Chapter 2: Ever Just Out of Grasp
Jaime II
The Big Island comes into view on a clear, cloudless day. Jaime walks across the main deck of the ship to exercise his legs in the morning fog. Most of the crew is still below; sleeping through the shifts and tugs of wave against wood. He hasn't slept nearly enough since he first saw her, forty-six days prior. Their days are growing short, flying much too quickly, and each time he thinks of it, it pricks him near the raw. I can do it this time, he thinks, I can stop this wretched cycle and save us all.
A useless thought he's had too oft to count. She'll die again, Lannister. That is the way of things. It happened the last; it will happen thus; it shall happen next. You can't save her. You can't even save yourself.
His pace increases to a jog and he passes one of his squires; Norce, a slight, slip of a boy with large hands and brows that meet in one bushy row.
"You have to push yourself, lad." He yells over his shoulder. "Sweat is weakness leaving your body. Pain is fear burning from your form. Keep pace!"
The boy huffs behind him but doesn't falter. "Aye, ser!"
Norce is one squire amongst five assigned to attend Jaime. The others are taller than the boy, meatier by two stone at the least, and take to the sword as a duck does to water; but for all his short comings, the lad remains undeterred. He's awkward with the shortsword and ungainly as a goose whilst flailing with a dirk. It would annoy the living shite out of him were it not so amusing. And in truth, Jaime could respect the boy in some regards. He has mettle. He always gets back up when knocked to the ground. Tenacity is as important as speed and skill he supposes.
Jaime stays two or three strides ahead, his legs are longer, and by the time his tunic is drenched from his own perspiration, he relents and allows Norce a rest. Jaime's breath comes heavy and he stretches his arms above him, to his right, to his left. When he looks to the sky, colours coming pink and orange through the grey mist, he notices seagulls.
"Land ho!" Bellows a baritone from a crow's nest high above them.
Land, thank those accursed Gods. A reprieve from running about this wooden contraption. I'm bloody well sick of feeling like cattle.
Within the space of a half hour, the main deck becomes alive with knights and sailors, marines and lieutenants, squires and high lords, all eager to see the mountain chain upon the approaching horizon. Jaime makes his way to the poop deck. He finds the captain at the helm, along with his first mate.
"Grateful morn, m'lord." Burrin says with his hands on the large wooden wheel.
Jaime regards the men pleasantly. He is in a pleasant mood after all. "And to you captain." He nods to the mate. "How long before we dock?"
As a rough wave rocks the port beam of the ship, Burrin clenches his teeth and steers against it. "We should cut break water in no more than an hour, m'lord."
Jaime smiles. "Splendid. I knew you would make out well, contrarily to what's been said of you." His eyes scan the various parts of the uppermost deck: the forecastle, the quarterdeck, and in that moment he spots her. In the crimson tunic and black breeches of his army, she is leaning against the railing, on the starboard side of the forecastle. He hears Burrin murmur something in response to his words, but his feet move to her before the captain's speech has chance to take meaning.
Brienne is with Ser Wynne Eastwood. He's seen them together rather frequently and it does not please him in the slightest. Jaime is not great with competition and he can even admit that his reactions are...less than befitting. He is too rash when he sees her with other men.
Many times, she is married. And in his rage, he kills her paramours. He kills them all. Stout, thin, tall, short, muscular, lean. It makes no difference. And when she mourns the dead, she always mourns the dead, she turns her blade upon him and brands him monster. Fights ensue, his blood sings as sweet and as bitter as wine, and it takes half their time to obtain all of her love. It's all rather ridiculous really.
Eastwood turns at his approach and stands at attention.
"My lord." The young man says in greeting.
"A fine morning for shore leave, wouldn't you agree?"
He nods and his red hair falls about his shoulders like a copper curtain. "Fine indeed, my lord."
Brienne regards him then; face still alight with the excitement from moments before, from seeing the mountains. "Grateful morn, m'lord."
