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Brienne crouched near the fire, tearing strips off the dried meat from her pack. She dropped them into the simmering pot, along with a handful of greens that--she hoped--would not poison them, and slices of the three apples she had plucked from a nearby tree.
Lannister sat, brooding, on the other side of the fire. He was staring at the bandages around his arm again, a scowl etched between his brows.
Sympathy and exasperation warred in Brienne; she quelled both by standing and dusting off her hands. "You've wine in your pack?"
He jerked his head up, his scowl deepening. "Aye."
Brienne walked over, dispensing with courtesy and yanking open his pack. She extracted the wineskin over his protests. "For the soup," she explained briefly.
"That is a Dornish summerwine, wench," he said. "It is not meant for a common stewpot."
"Better for drowning sullen knights?" she responded, pouring it into the pot.
Lannister craned his neck to peer at Brienne's work. "Sweet wines are never paired with soup," he claimed.
Brienne glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. "Perhaps in the banquet hall of King's Landing."
"I am a knight," he replied, indignant. "I have shared many a repast by the campfire."
"And how many of those have you made yourself?" Brienne wondered.
Lannister's mouth opened, then pressed shut. He sat back, silent.
Brienne smiled. "It won't be long now," she promised, stirring the pot with her crooked wooden spoon.
He grumbled, and she tossed him an apple core.