with his stupid bet."

"Perhaps," she said. "Tarth is worth more than a purse of gold dragons. But I will talk no more of it. I count him as a friend and I will not reproach him further for the bet or for speaking to you of my past."

"When did he speak to me of your past?" Jaime asked.

Brienne rolled her eyes and looked at him defiantly. "He told you of Brienne the Beauty, he told you of my suitors."

"No, Brienne," Jaime said. "Red Ronnet Connington told me of your suitors."

A flush crept its way up her neck and all the quiet confidence she had regained began to drain from her as she looked down at the floor. "Oh," she choked out.

Jaime remembered the sight of Red Ronnet's face in the light of his lantern as he peered down at the bear's rotting bones.

"He was at Harrenhal with me when I garrisoned it for Baelish. I was walking at night, looking for a place to spar and found him examining the bear pit."

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye; she looked like she wanted to flee. "Why?" she asked quietly.

"He asked me if it was true you fought the bear naked," Jaime said as her blush grew darker. "The tale of our time with the Goat grows. Imagine what it will become when you die wearing my colors."

She looked away from him.

He continued. "The way Connington questioned me about your bear fight, it sounded as though he knew you. I asked him how he spoke of you with such knowledge and he told me the most interesting tale. Can you guess what it was?"

"The rose," she whispered.

"The rose."

"That must have amused you," Brienne said, her voice stronger again though she did not look at him.

"It did not."

"I've always amused you. Sandor Clegane says I am your pet and this," she paused, gripping Oathkeeper's hilt, "is my leash."

"You are the worst behaved pet with the most priceless leash in Westeros, then."

"I beat Red Ronnet Connington to the ground when last I saw him," she said, anger and bitterness making her rise to her full height. She looked him in the eye.

"Of course you did," he said softly. So did I.

"I am no man's pet," she said as she brushed past him to climb the stairs.

"Least of all mine," he said.

Jaime wondered if he imagined the pause in her steps as she ascended. He wondered why he couldn't leave her alone.

Cersei hovered like a haze over him as he followed Brienne up to the chamber they shared but didn't share. He would never be free of Cersei.

When he walked past Brienne's door, her hurt, resentful glare followed him.

Remember my sister, Brienne, and I will remember her too.

The next morning Jaime closeted himself with Lord Nestor and the Blackfish in Baelish's old solar. For two days they had schemed and argued, made lists of allies and enemies, lists of men and horse, lists of grain and livestock, lists of possible marriage alliances. Jaime was sick of it. Two soldiers and an over-reaching castellan playing at statecraft, he thought. Tyrion would have laughed. Cersei would have laughed. His father would have curled his lip in disgust.

"We could approach one of the Florents," Lord Nestor was saying.

"If we're going to approach Stannis we had best do it directly," the Blackfish said.

"If you're going to approach Stannis you had best be prepared to face his headsman," Jaime said. As I will.

"Even Stannis must bend. If these rumors of the Others at the Wall are true, he cannot afford to turn away allies," the Blackfish said.

"On your head be it," Jaime said. "Mace Tyrell holds King's Landing in Tommen's name, I can take that power from him, but who can say which ally he would turn to next? It's difficult to imagine the Tyrells and the Martells uniting, but perhaps under the banner of a Targaryen pretender they can stomach it. More likely Mace will turn to Stannis, Willas is still unmarried and some would say greyscale and a crippled leg make an even match."

"If you were to offer the lady Myrcella for Willas Tyrell, perhaps-"

"No," Jaime said, cutting off Lord Nestor. He thought of Myrcella, somewhere between Dorne and King's Landing, scarred and alone. He thought of Red Ronnet's sneering face when he spoke of meeting Brienne. "I will make no match for Myrcella, as I told you. And certainly she will marry no Martell or Tyrell."

Talk turned then to Tyrell bannermen and they again pored over the information Hyle Hunt had uncomfortably agreed to give them the day before. Sansa had been brought in as well, though she'd known far less of her father's bannermen than Ser Brynden or Jaime. She had given interesting tidbits about Baelish's plans, however, and she had contradicted what the Blackfish had to say about her bastard brother who was now Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. The Blackfish had wanted to bring Brienne in to question her about the storm lords, but Jaime had put him off. He didn't want to hear what she would have to say when she understood they were trying to treat with Stannis.

And try they would. For two days ravens had flown from the Vale, west and north and south and further south. Ravens to the Wall, the Citadel, the High Septon. One raven had even gone slightly east to Gulltown to be put on a ship to cross the Narrow Sea. Ravens to enemies and ravens to allies and everyone in between had flown. But only two had Jaime written with his own halting left-handed script.

Come home.

"We must decide how to approach the Northern lords. How quickly can you declare yourself regent?" the Blackfish asked him.

They never let him forget the greatest jest of them all.

"Not until I reach Casterly Rock," Jaime replied, wanting to roll his eyes at the absurdity of it. Cersei would not give Tommen up easily.

I know you want my head, but it will be on a spike before you can return.

"If Arya can be located," the Blackfish said, "we can peel the Northern lords away from Bolton."

"Surely they already know their Arya is false," Jaime said.

By the time this reaches you, you will be the only one left to whom I can entrust Tommen and Myrcella.

"There is little to be done in the North in winter anyway, but we must prepare for spring," Ser Brynden said.

"Those of us who will see it," Jaime said.

The Blackfish laughed.

Tommen will pardon you. Take the Rock. I beg you, come home. Forgive me. I know what I have done.

They continued to play at politics until a servant came to advise them of the evening meal. In the dining hall, Jaime was seated at his customary spot in the middle of the High table. Sansa was seated at his side as usual.

The air was filled with the warm scent of freshly baked bread for the first course and when a platter was placed before him, Sansa broke off a piece and laid it on his plate.

"Thank you, my lady," Jaime said.

Sansa frowned but gave him a small nod.

He leaned closer to her and whispered, "And thank you for what you told Brienne about Tyrion."

Sansa flattened her lips into a thin line of displeasure. "You are welcome, my lord."

"I may never see my brother again," Jaime said.

"Perhaps," Sansa replied.

"You will likely never see him again either," he whispered.

"I suppose."

"Of course, you're married to him all the same," Jaime said. "Though with some effort it could be annulled as you're still a maid."

"Yes," Sansa whispered, looking down at her hands.

"If it is annulled, they'll find you a handsome new husband. Baelish had betrothed you to Harry the Heir, had he not?" Jaime asked innocently, glancing down the table at the convenient tableau Ser Harry was enacting.

Sansa glanced a few seats down the table to where Lady Myranda was leaned over Ser Harry's shoulder in a shameless attempt to drape her breasts against his arm. "Yes," she said softly, distaste creeping subtly into her tone.

"Fortunate you are yet a maid, then. Who can guess what value you may still be to your family? They could marry you to one of any number of handsome young lordlings, who would surely be preferable to my absent, ugly little brother," Jaime said softly, watching Sansa's mind work as she processed his words. There's a clever girl, he thought.

Jaime glanced down at the end of the table where Clegane sat staring into a goblet of wine.