Her eyes are shining. "Beautiful morning I'd say. Though I'm afraid we may have to forgo our dance this day."
After she challenged him, some nineteen days ago, he began to spar with her every forenoon. The spectacle of their fights lost its novelty after a sennight; it grew rather tedious with the Lord Commander undefeated, and soon enough their dances became blissfully unobserved. That is, until Eastwood began to wait near the railings and give his opinion on her stance, or her thrusts, or her parries. Jaime, in his age, had developed a degree of patience, and thus withheld actions that would be instinct were he a young man. And so, he did not immediately seek to rid himself of the mounting annoyance that was the young knight. He was even amiable, Briennes tend to have that affect on him, and Jaime held his tongue as he taught the girl the better way of the sword. She was quick to learn and now fights nearly as well as the first one had in the end. Her skills are sharper than ever and she doesn't need his sword to practice any longer, yet the disappointment in her face makes him rather blithesome. She enjoys you, Lannister, and you're refusing her. Do you even know when last you could refuse her?
Her smile falters an inch, but she nods. "Oh, of course, m'lord. There's, there are matters of more import."
He raises an eyebrow. "I didn't say that, child. Swordplay is as important to a warrior as the Citadel is to a maester."
She nods again as he regards Eastwood, staring until the redhead seems to catch his meaning. The challenge in the young knight's eyes is unmistakable. "Brienne," he says not looking away from Jaime, "I'll go help with the sails."
"I'll join you." She offers but Eastwood shakes his head. "No need. Stay here. There are hands enough with mine own and besides, I'm sure my Lord of Lannister can regale you with a tale or two from his youth, since you're interested in war stories. He is nice company and knowledgeable, as many older men are. He led the force against the Red Bat of Harrenhall."
Older men. Jaime narrows his eyes at the boy. He is dangerously close to insolence.
Oblivious, Brienne gasps. "He did?"
Eastwood smiles. "Indeed he did. I squired for him and he knighted me there."
Is that the game you wish to play, boy? Alright.
Jaime nods and flashes Brienne a charming grin. "Only because young Eastwood was very attentive a squire and brave. You know," he turns back to the boy, "Ser Wynne slew the bat himself."
The girl gasps in shock. "A mere squire? No."
"Yes." He goes on, "I'd the perfect view of his fall atop my destrier."
Wynne Eastwood smiles again and it is then that Jaime decides he has humored the impudent boy enough this day. He fixes the youth with a glare and the boy has the audacity to smirk before bowing slightly to Brienne. He nods to Jaime and says, "My lord," before leaving them.
Have you changed so much as to not expeditiously punish wretches like him? What would Father say? What would that two handed man have done?
Brienne watches her friend walk to the mizzenmast before returning her gaze to the island chain drawing ever closer.
Jaime couldn't stop from clenching his fist, his single fist. Father is long dead and you've but the one hand, you fool. Nevertheless, he decides upon exacting some degree of vengeance upon the young Eastwood. Mayhaps I'll put him in the vanguard once the fighting begins. A longsword through the throat will surly wipe the smirk from the boy's face.
"Is this the first time you've seen Arya's Point?" He steps a little closer to her and their elbows brush as they lean against the wooden rail.
"I've never been this far west before, m'lord. The air is different, it's," she rubs her fingers together, searching for the word, "...heavier, and sticky."
Jaime chuckles. "That is called humidity, Brienne."
"I know what humidity is, m'lord." She huffs and glares at the water. "It's not this hot on Tarth, or even on the mainland."
The morning fog clears as the ship moves closer to the largest island, the Big Island, and the sun shines brightly. From the looks of it, there won't be a cloud in the sky soon. A wave laps against the boat beneath them, spraying water about the deck. It misses him entirely but douses her with an unpleasant amount of the salty brine. She flings her arms and forth and wipes her face in annoyance.
