Archive of Our Own ^beta

Brienne had made three mistakes in conducting her first one night stand, according to the font of sexual wisdom that was Margaery Tyrell.

“A one night stand is all about anonymous, casual sex, no strings attached. Just having fun. Couldn’t be easier.” Margaery said. “Trust you to be the only person I know who can mess it up,”

Sansa made a wordless noise of objection on Brienne’s behalf. Brienne rather thought Margaery was right.

Margaery listed them off on long, perfectly manicured fingers. “Mistake one. There was nothing anonymous about it. Mistake two. There was nothing casual about it. And, mistake three, perhaps the most dire of them all…”

Sansa interrupted with another disapproving grumble, but both Brienne and Margaery ignored her. Their attentions returned to the white stick sitting ominously on the rim of Brienne’s bathroom sink.

Brienne’s stomach twisted unpleasantly. Margaery sighed, and pressed a hand to her forehead.

“Anonymous, casual, safe sex, Brienne. Gods be good.”

No, Brienne had not gone home with a faceless stranger that night. It was much worse than that.

“Oi, Tarth.”

Brienne glanced up from her computer, glaring over the half-wall that divided her cubicle from her neighbour’s. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending how you looked at it), it was not Tormund from accounting leering down at her this morning. “What?”

Jaime Lannister grinned brightly, leaning his folded arms on the dividing wall. “You coming for drinks tonight?”

Brienne’s eyes narrowed, her hackles immediately up. Her visions of a quiet night in with a movie and takeout were already beginning to fade. “What’s the occasion?”

Jaime tutted disapprovingly, shaking his head. “Marbrand’s birthday, Tarth. Don’t worry, I won’t tell him you forgot. Surprised it isn’t on your calendar - isn’t kissing your boss’ arse part of the job description?”

“Ha, ha. Think I’ll give it a miss. Not that I don’t relish your company,” Brienne said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Ah, no, you don’t! I gave you a pass last time, you’re coming tonight. Asking was just a formality.”

Brienne continued to scowl. Either Jaime didn’t notice, or he was ignoring it. He kept grinning.

“I’ve even invited that redhead you’re friends with from the marketing department, and she’s up for it, so. Unless you want to leave her unprotected from Addam’s advances.” Jaime’s eyes were glittering with laughter, his smile sharp and intent on her.

Jaime was significantly higher up in the company than Brienne (perks of working for your daddy, she supposed), but he seemed to get a real kick out of milling about with his underlings at Casterly Rock Ltd. Perhaps it was because his good friend and old college pal Addam Marbrand was the supervisor on her level. Perhaps it was to get away from the oppressive presence of his father and sister on the Rock’s top floor, his office squeezed in between theirs (and, if this was the case, who could blame him?).

Sometimes, Brienne thought ungraciously, it was because he got true, twisted amusement from being a pain in her backside.

Wracking her brain for a good excuse to get out of this social obligation gave Jaime the time to realise that Brienne was quite serious about not coming. His grin dropped, morphing into a pout, and he dropped his chin to rest on his hands.

“Come on, blue,” he said, a current of almost-pleading in his voice. “It won’t be any fun without you.”

Brienne did not respond. She could already feel her resolve crumbling, just because he called her ‘blue’. Pathetic.

Jaime all but fluttered his eyelashes at her. “I’ll even buy you a drink.”

Brienne groaned, and turned back to her computer screen.

“Won’t be any fun without me there to pick on, you mean,” she grumbled, relenting. Jaime’s grin turned manic again, sensing her weakness.

“You know it. Two drinks, and that’s my final offer.”

If only she had said ‘no’. If only two drinks hadn’t turned to four, to six, to a hand on her knee under the table, to lips whispering in her ear, close enough to brush against her skin with every word.

So, no, not anonymous. Jaime fucking Lannister.

The test was positive.

Of course it bloody was.

Mistake two: it was decidedly not casual.

Margaery’s efforts to get Brienne to indulge in no-strings-attached sex had doubled - if not tripled - since she had turned twenty-six without ever letting someone past first base.

Brienne never took these conversations seriously, usually rolling her eyes as her best friend expounded on the joys of one night stands.

Besides, as if someone like her could just pick up a random man at the bar. What would be the point of trying? Brienne thought to herself every time Margaery got up on her soapbox. Most men took one look at her - almost always taller than them, and just as broad, with straw-like blonde hair cut short, stark freckles, and a propensity to turn bright red at the drop of the hat - and turned tail before she could ever stutter out a ‘hello’.

