Chapter Text
Getting married was sensible, all things considered.
The Northern Alliance did not trust Jaime Lannister. Although he arrived at the gates of Winterfell in his glittering golden armour, the army of the Westerlands at his back, armed with a promise that every man with him had pledged to fight to the death for the right to live, apparently that was not enough.
"He pushed my brother out of a window!"
"He threatened to trebuchet my baby over the castle walls!"
"He murdered my father."
For once in his life, Jaime had wisely decided to shut his mouth and let the barrage of abuse overwhelm him. From her position behind Lady Sansa, Brienne thanked all the gods. If he was going to escape this baying mob with his head still on his shoulders, then he needed to hold his tongue and play the deferential serf.
Unfortunately, that had been quite impossible for the Lion of Lannister.
"I am here with my army," he said, his voice low. "You do not have to like me, you do not have to want to be my friend, but you need me, just as I need you. If we are going to stand a chance against the dead, we all have to work together... whatever has gone on before. Whatever sins our fathers committed."
He met the Dragon Queen's gaze at that, and Brienne saw the moment that something shifted behind her violet eyes. Perhaps it was the thought of wildfire, a mad king, and the thought of her own legacy. "As much as it pains me," she said slowly, clearly forcing the words out, "Ser Jaime is right. We need each other... so we need to find a way to trust each other."
Nothing fostered togetherness so much as a marriage, so before Jaime could even open his mouth, the matchmaking started, and he was being passed around between every eligible woman in the North. Queen Daenerys agreed to be the arbiter of the marriage, but not be a part of it herself. Lady Sansa was still technically married to Lord Tyrion, so she was ruled out. Lady Arya - no more than a slightly murderous child - was ruled out at once by Ser Jaime himself.
"Then who are you going to take, Ser Jaime?" said Daenerys irritably. "You must marry someone."
At her question, the corner of Jaime's mouth flickered upwards in a familiar smirk.
"Personally, I was thinking I would marry the Maid of Tarth."
As everyone in the room turned to stare at her, Brienne's tongue turned to lead.
It is sensible, she told herself. Sensible.
She and Ser Jaime were friends, weren't they? He had saved her from being raped, told her his deepest secret, and flung himself between her and a bear. She had tried to restore his lost honour, nearly hanged for him, and killed her former liege lady to save his life. That was the sort of thing that friends did for one another, wasn't it?
Brienne knew that Jaime cared for her and she had a good measure of his feelings; she was his friend, perhaps the first real friend he had ever had in his life. So it hardly mattered that she loved him so deeply she could barely talk about it. Jaime could never reciprocate, never would reciprocate. He had once loved a woman so beautiful and deadly, and their love had been so salacious and scandalous that ribald songs were sung about it down at the tavern. Even now The Kingslayer's Sister had the ability to turn Jaime red with rage, so Brienne knew it was likely that he still loved Cersei, that he would always love Cersei.
And even if he didn't, it wasn't as if he would fall in love with Brienne, was it?
"The godswood is actually quite beautiful," said Jaime softly as they took a moment away from the war preparations to take a stroll through the snow. Although the fact that Jaime would choose to spend time with her warmed her heart, Brienne was finding it difficult to speak given that he had taken his golden hand off and looped his right arm with her left. If she did not know any better, she would have said the gesture was intimate.
She nodded. "Very. Especially in the snow."
"Maybe we should get married here, instead of in Lady Catelyn's sept."
Brienne snapped her head round in surprise. She had not been expecting that suggestion. "Why? We are both southrons, my lord. Neither of us worship the Old Gods, and we are of the Seven."
"I've never cared a wit for the gods," said Jaime before turning to the weirwood, "present company accepted. It is just..."
"What?"
He sighed and Brienne was so close to him that she felt the puff of breath. "If we married before the Old Gods, it would feel different from what has come before... new, somehow. I know my brother wishes to turn our wedding into a spectacle - morale boosting in the final days before the dead arrive and all that - but you are the only wife I ever intend to have, and I want to do all I can to stop the whole event feeling staged... to stop it feeling as if I am only acting for the sake of my adoring public."
Although friends were meant to be open to listening to their mates woes and worries, that admittance from Jaime truly broke Brienne's heart in two. Acting. Jaime knew he could never love her, knew he would never feel all the things a man could feel for a woman for her, and was being perfectly honest about it. Tarth and Casterly Rock both needed heirs, where did Brienne's poor broken heart come into things? What did such feelings actually mean in a marriage negotiation?
Overwhelmed, Brienne let go of Jaime's arm, and his face flashed with confusion.
"What's the matter, my lady?" he asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowing. "Are you quite well?"
