Jaime

Rescuing her, he had expected to feel gallant. Long ago he had; gallantry had been practically inescapable for him, the son of the most powerful Lord of Westeros, decked in the glimmering white armor of the King's Guard, his golden hair bright as the sun. But he had jumped into that bear pit feeling truest fear, stripped of his vestments, filthy and bearded and acting alone; there is only one true killer of men, he knew, and its name is fear. His heart thrashing in his chest; the massive beast before him, all black fur and muscle and stinking of death, Brienne bloody and armed only with a stick. A stick. They had given it to her in the cruelest mockery of her talent; and Jaime knew that he must do something, for he was the only one who would; to Locke and Bolton she was a plaything for the pleasure of a thousand toothless faces, and that realization was what frightened him more than a bear's jaws or a muddy grave.

"Get behind me!" Jaime Lannister had shouted, and after a short exchange she did, and in a flash she was in the rafters and her long white arm came down and saved him.

Few other words were exchanged on the King's Road. The Maester had dressed her wounds with a herb pack and explained that she was lucky to be alive. "Most people don't survive a punch from a bear," he had said and Brienne had offered a weak, pale smile which Jaime was just lucky enough to catch. She saw him looking, their glances meeting momentarily before fleeing again. It was the first time he had seen her smile. It warmed his heart, for a time.

Then he remembered. I dreamed of you, he had said, without thought, as he had stood between Locke and Brienne on the deck of the arena. She hadn't asked what it meant. The dream was still stuck in his mind like honey, a trap he kept falling into; when his mind wandered, it wandered to the dream, to the taste of her body on his lips, the pliant warmth of her flesh, how it had shifted so quickly to nightmare, how his cock had stood on end when he was shocked from his slumber.

Bolton's bannermen cared not for "the wench" and apart from the Maester's occasional ministrations she was left alone to sleep off her injuries. As the sun fell into the west over the camp, a sharp chill hung in the air, the men gathering around a large fire and sharing wine. Jaime heard them laughing as they drank, conjuring up vulgar tales about the Maid of Tarth, the subject of derision for evening.

"I hear tell her Lord Father had his way with a mare who birthed the big bitch."
"She's no bitch, she's a man."
"She's got tits, ain't she? I seen 'em when me 'n the boys were 'bout to have a go on her. Got stopped, though."
"Not enough beer in the seven kingdoms to make me stick that boar."

Their raucous, drunken laughter pierced something deep within Jaime. He thought to disrupt their campfire conversation, to draw a sword and threaten to cut out their tongues. Then he glanced at his hand, or rather what remained of his hand, a bandaged stump on the end of a sling. His soul plummeted. He questioned himself. Why does this enrage me so? I spared the Lady from rape, from death. I've done enough. I am a Lannister who has repaid his debts. I need not rake myself over the coals for the woman who dragged me for miles on the end of a chain for Lady Stark.

Still he could not endure their ill humor and he rose, feet carrying him towards the tents.

Inside the canvas-skin domicile it was vaguely damp and dark, and the Kingslayer searched for the tinder lamp amongst the dim grassy mat of the floor. He crouched over the lamp and grasped a flint, realizing only then the uselessness of the implement without the aid of two hands. Another blow to his confidence; although these days not much remained there, and he was getting used to an almost incessant barrage of humbling circumstances. In fact, the situation at hand brought forth a trenchant smile to his lips. As he fumbled to make a spark, he began to laugh at his hopelessness, a dry defeated chuckle.

Something shifted in the shadows. Jaime sucked his laughter back into his lungs.

His eyes had adjusted just enough to see the outline of the bed mat, a pile of linen blankets at the back wall of the tent. A human shape moved beneath the fabric, rising suddenly, the fabric falling off broad pale shoulders. Jaime saw the glow of soft, short blond hair, the long slender neck of a woman.

Her voice called out, "There weren't enough tents. Maester implores I stay out of the cold lest my wound festers."

"You're better off here than you are in the beds of the other men," Jaime replied. He felt from her posture that this comment made her uncomfortable, and instantly regretted it.

She rose suddenly and came towards him, scooping the lamp up and taking only a moment to light the tinder. In the new glow of the lamplight he saw she was wearing the soiled, torn white underclothes of the pink garment she had been forced to battle in, the sleeves hanging in tattered ribbons on her arms. "I'll see if I can get you some proper clothes on the morrow," He mentioned.

"There are no more dresses amongst these men's inventory," Brienne quipped.

"Proper clothes, Lady Brienne." He insisted. "I can tell how much that... thing... bothers you. I'd like to rip it off you."

Her eyes went wide then, and she stared down at him. Sudden memories of the stolen kiss invaded his conscience; the tears in her eyes, the heat in her mouth; the Kingslayer fumbled with his words. "...because you hate it so much. I will get you men's raiments. On my honor." He corrected himself, nodding his head to her. She seemed somewhat relieved at that, mumbling a soft approval, which eased the shameful bristling of his nerves.

Beneath the haze of the Milk of the Poppy and the weariness of the journey Jaime could sense the confusion and anger she had carried with her in Harrenhal. She was still hurt, and bewildered, but she was alive and exhaustion weighed heavy on her bones. Her shoulders slumped as she slipped back under the linens. He watched as she scooted her tall body against the edge of the bedroll. It took a moment for him to realize she was making room for him.

"Goodnight, Ser Jaime," She muttered, neither awake nor dreaming.

It took some extra time for Jaime to ease his boots from his feet one-handed. Gingerly he placed his body against the mat. The lamplight sputtered and fell low. Her breathing was soft, chest rising and falling and inciting the torn vestments of her underclothes to tremble against her collarbone. Her back was turned to him, her legs folded together almost girlishly, he remarked with some small amusement. She was warm.

As he slid beneath the linens he attempted not to touch her, to lie stiffly on his side with his face parallel to the back of her head, to lie and rest and not reach out to stroke or tease or in any way disturb the maiden, the hostage, the Beauty of Tarth. A giddiness befell him; an feeling unknown since younger days, when he would play similar games with his twin sister, but those years were far behind now and seemed the memories of another man, the hallucinations of a life wiped out long ago.

Madness. He wanted her, so badly, an aching that shot up his back and into his cock and made his face burn hot against the cool damp cloth. Tradition and honor be damned, holiness and houses and gods be damned too. His breath showed before him in soft clouds, and he realized that the tent had grown very cold, the flame low and icy dew clinging to the air. He laid there like a slab of stone for some time, struggling against the chill, his desire slowly waning. When he felt the frenzy finally go, he dared to move closer.

He felt his body fit into the arch of her sleeping back. She did not stir. Seeking out her warmth he pressed his face into the curve of the nape of her neck, her skin was smooth there and radiating an almost inhuman heat. Her fever is breaking, he thought. She's like a furnace. Drowsily his body turned, until his legs gently touched hers and he felt the tip of sleep move over him...

Then she moved an inch in her slumber and brushed against him and the fire burst again in his gut and in his half-sleep delirium he drove himself against her, breathing softly against the hollow of her shoulder. His single hand, possessed by some unseen spectre, climbed the silken nothingness of her underclothes and groped down her side, the long expanse of her slender, toned form. Shame would dog him in the morning, break the tethers of his heart all over again, the confusion and bitterness and rage sure to follow. But for now they were alone and she was his even if only in his dreams, or in this tent, or in whatever strange version of reality where she was now moving her hand to his, entwining his fingers in her own, clutching it to her sleeping chest.

His fingers tightened in hers.

Gods help me, Jaime Lannister thought as he shut his eyes to let in the stars.