"Ugh. Even the water's warm."
Jaime laughs harder. "Come with me ashore, my lady. I will introduce you to the better aspects of this foreign land."
She crosses her arms about her chest and waits for his chortling to die. "Do you speak truly, m'lord? Do you wish for me to accompany you?"
"Yes." He blurts without thinking. Easy, you forget yourself. "...but only if that would please you."
She eyes him dubiously. "Alright."
"Then it's settled." He touches her arm, and her expression softens as she looks at his hand upon her. "I'll find you after my affairs are settled with the chieftain. There is a large market along the eastern side of the township, the Westerosi Market. It has an eclectic selection of steel stalls. I'd suggest you take a gander there while you wait. Learn a thing or two from the smiths."
"Okay." Her blue eyes shimmer like sunlight on the waves; and in that moment, he wants to kiss her, though he doesn't. Not yet.
Instead, he removes his hand from her person, smiles crookedly, and turns to leave, but stops midstep. "One thing more, my lady."
"Yes?"
"The market," he starts, waving his hand slightly, "it can be rather dangerous."
She cocks a brow. "I'm more then able-"
"And you're right." He nods. "All the same, do be vigilant. These islands are a pirate hub. If you see something...unsavory happening, let it alone."
He's offended her, he can see in an instant. Her lips purse and her mouth twists in perverse defiance. "Is that an order?"
Jaime tilts his head. "If so, you'd be obligated to follow it." He smirks and she narrows her eyes. "Must I say the words?"
She exhales through her nose, rather like an auroch. "If it please, m'lord."
"What would please me most," he calms himself and takes a step toward her, into her personal space, "is if you took care. I'm sure you've this idealism that compels you to defend the weak." All Briennes do. Sometimes it gets her killed prematurely. "And that is well and good, a staple amongst true knights. That is what you want, is it not?" She blinks in surprise. "To be a knight?"
"How did you? I've told no one-"
"Call it a guess. And I am quite certain there is no soul more worthy of the title." She blushes. He can't stop himself as grasps her hand and kisses the back of it. "Mind the pirates."
"O-okay." She breathes.
"I'll keep you at your word." He walks away then; before he does something truly foolish.
He and his high lords take one of many small boats to the docks, and once the gangplank of his tender is lowered, he is first upon the wooden walkway of the pier. Land, he thinks. Gods be good, I thought I'd never see it again.
Where the wet wood of the quayside meets the muddied slush of port land, an escort awaits his party. There are twelve men in total. Four men at arms hold halberds and stand at attention. The sun glistens on their mahogany skin and the geometric patterns tattooed upon their bare chests are rather interesting to behold. They wear breeches made of woven grass, in the traditional garb of the isles, as well as flat, grass woven shoes that curve up at the tips. Three men sit behind them, mounted atop Westerosi stallions. Officials most like. They wear the same grass breeches but their peascod bellied jerkins are fashioned of linen and leather. The horsemen make way as the rider at the party's flank dismounts and walks toward Jaime's approach. The man is perhaps his age, when he stopped aging, and shorter than himself; has golden, tawny skin and a long Stark face framed by dark, nearly black curls. His grey eyes regard him kindly as he holds his hands out, in a gesture of welcome.
"My Lord of Lannister," he says with a wolfish grin, "I am pleased to welcome you and your lords bannermen to Nooma Motu. My lords, I am called Alekiee Starkborn and am chieftain of the isles."
Jaime smiles politely and falls into his courtesies. "Charmed."
"I trust the voyage thus far has not been too arduous a journey. I've once traveled to the great kingdom of the Westerlands myself, and am ashamed to say that, even as tamaloa o Nooma, sixty days at sea was nearly too much for me to bear."
From behind, he hears Lyonel Marbrand mutter something to Robert Krynshaw in a tone that reminds him of the Addam from his youth. It makes him smile.