"Perfectly fine, my lord. It is just that Lady Sansa will need me, so I must attend to her..."
"It was her who gave you permission to come out walking with me."
"I know, but I really think I must be getting back..."
In spite of his objections, Brienne turned on her heel and ran away from him, fast enough that he would not see the tears fall.
They married in Lady Catelyn's sept, just as Brienne had wanted to, with the whole of the Northern Alliance in attendance; Queen Daenerys, Lord Tyrion, Lord Edmure, Jon Snow, Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, the khalasar, the Unsullied, the Men of the Night's Watch, the Wilding King, the Mountain Clans, the Manderlys and the Marbrands, the Liddles and the Leffords, and the Flints and the Farmans. Everyone in Winterfell turned out to see the Lion take the Sapphire between his teeth, accompanied by great celebration and revelry.
Brienne tried to bear it when Jaime said the words - you are mine and I am yours - a luminescent smile on his face, and she tried not to shiver when he brushed against her while putting his Lannister cloak about her shoulders. When they kissed, she tried not to feel the pursed lipped tension in his mouth and the tentative way he rested his hand on her shoulder instead of her waist.
She tried to pretend that she didn't love him and that his distance didn't make her feel sad.
She tried. She tried. She tried.
She failed.
Everybody used the wedding feast as an opportunity to get drunk, including her new husband. Jaime kept touching her - a hand on her knee, his mouth close to her ear as he whispered to her, his arm around her shoulders - and it was unnerving and terrifying and so, so wonderful all at the same time. Brienne's new brother-in-law nearly fell off his chair while laughing at the Wildling King's jokes. Lady Sansa had a sherry and ended up much more giggly than normal, and even the Dragon Queen took the opportunity to let her hair down and smile.
"Where are the singers?" she asked loudly. "There should be dancing! I love dancing!"
The question was answered almost the moment it came out of her mouth, as Lord Tyrion clapped his hands, and a group of entertainers came out of nowhere. Everyone cheered as the music started - The Bear and the Maiden Fair - but Brienne's heart sank when she felt Jaime's hand on her thigh.
"Come, wench. We must dance."
She shook her head. There were many things she would do for love, but not this.
"No. I can't dance."
"Neither can I, but it is our wedding feast. We must dance."
She shook her head even more vigorously. With the room filled with drunk revellers, all Brienne could think about was Connington and the rose, and Renly's offered hand. He had done her a kindness by dancing with her that night, Brienne knew, and for that valour he had won her eternal love. Consequently, Brienne was scared of what would happen if she danced with Jaime. Would she fall even more in love with him than she already was? No, she would be half mad with desire if she let that happen!
"I told you, I can't. I'm not feeling well... I..."
Jaime's smile dropped slightly. "A husband and wife must always dance at their wedding. It is custom!"
"The wedding night ritual is also a custom, but you forbade anyone from performing that!" Brienne knew why; Jaime did not want the whole court to see him climbing into bed with his ugly new wife. "What is so different about dancing?"
"I..."
"If Lady Brienne won't dance with you, I will, Kingslayer. It will say something about the strength of our new alliance." Turning her head, Brienne discovered that the slightly tipsy Dragon Queen was smiling at the man who had murdered her father, holding a pretty, porcelain hand out to him. Jaime blinked nervously, which made her laugh. "Come on, Kingslayer. If your new wife won't have you, I will. It will cause quite a stir amongst the revellers at the very least."
At the Dragon Queen's request, Jaime gave Brienne one last look and it seemed almost pleading. It did not make any sense.
"Go," she told him, injecting her voice with a false good humour. "Queen Daenerys is right. It will be good for the two of you to be seen together, to be seen in good spirits."
He dropped his voice and leant close to whisper. Brienne tried not to shiver.
"Brienne, I told you. I don't want to pretend any more, I want this to be real..."
Then why did you marry me? Brienne wondered.
"Come, Kingslayer," said Daenerys good-humouredly. "Dance with your wife or dance with me but make your choice. The song is almost over."
Brienne made his choice for him.
"Ser Jaime would be honoured to dance with you, Your Grace," said Brienne, even as Jaime gave her a wounded look. "As you say, it would cause quite a stir."
Queen Daenerys smiled, pleased. "Thank you, Lady Brienne. I promise to give him back in time for your bedding."
Backed into a corner by his wife and his queen, Jaime could do nothing but get up from his seat and follow Daenerys into the throng of dancers. He shot a few reproachful looks at Brienne but was soon too caught up in the dancing to notice her. Brienne sighed. As the music swelled, Daenerys - with her white blonde hair, violet eyes, and tiny waist - managed to look even more beautiful than she otherwise did wrapped in his arms.
She probably reminds him of Cersei.