Most days, she was lucky not to get stared at or commented on in the street. The idea of willfully putting herself in a position to be rejected and humiliated by a stranger made her skin crawl with discomfort.

Still, this was not a good excuse for sleeping with Jaime Lannister.

Jaime Lannister, who had gawped at Brienne, unashamedly so, when he was introduced to her on her first day at the office. Who had immediately remarked harshly on her appearance (“What was your name, sir? Or was it ma’am?”). Who had made a thousand cruel comments since then, and once seemed to draw pleasure from torturing her. She recalled the early days of their acquaintanceship, looking around corners to make sure she wasn’t going to run into him, shrinking behind her cubicle walls as if they could protect her from his sharp looks and sharper words.

Sat in her tiny bathroom, fighting tears and clutching a small, life-ruining white stick, Brienne knew these thoughts were unfair. All of that had been before she had got to know Jaime better, before she discovered the truly good heart he tried so hard to conceal behind his piercing wit and barbed comments.

She had visited him in the hospital after his accident. They weren’t friends - couldn’t have been any further from it, actually - but she had seen it happen. Jaime, stepping out into the road without looking, lost in his own world, not noticing the truck careening towards him. Brienne could still remember the shout that came seconds too late, the squeal of tires, the sickening crunch of impact. Without much thought, Brienne had fallen at Jaime’s side, taking his hand in hers - his left hand, his right had been left mangled and bloody from the impact - and his tight grip on her had reassured them both as they waited for the ambulance to arrive. Only later would she learn about the argument with Cersei that had so distracted him.

When Brienne visited him a few days later, he was scraped and bruised, his arm strapped to his chest in a sling (the doctors had only just been able to save the hand), and he had been more vitriolic than ever, hostile and cutting. Perhaps because she had been so shaken herself, she had defended herself with more gusto than before, harshly and loudly, trembling with a fury that left as quickly as it came. The silence after her outburst had been deafening.

Then Jaime called her ‘blue’ for the first time. “Put those big eyes away, blue, I can’t bear it,” he said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. As she left, he reached for her with his good hand, and squeezed her fingers. It was all the thanks she would get, and all she needed.

“Come back tomorrow?” he had asked, still in that unbearably gentle voice, and she nodded without meaning to.

They still weren’t quite friends after that, but they also weren’t quite not.

“I’ll kill him,” Margaery said.

They had moved into the living room. Sansa sat beside Brienne, a comforting presence pressed close to her, and watched with thinly disguised amusement as Margaery paced. The two women, introduced by Brienne, had met only a handful of times, and Sansa’s sweet, quiet demeanour was a world away from Margaery’s… Margaery.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brienne muttered, twirling the pregnancy test between her fingers. Her throat ached from repressing tears, but her eyes were dry and her face serious.

Margaery turned on her, hands on hips. “How could you not tell me?”

“Quite easily, in fact. I didn’t tell anyone.”

“I didn’t know, either,” Sansa offered, glancing nervously between Margaery and Brienne.

“Yes, but I am your best friend, aren’t I?” Margaery demanded, as if Sansa had not spoken. “I could have helped you, Bri, long before it got to...”

She trailed off, awkwardly, and Brienne shifted on the sofa, feeling guilty.

“This is my fault,” Margaery suddenly declared. Sansa’s eyes widened, struggling to keep up with the seismic shifts in Margaery’s mood. “I’ve talked about getting you laid for years, but I never prepared you, not properly. I should have been more proactive. I should have armed you with bags of condoms or got you on the Pill or something,”

Brienne couldn’t help it. The image of her, tangled in the sheets with Jaime, reaching down to produce a Margaery-approved sack of prophylactics from under her bed was too amusing. She laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Margaery demanded, glaring.

“Oh, Marg,” Brienne said, giggling, even as the tears blurred her vision once more. “I really do love you,”

Margaery visibly softened, a small smile coming to her face. At last, she relented, and abandoned her pacing to join the other girls on the sofa, pressed snugly against Brienne and laying her head on her shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me you liked him?” Margaery asked, sighing. “I certainly have advice in that area. My number one tip: a one night stand with someone you really do like is never a good idea.”

Brienne didn’t answer. She was honestly not sure when she realised her feelings for Jaime ran deeper than friendship. Perhaps it had been budding for ages, since she rushed to his side after the accident, or when she sat with him in hospital, or one of the little grins and cheeky winks or work nights out since.