"It has been a rather long trip indeed, Chief Starkborn. And we've another sixty days before reaching our colonies." Jaime shrugs. "I am quite certain that by its end, I shall have sea legs to rival any one of your pirates."
The chieftain chuckles. "Indeed, my lord. Though I might hope you'd rest your legs of the sea with our finest litter to carry you to our palace." The not quite Stark man snaps his fingers and four strong ebon skinned men rush up from behind him; carrying the gilded handles of a palanquin, red silk curtains and golden lions threaded on the screens.
"I shall ride in no litters today, good chief. If you have it, I would take one of your fine stallions."
"If it please, my lord." The man clicks his tongue and one of the officials dismounts. The spotted mare is then led to Jaime to inspect.
"The blue Appaloosa is bred here, on the Big Island of Nooma." Jaime touches the creature's neck, warm and taut under the fur. "She is made for speed, my lord, and handles command as though she and her rider were of one mind." Jaime's hand moves to her shoulder. "Do you find her suitable?"
"Your spotted mare shall suffice until such time as I procure a blood bay." He mounts the horse with ease and feels mayhaps a little too excited at once again having a stallion's power beneath him. Never thought I'd have chance to miss horses.
"Excellent." The chieftain says as he climbs astride his steed. "Please, my lord," he turns to Jaime. "Follow me."
He moves at a gentle trot, though their cortège falls behind, and turns to speak to Jaime once they are near abreast. The chieftain talks nearly the entire ride, clearly a man who fancies the sound of his own voice, and Jaime hardly registers any, if none of his speech. Jaime is more interested in the sights and sounds of the island he last visited quite some time ago. The large coconut palms are the same, still standing proud and silent, as he passes them. Their humongous, flat leaves rustle in the warm breeze. In the space of a half league, they're away from the fishermen and boats of the shipyards, and ride through the wide red dirt roads of the countryside that lead to the capital city. The volcanic mountains in the distance rest like sleeping black and green giants along the horizon. They pass fields of sugarcane and rows upon rows of the leafy spikes that are the pineapple plants. After an hour, the fields give way to the settlements of man.
The city has no walls but a gate of six, two-hundred and fifty foot tall coconut palms on either side of the wide red road, the Mother Road, as the chief points out. The trees are impressive indeed, as they had been last he saw them, when the island was untamed and wild; and there were five chieftains instead of this one. Then, the islands were newly a northern colony and the ebon, blue-black coloured natives wore grass skirts and attacked invaders with arrows and spears and curved, flying weapons. It was an exciting time. Now, things are different. Now, he is curiously disheartened to say, the islands have been conquered and the chieftain he's been ignoring is as dull as every other Stark he's come across.
"My lord," he says once they pass the palms, "Tina o Le Papa welcomes you."
"I am pleased to hear it." Gods this child is a bore. I wonder if they still ride those great wooden boards on the waves during high tide. That was rather enjoyable.
The city is a quarter the size of Lannisport. They pass large wooden manses and black stone halls, splendid marble estates and woven grass houses. When last he was here, there were naught but grass huts and one long wooden hall. The people are changed too. The grass skirts are gone in favor of breeches and tunics for the poor; doublet, jerkins, paned trunk hose with codpiece, and high ruffled collars for the wealthy. The women are no longer bare breasted but wear either long gowns with sleeveless tunics and wimples in their low status, or chemise and farthingale, kirtle and gown in higher regards. The rich ladies even adorn the hooded hair coverings that has become popular in the crownlands of King's Landing and dawn necklaces and brooches. The faces of the crowds he passes are no longer the rich, deep colour of coal, but instead are a thousand shades of brown. These islands will lose their identity in another two centuries. I wonder which Stark faced child shall greet me then.