At that thought, Brienne felt strangely choked. Making her excuses to Pod about feeling unwell, she retired from her wedding feast without her husband in tow.
Their marital bed had previously been Jaime's bed, so Lady Sansa had made sure the drapes were in red taffeta. Brienne was focussing on this fact, even though she could not see them. The moment she had entered the room, she had extinguished all the candles, and the fire was now guttering in the grate. It might make the room colder, but at least Jaime wouldn't have to see her if he decided to come and take what was rightfully his.
All women look the same in the dark.
Feeling the hot tears on her cheeks, Brienne imagined what it would be like to be as beautiful as Daenerys Targaryen. Jaime would not have stopped at this arbitrary line that marked them out as friends; indeed, if Brienne had been beautiful or even pretty, Jaime might have found it in his heart to love her.
And if Jaime could love her? Well, Brienne's wedding night fantasies might have become wedding night realities. If she was pretty, Jaime would not have stayed in the Great Hall dancing, but would have come to their bed. He would have taken off her shift rather than having her keep it on, so he didn't have to see the great run of skin marked by freckles and scars. Perhaps he would have held her and kissed her; her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her cunt. She would have moaned as he climbed on top of her, telling him how much she loved him, as he drove into her again and again. Begging, he would have called out her name, and she would cry with how beautiful he was, how beautiful their love was, as they both collapsed on the bed together, satiated and tired and... floating.
The door opened. It was Jaime.
"Seven hells, it is dark in here, wench. Why did you let the fire go out?"
She did not answer him. Instead, she remained with her back to him, staring at the darkness stretching out across the room. Her throat felt tight and she could not stop the tears, so she opted for silence, even as he began to fuss around; stoking the fire, swearing, and complaining.
"We've spent all day pretending at being the noble Lord and his Lady - gods, they even made me kiss you chastely in the sept - and then you let me dance with another woman and stalked away to bed." Brienne swallowed heavily. He was chastising her and there was something strange in his tone. It almost sounded like disappointment, as if he had been sad not to have kissed her properly in the sept or dance with her at the feast. It made little sense to Brienne. "Pod told me you were unwell, but it is too cold in here to be true. Are you trying to freeze to death? The dead will be here soon enough," he said, once he eventually managed to get the fire burning again. "Why would you want to be cold? Why...? Oh."
Although Brienne was not looking at him, it seemed as if Jaime had worked something out. She had no idea what and was too scared to ask, so she contented herself with listening to him getting ready for bed; the gentle clunk of his golden hand being put on the table, the soft hush of his cloak as he took it from around his shoulders, the obtrusive clink of his belt as he unbuckled it...
The solid weight of him was warm as he climbed into bed, shifting the mattress. Brienne bit her lip. If she was an ethereal beauty like Daenerys, or a golden lioness like Cersei, she might have rolled over and kissed him, but she wasn't, so instead she just closed her eyes and pretended she was asleep.
It didn't last long, as Jaime shuffled up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and began kissing her neck. He was open mouthed when he reached the scar around her neck, his tongue teasing the reddened skin. Brienne almost gasped; she felt as if she was on fire, as if the candle of longing she kept burning within her had suddenly combusted and consumed her entire body. And if that wasn't enough, he was as naked as his nameday, and whispering sweet things.
"Oh, wench. I'll keep you warm, just like you want," he purred, before sucking at the tender patch of skin behind her ear. "Will you do the same for me?"
Struck dumb, Brienne could not bring herself to say anything, especially when Jaime's hand came to snake down her stomach. On reaching the bottom of her shift, he pulled it up tentatively, while nuzzling his nose against her scarred cheek. "Take it off, Brienne. Please, I want to see you."
Swallowing heavily, emotions clogging her throat, Brienne rolled over in his arms to look at him, her shift becoming twisted around her waist as she did so. Thankful her cheeks - reddened from crying - could be disguised as blushing in the flickering light, Brienne went to say something, but found herself cut short when Jaime dropped his hand between her legs, and began to stroke her as delicately as if she was a small kitten. She gasped, shocked, as his fingers located that small place that she had thought only she knew about, but then shifted her hips to give him better access. In response, Jaime smiled at her, golden and glorious. It was the best thing she had ever seen.
"Brienne," he murmured, his voice throaty. "Kiss me."
She did, tentatively. It was nothing like the one they had shared in the sept; this time, it was heated. His tongue slid against hers as he slowly explored her mouth, all while his fingers were inside her. She kissed him back passionately, as she had often dreamt she might.
"Wench," he moaned as he pulled her shift over her head. "Wench. My wench."
Brienne floated, untethered.
She didn't understand. Marriage was a sensible thing.
They were friends.
Weren't they?