It had been easy to flirt, clumsy as she was at it, and banter with him, to let him call her ‘blue’, to kiss him and take him to bed. It had only been the next morning, waking hungover, sore and alone, with what felt like a gaping hole in her chest, that Brienne had begun to realise how badly she had fucked up.

“Oi, Tarth.”

He was closer than he should be, his shoulder pressed against hers, his voice pitched low.

Brienne turned her face towards him. Their noses were almost brushing. The world around them was more than a little fuzzy.

She was faintly aware of Addam sat across from them, one arm thrown around Sansa and the other holding a pint of beer aloft, regaling the rest of the group with some outlandish story. Brienne had lost count of how many drinks there had been, but Addam had definitely had more than her if his reddened cheeks and booming voice were any indication.

Everybody was focused on him, the birthday boy and his scandalous tales. Nobody noticed Brienne and Jaime, huddled together in the corner.

“Want to get out of here?” Jaime whispered. She could feel his breath on her face. His hand still rested on her leg, had slid above her knee, squeezed the middle of her thigh.

If only she had thought the offer through. If only she had been sober enough to realise what a mistake they would be making, the impact that one night with this man, who she valued greatly as a sort-of-not-quite friend, could have.

“Okay,” she said instead.

He kissed her outside, in the neon blue light of the bar’s sign, his hands gripped tightly on her waist. He took his lead from her, letting her set the pace, guiding her when she seemed lost, her inexperience apparent. He kissed her again in the taxi, fingers catching in her hair, and then on her doorstep, after asking her once more if she was certain.

Yes, she said, fingertips trailing down his jawline, eyes fixed on his lips, Yes, yes, yes. And he smiled brightly, eyes gleaming, and followed her into the house.

She could remember it all, for the most part, even through the haze of alcohol. He had been so kind, stroking what felt like every inch of her body with gentle hands, as if she would break, as if she were dainty and womanly rather than as big as him. She remembered the pleasant scratch of his stubble on her neck, her breasts, the insides of her thighs. She remembered fisting one hand in his hair, gasping and shuddering with pleasure, the weight of his arm thrown across her hips holding her down as she writhed under his ministrations. It had burned, just a touch, as he eased two fingers into her, but then he had done something... outrageous with his mouth and she had forgotten the little discomfort, sobbing his name over and over.

He kissed her afterwards, deep and dirty, the taste of her lingering on his tongue, his body pushing hers down into the mattress.

“Brienne,” he breathed against her cheek, pressing his hips hard against hers and making her shiver, “Please.”

“Yes,” she said, seemingly all she could say. Her arms wrapped around him, her legs bracketing his hips. “Yes.”

She remembered curling her toes into the bed sheets as he pressed inside of her. The sensation, the stretch around him, had ached and tantalised in equal measure. Brienne whimpered in response, overwhelmed, her head falling back against the pillow. She could feel her fingernails digging crescent-shaped grooves into his back. Jaime’s groan of relief, the way he hissed her name and ‘fuck’ between stuttering gasps and gritted teeth, made her stomach clench. His breath was warm on her face.

Her eyes closed, she felt Jaime’s hand on her forehead, pushing her sweaty hair back.

“Okay?” he panted. He was trying to be still for her but he was tightly coiled with tension, and kept unconsciously shifting, restlessly, needily, between her thighs.

Brienne remembered opening her eyes, looking up into his face, his irises like emeralds, the green to her blue. He was touching her cheek, his fingertips calloused and gentle. Robbed of words and breath, she nodded.

Later, in the very dead of night, she woke, throat dry and her head beginning to ache, and saw Jaime standing at her bedroom door, shrugging on his jacket. She must have made some noise, a rustling as she shifted to watch him, because he turned back, and met her gaze.

She said nothing. Nor did he. After a few charged, quiet moments, he turned away and left. Brienne rolled over, willing away the unexpected urge to cry, and tried to go back to sleep.

“This must be the worst casual sex experience in the world. Typical,” Brienne muttered almost to herself, drumming her fingers on Margaery’s knee.

“This doesn’t count,” Sansa said righteously, grabbing Brienne’s forearm, “It doesn’t count when a one night stand isn’t what you intended.”

“I never intended anything. It’s what he intended, though,” Brienne griped, bitterly.

That was unfair. She didn’t know that. She had never expected more from Jaime because they worked together, laughed together, were kind-of friends, or because she had been a virgin. If not him, she probably would have ended up shagging some random stranger after all.

(Or Tormund from the office was always an option. Oh gods.)

She and Jaime had never discussed their intentions. She had never asked Jaime for any promises, and he had never made any.

