Title: Putting Out The Fire
Author: Waspinthelotus
Characters: Brienne of Tarth/Jaime Lannister
Rating: R (some sexuality)
Disclaimer: These characters belong to George R.R. Martin, I'm just borrowing them for a while. This fic is moreso based on the depictions in the HBO series. I have read some of the books and have attempted to include some book knowledge in this fic, although I haven't read far enough in the books to get to the events which are taking place during the episode this fic is based on; Season 3 Episode 6. So there may be some small discrepancies in canon; but I hope not too many! Mostly this fic is an exercise in my selfish desire to see more Jaime/Brienne fan material as I ship them harder than I have ever shipped. I hope to add more later – as the series progresses. Obviously this story will include spoilers up to Season 3. Please review and critique.

Brienne

There was a looking-glass in the chamber ("cell", she reminded) Bolton was keeping her in. It was as if it had been placed there specifically to mock her. She hated being confronted with her body, the size of it, the breasts shoved together and hips stifled by fabric, the collar slung about bursting shoulders. Replacing her armor, mail and wool with the magenta atrocity parading as a dress had been a result of misplaced good intentions, or cruelty, or both. How could they understand the insult it brought her,… she was a woman, yes, and women wore dresses, correct…? She attempted to quell the anger in her heart, stuff it down somewhere dark where she kept most of her "weaker" feelings, as she preferred to be motivated by the more nobler callings of duty, honour and fealty. Still, she wanted to strangle Locke, and the men who had tried to rape her. To beat them bloody with her fists, if it came down to it. She didn't need her sword or armor for that.

A firm rapping at the door disturbed her thoughts. Brienne realized she had been staring at her reflection. "Enter," She called out.

It was him. He was adept at picking the worst times to show his face.

The two exchanged glances. "I tried," Jaime Lannister said, after a while.

She felt the anger boiling up again. Tried, he says. But she had been there at supper, and he had done nothing but safeguard his own vanity - he had namedropped his Daddy, the most powerful Lord in the land don't forget, and secured a horse and a band of bodyguards for his return to King's Landing—but he was clever and she knew it and he could have helped her, could have made Bolton release her. Not that she needed him. Still Kingslayer, still a traitor.

"Your lies have done this to me." She barked.

"My lies saved you, once…"

Her face contorted, brows strung together. "They seem to have done more harm than good."

"If I hadn't, they would have..." He frowned and looked at her. "I couldn't let them do that to you. But now, I fear they may do much worse…" His eyes drew up then, green eyes betraying a guilt Brienne was not anticipating. "Locke wants his sapphires. I hear tell your father isn't delivering them."

Dread overcame her as he spoke. Her eyes widened, heart pounding suddenly in the cage of her ill-fitting corset. She turned away and sat on the hay-stuffed mattress, grasping her head.

Jaime appeared at her side. "I tried to speak with them, but they are fixated on keeping you hostage. Bolton has what he wants from me. When I am in King's Landing, a fortnight from now, maybe I can…"

"Leave me. I do not require your assistance." Brienne said flatly.

"Please listen to me-"

"I said 'leave', Kingslayer." She felt the overtight material of her dress straining on her shoulders. She had been right; he was a traitor and a liar, and worse more that he was attempting to mince words with her, to save some inch of his wretched honor, to promise some respite that would never deliver. Brienne was strong, but she wasn't stupid.

"-but my father, he…"

"Your father is Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and Lord of Casterly Rock. I'm not fool enough to think he will rain sapphires down on the Brave Companions allied to the Starks just to free The Maiden Fair of Tarth. You have what you need, Kingslayer. I will find my way. Go in peace."

That's when Jaime sighed and said, "you wretched woman!"

Brienne reached out and slapped Jaime forcefully across the face. The sound of it resonated sharply across the chamber walls, clapping infinitely in a loop, her palm throbbing from the impact. Jaime stood before her clutching his face, cheek reddened and golden hair strewn in greasy locks across his brow.

With a deft maneuver he moved forward and placed his hand on the side of her round face, and did something mad. He kissed her, slowly, on the lips with a softness reserved only for lovers and whores. He took a moment then just to breathe her in, to smell the plain and common and invigorating scent of her, then leapt back with a grace and mischief befitting a fox.

Her lips stung. His face stung. Her hand stung. His hand, well…

Brienne's eyes opened. She had not realized they'd been closed. Jaime stared at her, absorbed in the sluggish way she moved her gaze to him, with eyes a certain shade of blue he could not discern, how quickly her expression had changed from rage to confusion to whatever this new face was, one he had never seen her wear before.

A heady blush overcame her, ruddiness flooding her cheeks and causing her to stare incredulously at the Kingslayer, who had just kissed her, something no man had ever done or perhaps ever even thought of doing. Yet he had done it, at such an inexcusable time, to her, to Brienne the "Beauty of Tarth", mercilessly mocked and just as feared…

"You can slap me again if you want. It won't be the first time I'll have deserved it." He said.

"You have no right." She hissed. As if it were against the law of the gods, old and new.

Tears began to brim her eyes. All at once a pain slivered down the Kingslayer's heart. He saw he had wounded her, betrayed her, and now he was abandoning her. A disheveling guilt compounded him.

They stared at one another for a time, all the while tears rimming the eyes of the Maid of Tarth. But she would not cry. The tears would not fall. Finally she rubbed at her ruddy face and turned away from him.

"Goodbye, Ser Jaime." She said.

He looked at her; but not at her as she stood, but the image of her he spied in the murky surface of the mirror. Somehow it was easier to say goodbye to her reflection; though no words came. His feet drew him back to the threshold of the chamber. He lingered for a moment longer, then left her.