He sees a bare foot, peasant girl watching the procession of his horse and party, and a woman in long linen skirts grabs her roughly by the arm and pulls her way, down the next street they pass. The chieftain notices his stare and nods. "That is the Path of Plenty." He says gesturing to the smaller street to their right. Cook fires and stalls of foods stretch as far as his eye can see. "You'll find the tastiest suckling pig you've ever eaten there." Jaime smells roasted meats, and curious spices, and sees rather bizarre carcasses hanging from hooks. Still a bit wild I see.
The Mother Road leads to a grand hill that overlooks the city and gives an unobstructed view of the blue horizon to the west. Jaime notes battlements, their black stone tips poking out from the line of treetops of the forest east of the city. The further they travel uphill, the finer the manses become, until finally palaces give way and at the very top of the hill, made entirely of white marble it seems, lies the chieftain's palace. There are no gates or moats to separate the chief from his subjects; only a half league of forest and the road. At the foot of the palace, the red road curves and circles, signaling its end. In the center of the circle is a marble fountain with a statue of a grey stone direwolf, howling to the sky.
The palace is a massive five story structure with great Ionic columns and high arching windows. Each level has the roofed, open-sided verandas that are typical of the isles. He can see the rush of servants here and there; carrying loads of white fabrics or boxes of Gods only knew what, through the open doors, disappearing within. There are gardens in front, birds of prey and other curiously coloured flowers landscaped around swooping paths of volcanic black rock. Along the expanse of the red road, smaller, twenty foot palms live in rows and sway in the cooling breeze.
Starkborn rears to a stop and stable boys rush to assist him as he dismounts. They do the same for Jaime. "We are not as grand as Westeros here, my Lord of Lannister, but on all the Isles of Nooma, this is the greatest structure. Please, make yourself as you would in your home. I hope you and your fine lords will join myself and my family for the evening meal in our Great Hall of Many Waters."
"I thank you for your invitation, chieftain. I shall be honored to join you."
"Excellent." Starkborn clicks his tongue and two rather pretty girls come before them. One is tall, with large eyes and flowers braided into her thick black hair. The other is short, but has wide hips and large breasts. "Take Lord Jaime to the finest of our guests' apartments. He is to be shown every hospitality."
The girls, eyes upon the ground, speak as one. "Yes, My Chief."
"My lord, please excuse me. It is near time I prepare myself for the day's court."
"Of course. As you were, chieftain."
The Starkborn leaves him there and the girls stand silent, awaiting his command. Jamie turns back, looks to the road. His party has yet to arrive. Some men are on foot and will most likely not reach the palace until an hour or two.
Jaime addresses the taller girl. "Lead the way."
Rather quickly, she flickers her eyes to his and bows her head. "If it please my lord."
He's ushered through a great curved opening that acts as the palace's main entrance. The doors open to an open faced, columned hall that leads to a large square courtyard that houses more fountains and more flowers. From there, they take him right; through arching walkways with statues of old tree Gods and paintings of what must be the Gods of the isles along the walls. They walk and walk, passing rooms for tea and rooms for merriment, slipping through more courtyards and what must be the practice grounds for the chieftain's royal guard. He sees their version of knights and lords and ladies about. He sees stable boys, and nursemaids, and squires afoot. The chieftain's Kingsguard are more than seven. He's counted twenty thus far. Their uniforms are black; and they wear not the helms and plate armor of the east, but oiled ringmail over ornately designed boiled leather. I've seen this before...somewhere. They carry longswords and their bare arms are marked with patterns of geometric tattoos. One man, a young man, nods in greeting as they pass.
On and on the girls take them, down corridor after corridor; he even sees a Godswood. "Are we touring the entire bloody palace?" He calls from behind them. The short one turns and shakes her head. "No, my lord. Your rooms are just up these steps."
Three flights up a spiral staircase and he's before large oak doors that open to high ceilings and marble floors. His rooms are four spacious apartments, each with its own balcony and view of the sea, the forest, the mountains, the city below. He can even make out the Pirate Bay, with its ships from all over the known world in its port.
