send the skull and brienne will die in your muse’s arms.
through the driving winds and BLINDING snow have they travelled, every step a chore, every night a curse. on many occasions speaking has been impossible -- each word drowned by the HOWL of the oncoming winter. brienne of tarth and jaime lannister are, luckily, unrecognisable, their faces hidden by scarves and hoods stolen from frozen corpses along their journey. on the quietest nights they huddle close by the fire. their voices are hushed whispers traded with heads pressed together, fearing that raising their voices might draw unwanted ATTENTION --- or curious animals.
three days in a row now they’ve seen the DIREWOLVES. huge, hulking things; shadows stalking through the blanket of white and grey, their howls stilling the night air and making hair stand on end. these beasts are UNAFRAID of such things as human voices or paltry flames.
when they come across the occasional abandoned shelter (stables, keeps, barns -- they cannot discriminate in the midst of such weather), they take residence there while they can, days spent shoring up their food supply, boiling snow to fill their canteens, resting muscles EXHAUSTED from shivering. these nights have smiles. secret smiles and secret words, fur-trimmed blankets, featherlight touches, quiet laughter: perhaps not the life they had IMAGINED, but the one they have nonetheless, and it is these times brienne knows she will cherish the most DESPITE the cold and the fear and the northron gloom.
this is a morning like any other might be. FREEZING, windy, a trail nearly obscured by dead vegetation and packed snow. their horses trudge faithfully ever onward. and then the wind dies. the snow does not stop but it no longer whips into their faces; it no longer freezes their eyes shut with each blink. startled, their gazes meet across the road ( emerald and sapphire ), and brienne can see the grin she has grown so very FOND of even beneath the woven thread of his many scarves, just as she knows he can surely see her responding BLUSH spread across freckled cheeks and crooked nose.
‘ it seems the north will relent for one day. ‘ his voice is WRY as ever, hoarse from the cold, and it comes as WELCOME as any sound could. ‘ thank the gods, whichever of them decided to stop with the damned snowstorm. perhaps the father finally forced the crone to close her LEGS. ‘
‘ JAIME -- !! ‘ and her blush deepens, his blasphemy more shocking than offensive. she knows he has little REGARD for religion -- the gods have been cruel, after all, so why not mock them? the worst they can mete out as punishment is death, and for two people entrenched in CONSTANT war, blood, violence ... death is hardly something to fear.
somewhere FAR away a direwolf howls.
‘ have i OFFENDED my lady? ‘ and there is the smirk, visible now as the deft fingers of his remaining hand pull the scarves away from that little grin. ‘ if so, i offer my deepest condolences. i had no idea you were so PIOUS, lady brienne. ‘
‘ don’t start with that again. ‘ a laugh from said LADY, once rare, now given as freely as he wants to take them. they have both changed, no matter the hangman’s NOOSE already wrapped around brienne’s throat, no matter the DEAD WOMAN who awaits vengeance. and she is happy. happy to shake the snow out of her brigandine each night as they shivered beneath the stars. ‘ i warn you, SER JAIME ---------- ‘
and her own hand goes to her throat as shock spills into SAPPHIRE expression. a lucky strike on the part of the archer, assuredly, as the head sprouts from the exact CENTER of brienne’s throat. for a moment there is utter silence. no blood is visible save what drenches the arrow itself where it passed through skin, sinew, and skin once more, pointing at jaime in its ACCUSATORY way. she reaches a hand out to him as if to BEG.
quick as a flash is ser jaime of house lannister off his horse, sword in hand, chasing after the brief glimpse of a cloak he had seen in the underbrush. the man is dispatched EASILY -- a common thief, it would seem, after their food and gold. a common thief has put an arrow through brienne of tarth without even knowing who she is, what she is CAPABLE of. what she stands for. what she means.
even as this thought crosses his mind, jaime can hear the thump as brienne falls from her horse. it is an UNCEREMONIOUS sound. it is not the sound she deserves, warrior that she is; it is sad, lonely, the sound of a felled deer and not the herald’s chorus that should accompany the death of perhaps the last TRUE knight left in westeros. he does not want to go to her. he does not want to look upon her face and see reflected in those ASTONISHING eyes his own expression -- a wretch, no doubt, twisted with rage, with grief. but go to her he does.
her head rests in his lap so EASILY. hair thick as straw, nose long and far too crooked from all the beatings it has sustained, half her face gone to the bite of a madman. she should be ugly. he should feel repulsed to look upon her and yet he does not -- HAS NOT for some time, now. a gurgling sound rises from her ruined throat. she’s trying to BREATHE, he thinks frantically, watching with a sinking hopelessness as blood bubbles, finally, around the inch of wooden shaft which protrudes from beneath her jaw. GENTLY does he quiet her. pulling off his glove, jaime smooths down her hair, touches her cheek. even as his tears spill onto her face does he try to give her a smile. her own mouth falls open and a sob splits him in half as he sees the red. blood smeared on her teeth. pooled in the back of her throat. coating her tongue. jarring GORE against the white of the snow. she’s dying and he cannot help her, cannot do anything but watch, witness. be there for her in her final moments.
please, he thinks, hysterical. PLEASE, if the gods are real, let her die now, let her not suffer any further. he who had so recently blasphemed them, had maligned them all his gilded life -- he begs them for BRIENNE.
‘ jaime. ‘ it’s a thick sound, choked by BLOOD, but he would recognize her voice no matter the distortion. and so he stares into her eyes once more. and so he cries as she gives him a final, crimson-stained SMILE. and so he watches the light fade from those eyes which had so plagued his dreams and CHANGED his heart. brienne the beauty, dead in the snow, and no one to care except HIM.
