The tavern wasn't the best they'd stopped at, yet Jaime was reassured by the warm glow of an open fire, crackling in a merry, ironic way as it was set flush against a drab grey wall. He peeled off his soaking cloak and hung it up on a blunt silver hook. The wench did the same, appearing to mirror his moves; when she turned away from the flames, her guileless blue eyes appeared to capture the light and heat from it. Her mannish face sweetened as a small smile manifested upon her lips.
'Something amusing, wench?'
Jaime regretted speaking. His voice was too loud. Brienne's jaw tightened. Now there was the sow he knew. 'I cast off your fetters, Lannister. I have been kind to you despite your terrible sins. Do not presume to attempt to coerce me.' She'd turned away as she spoke, and hung up her own travelling cloak, sapphire Tarth eyes downcast.
He grinned. 'I wouldn't dream of doing so, Brienne.' She jerked when he said her name, spinning around, her wet straw blonde hair sticking to her face. The said face was milk white except for the cheeks: growing puce patches were appearing. Jaime was suddenly uncomfortable.
'You didn't call me wench.' Her voice was soft. Softer than Cersei's, anyhow. Because lions do not speak softly.
'Now call me by my name,' Jaime blurted. He, frankly, couldn't be bothered by how he was addressed by the wench, but - sometimes... 'Go on.' He tried to be antagonising and stony, but his walls crumbled around him. If there was one thing he could see, take notice of in the dusky grey room, it would be her eyes. Gods, her eyes.
He felt tired, surreal. Was he possibly aroused by the wench? He had been away from Cersei for too long, but the excessive ale had made him forget (temporarily, he hoped) Cersei's face. All he could conjure was the long golden hair, the cheekbones, the shelf of brow, the proud nose their son Joffrey had inherited... 'Jaime.' Brienne said his name clumsily, but it was enough. He stepped forwards, almost tripping. 'Jaime Lannister.' He embraced her without thinking; he could smell amber ale and mud on her; smoke and salt in her hair. Brienne stiffened, drew back. Neither of them knew exactly how it occurred when they were kissing. Brienne was uncertain with her kisses, grappling with him, their lips mashing together, malleable and cracked and hungering. Both placed their anger and their lust, their hate and desire reaching a cacophonous crescendo within them. The wench did not quite know how, but as she reached quietly, guided by Jaime, to his breeches, she had stumbled quite inadvertently into the lion's den.