Brienne of Tarth remembered the first time she wanted to kiss Jaime Lannister. It was about two seconds after he leapt in a less than graceful fashion into the bear pit at Harrenhall. "Kingslayer?" She had gaped in astonishment then. And after they had made their escape and she had asked him why, he had said those words that had sent her worldview spinning: "I dreamed of you".
Why in the hell Jaime Lannister would be dreaming of a cow like herself, Brienne had no idea. She was large as a plowhouse, she was ugly as a sin in the light of the Seven, she was never going to be as adept with a sword and shield as a man, she held an out-dated and naïve sense of right and wrong; all things that he had made excruciatingly clear to her as they had attempted to journey to King's Landing. He had called her anything but her given name, preferring to dub her "wench". That name had burned through the armor she wore around her body and heart.
Brienne found it a cruel irony to be named for a woman who sells her body for profit given that no suitor could ever be tempted by her dowry when confronted with her face. "Wench" denoted women who used their bodies for their own gain-and yes, Brienne knew she did just that. She used her great strength to help those she served, and it was the one way to help her feel she actually had a place in the world. But this was not the proper way, she knew. Warrior women were not welcomed by men in the practice yard or among young ladies and their septas. Because she chose not to shun her sex nor represent it in the way her father's men desired, she was shunned by all. And this wasn't even counting her, the kindest word she could think of was homely, looks. Ladies of negotiable virtue also used their sexual prowess in a way Brienne knew she never could. For where could she possibly find anyone to tolerate her masculine physique enough to touch her, let alone…
Even her paragon of perfection, Renly, had only seen her to be of use for the sword in her hand, not the love in her heart. She knew that the youngest Baratheon didn't even remember the dance he had claimed of her back on the Sapphire Isle. She had been a young girl who had wanted nothing more than to be looked at as a woman by a man, not as some kind of sword-wielding monster to be made the butt of japes. She had given him her entire heart and soul the moment they had taken the floor, for that one small kindness had changed her entire existence. Someone had reached out for her.
Jaime was actually very much like Renly. Not that she would ever admit it to anyone, let alone herself. He had the same charm, the same wit. The same desire to show how he was the best of the best and none could match him. The same fierce loyalty that once bestowed was not easily revoked. Renly had treated her kindly, given her a colored cloak. He had died and left her with the blame, left her forced to run from one duty into another.
But where Renly had been bested by shadows, Jaime had survived. He had waited, and waited, and had been freed. He had been punished for this freedom, with the loss of what he held dear; his hand.
The great idiot believed himself useful only because of his sword hand simply because his whole life since the age of fifteen had been devoted to the sword and using his skill. Brienne knew otherwise. Anyone who could be named to the Kingsgaurd at fifteen had a gods-given gift. A talent like that wasn't going to disappear just because his sword hand did.
Brienne hadn't hesitated to name him craven for wanting to die. She had fought him on that bridge, and even after being imprisoned and shackled for a year, he was still nearly too much for her. She envied him, yes. Any fledgling warrior growing up knew stories of the Kingslayer-his name had been legend before his twentieth name day. Allowing Jaime to surrender to the darkness when he had the potential to do so much because of her own jealousy would have been a sin. And she had provoked him, sparking the weary embers of his heart into a steady flame.
No one, man or woman, could see what they had seen and remain whole. He was bent. He was broken.
But there he was. Jaime. Barely able to stand, let alone fight, but there he stood nonetheless.
Her brilliant sapphire eyes took in the sight of his broken countenance as he squared off with their terrifying opponent. He had been a very handsome man before she shaved his head and prison grew his beard. He had even been handsome before Vargo Hoat had his hand chopped off. He was not handsome now, covered in dirt, panting as he threw sand in a great hulking bear's face.
At that moment, as time stood still and the world ceased to move, Brienne wanted nothing more than to plant a kiss on his lips in thanks. Someone had reached out for her once more, but rather than the hand of a dead man in a dance, it was the stump of the living that pushed her behind. A kiss was how the maiden always rewarded the heroic knight in the stories her septa once told her, although it was a twisted world where Brienne was forced to play the part of damsel in distress and the hero was none other than the Kingslayer. Still, the songs and stories were very clear on that point. A kiss.
She imagined the feel of his blond whiskers against her cheek, the fevered warmth of his lips against hers. A warm tongue sliding past her lips and claiming all the sweetness she had to offer. And such sweetness there was, waiting for the man brave enough to seek past the surface. No one had ever dared stick their neck out for the hulking Maid of Tarth. But here she was witnessing the Kingslayer himself working to preserve life instead of ending it. Perhaps his honor wasn't quite the pile of shit that he so often claimed.
She had thought Jaime miles away, ready to begin life anew as a freed man with renewed purpose. Instead, he had assumed a fighter's stance in front of her as she stood there in that horrid pink dress that didn't fit, without naked steel in her hands.
She had never felt safer.
She found herself smiling at her unlikeliest of allies. Their treacherous journey together had been filled with blood, profanity, insults, sweat, dousings, and tears but somehow despite every instinct Brienne had crying out for her to run far away, she planted her feet solidly in the ground and readied herself for a fight for their lives.