Brienne was beside Sandor, sitting tall and wary with the tension of one who expected an attack. Jaime wanted to muss her hair so some of it flew free of the tight knot she wore at the nape of her neck, he wanted to put a sword in her hand, and some color in her cheeks, some color on her lips, he wished there would be some sunlight so her freckles would return, then he very carefully hoped for the snow to continue and the sun to stay away. He wanted her to look at him. Damn her.

Ser Brynden entered the hall and marched toward the high table, stopped across from Jaime and leaned over the table to slap a small piece of parchment down on top of the bread Sansa had placed on his plate. Jaime took the paper and read it. He read it once quickly, then a second time to be sure.

The parchment fell back to his plate. Sansa took it.

He would swear he could hear the sound of Arthur Dayne's laughter echoing from somewhere in the past.

"It must be Arianne Martell," the Blackfish said. "I know what you will say, but hear me out-"

Jaime threw his golden hand up in the air to cut the Blackfish off. He glanced down the table, but he could not see her, she had left her seat.

Sansa handed the note to Lord Nestor who had been reading it over her shoulder.

"Bring Lord Jaime some strongwine," Sansa murmured to a passing servant.

"What is it father?" Lady Myranda asked Lord Nestor, moving back toward the center of the table. The room had become quieter.

Or maybe it was just Jaime's blood rushing in his ears.

"It could be undone," Sansa said softly.

Jaime scanned the room, his eyes refusing to focus on his search.

"Arya Stark," Lord Nestor said. "Surely it must be."

The Blackfish laughed. "Never."

Sansa thrust a goblet at Jaime. When she tapped it against his chest he took it, but he did not drink.

"What is it, Father?" Lady Myranda asked, her brother crowding at her shoulder across the table from Jaime.

Jaime glanced around him again. Where was she?

"Ser Garlan Tyrell is recalled to King's Landing to stand as champion for his sister Queen Margaery," Sansa answered.

"But how can Ser Garlan join the Kingsguard? He is married," Ser Albar Royce said.

"The Kingsguard has been dissolved by order of King Tommen. A decree was signed before his mother fled with him from King's Landing," Lord Nestor said.

"By order of Mace Tyrell," Jaime corrected, his throat feeling raw. And signed by a young boy who has been trained to put his seal on any paper set before him, Cersei you fool.

He thought of the white book and his yawningly empty page in it. The Kingsguard fell on my watch, he thought. My own son signed the order.

Lady Myranda sat down next to the Blackfish. She leaned forward onto the table, her ample bosom on display.

"They are holy vows," Ser Albar said. "Surely the High Septon-"

"Will not get into a theological argument that would make him look like he only wants Margaery Tyrell's champion to be weak," Lord Nestor said.

"It is worth exploring," Ser Albar insisted. "If the Tyrells are breaking the law, surely it is of import."

Jaime turned to Sansa as the room began to buzz around him. "Have you a septon here?" he asked softly.

Sansa nodded. "Yes."

"Send for him," Jaime whispered.

"Jaime," the Blackfish said, bringing Jaime's focus to him for a moment. He couldn't remember the Blackfish addressing him by his name since his youth. "You must consider Arianne Martell. You could end this trouble before it starts. Even Doran would see the wisdom of it. And Stannis would value the bridge, surely. If Tommen abdicates-"

"Getting into bed with Arianne Martell would be a good way to wake up with my throat slit," Jaime said, his eyes picking through the crowd now hovering around the table.

How odd that the matchmaking had resumed as though it hadn't been paused for nearly twenty years.

"There is the Redwyne girl," the Blackfish said.

"Or perhaps a Florent," Lord Nestor said.

The Blackfish winced. "Surely it won't come to that. But someone close to Stannis, perhaps a lady of the-"

"It could be undone," Jaime said. "When I am regent I can undo it. There must be a Kingsguard."

That set half the table to arguing.

In the chaos, Jaime noticed Sansa staring at him intently and turned to whisper to her, "You are my only family here, what is your advice?"

"Arianne Martell sounds like everything I could wish for you," Sansa whispered, dripping sincerity.

He laughed at the absurdity of it all. "You sound like a Lannister," he said.

Sansa scowled at that.

"My lord," Lady Myranda leaned forward so Jaime could hear her through the noise of the crowd, her lashes flicking coyly at him. "You will want heirs quickly. A bride from the Vale, a daughter of one of Lord Robert's most loyal bannermen mayhaps, would serve to strengthen your ties here."

The Blackfish overheard the lady and looked at her askance. "It is Stannis or a southern ally he courts."

Jaime gave Lady Myranda a knowing smile, but felt his breath catch as he watched her eyes travel to a point high above his chair.

So that's where she was.

Jaime rose and turned to face her. Brienne's eyes held none of the anger or resentment of last night, now they held only concern. She searched his face, silently asking him if he was well. He felt warmth spread in his chest.

I am as well as any man whose life is crumbling about him, he thought.

"Jaime," she said softly, "you could return to...the Sept of Baelor, return to your...worship...at the Mother's altar. Much will have changed since you worshipped there last."

It took him a moment to catch her meaning. "I worship at her altar no more."

She must have read something of his intent in his eyes for she began to slowly shake her head. "You may find favor there now. You are free and your proposal may find willing ears. If not, there are other exalted altars you could choose-"

"Tommen and Myrcella must be my heirs if they lose all else."

She swallowed and looked at him skeptically. "You are far from home and caught up in madness at this news-"

"I may lose part of the Westerlands when I negotiate a peace." I will certainly lose my head.

Jaime refused to let her look away from him, refused to release her gaze. He wanted to grab her arm, but knew he must not. Her faith in him had become a tenuous thing, he had to tread carefully.

"I must see to my father," she said softly. The look on her face was almost a challenge; almost a child defying a command; almost a dog awaiting an undeserved kick.

"I will be forced to treat with Stannis," he said.

She grimaced and took a deep breath, her gaze holding his with an uncertainty he hated. "I have sworn to kill Stannis," she said, biting her lip.

Are we negotiating now, Brienne?

"You can kill yourself trying to reach Stannis. After the war," he said sternly. As though either of them would live that long.

Her brows furrowed, she still looked unsure. "After the war," she agreed softly.

"And I will need heirs first. Four at least, walking, talking, and weaned."

"One heir."

"Four." He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at her. Silly to argue any of it. None of it would matter.

"Two, one for Tarth," she said. "And Casterly Rock will have no say in the governance of Tarth."

"Podrick Payne," Jaime called out without taking his gaze from Brienne, "find my lady's sword in her chamber and bring it to her."

"And I wield my sword when and where I choose," she said resolutely.

"You will see to your father's life. You will avenge your beloved Renly, but not until after the war. And not until after our three soon-to-be motherless children are weaned and walking. Tommen and Myrcella are my heirs, if need be. Neither Casterly Rock, nor any Lannister will interfere with the governance of Tarth, but your fighting men must be mine to command for the duration of the war," he paused and she nodded in agreement. "You wield your sword when and where you see fit. Done?"

"Three children, one for Tarth," she insisted.

"One for Tarth," he agreed.

"My signature must be on any marriage contract for my children," she said, taking a deep breath and rising to her full height.

