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Jaime doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about her. The wench. Brienne, the Maid of Tarth, late of the Rainbow Guard, more recently his captor. Brienne the Beauty, they cruelly nicknamed her, for she is as far from beautiful as she can be. If anyone found out the way he thinks about her, he would be humiliated beyond belief.
He keeps coming back to that day at Harrenhal, at the bathhouse, when he'd walked in and found her there already. He'd been through hell, not that the journey was over yet, but the hot water had felt so good that he'd let himself relax more than usual. She'd been uncomfortable, hiding her breasts from him with one thick arm – for all that it mattered, there wasn't much there to hide, hardly more than two pink nipples on a muscular chest. She'd turned away, blushing even up the back of her neck. And for the first time since they'd taken his sword-hand, he'd felt his cock stir.
Nothing had happened, of course. But he can't stop thinking about it, even so. No torturer could have dragged the confession out of him, but sometimes, in those rare moments when he's pleasuring himself (with his left hand, which still feels foreign and strange), he thinks about that bath, and wishes he'd had the strength to cross the steaming tub, part those meaty legs, and make a woman of her. He wonders if she'd have protested. Probably, the wench was stubborn that way. Yet somehow he doesn't think she'd have fought him off, even though she was more than capable of defending her virtue.
In his heated, pathetic imagination, she'd have reprimanded him for his forwardness, maybe pulled away from his questing hand, but she wouldn't say 'no', and she wouldn't push him away, because, although she couldn't admit it, she wanted him too. There have been many women who've wanted him, but he's never given any of them the satisfaction they craved. He lets them think it's because of his vows, but in truth it was because of his sister. Cersei, the only woman he'd ever loved. Since their… falling out, he's found himself dwelling more and more on Brienne. Where once he'd compared her looks unfavorably to Cersei's, now he measures their spirits instead, and, unthinkably, finds his sister wanting.
Brienne isn't much more than a girl in age, but she dwarfs Jaime in size, and, coupling with her in his fantasy, he can almost imagine how his brother must feel when he fucks whatever whore will have him. He conjures up a vision of those small teats bouncing as she rides him, strong thighs gripping him hard, and he pounds himself harder at the thought, hips jerking against the mattress. He remembers her face, down to the last freckle, and then envisions it contorted with pleasure as he ploughs her furrow. He tells himself he would call her by her name, gasping it out in his ecstasy, if only he had the chance. He believes he might even tell her she was beautiful, and somehow make her believe it. As it is, he utters nothing but a wordless groan when the rush overtakes him.
As he drifts off to sleep, he hopes the Maid is well, wherever she may be. He wonders if she ever thinks of him.