Chapter Text
Ferragosto, the stupid pink cardboard said.
“We’re closed”, she tapped again on it with a finger absurdly thick. “It’s holiday.”
“It's me who is on holiday and you're supposed to serve me a drink like a good serving wench.”
She shook her lumpy, straw-haired head. “Ferragosto. Feriae Augusti, from the Emperor Augustus. A celebration of the middle of the summer, and of the end of the hard labor in the fields.”
Judging from the freckles running all over her paleness, the stubborn wench had never set one of her giant feet on a field under that merciless sun, or she would have been in desperate need of some shining knight, willful to apply some refreshing lotion on the scorched skin of her shoulders, of her back, of her legs… Gods, they were such arrogantly long. She was taller than him, and with some decent heels she would have towered on him.
This was the only bar in the small island, the heat was becoming really unbearable and Jaime’s throat was parched, but the dumb giantess was clearly ignoring him, and picking up stuff into a flea-ridden sack to go on the beach, all by herself. She put a huge watermelon in a plastic tub already filled with ice-cubes, and liftedu it with no particular effort. She was freakishly strong, and such a selfish one. Preferring the sea and some glutton friends to him. Ok, the sea was calm, and beautiful, astonishingly beautiful, shining blue and pure like sapphires - but he was Jaime-fucking-Lannister, and his family was one of the most powerful, and rich, of all history. Probably even Emperor Augustus had borrowed some gold from one of his ancestors.
He decided to be clement, and kind. “Listen, wench…”
She frowned. She frowned at him, at his perfect white teeth put in display in the most attractive of smiles. “Brienne, my name is Brienne.”
“And my name is Bond. James Bond.”
“Nice to meet you. Now that we met, would you object to never seeing each other again, Mr. Bond? I’d like to pass”, she concluded, her freckles still glaring at him, her hand rummaging nervously in the poor, innocent sack.
“James is fine, Jaime is even better, wench. Still waiting for that drink.”
“Fer-ra-go-sto. Holiday. In the past, and even now, guests…”
“Spare me another lecture of history, damn you, wench. I doubt you’re even Sicilian. You’re too pale, too tall, and definitely too ugly.”
The infallible secret agent hit the target. The bookish rat gaped at him, her hand stopped in mid-air still clutching a bottle of iced water, and, for an instant, her too large eyes filled with something that was beyond indignation, or anger.
It seemed resignation, and hurt, and suddenly Jaime’s thirst was not so relevant, maybe.
For an instant - then came the anger, a calm, deliberate rage, storming waves of blue in eyes that hadn’t be created by ancient Gods to be sad. The wench slammed the small bottle on a round table.
“Normans, Romans, Greeks, Phoenicians, and whoever, all came here, brazen and bold on their wooden horses, having only a thing in common. Guests right. How I was trying to say, here the guest is sacred, any guest, unfortunately. Sit and enjoy your drink, ser, you're welcome. Traditionally we say per favore or grazie, I know it sounds odd, but we islanders are odd, and so fond of our old, boring traditions.”
She left, long angry strides towards the shore and only worn, wretched short pants to cover all that Norman skin. The skin of a warrior Queen in days of old, Jaime realized, opening the bottle, and the sparkling water cooled down his throat and his temper. The rude wench had gone so quickly, without even leaving him the time to argue.
She had to stay a bit more - per favore.
Perrr favorrre. It had sounded so rolling, and soft, even a bit dirty, on her swollen lips. Maybe Jaime could find the time to learn a new language, now that he was finally free from Cersei.
Vendesi. Another cardboard, orange this time, on the little house next to the wench’s bar. It meant “for sale”, he had no need of a dictionary, not for that. From the comfortable shadow of her small porch, Jaime darted his green eyes around, and saw Brienne, surrounded by a little crowd of greedy children. She was giving an incredibly large slice of watermelon to a very small brat, which curls were black, where Tommen’s were spun gold.
Jaime found himself grinning like an idiot. It was all that blue, and the sea, the sky - it was breathtaking.
Well, the place was worthy a call, in truth. He picked up his mobile.
“Tyrion? Oh, did I wake you up? No, I'm not in a trouble, when I ever...? Ok, maybe that time with Aerys. Always brooding about Aerys, he was mad, even the judges had recognized it. Here’s all fine. You must come, with Tysha and Johanna. The sea? Never seen a water so pure, and warm. Pleasantly warm. Listen, I’d like to buy a small property, just on the shore. It will be lovely, yes, I' sure Tom and Myrci will like this place, amazing nature and old stones everywhere, and learning new languages is important. One thing, if possible, buy the house using the name Bond, James Bond.”
He moved away the costly thing from his ear, for a while, leaving Tyrion's vulgarities dancing in the hot air. Fuck, sometimes his little brother gave the impression of having being raised in a stable, instead than at the Rock. Even the wench must have some lacks in her education, judging from the wild way she was running towards the waves, like a summer child. Jaime took the last sip of water, and felt even more thirsty than before, unbelievably.
“No, bro, I repeat, I’m not in a trouble. What? No, no, I haven’t met anyone interesting, Tyrion. Some impolite folks, but I can pass over some lesser discourtesies, in the end. I’m sending you the coordinates by whatsapp, and a picture of the house I want. I'd like to have it repainted blue, a sapphire blue. Oh, no, not by today, of course. It’s Ferragosto, here, it’s all closed, don't you know? Ok, bro, grazie. Grazie, I said. It means thank you. You’re such an ignorant, Tyrion. Tyrion? For Gods’ sake, Ty, stop calling me that way, or I’ll tell auntie.”