She missed him, though. She wished they could have salvaged something of their relationship, and they might have tried, had he not left her room without so much as a goodbye.

Margaery gave a low growl. “The murder offer is still on the table,”

“Might not be necessary, not if he dies of shock after I tell him,”

Sansa squeezed her arm gently, blue eyes worried. “Do you want me to come with you, Brienne? I don’t mind, honestly.”

Brienne looked back down at the test in her hand. After a moment, she shook her head, offering Sansa a weak, watery smile.

She and Jaime had barely spoken since it happened, and then only about work. He still came down to see Marbrand, but he avoided her cubicle studiously, hardly sparing a glance in her direction.

Brienne had shunned social engagements, too scared to be near him, to see the distaste or hate or, worse, indifference in his eyes. She prefered to stay at home and try her damndest not to think about Jaime Lannister.

Nobody knew, or seemed to notice a change at first; if Sansa or Marbrand had seen them leave the bar together, neither mentioned it. Brienne had not told Margaery, her best friend since school, too embarrassed and, if she was honest, hurt to share the experience.

And then. Mistake three.

It hadn’t even occurred to Brienne that they had neglected protection until she glanced at the tampons in her bathroom and realised it had been far too long since she had reached for them.

After Sansa and Margaery had gone, very reluctantly leaving her alone and not without offering plenty of hugs, Brienne picked up her phone and typed out a message to Jaime, her trembling fingers making the task harder than it ought to be.

‘Got any time tomorrow? Need a word. -BT’

A baby. Brienne squeezed her eyes shut, and pinched the bridge of her nose. It didn’t feel real, the idea of a little, tiny human growing inside her; a little, tiny Lannister, Jaime’s beautiful golden genes mingling with her ugly ones. What a waste.

Unbidden, an image of Tywin Lannister’s stern face and cold eyes on a baby’s body popped into her mind’s eye. Brienne’s stomach lurched unpleasantly, and she shook her head free of the thought, laying back on the sofa and pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

Her phone beeped. Brienne took a few minutes to summon the courage to read Jaime’s reply.

‘Meetings all day. My office after hours?’

Probably good that he was busy during work hours, considering the news she had to share. The idea of telling him in the morning, or at lunch, and leaving him to freak out at work seemed beyond harsh.

It would mean Brienne stewing in her own anxiety all day, but she could bear that.

When Brienne awoke the next morning, her stomach was still roiling unhappily.

Nerves or morning sickness? she wondered, still half-asleep, fingertips trailing over her hard, flat belly. Then, she remembered the previous day, and that it had not been a nightmare, she really was pregnant.

She snatched her hand away and clasped it to her chest, her heart thudding.

Gods, he’s gorgeous.

Brienne couldn’t help it. The words just sprang to mind as she stepped out of the elevator and caught sight of Jaime through the glass walls of the twenty-fifth floor.

He was sat at his desk, tie flung over the back of his chair and top buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he had his glasses balanced precariously on the tip of his nose as he glared at the report on the tabletop. A quick glance to either side assured Brienne that neither Tywin nor Cersei Lannister were in their offices, and the floor secretary appeared to have headed home too. They were alone.

Jaime’s hair, longer than it had been when they had last been together (running her fingers through it, clutching at it, burying her gasps in it) kept falling into his eyes, and he was continuously brushing it back, irritation evident in the scowl on his face, his sharp movements.

It was on one of these upstrokes, as he crossly tucked his hair behind his ear, that Jaime glanced up and caught sight of Brienne, still hovering outside the elevator, awkward and quite clearly gawping at him. She reddened immediately and glanced away, down at her shoes.

Jaime was standing behind his desk when she finally steeled herself and pushed through the glass door into his office, his hands on his hips and glasses discarded on the desktop. His face was blank, very carefully so. Brienne’s heart clenched pitifully at the sight. She lingered by the door, her only escape route.

“Hi,” she said, looking pointedly at a spot above his right shoulder.

Jaime’s lips tilted upwards, the bare approximation of a smile. “Hey,”

It was just so damn uncomfortable. They had never been this awkward around each other, not even in the beginning - even their barbed insults had come easily and naturally.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Brienne finally said, her voice weak and thready. She cleared her throat, clasping her hands together behind her back, and forced out: “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Of course. Please,” Jaime gestured at the chairs in front of his desk, lowering himself back into his own. Brienne hesitated. Her task seemed insurmountable even from this distance, where if she squinted she could pretend Jaime was not as handsome and intimidating as he seemed. To step any closer to him, to be so near the man she was trying desperately not to long for, seemed impossible.

