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“Tell me a story,” Brienne whispered into the darkness, her cheek pressed against his chest.

 

She could feel the thump of his heart against her skin, and it just reminded her that she was safe. He made her feel safe. He smelled like burning wood, leather and a hint of cinnamon - perfect. Home.

 

Jaime sucked in a breath, his good hand stroking her naked back as he thought of what to tell her. His wench had been having nightmares after the battle, and his soothing voice lulling her to sleep seemed to make them not cease entirely, but at least tame them.

 

“I tried to throw a spear at one of the dragons.  I was barely three feet away before it turned around and —“

 

“You did not,” she snorted.

 

“I did so, Ser Brienne. Do you think I, Ser Jaime Lannister, your honourable knight, would lie to you?”

 

He couldn’t see her in the darkness, but her cheek was pressed against his skin and he could feel her grin from ear to ear, as she shook her head no.

 

“Let me get back to my story, wench—“

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Shut up.”  He grumbled gently, in mock annoyance.

 

Staring up at the ceiling, he listened to her quiet breaths before he started again.

 

“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, and by the way, just because you’re a knight doesn’t mean that you can do that,” he poked her side, making her squirm against him, her laugh echoing in his mind. Gods, I’ll never tire of that laugh.

 

He started again, telling his story to her - albeit he did dramatise half of his story as he relayed back. By the end of his stories, Brienne was usually sleeping soundly, with her head tucked against the nook of his neck. But tonight was different.

 

“Brienne?” He asked, when he felt her sigh against him.

 

“Gods, Jaime. I don’t know what I would do if you died,” she whispered, her voice wavering as she snuggled closer to him.

 

Jaime wasn’t afraid of death, he had come face to face with it many times. Jumping into the bear pit to save his maid, charging towards a dragon, leaving Cersei to go to Winterfell.... he certainly didn’t fear death, but Brienne did.

 

Not her own death; Jaime’s.

 

“I love you, Jaime,” she sighed, pressing her chapped lips against his shoulder, kissing every inch of skin she could reach. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Every part of you. Especially the parts that you don’t love.” Her hand grasped his stump, and she brought that to her lips as she carried on with her kissing frenzy. “You make me happy. You make me feel things that no other person has. You have single handily, pardon me, brought down every wall that I’ve ever built around everyone else. Stay with me. Please. Stay with me,” her voice wavered as she pressed her cheek against his stump, daring to glance up at him. Please don’t reject me, Jaime... Not now..

 

“I don’t know about you, Ser Brienne, but I still hate the fucking North.” Jaime shortly replied, and when Brienne looked away from him, he grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How is Tarth during winter? Can’t be worse than here. I’d much rather stay with you there. And there’s a question I’d really like to ask your Lord father.”

 

Jaime wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting, but he certainly was not expecting the most girlish squeal as her strong arms wrapped him up in a hug.

 

“I will not wear a dress,” she laughed into his ear, holding him even tighter. She was never letting him go.

 

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t wear anything at all,” Jaime groaned as she slapped his chest.

 

“I will not sew, nor knit,” she whispered into the shell of his ear. “But I will love you until my dying day. I will not cook nor clean, but I will - no, we will teach our children to fight.”

 

“That all sounds perfect to me, wench.”