Jaime sighed and bit back a smile. "Done."

Podrick returned with Oathkeeper and handed it to Brienne. Jaime noticed her hand shook slightly as she gripped it by the scabbard and held it between them. He closed his hand over the hilt. For the first time he realized the hall had become utterly hushed.

"I swear I will abide by these terms," Jaime said. Then he called over his shoulder, "Ser Brynden, you will bear witness?"

"To all who will listen," the Blackfish answered. "You have witnesses, my lady. Doubtless you will need them."

Brienne closed her right hand about Oathkeeper's hilt, flinching when their skin touched, dropping her gaze from his. "I swear," she said, so softly Jaime thought he alone must have heard it. But he needed no witnesses.

Moving his grip to Oathkeeper's scabbard, Jaime pulled it from Brienne and handed it back to Pod. "Keep your lady's blade for the night, Pod. I saw what she did to the last man who tried to bed her."

Jaime glanced at Sansa. "The sept?" he asked.

Sansa, wide eyed, beckoned them to follow her. Jaime gripped Brienne by the wrist and set off after his good-sister. The septon had not arrived when they reached the sept, so Jaime pulled Brienne into a curtained alcove off the corridor. In the dim light, he backed Brienne toward a window, the closer he got, the more the warm scent of her skin called to him.

"You need not do this, Jaime," she whispered as he leaned into her.

"This?" he asked as he kissed her, taking her plump lower lip between his teeth to open her mouth. He pushed her back to sit against the window sill, his tongue taking her mouth with the same rhythm he used to rock himself into the cradle of her thighs.

He had wanted her for so long he could think of nothing but the feel of her.

Her hands slipped between them, she pressed firmly against his chest until he broke the kiss.

"Jaime," she said, breathlessly, "I will come to your bed tonight. You need not wed me. I will say that I must wait for my father's permission. We will find some excuse to delay and this will be forgotten."

"Why?" he asked, his right wrist wrapped low around her hips, using the golden hand to pull her to him. With his left hand, he cupped her cheek.

She shook her head and pulled back from him, her gaze sure and resolved. "I do not know what loneliness makes you want me this way, or what madness makes you think to wed me, but you would not want this if you were not sure we will die. But we may live, Jaime. And if you could see Cersei now, if you could look her in the eye, you would not think to wed me. You still love her, you love her in the marrow of your bones. When you return to her, when you see her, you will want her again."

He stilled.

"Yes," he said, for a lie would gain him nothing. "I will want her, but I will never touch her again. Even if you leave me here and break this betrothal, I will never touch her again."

"If we live, you will regret this. In a year's time it will seem utter folly. You were right. What good is my maidenhead if I die? Or even if I do not, I have never intended to wed, so it is meaningless. I will share your bed until we part and we will leave it at that."

He leaned forward and kissed her gently. "Do you think I would wed you just to fuck you?"

Even in the dim alcove, he knew she blushed.

"Yes."

"Brienne, I have tried to leave you behind and I have tried to send you away, but always you haunt me. Do not pretend not to know what is between us."

It was every bit of truth he could give her and he hoped it was enough. She looked away from him, but she nodded.

He kissed her again.

"Lord Jaime?" Lord Nestor called from the corridor. "My lord, the septon is arrived."

"Come," Jaime whispered, weaving his fingers with hers and pulling her behind him. "Let us be done with it."

The gawking crowd from the hall had followed them into the corridor. Jaime met Hyle Hunt's eyes, the hedge knight gave him a small smile and a nod. He nodded back as they ducked into the sept. Petyr Baelish's body was laid out in the middle of the room and the fat little septon stood scowling between the altars of the Mother and the Father. The whole thing would have been quite amusing if Jaime hadn't been well past the point of laughter.

"My lord," the septon said as they stood before him. "Perhaps this could wait until Lord Baelish-"

"I am lately of the Kingsguard, septon. If you were freed of your vow of celibacy this night, how long would you wait to take a woman?"

The septon huffed, but began his prayers. Jaime looked over at Brienne. She was bright red, her chin stubbornly held high as she tried to pretend she wasn't mortified. He turned to face her fully, his right arm slipping around her waist. She looked slightly more embarrassed, but leaned into him when he brought his face close to hers.

"Would your father approve?" he asked in a whisper only she could hear, hoping to distract her.

She grimaced.

"Kingslayer?" he asked.

She nodded.

The septon guided them through their vows and Jaime said his quickly, Brienne fumbled through hers.

He pulled her closer as the septon droned into another prayer.

She let her temple rest against his. He turned his head slightly and let his lips brush hers. She caught his lower lip between hers, holding it for the space of a breath and the feel of it made his arm tighten reflexively around her waist, pulling her closer. He threaded his fingers into the hair knotted at her neck and kissed her again.

She hummed softly as his tongue entered her mouth, meeting him in a dance she was quickly learning. Her leg had just begun to hitch up against his when he heard the septon clearing his throat.

"My lord. My lord, this is obscene," the septon hissed.

Faintly, Jaime heard a rustle of whispers in the group of people squeezed around the doorway of the sept.

"It will be obscene if you don't hurry," Jaime spat.

"The cloaks, my lord," the septon said, in a tone that made it clear he'd already asked and been ignored.

Cloaks. He looked at Brienne. She wore none. He had neither red nor white.

"My bride is heir to her house and will keep her own colors," Jaime said. "She will wear mine if and when it pleases her."

The look on her face said she knew his words were all bluster, but she looked at the septon and nodded her agreement.

"No cloaks," the septon said reproachfully. And then the man just stood there watching them quietly with growing exasperation, waiting for something.

At last, Brienne spoke.

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband," she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

The kiss. Of course. He smiled.

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife," Jaime said, turning to give Brienne a quick smacking kiss before gesturing for the septon to continue.

The septon had barely finished muttering something about their house names and curses when Jaime grabbed her hand again and began to tug her toward the door of the sept.

They wove their way through the silent, gaping inhabitants of the Gates of the Moon who spilled out of the sept and back into the corridor. When they were free of the throng, Jaime picked up his pace.

"No bedding?" Sandor called from behind them.

Jaime shot him a glare over his shoulder.

"Do you doubt there will be a bedding? Listen at the door if you're concerned."

He heard Brienne gasp, but continued on, leading her toward the stairs and their bedchamber.

They tripped their way up, trying to kiss and climb at the same time. Once they were inside the door, Jaime whipped off his tunics and threw them to the floor, then grabbed Brienne, pushing her back into the door to slam it closed as he devoured her mouth. They kissed and wrestled with boots and they kissed and struggled with laces and they kissed and tussled their way to the bed.

His cock was already straining the laces of his breeches when she began to fumble at the straps of his golden hand and by the time she had flung it to the floor, he thought he'd burst them. He pulled her tightly to him as he continued to back toward the bed, pulling off first her overtunic, then the under, until their flesh touched, her small breasts pressed firmly to him.

