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yours and not yours

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He had always smiled before kissing her. Always looked that way like she were,

like she were -

His finger traced up her nose. The pads of his fingertip travelling along the ridge, tracing the path where it had been freckled. A broken freckled road occupied by Ser Jaime, he says, barely a whisper with that lazy smile and she laughs because it’s silly,

and because his green eyes glittered and gleamed - no emeralds nor gold can compare to the way it shone - and because he’s so beautiful when he’s like this, Jaime, hair mussed endearingly sleepy already looking so radiant even though the morning light had barely filtered through the room. He caught her staring , smiles , chin nudging forward as his beard scratches against her own. His lips pressed on hers , stealing away her smile. Stamped it to his, sealed it, kept it – mine now, he says behind that smile.

Yours, she would- or wanted to say. She never really did.

And he always looked that way like she were,

His.

Yours.

But not yours, he had refused that. Greedy Lannister, always taking but never giving. His seven letters had ended it, and seven had always been the cruelest number, Brienne had found. The gods had never been kind.

And now the light barely seeped in the window, looking over the side of the bed where he had smiled lazily, fingers on the tip of her nose - gone now, replaced with clean sheets and stacked fur - the traces of him had been washed off, rinsed and dried - gone like how he rode off into the broken road freckled with snow and ash.

He was gone and he took that look with him. Brienne rolled off the bed and washed her face with cold water. She wondered how he looked like now, if he were to see her.

She wondered if she’ll still say yours.