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Someone had tricked Jaime into believing there was going to be a feast, which there wasn't. Brienne was there, though, wearing something that very nearly looked like a dress and only a mild scowl to accompany it, so Jaime felt inclined to forgive and forget.
There was food and wine that tasted only moderately like vinegar, so Jaime didn't feel even a little bit tempted to get drunk and maybe impress Brienne with how well he handled hang-overs. Instead, he waited for the music and dancing to start before making his way to where she sat.
"Lady Brienne. Might I beg the honor of a dance?" He'd hoped to make her smile by being formal.
It didn't work. "No," she said.
Jaime considered his options. Remaining where he was and staring at her woefully might get the trick done - assuming neither of them died of old age first. "Might I ask why?" The least convenient reason would be that she'd already promised to dance with someone else.
Of course, such minor inconveniences were why the gods had given men the ability to use swords, but having had half a building fall down on him did tend to take it out of a man.
Jaime supposed that if he lost, she might take pity on him and nurse him back to health in person, but realistically speaking, that seemed a bit of a reach. Not impossible, but just a bit unlikely.
Brienne scowled. Jaime adjusted his hopes and plans accordingly. "If you must."
The ladies and/or women to the left of her were smirking at Jaime, as if they knew something he didn't. They probably did, though Jaime doubted it was anything he wanted to know.
"Why?" he asked, decided he had nothing to lose at this point. He'd pretty much left his dignity, his pride and what had remained of his self-respect in the ruins of the Red Keep.
"You're injured. You should be in bed," Brienne said. "Not here."
Jaime briefly imagined what a fantastic mess of things he might make by taking her comment about his needing to be in bed as something a bit more suggestive than she'd intended it to be.
"I like a bit of exercise. And being around happy, cheerful people, to remind me that we won."
"We, Ser Jaime?" Brienne asked, and yes, there was that. Jaime'd hoped they'd put that behind them, preferably by never talking about it again.
"That you won, then," Jaime amended. "I merely survived. Not a great victory, I admit. Still, it beats dying."
"I'm glad you're not dead," Brienne said.
Jaime waited for something more, something to dash his hopes again. "So am I," he said, when it seemed clear that she wasn't going to add anything. "Not that I did anything to deserve it, of course."
"No," Brienne agreed. "You didn't."
The ladies to the left of her looked a little shocked. Jaime wondered if his boyish charm and rugged good looks had won them over to his side of the argument somehow.
"So nice we agree on something," he said.
"Why don't we leave it at that?" Brienne said. "I don't want to dance with you. I don't want to talk to you. I don't even want to look at you. Am I making myself clear?"
"Brienne." This could not possibly end well. He'd known that, of course. He'd had some vague idea of getting her to dance with him and then, somehow, charm into forgetting everything that had happened between them - or, well, not everything, but a few select events.
Brienne rose. "Go. Away."
"I'll write you terrible poetry," Jaime said. "And idiotic love letters. Two each day. I'll send you gifts. I'll try to impress your friends. In summary, I'll make such an absolute nuisance of myself that someone is bound to kill me sooner or later. Do you really want that on your conscience?"
Brienne scowled. "You have no honor."
"I'm the Kingslayer, remember?" Jaime said, mostly so she'd remember the baths, him with his hand freshly cut off, vulnerable and open and not such a bad guy as she'd always thought. "I haven't had any honor for a long time now. I got used to it."
"Fine." Brienne came at him like she planned to skewer him herself.
Jaime held his ground more because he figured that he owed her the pleasure of killing him than out of any conscious decision to stand his ground. It wasn't until she grabbed his real hand with her own that he realized what was happening.
"One dance. No talking," Brienne said. "I'll lead. Afterwards, you will leave. To rest."
"As long as I live, I'm going to try to make this right," Jaime said.
Brienne glowered at him.
"Yes, yes, I know you said no talking. I simply want you to know. I'm serious about this. As serious as I've ever been about anything in my life." Jaime considered. "More serious."
"You just stepped on my foot," Brienne said. "Twice."
"What happened to us not talking?" Jaime asked.
"We're not talking. I'm criticizing. You're rather terrible at this, aren't you?"
"Yes," Jaime said. "If only there were some kind-hearted person who would take pity on me and instruct me on how to better myself. I don't suppose you happen to know of any such person?"
Brienne sighed.
Jaime toyed with the idea of shutting up. He'd won a bit of ground tonight. Best not to push it, really. She'd still be there tomorrow and so would he.
On the other hand (which he no longer had), he had her right where he wanted her. Pressing the advantage might win him not just the battle but the entire war as well.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Good," Brienne said. "Keep saying that until I believe it. And stop stepping on my foot. I need that foot."