He pushed at her breeches and they fell to the floor as he threw back the furs on the bed and turned her to slide back onto the sheets. They broke apart briefly then, her hungry gaze growing briefly unsure as his eyes swept down the length of her body. He knelt between her thighs and tried to divest himself of his breeches. When he met her gaze again she was wary and he wanted to kiss her, to reassure her, but was tangled trying to kick off his breeches and couldn't reach so, holding her stare, he brought his mouth down on her nipple instead.

And she arched off the bed as though someone held a knifepoint to her spine. He suckled her and she threw her head back releasing a high, keening sound. She threw her hand between her teeth, trying to strangle the desperate sounds pouring out of her throat. He wanted to tear her hand away, but was too busy wrestling with his breeches.

Finally, he got one leg free and reached up to pull her hand out of her mouth, his cock so hard it nearly bent as it jammed against the skin of her inner thigh and his mouth nearly loosed her nipple as he groaned. She was fighting him, wouldn't let him take her hand out of her damned mouth and as they wrestled, his cock slid against her again, finding its way into the dripping seam of her as though it were being guided.

She froze and he was able to pull her hand away. Jaime moved his hips just a bit and the head of his cock seated itself and she looked at him then as they both moaned. He released her nipple and hooked his right arm under her knee, positioning her, before he dropped to his elbows on either side of her head, his forehead flush against her temple, his hips giving a gentle grind as the head of his cock moved ever so slightly inside her.

"A maid once told me every bride prays her lord husband will spare her maidenhead on her wedding night," he said, gasping at the warm, wet, tight feel of her.

"She was a fool," Brienne whispered back with a moan as he moved further into her.

"This will hurt," he whispered, feeling himself come up against her barrier, not certain which of them he was warning.

"It should," she said, turning her pelvis up to meet him.

"Yes, it bloody well should," he said, pulling back and then plunging through her maidenhead.

He winced, she hissed, but as he seated himself fully, they both groaned in relief.

Jaime's jaw clenched and he pressed his temple to hers as he fought every impulse that was telling him to take her with a fury. He tried to hold perfectly still to give her time to adjust.

She stirred against him and he gritted his teeth. She rocked her pelvis and he took in a sharp breath. Her knees drew slowly up his sides, tilting her sheath around him until he threw his right wrist down to her hip, stilling her movement.

"What. Are you. Doing?" he ground out at her.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"I'm trying to be gentle," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"Oh gods, why?" he wondered as he swung out and then slammed back into her. And then it was warfare.

He tried to set a steady pace, but she met him with a jarring, rapid beat that wrapped her burning sheath around him like a fist which, within a dozen thrusts, dragged a climax out of him so fast all he had time to do was shout silently against her cheek. In violent spurts, he came for what felt like minutes, pressing her down into the bed with all his weight.

With a wry laugh he rolled off her and wiped his hand down his face in chagrin, trying to catch his breath. "Never tell anyone how poorly that was done," he said.

He glanced over to see she was staring up at the ceiling, one arm draped over her breasts while the other covered whatever her crossed legs didn't hide of the hair between her legs. He threw the furs over them both to preserve her modesty although he didn't think she moved either of her arms from their guarding positions.

He reached over and brushed some of her hair back from her cheek. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. There was a bewildered air about her; he moved closer. Her blue eyes followed him as he rose up above her on his elbow, she searched his face as a single tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

"Brienne," he whispered, catching the tear with his thumb as he leaned down to kiss her. Slowly, she reached for him, her long arms wrapping around his neck. He shifted to the other side of her and ran his hand along her side, his fingers brushing her nipple, following the smooth muscled planes of her, pulling her toward him as he swept his hand around her hip to the firm swell of her buttocks. As she threw herself into the kiss, he slipped his fingers between her thighs, slick with his seed, parting her folds to touch the small nub of flesh that made her hips buck and twist as he worked her to a slow, hesitant climax.

She was still coming when he realized how hard he was. "Again?" he whispered and she pulled him to her, the warm welcoming heat of her bringing him in as they moved together in a tortuously slow rhythm their bodies had silently agreed upon, accompanied by short gasping breaths and teeth running along jawlines. When he came again, he pulled her with him as he rolled onto his back, tucking her head under his chin, holding her close as they drifted off to sleep.

He reached for her again in the pre-dawn light, her drowsy kisses and the sleepy scent of the skin behind her ear making him want to drown in her.

As the sun rose, he entered her, gripped her tight, and rolled them over trying to convince her to ride him, laughing as she tried to cover her breasts and the hair where they were joined while rocking her hips at a punishing pace. He would pull one arm away from her breasts and she would replace it with the other, a blush rising up her body as a shy smile played about her lips. All he could do was grin at the ridiculousness of it while their lovemaking devolved into arm wrestling. Finally, she collapsed forward onto his chest to hide herself and he wrapped his arms around her, their laughter shaking them both as he gave up and flipped them over again to finish it.

"I've already seen it all," he said, trying to pull off the furs she'd covered herself with as soon as they were done.

Her eyes were shining with mirth, but she gripped the furs tightly to her chest and he couldn't win. They lay quietly watching the snow fall against the window until a servant came in to stoke the fire and leave them water for washing. Brienne melted into the furs at the intrusion, her cheeks red as she slipped the covers over her head. He almost hid himself, some reflexive instinct to keep such a thing secret, but instead he met the servant's gaze, his hand lingering on Brienne's hip under the furs.

When they were alone again, he rose and dressed, noting that she watched him shyly as he went about it. "I should make an appearance at the practice yard," he said as he strapped his sword about his waist and walked toward the door.

"I'll join you," she said, sitting up, though she kept the furs gripped tightly over her breasts.

Jaime stopped with his hand on the door and laughed. "Spare my dignity. Pretend you've been too well used to train for one day at least."

She blushed anew and sank under the furs again, but muttered, "And my dignity?"

"I'll walk with a limp," he said as he left.

Jaime had expected to be harassed at the yard as any newly married man would have been, but instead he was given a wide and respectful berth. He spent the rest of the morning in the solar with the Blackfish and Lord Nestor. At noon he passed Brienne and Sansa in the hallway and he wordlessly grabbed Brienne's hand and dragged her back to their bedchamber.

At dinner that night, Brienne was seated beside him. After the first course, he caught her looking longingly at her former seat next to Sandor. He tried to feed her a morsel off his plate and the mulish look she gave him as she dodged it amused him so much he kept trying to feed her for the rest of the meal. She bit his finger when he tried to slip a dried cherry between her teeth while she answered some question Lady Myranda asked her.

"Do you have fingers to spare?" she asked him warningly under her breath.

Jaime laughed so hard he could scarcely breathe. Then he stood, made a great show of stretching and yawning before he grabbed her hand and tugged her to her feet; she blushingly followed him when he led her from the hall. He met the gaze of anyone who watched them, defying them to comment. But there was nothing but bemusement in any of the eyes he saw. Of course they had every right to run off and fuck whenever they wanted.

