Chapter Text
Jaime is so careful with her now.
Where Brienne advances, he retreats, avoiding her eyes, never able to hold her gaze for long anymore, just like at the meeting in King's Landing. She'd been the one to reach out then; she'd grabbed him and yanked him around to face her, cursing in his face. It was as though they had exchanged roles in this strange, frustrating, aching dance between the two of them.
Jaime withdraws. He calls her "my lady" and is quiet and sullen. As such, he fits in with the northern men rather well, despite the looks of loathing and hissed accusations that follow him wherever he goes. What Brienne wouldn't give for a glimpse of the man who'd been her captive; that sharp tongue, that arrogant grin. Words and piercing looks that, despite herself, crawled beneath her skin. Jaime had settled there, deep down, and every time they said goodbye, Brienne knew that he carried a piece of her with him as well.
They aren't friends, but they aren't enemies. They aren't lovers, but they know each other's souls. It is a connection, a bond, that she is sure she will never recover from.
Which is why it frustrates her no end to have him so close again, yet remain so closed off to her. When he faced her inside his tent at Riverrun, he had been open to her, his fear and vulnerability clear when she spoke of having to fight him. He'd expressed much the same in their brief exchange at King's Landing and he'd sounded so bitter and angry. Whether it was at her or the situation, she still isn't sure.
He doesn't seem angry with her, just lost and uncertain. How is it she can miss him more when he's across the courtyard from her than at the other end of the country?
She knows something happened with Cersei, but she only knows what he'd told everyone else: that Cersei's pledge to send troops north had been a lie, but that he had come anyway. He'd rode through Winterfell's gates alone, at the risk of losing his head or being burnt alive, in order to keep his vow. Brienne is proud of him; she knows disobeying Cersei, leaving her, must have been one of the hardest things he's ever had to do.
She also knows that he's survived worse. She's borne witness to that. Given how back on the road he never used to shut up, it's almost funny how she wishes he would talk to her.
But neither of them are particularly skilled at talking a problem through; they both prefer actions rather than words. So Brienne tries beating it out of him instead. That is, she throws a sparring sword at him one morning as he watches her and Arya training young recruits from sidelines.
He catches it, if a little clumsily, frowning and huffs, his breath fogging the freezing air, "I don't want to fight."
"Then why did you come here?" She challenges, squaring her stance and raising her own blunted blade. "When the army of the dead comes, I don't imagine you'll be given a choice."
Since Eastwatch fell there has been no sighting of the undead dragon that Bran Stark says brought the Wall down, but the army is moving steadily south. Ranging parties organised by the King have not put a dent in their forces, and Queen Daenerys is far more wary about risking her dragons now.
Jaime's green eyes flash in anger (good, she thinks) and he clenches his jaw, but does not reply. Brienne is satisfied that he is responding to her, at least.
She swings at him, trusting him to engage, to block her, which he does on reflex, even if he looks uncomfortable doing it. After a few more strikes it becomes clear that he has no confidence in his movements or his instincts and Brienne feels a stab of sadness for the swordsman he once was. The way they had moved together before had been like a dance. If she hadn't been fighting for her life, Brienne could have let herself become entranced with the easy grace of his movements.
Maybe he'll never be as good again, but she wants him to believe in the skills and knowledge he still has, rooted in the centre of his being, that can still be applied to his left hand; muscle memory can be relearnt.
More than that, she wants him to come alive again. She wants him to stay alive. She wants him to be able to fight the dead and win.
She doesn't want to take it easy on him - she thinks he'd notice anyway - she wants to goad him until he finally snaps and lets out everything that's been stewing inside him since he came north, whether that be with words or a sword.
So Brienne presses him, and every time she lands (what would be) a fatal blow, every time she disarms him, she can see his frustration building. He huffs and shakes his head, like a lion shaking it's mane, growls at her:
"I don't know what you're expecting here," He waves his covered stump at her; he's stopped wearing the golden hand. "It's not going to grow back. I'm never going to give you a decent fight."
Brienne advances again and he parries, holding his ground despite his words. He sounds tired and defeated and it makes her angry,
"I don't believe that, and neither should you," She argues, and hears him mutter something that sounds like "stubborn wench." At least he sounds more like himself; she almost welcomes the old epithet, "I expect you to keep training like everyone else if we are to survive this."
He smiles at that, but it is a sad, broken thing that makes her stomach twist with dread.
"I never expected to survive, Brienne."
For a moment there is no air, she can't breathe, and she's distracted enough that she can't move to block him when he finally lands a blow; a tap against her thigh, so very close to where he nicked her with a much sharper blade, years ago.
He doesn't even look satisfied, just sighs and avoids her eyes, "Brienne..."
She's suddenly furious.
"So you came here to die, is that it, Ser?" She spits the title at him; if he can use formalities against her then so can she. Perhaps he thinks life is not worth living without his twin. She almost says it, but doesn't think she could bear hearing him confirm it.
"I'm just another sword in this fight, Brienne," He says, calmly, not allowing her to draw him into an argument, "I'd rather die with a sword in my hand than by dragon fire if we actually win this war."
"I'd rather you not die at all!" She snaps, the truth spilling out in anger now. "I would die before I let that happen!"
Finally that dull, resignation in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a burning fury that matches her own, and he surges forward, swinging his blunted sword and catching her off guard. Brienne barely manages to block him and they exchange heavy blows as Jaime throws himself into the fight at last. He seems to be running purely on rage, and even though there is no finesse in his technique, there is strength and power that steadily drives her backwards.
This was what she'd been aiming for, wasn't it? To bring his emotions to the surface? To coax him out from behind the walls he'd thrown up between them? But the fact that it had been those words - the thought of her giving her life for his - that had provoked this reaction from him... Brienne is overwhelmed by the sheer force that is the Lion of Lannister, for that is entirely who he is in this moment.
This is the man that used to inspire fear and awe on the battlefield, the man she fought back on that bridge in the Riverlands, filthy and chained though he was. His appearance didn't matter once he had a sword in his hand.
Before she knows it, her back hits cold stone and Jaime pins her, their swords tangled, scraping together between them, both breathing heavily, as their eyes lock, unwavering, like they haven't for months. This close, this angry, it's like staring into wildfire, how Brienne has always imagined it.
"Never say that again," He hisses dangerously, "Don't even think it." It's then that Brienne sees it: fear, flashing raw and naked through that green blaze in his eyes, fear for her. It renders her speechless. "I swear, I will not have you dying for me, Brienne!" He snarls, leaning in so close she can feel the heat of his breath on her flushed skin. She's aware of every single place his body is brushing and pressing against her own, holding her in place. An unfamiliar warmth rushes through her, and something tugs low in her belly: the urge to close the scant space between them, to feel Jaime's lips on hers, because he is furious and scared at the thought of losing her, and he is beautifully, gloriously alive. She wants him so much right now that it shocks and frightens her.
Perhaps he sees something of what she's thinking on her face, realises suddenly their improper position, because the shutters fall back down over his eyes and he takes a step back, leaving her cold again. Of course, she thinks, feeling like a foolish young maiden who got carried away, he could not possibly feel the same way. Not about her.
He throws the sparring sword at her feet,
"I'm not worth dying for." He says, as if he could drill it into her mind if he repeated it enough times, then stalks away, leaving her with a hundred unsaid things lodged in her throat.
She only whispers the foremost thought aloud into the frozen morning air, the courtyard suddenly deserted and silent:
"To me you are."