The bed is large, feathered, and canopied. There are dressing screens and looking glasses that stretch from the floor to the ceiling. One room holds a library. Another, a large bath in the Braavosi style. Well, I suppose this will do. It's far better than the quarters I occupy on that ship, that's for certain.
"Is there anything else you wish of us, my lord?" The taller girl stares at him openly now.
Jaime scratches his cheek and raises an eyebrow. "Have you overlooked something?"
She smiles. "Salmanti was trained at one of the better whore houses than I." The short girl, Salmanti, unwraps her skirt and unlaces her tunic in three quick movements. She's naked before he can speak. "But I have never received anything less than praise." The tall girl begins to undo her clothing as well.
"There, there is no need for this." The short one's breasts are larger than he thought they'd be and her dusky nipples perk upward, begging to be pressed. Her teats look as soft as flower petals and he knows they'd be just as sweet.
The girls eye him with bemusement. The tall one speaks. "Do you not wish to taste the pleasures of Nooma, my lord?"
It's always rather difficult to deny naked women. You've Brienne here on this island, you impatient fool. You've waited two and forty years for this, you can wait another two moons if need be. He swallows and shakes his head.
"I shall partake of no pleasures at the moment. I've had a long journey. Draw my bath and go about your day."
They dress and fetch him hot water and leave him to his peace. His cock is hard as he bathes in the large tub. Those blasted girls, he thinks. Do they do that to everyman they bring to this room? He thinks of Brienne at thirty, he likes her at thirty, and strokes himself until he's satisfied. When he finishes and is in small clothes, two of his squires are present in his main room. He has the boys dress him in black breeches and high boots. He decides to wear a light, summer tunic of crimson and his golden lion ring upon the finger closest his pinkie.
He sends Norce to find a blood bay and once the boy has the mare prepared, he rides off, back down the red road, to the west and the Westerosi market. Jaime finds her where he knows she will be; past the Pentoshi spice traders; after the Lynese fabric merchants and the cheesemongers from the Reach. He leads his mount through the stalls and stalls of Braavosi silk sellers; as well as the odor maskers of Volantis. She's closer to the traders from the old crownlands, near the stands of the new steel masters that brave the ruins of ancient Valaryia. He turns a corner, in this maze of a market, and sees her haggle with a purple bearded Pentoshi over the price of an arakh. He can't hear her, she's a few rows down, but when she picks up the pommel of the scythe like sword and the sunlight glints off the tip of the curved blade, his stump burns just a little. The man's yelling at her and she responds in kind before pointing her finger in his face and throwing the blade down upon his stall of weapons. She stalks off and Jaime decides to stay a few yards behind her; curious to see what she will do. This Brienne has a fire in her that few Briennes possess. The first one wouldn't have yelled at that man. Gods, I miss her as I miss my right hand. No use thinking of her now.
This Brienne walks and walks and walks until they leave the vast market behind and end up by the drinking houses of the Pirate's Bay. I told her to avoid this place. The insubordinate wench. There is commotion from the open doors of the nearest tavern. He dismounts when he hears the shrill scream of a woman. Brienne rushes forth as a man emerges from the building. He's dragging a woman by her hair, by her shoulders, and Jaime can tell from his green beard and triangular, feathered hat, that the man is a pirate. He's tall, mayhaps as tall as himself. Brienne draws her sword and yells at him.
"Unhand her!"
Four more men exit the tavern at that moment and the pirate turns to look at Brienne.
"What did you say?"
She takes a step. "I said to let her go! Now!"
The man straightens and pulls the girl's hair until she's standing upright. "Who the fuck are you supposed to be? You're a… wench, though you don't look it."
"Let her go-"
The pirate laughs. Passersby stop to watch the confrontation and Jaime moves from his horse. He walks toward Brienne.
"I'm in a fine humor girl," the word is a mockery, "be on your way or I'll see you whored on my ship as well."