And they did. He fingered her to completion in one of the back stalls of the stable while she gasped his name into his ear with every stroke. The morning of Baelish's funeral they snuck out during a prayer and he took her in the bright light of day against the window sill of the curtained alcove off the sept, her breeches hanging off one ankle as her long legs were crossed behind his back, one of her hands covering her own mouth and the other stifling his moans while snow fell against the glass behind her. The Blackfish convinced Jaime to let them question her about the storm lords the next day and when Lord Nestor and the Blackfish left briefly to deliver a message to the maester, he and Brienne came together as if they hadn't touched in months rather than hours and he cursed her breeches, finally pulling them down just enough to bend her over the Blackfish's desk and stuff the head of his cock inside her as she thrust back against him with a deep groan that belied the skepticism she'd shown when he told her it would work, and when she told him to hurry-chanting it breathlessly-lest the others return and catch them, he rammed into her harder, his fingers reaching around through her pubic hair to slip around her engorged little nub, and as he growled that he hoped they would get caught, they both came. The world was never more right than when he was inside her.

But there were other moments as well. On the fourth morning after they were wed, they woke to see the snow had stopped and without saying a word, they simply stayed abed all day until the snow began again just before dusk. The sixth night after their wedding he realized she loathed his golden hand, stopping him so she could remove it before she let him pull her into bed "Only you in this bed," she had murmured and the vehemence of her words as her fingertips soothed the bruises the straps left on his stump had somehow excited him more than the feel of her bare breast in his good hand. On the ninth day, the snow stopped again and did not resume and she had the servants bring them supper in their chamber so they needed not mingle with strangers.

Jaime scarcely thought of the Kingsguard, his white cloak and years of duty in the Red Keep suddenly seemed like the far distant past. He had chosen another road and would not look back.

Cersei came to mind often whenever he was apart from Brienne. A raven had been sent to Casterly Rock announcing his marriage. As soon as Cersei arrived at home she would know. He imagined his sister's reaction a dozen different ways, from murderous rage to tears to vicious laughter. The fact that he would try to take the Rock from her would probably be her most pressing concern. She'd had a taste of governing seven kingdoms and it would be a fight to take the last one she still held. But he must. He needed the gold, he needed the men, and he needed to ensure she didn't have the resources to keep Tommen and Myrcella from him. She would never agree to their abdication, he knew. But he became increasingly certain it was the only way to save them. Once that was done and the Westerlands were secure, Cersei could do whatever she liked. He wouldn't be there to stop her.

Brienne knew, or guessed, what it would mean for him to give the throne to Stannis. Quietly one night while he was adding wood to the fire, she asked who he would leave as guardian of his children after peace could be brokered. Her understanding that he would not survive the process unspoken.

He nearly told her about his attempt to reach Tyrion, but didn't want to see anymore pity in her eyes.

"Cersei," he said.

Brienne had lain back against the pillows, worrying her lower lip with her teeth and refusing to meet his gaze as she almost spoke half a dozen times. He knew what she was thinking, but didn't want to talk to her about it.

Returning to bed, he tried to reach for her, but she gripped his arm firmly. "Stannis will not allow her to live," she said softly.

He tried to smile, but he was caught in the deep understanding blue of her eyes and his lips faltered before he could force them to move. Bad enough she was the Kingslayer's wife, bad enough he would have to taint her name further when he publicly claimed fatherhood of his sister's children, he'd have spared her this, assuming she wouldn't live to hear of it anyway.

"I'll convince him I forced her," he said, trying to sound lighthearted.

"Jaime," she whispered, her hands stealing up to cup either side of his face. "No one will believe that."

Then he did laugh, though his throat was a bit tight. "Only you would refuse to believe it."

He turned his head just a bit and kissed the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist, his nose drawing in the calming scent of her there.

She drew him to her then, her arms wrapping around his neck in a fierce embrace and as she buried her face against his neck, he buried his against hers. He let his weight fall on her, expecting her to admonish him for his plan or tell him to find another way, but instead she held him, her long fingers combing through his hair, her warm, strong arms sweeping in comforting circles on his back. He lay like that, breathing in the heat of the nape of her neck until the tenderness of it almost killed him and he had to kiss her to turn it to something else.

Twelve days Jaime had been married when he wrote out his will. The Blackfish bore solemn witness to it all as they lounged in their scheming solar awaiting a returning raven to tell them that the road to the Bloody Gate was passable. He enclosed a note for Myrcella, a note for Tommen, a note for Cersei, and a note for Tyrion. In the end, he even included a note for Brienne, the first lines reading: You will never read this, lady wife, but how would it look if I left a note for everyone but you? There is always the chance you will not have got yourself killed on Tarth, in which case, well done, I hope this note finds you healthy and desperately missing the feel of my cock, for my cock has certainly missed the feel of you...

After the meal that night, Jaime sat with Sandor and Hyle. He had asked Hyle to accompany Brienne to Gulltown, and possibly beyond, days before and now handed him the documents they had discussed. The business made him feel underhanded, but he'd said nothing to Hyle he hadn't told Brienne herself. She hated schemes and scheming, but she needed to use some subtlety if she was to have a hope of surviving.

"Convince her to go to Braavos first," Jaime said. "I have tried to tell her it is the only way she can approach Tarth from the sea without someone warning them she's coming and I think she sees the reason in that at least. She refuses to hear me about the sellswords."

"She may be right in wanting to go alone, without sellswords," Hunt said. "They could be bought out from under her, the Golden Company would command respect amongst their own kind."

"No matter that she's Brienne of Tarth, she has married a Lannister, and even a sellsword on Braavos will know a Lannister's pockets are deeper," Jaime said.

Hunt took the papers and said, "I will do all I can. You know how she is."

Jaime glanced over to where Brienne and Pod and Sansa were sitting in front of one of Lord Nestor's hounds by the hearth, tending its wounded paw. Yes, I know how she is.

Hyle left to join them by the hearth.

"Word is, Stannis is burning people," Sandor said once they were alone.

"I'll ask for a headsman."

"Better poison than fire. Better anything than fire."

"Your concern is moving, Clegane. Do keep my sweet little good-sister safe."

"I'll keep her safe," Sandor said with a tone approaching sincerity.

"I've sent for Tyrion," Jaime said softly, unsure why he said it when he'd been making so much headway toward keeping Sansa in the family.

"How?" Sandor asked.

"Ah, I sent him a note care of the one person in Essos who would want me dead as much as he does. If my guess is correct, he'll find his way to her."

"Is there anyone who doesn't want you dead?"

"Besides my wife? My old nurse is still fond of me, of course she's gone deaf and hasn't heard a word about me for the last twenty years."

Sandor grunted, but he was distracted by the sound of Sansa's laughter as the hound she'd been doctoring sprang to his feet and licked her face.

"What will the Imp want of her?" Sandor asked softly.

"That I cannot say. I know you're not fond of him, but I imagine Tyrion will be the most civilized sort of husband. He would frown on the sort of hypocrisy that would hold his wife's conduct to a higher standard than his own, I think."

"Will he want an annulment?" Sandor asked.

"I do not even know if he will return," Jaime said. "I cannot guess if he would want the marriage annulled or not, it would take years to do it, Mace Tyrell wouldn't let either of them near King's Landing. Even if it is annulled, her uncles will just find someone else. Hopefully he'd be more of Tyrion's disposition than Joff's, but who can say?"

"She could refuse," Sandor said.