She was half-tempted to make her announcement, drop it into the physical and emotional space between them, and just leave with no care for the ramifications. Even as the idea crossed her mind, Brienne knew she could never do that. Even if Jaime deserved no better, it would do her own heart no good.

Warily, Brienne crossed the office floor and sank into a chair, eyeing Jaime like one might a wild animal. He was watching her with a frown. The expression caused a little line to appear between his lowered brows, and she absurdly wanted to run the pad of her thumb between them to smooth the line away.

“Right,” she said, placing her hands on her knees, readying herself. Before she could begin, however, Jaime sighed and dropped his head into his hands.

“This is about that night, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice muffled.

Brienne felt cold dread surge through her veins at his words; she gripped her knees tighter, forcing herself to breathe evenly and remain calm.

“Yes,” she said.

“Oh, gods,” Jaime moaned, pressing his hands harder against his face. A ridiculous lump had taken up residence in Brienne’s throat once again, the threat of tears returned with a vengeance.

“I’ve been expecting this,” Jaime said after a silent moment, and then he threw himself back in his seat, raising his head to look at her. “No. I’m glad you’ve come, it’s about time you gave me the dressing down I deserve. It was not…”

He faltered, his eyes roaming her face. Brienne hoped her expression was as blank as his had been when she arrived, but she had always been an open book, her feelings easy to read.

“What I did...leaving you...” Jaime tried again. Despite herself, Brienne winced, visibly so. Jaime trailed off, and Brienne darted her eyes away, feeling the disgusting prickly heat of a blush crawling up her neck and over her face.

“I’m not here about that,” she ground out forcefully. “I don’t care about that,”

It was a lie, and no doubt they both knew it. Jaime didn’t call her out on it, though, and simply sighed again.

“Still,” he said, “I owe you an apology. It wasn’t my plan to - to leave like that. But I just...I couldn’t stay.”

Brienne’s gaze lifted up to his, her brow furrowing.

Jaime smiled wanly at her. “It wasn’t fair to you. You deserve so much better than someone like me.”

I didn’t deserve to be walked out on, either.

“Well, thank you for making that decision for me.” Brienne responded icily. To her ire, Jaime huffed a laugh, running a hand through his hair, and didn’t reply.

Brienne bit down on her lower lip, the question that she had tried not to think about for weeks rising to the forefront of her mind. After a split moment of indecision, the words spilled off her tongue, almost running into one in her haste to get them out. “Was it about Cersei?”

Jaime started, eyes widening. Brienne swallowed thickly, but refused to back down.

“No,” he said, and then, after a second of consideration: “Yes,”

He looked away, ashamed. Brienne ached - for herself, for him - and squeezed her eyes shut.

“I thought it was over,” she whispered, unable to help her morbid curiosity. “After the argument. And the… accident.”

Their first ridiculously drunken night together, long before they had sex, when he was still in a cast, and he had confessed it all, every little sin. With his sister. His twin sister.

For some reason, a reason Brienne could not identify to this day, she had let him sleep the booze off on her sofa, and, the next morning, handed him coffee and painkillers and talked blandly about anything and everything (except the elephant in the room) as if none of it had happened. It had taken a few days, but eventually, they had gone back to normal. Whatever their ‘normal’ was.

“It was. It is ,” Jaime said emphatically. Brienne cracked open her eyes. He was leaning forward on the desk, his arms folded in front of him. “I should never have left, Brienne. But I just had to—”

He stopped, again, heaving an angry sigh.

He was still in love with Cersei. How could he not be, when they had loved each other since childhood, since forever? Brienne’s chest hurt. It made sense that two such beautiful people could only ever be made for each other. People like Brienne - ugly, awkward anomalies - didn’t have mirror images or soulmates, and for good reason.

“I don’t care,” she said finally, her patience wearing thin. Talking about Cersei and listening to Jaime’s self-flagellation and half-hearted attempts at apologising was only fraying the raw edges of her feelings. “I don’t care about that, or why you left, and I don’t want an apology or an explanation. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here, then?” Jaime asked, and Brienne heard an edge to his voice, then. Anger, perhaps, or hurt.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, finally. Finally, finally.

Brienne expected it to feel like a weight off her shoulders, that the ever-tightening vice around her chest would loosen with her confession. Instead, she felt more smothered than ever watching the blood run from Jaime’s face and his mouth go slack. She broke out in a cold sweat. Her face was on fire.