Brienne lounges toward him. He's quick and throws the girl into her assault. The pirate pulls two daggers from his belt and attacks her while she's down. Jaime makes it just in time. His blade stops one of the daggers from slicing through her arm.
"What the-," she begins, "where'd you come from?"
The pirate's men join the battle. Five against two, Jaime sees, not very fair for them. He pushes the pirate's blade and forces him off. She regains her footing and her stance.
"I was to meet you at the market." He glances at her and grins. "How did I know you'd not be there, as well as run into trouble?"
The pirate addresses Jaime in a voice fit for a war general. "I've no quarrel with you, cripple. Control your beast of a wench and give me the girl."
Cripple. After all this time, the word still boils a bit of his blood.
"I believe the lady warned you to let the girl go."
The man smirks. "You don't know who I am, do you?"
Jaime snorts. "I suppose I can take a guess. Someone who doesn't matter." The man frowns. "Someone who's about to die."
One of his men moves upon Brienne with a downward stroke of his longsword. She parries and meets his next thrust. Jaime engages in his own dance with a boy of a pirate, he must be of an age with Norce, and dispatches the child quickly, with a swift thrust through the heart. The boy slumps to the ground in death and while Jaime slices the air, cleaning his blade of the blood, another man, an older man, meets him with white hot rage.
"You killed my son!" He screams as he slashes stroke upon stroke of the bastard sword his wields. They're all downward swings and in moments, the man gives Jaime the opening he needs. He plunges his sword through the man's heart, same as he did the boy.
Jaime sighs as he looks upon the pair. "You should have been a better father."
He hears Brienne grunt and he goes to her. The pirate and his daggers are a challenge to her, I'll teach her a better technique later, and as he pushes her back, one of the remaining two men make to stab her from behind. Jaime catches him and punches the man in the nose, causing him to full upon his arse.
"You bastard." He says as he scrambles to his feet. "You'll pay for that…And for killing Red and the boy."
"We'll see who pays what."
Jaime parries and pivots, slices and thrusts until he's beside Brienne, on her left side. It feels like home. His opponent lounges too quickly, too far, and when Jaime leaps backwards, out of range, the man falls forward a little, right into the path of his back handed swing. The Valaryian steel glides through the man's head like a hot blade through butter and the top, left side of his face slides off its purchase in a diagonal ruin. He falls like a sack and chunks of pink-grey brain spill upon the dirt mixing with the pools of his blood.
His gaze flickers to Brienne and he sees her cut through the pirate's defensive stance. Her blade takes his shoulder and the man screams in pain.
"You bitch!" He yells. He takes a breath and looks at the carnage before him. Jaime knows what fear smells like, even if he cannot see the man's eyes. It comes as no great surprise when the pirate and his man decide to flee. Jaime grabs Brienne's elbow when she means to give chase.
"No need." He shakes his head at the incredulity on her face. "Let the cowards run."
"They hurt that girl. We can't just let them-"
"But we will." She purses her lips and he sighs. "You can't save every unfortunate soul you cross. No knight can."
She wrenches from his grasp. "No." She glares at him. "For I am not a knight."
She stalks off again, going toward the forests and the path to the mountains, and Jaime has no idea what he's said to offend her. He catches up and tries to start some conversation but she's angry and as pig stubborn as she always is, so he follows her until they cross a thicket of huge flat leaves; reaching the end of the ceaseless ceiling of coconut palms. The wind rustles her thin hair as she stands before a jagged cliff and the sea, a hundred feet below. He wonders if she is calm now, so he tries again.
"Brienne," he says. "Be reasona-"
She'd crossed her arms about her chest, refusing to look at him. "I could have handled that myself."
"Yea," he says sardonically. "I'm positive you wouldn't have perished had I not been there."
She turns and glowers. "I've taken care of myself my whole life. I don't need to be saved you someone like you."