"She should. She should point out that despite his desperate need for alliances, the Blackfish still hasn't but his own neck in the matrimonial noose. They say Robb Stark practically had to beg to get Edmure to the altar, the gods know Hoster Tully couldn't force him to it."

Sandor nodded at Jaime with something like gratitude and turned back to watch Sansa again.

That night, after Brienne had ridden him with abandon, her head thrown back as his hands had roamed the muscled planes of her abdomen and the the small firm swells of her breasts, Jaime lay at her side and wondered if she might be with child. She had fallen asleep, but he almost woke her, to ask her if she knew what to do, where to go to get the right herbs, when he wondered how long it would take her to realize it, if it were true. He wondered if in the weeks it would take her to reach Gulltown she might find herself with child and reconsider her foolhardy mission. It was a strange, bitter hope which had nothing to do with longing for a child and everything to do with the hope of saving her life, and he clung to it to lull himself to sleep.

The thirteenth day of their marriage dawned frigid and clear, and in the early morning light, Jaime had no sooner lifted his head from between Brienne's recently satiated thighs than a servant entered their chamber with a message: the road to the Bloody Gate was passable.

There was much to see to in preparation for his departure the next day and he scarce saw Brienne until evening. They supped in the main hall and Brienne asked the Blackfish how long before she could leave for Gulltown. The nearest paths were the trickiest and he said it would likely be two or three more days.

The conversation in the hall was a dull buzz in Jaime's ears as he ticked off in his head the remaining hours until dawn. This would be his last real meal with Brienne and he lost his appetite thinking he would never sit beside her, never tease her as he tried to toss bits of food in her mouth, never feel her timid fingers stroke his thigh below the table when she thought no one would notice, never see the knowing look in her eye when someone engaged him in dull conversation. His food was too dry to swallow and after the second course, Brienne yawned very rudely at the table and said she'd like to go to bed.

"Of course you'd like to go to bed," he whispered as she led him from the hall, trying to sound playful but falling into a wistful tone.

"I want you," she whispered back with desperate sincerity.

He grabbed her and backed her against the wall of the corridor out in the open where anyone could see. Their kiss was fierce and her leg had curled up around his buttock before he pulled back to kiss her neck. "Where do you want me?" he asked.

"In bed," she whispered, trying to pull his mouth back to hers.

"Where do you want me, Brienne?" he asked again, his teeth grazing her earlobe and making her shiver.

"Inside me," she panted. "I don't know how I ever existed before you were inside me."

He smiled as he recognized his own words.

"Are you wet?"

"Yes."

"Are you wet?"

"Gods, yes. I'm wet. All you have to do is look at me."

Her words were like a flaming brand against his spine and he pressed her into the wall, grinding his erection against her as she gasped. His thumb ran circles around her nipple through her tunic. "I'm so hard, I would come if you touched me," he said.

As if he had issued a challenge, he felt her hand reaching between them for his cock.

He stepped back from her and turned away, continuing the walk to their chamber, and in the space of a heartbeat or two, he heard her follow him.

In their room, he stripped and sat on the chair before the hearth and when she came over to him wearing nothing but her undertunic and tried to pull him toward the bed, he positioned her so she straddled him. He held his cock as she lowered herself onto him, her arms draped over his shoulders onto the back of the chair as she planted her feet on the floor and began to fuck him.

Jaime ducked his head under her tunic and teased her nipple with his teeth until she grasped his head and pulled him tight to her breast. He moaned as he flicked her nipple with his tongue, his hips meeting her sliding movements with deeper thrusts as he began to suckle her. She let out the high desperate cry that only his mouth feeding on her could bring, and he smiled against her when he realized she wasn't trying to muffle it. Her motions grew more frantic as she used her legs to fuck him exactly the way she wanted. Then suddenly, she jerked off the undertunic and pulled his lips from one nipple, then stuffed the other one in the mouth in its place. He barely sucked on it before she came with a sharp, shuddering moan, her sheath clamping on him like a vise and wringing a climax out of him that had him gasping against her breast.

Afterward they lay in bed and he tried not to remember that it was for the last time.

"There may be a child," he blurted out, wondering why he couldn't leave himself that one last, small hope that something could keep her from Tarth.

She sighed and lifted her head from his shoulder to look at him. "So quickly? It has scarce been a fortnight."

"It takes scarce the space of two thrusts," he said. "You are still young."

She was about the age Cersei had been when she birthed Joffrey. He tried to push the thought away.

Brienne sighed again and laid her head back down on his shoulder. "I doubt there will be a child," she said.

"Do you know what to do? If you need to?"

She nodded. "My father had...there were women...I think I know what to do."

"Do you want children?"

"Did I not swear to give you three?"

"You knew you would not have to see it through."

She shrugged and looked away from him. "It is difficult to think of impossible things. One day, yes, when there were not so many pressing concerns."

"I would have liked children."

"You have children."

"Children of my own, children who would call me father. I would have liked children with you."

She grew very tense and very still and the faintest, most timid, "Oh" slipped through her lips.

He knew he had stumbled into something, had plucked some string in her, though whether good or bad he was not certain. All he could do was plunge ahead. "Daughters are what I want. Three daughters tall as trees."

"Daughters tall as trees," she repeated softly.

"Well, taller than you, anyway. They would need claws, so we would put swords in their hands and you could spend your spare time worrying which of them was worthy of Oathkeeper and I would quietly champion the least worthy, but you would ignore me."

"Taller than me..."

"Mmm. With manes the color of yours, though they would have my curls and not this wild stuff that makes you look like someone's just fucked you til you can't see straight. Curls like me, but your eyes I think, wide and soft and blue. Your smile, but my nose and definitely my teeth."

She traced her fingertip gently across his chest.

"Give them your beard as well," she said quietly, "for if they're taller than me, no man will marry them and at that height they'll need something to protect their faces from the wind."

He laughed. "They won't need husbands, they'll consort with pirates and bear children whenever they wish and call them Lannister, bastards be damned. You'll be forever scandalized but secretly proud and I'll be openly proud and we'll be infamous."

"Aren't we already infamous?"

"More so by the day."

"Songs," she said.

"Songs. Naked songs," he said. She kicked him under the covers. He looked over at her and smiled. "Come spar with me."

She looked down at their entwined bodies. "Haven't we-"

"No," he said, sitting up and reaching for his clothes. "Let's spar."

They slipped into the yard in the faint light of a crescent moon, choosing tourney swords with whispers.

"I don't know why we're whispering," she said, "We'll wake the whole castle with the sound of steel on steel."

He grinned and came at her fast. She answered back with a flurry, using none of her usual stalling tactics, just swinging her sword with speed and precision. They fought with abandon, both of them making mistakes and pounding the other with killing blows. He liked the idea of leaving her with bruises that would linger long after they were parted.

Finally when they had fought to a third draw, she stepped back and said, "We should go back to bed."

He tapped the side of her ribs with the blunted tip of his blade right over the last wound he'd given her. "Mine," he said. She nodded. He tapped the point of the sword to the spot on her inner thigh where he'd cut her the first time they fought. "And mine."

She nodded more slowly this time then raised her own blunted swordpoint and tapped his upper arm where she'd cut him when they fought before Catelyn Stark. "Mine," she said.