“I only found out yesterday,” she said tremulously when he remained quiet. “I wanted to tell you as soon as possible. I-I know you must… we didn’t — I’m not...”

Gods, and now she was stuttering, trying desperately to fill the deafening silence. Jaime was still staring at her, his face pale, almost as pale as he had been in that hospital bed so long ago. He hadn’t said anything. Brienne wished he would say something.

“It’s yours,” she blurted out without thinking, and then squeezed her eyes shut, feeling like a fool. At last, Jaime let out a shaky breath across from her.

“I know,” he murmured.

“There’s been no-one else,” Brienne added stupidly. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to tell Jaime that. He probably could guess there were no other interested suitors, anyway.

“Brienne,” Jaime said, and Brienne finally, mercifully, fell quiet, forcing herself to open her eyes and meet his stare.

“I know,” Jaime continued, his voice unbearably soft and gentle. Brienne almost wished he would get angry and start yelling, if only so she could rage back at him. “I would never have doubted that it was mine. I trust you.”

In truth, Brienne had expected fury and upset, a full-blown tantrum perhaps. He was being so kind.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and the unexpected question brought tears to her eyes once more - gods be good, would she be crying the entire pregnancy long?

She blinked, and a few tears spilled over onto her cheeks. Jaime rose immediately to his feet.

“Brienne.”

“Please, don’t!” Brienne turned away from him, swiping furiously at her face. Jaime didn’t come to her, but he didn’t sit down either, instead choosing to hover behind his desk, radiating concern. Concern for her.

“I’m fine, honestly,” Brienne lied, her voice choked, still looking away. “It was a bit of a shock, but. Well.”

“I know,” Jaime said, again, still standing. “I mean. I can imagine.”

Brienne heaved a shaky breath, and turned her (undoubtedly red and blotchy) face back to Jaime. “What do you want to do?”

“What do I want to do?”

“About…” Brienne gestured vaguely, reddened further. “It.”

“Oh. Oh.” Jaime finally sat back down, heavily, the chair squeaking a little under his weight. “Gods. Well, um. I suppose that’s up to you.”  

“That’s not fair. We should decide together.”

“I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. But I will support you, whatever you decide. I promise you that, blue,” Jaime said, sincerity permeating his every word and movement; the look in his eyes, the way he laid his left hand out on the desk in front of him, as if reaching for her. Brienne hated it all.

“Don’t call me that,” she said. Jaime blinked, dumbfounded.

“What?”

Brienne didn’t answer. Instead, she stood to her feet, clenching her fists at her sides.

“If you won’t tell me what you want, then I should go,” she bit out. “I didn’t come here just to ruin your day, Jaime, I wanted your help.”

“I can’t tell you what to do, Brienne. It’s not my right.” The edge was back to Jaime’s voice; anger, hurt, she wasn’t sure, but it was something other than the bland, kind concern he had been using. Brienne responded to it, needing something tangible, needing to release the whirl of emotions at play in the pit of her stomach.

“So you’d be fine with it, then? If I had it? You could bear to stand up to your father, to your sister, and tell them you’d knocked up the ugly tall girl who works downstairs?” Brienne demanded.  

Jaime stared at her. 

“Or would you buy me off? A cash settlement to leave the company and King’s Landing and raise your kid somewhere you wouldn’t have to see it? Is that the Lannister definition of support?” Her voice was shaking with feeling that she couldn’t suppress any longer. Jaime was angry too, she could see it in the tightness of his face, the flares in his eyes, although he tried to conceal it.  

“I think you’re being unfair, Brienne.” he said stiffly.

“Like you were so fair to me, leaving after you fucked me?” The words were out before she could think them through, and Brienne wished instantly that she could snatch them back. 

Jaime’s face fell, the anger draining away as fast as it had come. He looked stricken. Brienne could only stare back at him, deflated and chin quivering. There was a long, tense silence. Brienne felt another treacherous tear fall onto her cheek and watched Jaime’s eyes flicker to it.

She wanted to apologise. She wanted to rant and scream at him for every hurt he had inflicted upon her. She wanted to round the desk and kiss away his upset. She wanted him to round the desk and kiss away hers.

Instead, she finally said, “I should go,” and left his office, forcing herself not to look back at him. Jaime made no move to follow her, but she felt his gaze on her back until the elevator doors closed behind her.

Brienne had made it out of the building, down the street, into the closest bar and had a glass of whiskey sitting in front of her before she realised: she couldn’t drink it.

