#ned umber

‘Get your fucking hands off my tits or I’ll sever your cock from your body,’ she snarled at Tormund

Jaime began to laugh, not noticing the slightly unnerved expressions on the faces of the wildlings at the hysterical edge to it. ‘Not to defend the man, but he can’t even feel your breasts through armor,’ he pointed out, absurdly pleased with his irrefutable logic.

‘His hands are there,’ Brienne growled.

To his credit, Tormund only chuckled and rearranged his arms. The movement jarred her broken arm and she blanched under the mask of dried blood, soot, and gods only knew what else. ‘Let’s go.’ Tomund then began to spin fantastical tales about the time he killed a giant at the age of nine and suckled at the teat of his wife, claiming it was why he was so big. Jaime couldn’t understand why he was speaking such twaddle, then realized he hadn’t thought about the oozing gash on his thigh. Tormund was distracting them as they inched their way to the ground.

In the courtyard of Castle Black, Sansa directed various women and men seeing to the wounded with the ruthless efficiency of a general. She took one look at them and sent them to the hall. The young lord of Last Hearth, Ned Umber, pointed out an empty table, then hurried to it, carrying a steaming bucket and a jug. Tormund and the other men deposited Jaime and Brienne on the table, then went back into the courtyard. Little Ned Umber returned, and with the help of a wilding boy began to remove her armor. One of the older wildling women came to the table and peeled the makeshift bandage from Brienne’s face. ‘Can’t see your teeth from the outside. So that’s good.’

‘Can’t make me look worse…’ Brienne stiffened at the woman’s touch on her face. The fever of battle had begun to wear off, and Brienne felt every cut, scrape, and bruise on her body. She began to tremble as myriad emotions coursed through her. The pain of her wounds. The relief at surviving the battle. The wildling woman beckoned to someone behind her, shouting for something. Alys Karstark unfurled one of the spare Night’s Watch cloaks over Brienne, tucking it around her. It had been warmed in front of the fire.

Sansa’s face appeared, hovering over Brienne’s. One hand, smelling strongly of the harsh soap used in the laundry at Castle Black, traced the path of the cut on Brienne’s face. ‘Nose to jaw.’ She cupped Brienne’s uninjured cheek in her other hand.

‘Bad?’ Brienne managed through chattering teeth.

‘Can’t see your teeth, so that’s something,’ Sansa said, pulling a vial from her pocket. ‘You need to have it cleaned and stitched, though.’ She pulled the cork from the vial and held it to Brienne’s mouth. ‘Milk of the poppy. Just while we tend to you.’

‘No.’ Brienne would have jerked her head away, but the gash throbbed and stung with each movement of her head.

‘Brienne, drink the damn milk of the poppy!’ Jaime shouted, slamming his fist on the table.

Brienne’s eyes swivelled to where Jaime sat, clutching her right hand. ‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded.

Jaime’s stump came to rest on the crown of her head. ‘I won’t leave you alone. I promise.’

Brienne looked back and Sansa and nodded. Sansa tilted the vial and poured the white liquid into Brienne’s mouth. Within minutes, Brienne felt boneless, her eyes too heavy to keep open.

Sansa began to wash Brienne’s face, cleaning away the grime and dried blood. She poured boiling wine into the wound, then took up a clean needle that she’d once used to create delicate embroidery that was the pride of Septa Mordane, and began the painstaking work of stitching Brienne’s cheek back together. When she tied the last knot, Sansa smeared honey over the stitches, then covered it with a pad of linen. Sansa tied another strip of linen over it, then stepped back. She prodded the back of Jaime’s head. He’d gone white after the first stitch and buried his face against Brienne’s shoulder. ‘It’s done.’

‘She needs a maester,’ Jaime told her and pointed to Brienne’s splinted left arm. ‘Unless you know how to reset broken bones…’

Sansa peered through the hall. The Tarly, Lannister, and Tully maesters had come with their men, in addition to Maester Wolkan from Winterfell. ‘I’ll find one.’ She glanced at Jaime, taking in his blood-soaked trousers. In the flurry to care for Brienne, no one had noticed. Nor had he said a word about it. She quickly scrubbed her hands and used a small set of shears to cut away the fabric, stiff with dried blood. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I can wait.’ Jaime tilted his head at the rest of the hall. ‘There are other people with worse injuries than me.’

‘If you want it to get infected, fester, then kill you, fine. Wait.’ Sansa picked up the empty vial. ‘I’ll find a maester; and when I come back, I will see to your injuries.’ She hurried off, and Jaime let his head drop to Brienne’s shoulder.