"Yours."

She gently nudged the tip against his eyebrow where she had cut him the first time they fought. "Mine," she whispered with a small smile.

"Did you enjoy cutting my handsome face?"

She shrugged, but her smile widened and her eyes danced. "It was the first time I ever wanted to kill a man."

"It was the last time I fought with my right hand," he said softly.

Her head tilted to the side, a knowing look on her face. "I was the last," she said.

"And I was the first."

"You were all I could handle."

"You were better than I thought possible."

"I still hated you," she said, "but I hated them more for what they did to you."

"You were so stupidly noble, but I'd never seen anything like you and I couldn't bear to watch as they broke you."

"I don't know when I stopped hating you."

"I've been hated by everyone I meet for nearly as long as I can remember. But your hatred I could not bear."

"I knew I didn't hate you after you told me about Aerys."

"I was half-dead, but I wanted you in that bathhouse."

"You were still half a god in that bathhouse."

"I wanted to leave you behind."

"And now you will."

"I must."

She nodded. "You're a man of honor, Jaime."

They returned to their chamber and both slept a bit, but in the late midnight hours they came together with a slow, burning desperation that had them sweating and panting by the end of it. Neither slept after that as their final night wore away to dawn. He made her repeat again, as he had for the last three nights, the short list of his bannermen who could be trusted and the long list of those who couldn't. She whispered as she repeated the names of foreign banks with caches of Lannister gold and the ways to access them. He made her swear to come to him once she had secured her father, as swiftly and as safely as she could, and he made her swear she would not attempt to reclaim Tarth if she could save her father without doing so.

They fucked frantically one last time as dawn began to tinge the sky. She helped him dress, strapping on his golden hand and playing squire as he donned the wool and leather and furs he'd bought in Gulltown. Neither of them really spoke and he noticed she would not meet his gaze.

Farewell, wife, he thought, but knew it was too impersonal.

In the courtyard, the fifty men the Blackfish was sending with him to the Riverlands were assembling. Brienne checked his horse's saddle while he said his goodbyes to the Blackfish and Lord Nestor.

"Be the man your family needs, Jaime," the Blackfish said by way of farewell.

Jaime nodded. "If there is any word of Arya Stark-"

"We'll send word," the Blackfish said.

Goodbye, Brienne. That felt so cold and final.

Jaime sought Sansa where she stood off to the side by Sandor.

"My lady, farewell," he said.

"Lord Jaime," she said with a nod.

"If you see my little brother..."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but nodded, her fingers almost imperceptibly brushing against Sandor's thigh as she fought for composure.

"Tell him I love him," Jaime said.

Sansa looked taken aback but nodded again.

Take care, wench. Brienne would remove his head herself if those were his last words to her. Cersei would love that. He pushed the thought of Cersei away.

Jaime walked over to Pod and clapped him on the shoulder. Hyle Hunt stood behind the boy.

"Pod, it will break your lady's heart to leave you behind. You are as true and loyal a squire as I have ever known."

Podrick's chest swelled a bit, but his face crinkled as his chin dropped to his chest.

Jaime and Hyle shared a quick look. "Thank you," Jaime said. "I know you will do what you can."

"I owe her my life," Hyle said. "Good luck, my lord."

Jaime smiled and turned away. The only thing left was to walk toward his horse and his waiting wife.

Brienne watched his approach with the eyes of a lamb being led to the slaughter. He turned to test the cinch of his saddle, though he knew she'd done it for him, just so he wouldn't have to look at her.

"Jaime," she said, her bare hand clutching at his gloved one. "Do not trust Stannis. Men think his honor is absolute, but he slaughtered Renly like a coward."

"Renly," he muttered, checking his saddle bags, though of course she already had them in order.

"Do not trust in his honor alone; do not put faith in a promise to spare the children," she whispered, grabbing his hand as he began to check the straps on his bedroll.

She wanted him to live, to find some other means than Stannis to save his children, but she knew as well as he did that no one who would make a play for the throne would let him live. And the Martells and Targaryens would not have forgotten the two small bodies wrapped in red cloaks his father had lain before the iron throne. He tried not to think of Tommen and Myrcella.

He turned to her and tried to smile, his gaze focusing on her mouth, on the scar on her cheek, anywhere but her eyes. "Trust no one when you return to Tarth. Question even those whose loyalty you think absolute. Get your father out alive, but wait for spring, wait for the war to end before you try to reclaim Evenfall. Stannis will see to it and if not, hire sellswords, learn to use the name Lannister to purchase what you need."

She won't live that long, neither will you.

Her long fingers gripped his hand so hard he felt it even through his heavy glove. "Jaime, I release you from your vows. Do not torture yourself in the south when you see her again. Find what comfort may be had-"

He jerked his hand away from her and did look into her eyes then, glaring at her as he turned and stalked toward the stables. Behind him, he heard her boots scrape against the icy ground, so he slipped into the small alley between the stables and the castle wall, and banged open the recently repaired door of the small room where Clegane had gilded Baelish.

She closed the door quietly behind them.

"Do not think," he said through gritted teeth as he turned to face her. "Do not. Think. To free me from my vows, from holy oaths I have made to you. They are mine and they are not yours to end."

Unshed tears welled in her eyes as she searched his face and he could see everything she felt for him there, even though he tried not to see it. The things she said with her eyes were a burden, an extra weight he had not the strength to bear. "I would have you find whatever happiness you are able," she whispered, the tears in her voice and on her cheeks now. "I would spare you whatever pain may be spared."

"Then don't-" He paused and looked away from her. He ran his hand over his face trying to calm himself, scraped his fingers across his beard and closed his hand into a fist, pressing it to his mouth.

When he turned back to her, she was wiping the tears from her face with her hands and without thought, he went to her, catching one of her wrists and pressing a kiss there. She looked up at him with her red-rimmed eyes.

"Jaime, I-"

He kissed her and cut off the words he guessed she would say. Her arms wrapped around him and he began to push at her breeches as she tried to kick off her boots. There were crates against the wall and he backed her up toward them as he pulled at his own laces, the cold air likely cruel against her bare skin as he seated her on the tallest crate and entered her in one swift plunge.

"Jaime," she whispered. "Jaime, Jaime, Jaime..."

"You're my wife," he gasped into her ear. "My wife."

She clutched him to her so tightly he scarce had room to move inside the burning wet grip of her.

"Jaime, I-"

He kissed her and stopped her again as he stroked himself into her.

"Don't," he whispered. "Don't. I cannot give you what I do not possess."

"I never asked."

He pulled back to look at her, his hips continuing their battering pace. "You should," he gasped. "You should demand."

She shook her head desperately, her breath coming in short pants. "Only borrowed you. Could not resist. I-"

Again he kissed her, throwing his weight against her as he came, his fumbling thumb trying to work between them to bring her with him. She brushed his hand away and pulled him tightly to her, her arms squeezing the air from his lungs.

Sobs shook her as she held him and when he pulled back from her, pulled out of the dripping heat of her, he wondered if he would ever be warm again.