Instead, she stared morosely into the amber liquid for long moments, forcing herself to think about how good it would taste instead of why she couldn’t drink it.

Her phone was buzzing in her pocket. She glanced briefly at it, her treacherous heart hoping it was Jaime frantically calling her - instead, it was her group chat with Sansa and Margaery, a conversation which had started with both girls expressing concern for Brienne and had now devolved into the sharing of multiple puppy videos. Well. At least they were getting along. Brienne decided to let them entertain each other for a few minutes longer, before she had to step in with her depressing update.

All in all, it had gone about as well as it could have done; at least, until the end there. Brienne sighed, and leant her cheek on her hand. He had been so kind.

Gods, I love him, she thought, and startled even herself. For weeks, she had refused to follow that train of thought, only conceding that she had… some feelings for him.

Typical Tarth, obstinate and willfully blind to the end.

Brienne sighed again. She loved him. There, she’d admitted it. It didn’t change a damn thing. It didn’t mean he loved her, or that he wanted to be with her, or could be with her. And it didn’t mean she wanted to keep this baby.

Nor did it mean she didn’t.

Gods, how did this all get so complicated? Margaery had sex all the time, and had never made such a calamity of it. Brienne got one fucking shag and the whole world was crumbling about her shoulders.

Laying on the bartop, Brienne’s phone chimed again. Her gaze flickered briefly to it, expecting to see another link to some sweet dog clip, and instead found a text from Jaime awaiting her.

She quickly shut her phone off, and threw it back in her bag. A moment passed before she reached back into her bag, and pulled the phone out again. Another moment of pep-talk, and then Brienne opened the message.

Where did you go, Tarth? We need to talk.

Brienne swallowed thickly.

As if sensing her presence on the other side of the screen, another message from Jaime popped in.

I fucked up, OK? Please can we talk?

Ah, fuck, she would live to regret this. With shaking fingers, Brienne typed out the name of the bar, and hit Send.

Brienne missed him. More than she loved him, she missed him. It was pathetic and wonderful all at once, and she felt the knot in her chest unravel just a little. No more lying. Not even to herself.

They didn’t need to start a relationship. They didn’t even need to have this baby. But they weren’t going to get anywhere ignoring each other, or screaming at each other, and she was just as guilty of that as he was, even if she had ample reason.

Brienne heard the door to the bar open behind her, and a few moments later, heard it swing shut. Before she could turn around to see if it was him, she felt two hands press onto her shoulders, gripping them just slightly too tightly for comfort. Then Jaime pressed his forehead to the back of her head, and sighed deeply, his breath disturbing the hair at the nape of her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he told her, quietly, sincerely. “I’ve never been more sorry for anything in my life, Brienne. And you know, coming from me, that’s saying something.”

Brienne huffed a wet, half-hearted laugh, and reached blindly up to grab his hand with one of hers.

“Can we talk?” Jaime asked. Without answering, Brienne shook him off of her and swivelled her stool around so she was facing him. He stepped back slightly but kept close. Sitting like so, he had a slight height advantage on her, and gazed down at her with his bottle-green eyes, which were impossibly soft as they regarded her. 

I love you. The words were on the tip of her tongue. But they would complicate this even further, perhaps even more than I’m pregnant had. Instead, Brienne nodded, and gestured to the barstool beside her. 

Jaime didn’t sit down right away. Instead, he hooked his forefinger under her chin and tilted her head back further, looking searingly into her eyes. 

“I wasn’t fair to you,” he said seriously. “I shouldn’t have left, but I did, because I’m a coward. Not because of you, and not because I thought you were just a fuck. That couldn’t be further from it. I did it because I’m a coward who didn’t know how to cope with having feelings for someone who wasn’t Cersei.”

Too shocked to notice she was crying (again!), Brienne felt a tear slip from the corner of her eye. Jaime caught it on the thumb of his right hand.

“I meant what I said,” he continued, voice so gentle. “I’ll support you, no matter what. If you don’t want to go through with this, I’ll be there for you. If you do, I’ll stand up in front of my father and my sister and tell them so, proudly.” Jaime paused for a heavy beat, eyes gazing unflinchingly into Brienne’s. She could hardly breathe. “And I think I’ve covered everything you accused me of, but if not, I’m sure you’ll let me know. Oh, wait. You said you didn’t come to my office just to ruin my day. You didn’t ruin it at all - in fact, it’s been infinitely more exciting seeing you this past hour than all the days without you combined. Right, is that everything?”

