Jaime was prepared for war, if necessary.
The war for Brienne of Tarth, a war fought from the time he jumped into a bear pit, dirty, exhausted and one handed. The war for her life, and now, a war for her maidenhood.
A war he would win, or die trying.
He imagined her trembling as they fit her for her wedding dress. He scoffed to imagine them plaiting her short, simple haircut, painting her face. Brienne of Tarth, the bride.
Brienne was no bride. Brienne was a warrior. Better with blood and sweat than painted lips and dresses. Her golden hair more beautiful tousled from fighting, her blue eyes bright with rage.
He imagined them bright with fear, and rage burned in his gut, causing him to grasp the ship's edge with his good hand, so hard his knuckles turned white. The ship surged against a wave, and he almost surged with it, stumbling towards the helm.
Brienne of Tarth, married off for money, or lands, or for her father to be rid of her.
Jaime would kill the man who tried to take her from her land, who tried to take her maidenhood, her honor, to take the warrior out of her.
To take his warrior, he thought, and the thought was unbidden, like so many others he'd had on this journey.