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The knot.
It was holding him together really. If you had to winnow it down to something tangible, something small.
He took a breath in.
Held it. Let it circulate. Thought about the space of things, the capacity held. How she had changed so much in the past few months. Her face is lined with pain, with experience. And it was his fault. His fault line really. He shook and it rattled her; his start and her beginning.
The room was hot and heated, there was steam and it rose. It took the shape of clouds, which should have startled him. It reminded him, rather, of other rooms. Rooms where steam rose and took shape, brought conversation into form. Words that would have been wind, held together tight and refused to leave, gathered and became heavy. She could carry the weight.
His breath escaped without him noticing, he was busy looking around the room, an anxiety bubbled in his veins and the focus floated — to the fire, to the bed. How many beds had he spent the night? He’d made another woman see the gods and scream, and stutter, and swear. He’d seen blonde hair laid flat. Seen it messy. He’d felt that shiver start a hot heat to boil. And it made him bleed.
This wasn’t about that though. He shut his eyes and took another breath. There was other blood. He was an all together bloody man. He opened his eyes and glanced down, ignoring the room entirely. This wasn’t about the past, not about her (and Lancel, and the Kettleblacks, and Moonboy for all I know). The knot was still at her neck. It was below the purple and green half moon the rope had left. His life for hers, it was always an exchange with them.
His eyes moved down. Towards the spot he remembered leaving his mark. Her upper thigh, and how it had bloomed.
Winning wasn’t the point. That was never the point of battle, of swordplay. It was a play—a reminder of why we fight. For life - wasn’t that the point of all of this - for the changing of the seasons. It wasn’t simply the heat that moved the spirit. This wasn’t a ruse to confuse the body into movement despite the lack of food or comfort for weeks on end. The meat of her thigh had been marked, his eternal tattoo.
“You stupid, stubborn-“ His eyes caught hers, they really were beautiful and blue, shimmering like the dew that clung like the lichen on the stone walls around them, “-ugly, cow of a woman.”
She pulled those big astonishing eyes of hers away and looked down at the plate resting in her long and calloused fingers. The plate was a wreck, it was cracked and plastered back together so many times that it could barely be recognized in its form. In truth, it was much like its master - known as a plate simply in name, if not in practice. As she was a woman, if not so much in name. How could one look at the starkness; the plain lines that had been worn and broken and beaten down, and still call them woman?
“Ser Jaime.” She spoke somberly. And it was serious, a gloomy voice that scratched like fingers against a grave. She nearly died.
He was spinning again and brought his eyes to focus on the tie that held together her jerkin. It was simple. And he shook his head to end the confusion.
It had been weeks of unsettled emotion. He had felt so proud when they started off, leeching her innocence. But the dusty days had quickly cleared to cold, clean nights. There was no prize to win, at least not for him.
His prize was the death of her honor - Kingslayer’s whore. A filthy trophy to tuck into the purse, doubly cursed. Was it worse for her to be thought of as such or…His gaze drifted to the bedding in the corner stuffed with hay, dust mites, and probably mouse droppings.
In his thirst he grasped out for the pitcher of ale on the small side table. Pouring into the glasses near by and hoping to end the hunger. The quiet of the room held only their breath, the fire popping and hissing, and the hallow sound of wine filling the chalice.
He held a cup out in his good hand, “Lady Brienne.”
Their fingers touched briefly in the offering and his heart was pounding. Unbidden, his thoughts went back to the cave with its fire and her screaming his name. The ricochet awoke the great lady and her band of brothers. The fight was endless, an echo that continued even now in his mind and in the constant pulse of his dead limb. The blood pressing to push past a broken barrier.
We should have buried them. Yes, Thoros had suggested appeasing the red god and, perhaps, a nameless grave had seemed disrespectful in the moment, but he knew the wench. She would want to pay respects and honor the Lady in the religion she was accustom.
He took a sip of the ale. It was cool and the room was warm and he could see the sweat gathering on her temple. A drop ran down and followed her white blond brows to circle her freckled cheek (the one unobstructed by the large bandage), it zig-zagged over her jawbone and down her surprisingly elegant throat.
It stopped at the knot.
Her tunic held her together. There was an arch of blood from one of her hits and a heavier spot from holding someone (was it me or Pod). But she wasn’t dead, she wasn’t dying. He wanted to laugh at it, the defiance.
And suddenly he was laughing. A hysterical laugh. And tears were in her eyes. He felt wetness on his own cheeks.
“Ser Jaime?” She was once again wide eyed and guileless.
Even covered in blood and viscera. Even with her blatant lies and broken limbs. Her burned, undead patrons and even with the bloody Kingslayer alone in her room tarnishing her maiden honor - she reeked of innocence.
He wanted to be cruel. A million vile insults gathered in his throat, but he reined them in. No, her wide remarkable eyes were still glittering with unshed tears. Her hand still trembled as it held the glass of ale and brought it slowly, painfully, up to her overlarge lips.
As he took a sip as his eyes flitted towards the furs covering the bed. His own absurd urges raging, probably from the heat of the battle. It’s unworthy to bother her more tonight. He placed his cup back down on her small table and pulled his gaze away from the furs, to the knot that had been his solace.
“Jaime.”
“Ser?” She sputtered and an endearing drop of her ale was balanced precariously on the corner of her lip. His absent fingers twitched.
“Just Jaime, wench.” His eyes finally met hers. “I think we’re past the point of propriety.”
Without his body giving him leave or even knowing why, he rose to his tip toes and placed a soft kiss on her unblemished cheek.
He shook his head as he landed back on his flat feet and saw her furrowed brow. It really does make her look hideous all scrunched up like that. But he couldn’t look away and a genuine smile broke across his lips.
“Not that I’m ungrateful, wench, but can we agree that all debts are paid? No more unnecessary sacrifices?”
She licked the corner of her lip to gather that last drop of ale, and bit down on her heavy lower lip for a thoughtful moment.
“It’s Brienne of-“
“-of Tarth, yes, I know, wench.” Jaime laughed. He turned to leave, there was nothing in her room that could be solved this evening.
“Jaime?” She sounded so tentative. He turned to the great hulking form that was once again turned in on itself and looking at the fire. “wait.”
As if she was the sun he humbly orbited, he paused and held a breath. Patient as she set down her glass of ale and walked towards him. Her hands ghosting over his jerkin to the ties of his tunic. He allowed his eyes to focus on her determined scowl as he felt her nimble fingers at his throat.
“Careful, wench,” He whispered feeling his pulse start to prep for a battle. His breath held delicately, “I know you’re well acquainted with hands about your neck, but I’ve killed for less.”
There was a soft tug at his tunic and he brought his left hand up to cover her hands. He waited for her eyes to meet his.
A slight curve hit the corner of her lip and the skin crinkled around her big - and astonishing - cow eyes. Her left shoulder leaned towards her chin briefly and she pulled her hands from his grasp.
“Just thought it would be easier, you had a pretty tough knot going there.”
He swallowed. For some reason it was difficult to catch his breath as he turned once again to leave.
“Good night, Brienne.”
“Good night, Jaime.”