“I think so,” Brienne replied, hoarsely. Jaime smiled in response and leant forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Brienne squeezed her eyes shut, and leant into the embrace.

“You not drinking that?” he asked a moment later, finally plonking himself onto the stool beside her. Casually, he had reached over and taken one of Brienne’s hands in his and laid them both in his lap. Distracted by this, it took a moment for Brienne to realise he was referring to her untouched whiskey.

“No. Best not.”

Jaime nodded his understanding, and reached for it himself, draining the tumbler in one mouthful. Brienne watched him with a jealous scowl.

“Not very gentlemanly, drinking in front of a pregnant woman,” she rebuked, an edge of teasing to her voice. Jaime blinked owlishly at her for a moment.

“Have you ever thought of me as a gentleman?” he asked. Cheeky bugger.

“Good point,” Brienne conceded, marvelling at how easily they fell back into their old patterns. He grinned back at her, and squeezed her hand.

That night, Brienne dreamt of a baby girl. 

And she wasn’t Tywin Lannister in miniature, as Brienne had once envisioned. She was beautiful, with ringlets of spun gold and a wide, toothy smile and eyes like sapphires that glittered in delight as her father, equally golden and smiling and beautiful, swooped her into his strong arms and spun her through the air. Her laugh tinkled like so many bells, and Jaime laughed with her.

Brienne awoke in the darkness, sitting bolt upright in bed, breathless. The warmth of her dream enveloped her still, the image imprinted on the backs of her eyelids. Struggling to catch her breath, she clambered out of bed and staggered into the living room.

Jaime lay fast asleep on her sofa, tucked under a blue wool blanket - the very sofa Sansa and Margaery had comforted her on not a day ago, the very sofa he had sat on and confessed his deepest sins. Brienne stumbled onto her knees beside him, and shook his shoulder until he awoke.

“Hmpf? Brienne?” he asked blearily, peering through the darkness. “What’s wrong?”

“I want her,” Brienne whispered through trembling lips. “I saw her, and you, and you were laughing and playing, and oh, she was gorgeous, Jaime, and she was all ours.”

“Who are you talking about?” Jaime demanded, sounding more awake now. He reached out and cupped her face with one hand. “Slow down, Brienne, and breathe, for heaven’s sake!”

Brienne leant back on her haunches and took a few deep, shuddering breaths. Slowly, she came back to herself, her urgency dimming, the warmth of her dream bleeding away.

“Are you all right?” Jaime was sitting up now, swinging his feet onto the floor so he could face her. He leant over to the lamp beside him, turning it on and squinting in the sudden brightness. Brienne flinched away from it too.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said. “I had a dream.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Brienne shook her head, and unconsciously wrapped her arms around her waist, hunching slightly over. “I think I want the baby, Jaime.”

There it was. Another confession, dropped into the ether between them. She didn’t fear his reaction, this time, and merely watched as he absorbed the statement with a serious expression.

“Okay,” he said at last, with a short nod. Brienne glanced sharply at him, frowning.

“‘Okay’? What, that’s it?”

Jaime nodded again, and repeated himself: “Okay.”

Baffled, Brienne opened her mouth to insist on further comment, but then Jaime’s face split into as wide a grin as she had ever seen on him. She barely had time to click her teeth shut again before he had lowered himself onto his knees before her, grabbed her face and pressed a firm kiss to her lips.

“Okay,” he said once more, and then again, and again, punctuated each time with a kiss. Brienne found herself melting with each one, her hands clenching in the pyjama pants covering his hips.

Eventually, she pulled back, putting some distance between them and smirking as he groaned at the loss of contact. “I hope you don’t think you are so easily forgiven.”

Jaime shook his head, thumbs running over the apples of her cheeks. “Not at all. But I intend to do everything in my power to earn that forgiveness every hour, every day, until you are ready, Brienne.”

Brienne shrugged, and gave a teasing hmm. “Just a warning, that might take a while.”

“Eighteen years, thereabouts?” came Jaime’s cheeky retort.

Brienne couldn’t help the soft laugh, nor the broad smile that wouldn’t be repressed. Jaime returned the expression, and this time it was she that closed the gap and kissed that smile.

Brienne Tarth had made three mistakes in conducting her first (and final) one night stand, as laid out by Margaery Tyrell.

But when Jaime, beaming and teary-eyed, laid a squalling, pink-faced daughter in her arms, Brienne knew she had done one thing absolutely right.

And, when she arrived a few days later for her first cuddles with the baby, Margaery herself rather agreed.