Jaime

Jaime Lannister had a fever that night and the disgraced Maester had offered him milk of the poppy. Pain had a certain sobering quality to it that Jaime liked; it reminded him that he was alive, and on his way home, but he took it from the Maester this time, desperate for sleep and tomorrow's journey.

His dreams were usually of Circe. Tonight was not a usual night.

He was outside; he could feel the balmy wind in his hair and the rousing weight of steel in his hands; yes, hands, both of them were there and expertly gripping the hilt, the blade glinting in the sun and coming down to sing gladly against the edge of another. The other was a broadsword—on the end of it was Brienne, shining in her luminous armor, a sheen of sweat illuminated on her brow.

"Even with my hands tied I'm the best swordsman in Westeros," He boasted and the edge came down again, swinging brightly steel-against-steel, two sets of feet quick on the boards of the bridge.

"You speak too quickly, Kingslayer," The Maid of Tarth grunted and nearly disarmed him, the point of his steel flying to one side. As he regained his balance she went for him with the blunt side of her sword, intending to knock him down, but he swung beneath her, shoving his pommel into her armored back.

Flying forward she yelled, but came back around to cross down on his blade, the impact ringing in his ears. He stared up at her. A lanky blond hair wagged in her eyes, her breastplate rising and falling with heavy breaths.

"Jaime," He panted. "My name is Jaime."

Dreams never quite made sense, because after that he found himself looking down at Brienne, down not being the direction he was used to seeing her in. The pallid white bark of a heart tree was behind her, her head cradled against it, her cropped sun-bleached hair nearly blending in.

Her cuirass had been abandoned; left somewhere in what Jaime felt was long silky grass, sprouting up all around their kneeling bodies like wildfire. She wore a rough linen tunic. His hands had magically untied. She was still breathing heavy, smelling of the fight, her mouth red and cheeks flushed, blue eyes meeting his in a mix of confusion and annoyance and lust…

He was touching her breast. His right hand, lost but somehow still there and feeling, stirred beneath the fabric and caressed her soft skin, she was so soft where the armor had not chafed her. Her nipple peaked and he squeezed it roughly just for a moment to hear her cry out, to watch her face blaze again.

"You're still maiden," He whispered in her ear and she shivered beneath him. Her breath smelled of honey and ale. He dragged his mouth along her throat.

"You cannot take what isn't being offered, Ser Jaime." She replied, voice strong but wavering only slightly.

"I wouldn't dream of it," He said rakishly, pulling her knees to his chest and kissing her deeply. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling enough to sting his scalp and make him press himself against her, warm and mortal and somewhat weaker than he, a dream version he had concocted that bent to the beckoning of his appetite, a Brienne he shoved into the grass, her head bowing and lips curled. The taste of her filled his mouth, plain at first then sweet, like apples in spring. Then suddenly, sour, intensely sour and hot, the taste of fire…

"Burn them all." Her voice growled and suddenly panic was in him again, his heart flapping like a bird in a cage.

He woke dampened by cool sweat. The bannermen were standing over him, observing his frightened expression with not a small amount of amusement. They were here to take him home.

The King's Road was waiting.