The next morning, at the breakfast table, Brienne was flushed and lovely, but with no princess makeup this time, just wearing a simple, blue dress, sitting next to Gerald, under his arm like some kind of awkward bird.
Jaime couldn't tear his eyes away. He was drinking ale as if it were water and he were dying of thirst, and when one of his men mentioned that they might be leaving upon the morrow, he snapped at him that they'd stay as long as he'd like, his sister be damned.
Had they? Had they...bedded? Had she stolen back to her marital bed after she'd denied Jaime that kiss, left him drunk and sitting with that hive of bees in his head, slumped against the building?
The thought tore at him, ripped tiny pieces of his sanity away. He didn't know why it mattered. He didn't know why he cared. He didn't know why it hurt him so much, and it made him angry. It made him want to drink ale until the question went away, but it didn't seem to be working.
She was flushed enough, all right. She looked as if maybe she'd been making love all night, well into the morning, round faced, running to fat Gerald pumping away at that warrior's body they'd washed all the scent from, that warrior's body that Jaime had seen standing naked and unafraid, standing in the bath, standing and facing him. The very thought of it had him gritting his teeth so hard his jaw began to ache. He couldn't think of it. It couldn't be. Not Brienne. Not the maiden. Not his warrior.
Jaime wondered at what moment he'd begun to think of her as his.
Had it been when he'd rescued her from the bear? When he'd given her armor and Oathkeeper, wishing with all his might that she'd turn around, ask for him to come with her?
It was madness, all of it, the whole crazy tumble of thoughts in his head, of feeling in his guts, and he couldn't stand it. He had to know. He had to ask her. He had to speak to her, to somehow voice this buzzing in his head, this trembling just under his skin, as if he were about to explode from the inside out.
He made his way, albeit unsteadily, to her table.
As politely as his gritted teeth would allow him, he asked Gerald if he could borrow his bride for a moment. Gerald gave him a big, open smile and removed his arm from Brienne, allowing her to stand and move outside with him, toward the sea.
They walked silently, close enough to touch hands but not quite touching, and Jaime felt close to bursting with words, words he didn't know how to speak. They reached a balcony over the sapphire isles, and the words that came blurting out he had no idea were coming.
"Did you return to your marital bed, Princess Brienne?" The words were harsh, cold, almost vulgar.
"Ser Jaime!" She said, and her own words were harsh, scolding. "That's rather none of your business, is it?"
The flush of her cheeks was deepening, spreading down to her throat, the tops of her breasts, and Jaime's breath caught in his throat. All at once he was angry, angrier than he had been in his whole life, and he wanted to scream at her.
He didn't, though, his words still harsh, the tone almost condescending. "Lost your maidenhood at last, wench," he said, "how was it?"
"You're being vulgar, Jaime. It doesn't suit you." She crossed her arms over her chest and turned from him, refusing to look at him, to give his words meaning.
She still hadn't answered him. He felt snared, caught wriggling on a hook, and he had to know, had to know, had to know. He'd go mad if she didn't tell him, raving mad.
"Did you go back to him last night, Brienne? Did you go back to your husband and finish the bedding ceremony? Did you let him inside you?" He couldn't keep the anger out of his tone, the coldness. Something was springing to life inside him, and like things that had been long dead, it hurt.
"Stop it, Jaime." Her words were quiet, but full of steel.
"Did you let him fuck you, Princess of Tarth?"
She swung around and put her blue eyes on his, full of rage, warrior rage, and Jaime's heart seized up and stopped beating. There she was. His warrior at last.
"He's my husband!" She all but yelled at him. "He didn't fuck me! We made love and it was wonderful, and it's still none of your damned business, Kingslayer."
Jaime wondered if it were audible, the break in his mind. He felt a dozen emotions boiling inside him, but the hottest one was rage. A desperate sort of rage.
"I'll kill him," He said, "I'll kill him and take you back to Kingslanding, and we'll-"
"We'll what, Jaime? What would you have me do? Abandon my husband?"
He felt like she'd socked him in the gut. She'd taken the breath out of him, taken the life out of him, this wench, this woman he'd once thought ugly,once thought masculine. This woman standing proud and beautiful and angry before him, maiden no more.
That last thought broke through, and he let go the breath he'd been holding and found he could barely stand on his own without the anger. He steadied himself against the railing of the balcony and felt hot tears spring behind his eyes. He hadn't shed a tear since he had been eight years old. Eight years old, and Cersei had sprained her ankle, badly, in a hole while they were out playing. It had swollen so badly and he'd carried her to the maester but she hadn't cried. He'd cried for her as they splinted it, because he felt her pain for her.
This pain was different. It wasn't for Cersei. It wasn't even for him, but for something lost, something that he'd almost had hold of, and not known it. Something he was missing that he'd never even known he'd wanted.
"Brienne," he said, his voice almost a whisper.
"Who better, then, Jaime? Who would you have take my maidenhood?" She was still angry, still up in arms, still his warrior.
Me, he thought. It should have been me. But it were words he left unsaid, like all the words left unsaid between them, and all the space and time he hadn't known he should have been spending with her, spending telling her what she meant to him, what she could've been for him, how they could have been together.
They stood there, together, and apart, and after a time, Brienne put her soft hand over his.
"Jaime...are you all right?"
He lifted his head and smiled at her. "Of course I am. The Princess of Tarth has been married. I just wanted to congratulate you. Let's go back to the feast."
She went inside, first, and Jaime took a few gulps of air from the sapphire isles, knowing that when he left on the morrow, he left so much more behind than the Princess of Tarth.