Brienne had thought Jaime would leave, after. He’d complained about the heat and expressed, with vehemence, that he did not want things growing on him. She thought he would leave, after he took her. It wasn’t uncommon for soldiers to seek comfort in other bodies, and which body would be more convenient and more willing than hers?
So, she had taken him, willingly, happily. But she had expected him to leave.
Instead, Jaime tugged her arm to drape her over him, because as it turned out regular furs weren’t enough, despite all his complaints of heat. He muttered, “Good night, Ser Brienne,” and then fell asleep. Brienne watched him for a while, waiting, somehow, for him to rouse and get out of the bed, to spend the night somewhere else, but his breathing evened out, his head lolling to the side, a little, and at last she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
She was beginning to drift when the sound began. It was a familiar sound, after the time she spent in Renly’s camp, but she’d never heard it from Jaime, and not rumbling from under her and growled into her ears. And not, usually, this loud.
Gods. She didn’t remember him snoring when he’d been chained and sleeping tied to a tree. But then, that was years ago, and didn’t they say that snoring was something that would begin, and become worse, with age? Carefully, Brienne shifted a little to look properly at Jaime. He had aged. His skin had weathered, there were deeper lines around the edges of his eyes, a smattering of silver amongst the dull fair hair. He was still beautiful, still a warrior, but the years had not been kind on him, just like they had not been kind to many others.
She placed her head back on his shoulder, and for a moment, she enjoyed the rumbles. He was alive, warm as a furnace under her. It was this sound that reassured her, just as the sound of his battle-cry behind her as they fought for what seemed an eternity on the Winterfell parapet informed her of his survival. This was the man she loved, she had loved, and he chose to be with her tonight.
Clearly oblivious of Brienne’s sentimentality, Jaime snored on. Minutes passed, and then his mouth opened wider. The sound that escaped him was now akin to a mating boar, and there went her fondness.
Brienne’s lips curled as sleep was once more chased away from her. “Ugh.” She rolled off Jaime, levered herself on one elbow, and shoved him to his side, facing away from her. One last snort, then he quietened, before saying with a raspy voice, “Brienne?” and groping behind him with one arm.
She scooted closer, pressing her chest to his back and throwing one arm over his waist. He immediately grasped her wrist and cradled it between his arms, clinging as though she was flotsam in a sea storm. She pressed her lips to the nape of his neck, muttering, “You were snoring.”
“’m sorry,” Jaime said.
She kissed the back of his shoulder, feather-light. “Go back to sleep, Jaime.”
So he did.