Her hands swiped at the tears on her face as he clumsily tried to help her back into her breeches and boots. She was mostly composed when he took her by the hand and led her back out through the throng of men in the courtyard who all pretended they hadn't been waiting for his return.

He didn't say anything as he dropped her hand and mounted his horse. No words of parting could force their way past his lips.

With a nod from Jaime, the Blackfish's young captain signaled for the party to depart. Brienne's hand was clutching his thigh and when he looked down at her, his chest tightened painfully. He leaned over and kissed her one last time then turned his horse away to follow the others, breaking her grip on his leg.

He wheeled his horse around once more before he left through the gate, looking back to meet her gaze across the courtyard. She stood tall and proud, her chin held high in that maddening way of hers, her blue eyes fierce and bright even from this distance. The scar on her cheek fought away the youthfulness of her freckles and the rigidly noble set of her jaw made her look as though she were born to break mortal men. Her hair was a nest of straw, made wilder by their frantic coupling and her lips were red and swollen from the scratch of his beard and his kisses.

"You should always look thus, lady wife," he called out to her in the voice a man used to command his soldiers.

Her eyes dropped shyly for a moment, but when she looked back up at him there was heat and promise in her gaze. A soft, small, knowing smile played about her lips.

He grinned and held her stare for a blink, then looked her over, memorizing this one last sight of her before he turned his horse away and rode out of the Gates of the Moon.

The ride to the Bloody Gate would have taken only a day in summer, but with the slow going of breaking a trail through the snow for fifty men to follow, they were forced to stop and camp for the night. The young Vale captain set a full quarter of the men on watch duty in deference to the mountain clans and ignored Jaime's offer to take a watch himself. So he ate alone beside a welcome fire, supping on salted meet and dried fruit before he retrieved his bed roll, his mind already rebelling at the now strange idea of sleeping alone.

The roll seemed heavy and when he unfurled it, Oathkeeper tumbled out to rest on the snow beside the fire. He retrieved it and sat on the bedroll, cradling the thing in his arms like a child. For a moment he thought about sending it back once they reached the Bloody Gate, but doubtless Brienne would have departed for Gulltown before it could be returned.

He unsheathed it then and almost wished he hadn't. Almost wished he had waited a day or two for when he missed her more and the small parchment that slipped out would have been even more precious to him than it already was when he unfolded it with his clumsy gloved hand.

Forgive me, it read. Let me close my eyes knowing Oathkeeper is in your hand. Let me sleep dreaming that it will guard you. I have always felt that you were with me when I held it, for your honor is bound within this blade as surely as the spells with which it was forged. Take your honor, Jaime, and wield it.

The fire smoked and stung his eyes and he slipped her sword back into its scabbard with a caress before he curled up in the bedroll and went to sleep.

When they passed through the Bloody Gate the next day they elected to continue on for a few more hours. Cersei had once made a joke at court about Lysa Arryn's bloody gate and he smiled at the memory of it as the stone battlements loomed over his head. It was the sort of joke Brienne would not have appreciated and the thought of the reproachful look she would have given him if she could read his thoughts made him laugh a little.

That night a light snow began to fall as they made camp and the young captain told Jaime they would do well to begin their journey again at the fist hint of light in the sky.

Jaime sat alone before his campfire cleaning Oathkeeper as Brienne always did whenever she had a spare moment, the forever-sharp blade laid out across his lap.

The sound of approaching riders coming from the road behind them did not alarm him, the sentries called greetings of recognition and he assumed the captain would inform him if there were some message. The men milled about the edge of the camp and it was only when he looked up and noticed the enormous size of one of them, and that another wasn't a man at all, that his curiosity was peaked.

A slender woman, cloaked and hooded, approached him followed by a hulking, cowled brother of the Quiet Isle. Sansa had to push back her hood before Jaime could believe his eyes and when she flicked her hand at him he gave up his attempt to rise as he ought. She sat across the fire from him, pulled off her gloves and stretched her hands eagerly toward the flames as Sandor settled beside her. They must have left before nightfall of his last day at the Gates of the Moon and ridden like fools in the dark through the territory of the mountain clans.

Jaime peered at Sandor. "What-"

Sandor just closed his eyes and shook his head in long suffering exasperation.

Pod appeared at Sansa's other side, holding out a cloth-wrapped packet of food. After she had taken it, Sansa looked up at Jaime. "You want my marriage to stand? Perhaps I do as well. At Casterly Rock the decision will be mine," she said. She'd never spoken so many words to him at once before. He wondered how the Blackfish had managed to blunder with her enough to make her flee the safety of the Vale.

"Cersei will want you dead," Jaime told her.

"How well do you imagine my uncle will like that?"

Jaime smiled. So keeping her safe would be his responsibility. Sandor sighed. Not only my responsibility, he thought.

The other two riders approached his campfire.

When Hyle Hunt crouched down beside Sandor, Jaime's heart began to pound and he looked up dumbfounded as the last rider neared. This one was tall, he saw. He would have noticed before if Sandor's bulk hadn't dwarfed the rest of his party.

She threw back her hood when she was a few steps away and unwound her woolen scarf from around her face. Though she met his gaze, there was a hesitancy in her eyes as though she was unsure of her welcome.

He would have risen to greet her if he thought his legs would hold him.

"Did you come for the sword or for me?" he asked her.

She pulled off her glove as she stopped before him, reached into her pocket and withdrew a slip of parchment still rolled as though fresh off the leg of a raven. He pulled off his own glove with his teeth and took the paper from her.

10,000 gold dragons agreed. Lord Selwyn will be delivered to Gulltown and an exchange arranged.

Jaime grinned and grabbed her bare hand, catching the skin of the inside of her wrist first with his lips, then with his teeth. It had been a desperate idea and Jaime had thought for certain Connington wouldn't allow hostage exchanges until he'd taken his Targaryen pretender and attempted to assault King's Landing.

"There are no sapphires on Tarth, Jaime," she said, her voice cracking in the cold. "How is this to be repaid?"

"Feeling a strange new compulsion to pay your debts?" He looked up at her and gave her arm a jerk, bringing her down with a thud beside him.

"You'll hate the Rock," he said, his hand coming up to cup her cheek.

She sighed and turned to kiss his palm, some of the uncertainty leaving her gaze.

"Cersei will try to kill you," he said.

Puzzlement furrowed her brow briefly, followed by a shrug of indifference.

"Poison, most likely. She will accuse Sansa of the crime," he said.

Sansa's head popped up at that, but he had eyes only for Brienne. And Brienne was smiling now.

"I'll have to find a way to stop her," he said. "Two days without you and my heart was broken. Imagine if you fell dead into your soup."

Her liquid blue eyes softened at that and she gazed at him like a lovesick lackwit. He laughed and pulled her to him, crushing his lips to hers with a bruising kiss.

She would follow him into battle, of course, and he'd extracted all the wrong vows if she would be at his side, but he wanted her too much to worry about that now.

THE END

With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.

-Sansa III, Storm Of Swords, George R. R. Martin

Shoutout to Sam Cooke, wherever he is on the other side, for the magic that is Bring It On Home To Me which, when played on a meditative loop, allowed me to write the world's awkwardest love scene.