"Someone like me?" He spits. He doesn't know why the words sting. "Pray tell, who else was there to assist you in fighting those cravens? Who else but me?"
"I could have-,"
"Have died. Would you prefer if I were Eastwood or your other friend Isley? Where were they?" She narrows her eyes. "You're a decent swordman, girl, but you're rash, and that will be your downfall if you don't break that habit. I should know."
Her gaze turns suspect. "Should you?"
He smirks. "Quite certainly. I wouldn't leave you to fight alone, whatever you think of me. What kind of man would I be had I done such?"
Brienne purses her lips again and stands tall, taller than him. She looks down her broken nose at his face, scrutinizing in manner. "What do you want?"
Jaime does not like the mistrust in her stare. "Beg pardon?"
"I see the way you look at me. Who am I to you? Who have you lost?" Her questions take him aback. "Or is it that you just want a quick fuck?" Her mouth becomes stubborn. "I'm sure you can find someone else- anyone else, with no effort. Why do you want to fuck me, m'lord? Is it because you've never seen a woman so big? Huh? Even if I'm ugly. What do you want?"
It's happened a few times in this long life of his, being at a loss for words that is, but Jaime has never felt such a sense of confusion as he feels now.
She unlaces her breeches and in an instant, the fabric falls to the grass beneath them. She's not wearing small clothes and the curly hair at the juncture of her thighs calls to him like a siren. She lifts her tunic over her head and drops it to the ground. Her breasts are as flat as ever, her shoulders broad and strong, her neck more slender than it was the last time and her hips aren't as wide, though that can be fixed if he gets her with child.
"Will you take your pleasure, m'lord?" Her tone is kinder than before. Her nipples are round and pink and perky, and they prompt his tongue to run across the bottom row of his teeth. "No?" She smirks. "Then I shall take mine."
Brienne turns and runs, leaping from the cliff, and into the blue waves below. Jaime sees her head resurface after a moment of fluttering worry. He can't see her face, just the outline and colour of her head, and when she yells, "Take your pleasure, m'lord!"Jaime strips free of his tunic, but leaves his trousers. He jumps like he'd done lifetimes ago, when he was a boy and the son and heir of the Lord of Casterly Rock, diving into the Sunset Sea on days too hot for sense. I shall never know sense. The plunge is exhilarating, his blood flows sweet and hot through his veins, and the water is warm when he reaches it. He stays under for awhile, until he finds her kicking legs and touches the hard planes of her stomach. She squirms and he comes up for air. Her face is flushed, from neck to forehead and as she grins, non horsey and lovely enough, her eyes shine bluer than the seas and the skies.
He swims with her for awhile; following her about the water, and in no time at all, she finds a cove. The push and pull of the waves there are gentle and as it ripples about their necks, their arms and fingers, the liquid undertakes a turquoise hue. She marvels at it.
"It's like the waters on Tarth." She says in awe. "There are many coves there." Jaime knows this, but remains silent. "And when the waters warm during the summer years, they light up quite the same. It's, it's beautiful and too blue. It's more astonishing than anything you've ever seen."
He's close to her, close enough to touch her if he wishes, and he wants nothing more, but he can't at the moment. Not yet.
He smiles. "I'll wager those Tarthan waters are nowhere near as astonishing as your eyes."
She blushes again. It travels up from her collarbone, blotches along her neck, and reddens her face. And they're so close that he wants to kiss her and is overjoyed when he feels her press her plump lips against his. Her mouth is warmer than the water and tastes of honeydew melons. The child's more experienced than he would have thought, would have liked, but he dismisses petty jealousies in favor of the rapture he feels. Her kiss is soft but firm and when he tries to deepen it, he wants very much to kiss her the way he's always had, she pulls back and takes his lower lip with a tug as she breaks away.
Her smile brightens her face. "Does that always work?" Her eyes are more lusty than shy.
I may not have to wait two moons. He grins in pleasant anticipation. "Not always." He assures.