千倍の女の子

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“The heat of the tubs will do it,” Maester Qyburn was telling them. No, he’s not a maester, they took his chain. “There’s still poison in his blood as well, and he’s malnourished. What have you been feeding him?” “Worms and piss and grey vomit,” offered Jaime. “Hardbread and water and oat porridge,” insisted the guard. “He don’t hardly eat it, though. What should we do with him ?” “Scrub him and dress him and carry him to Kingspyre, if need be,” Qyburn said. “Lord Bolton insists he will sup with him tonight. The time is growing short.” “Bring me clean garb for him,” Brienne said, “I’ll see that he’s washed and dressed.” The others were all too glad to give her the task. They him on a stone bench by the wall. Brienne went away to retrieve her towel, and returned with a stiff brush to finish scrubbing him. One of the guards gave her a razor to trim his beard. Qyburn returned with roughspun smallclothes, clean black woolen breeches, a loose green tunic, and a leather jerkin that laced up the front. Jaime was feeling less dizzy by then, though no less clumsy. With the wench’s help he managed to dress himself. “Now all I need is a silver looking glass.” The Bloody Maester had brought fresh clothing for Brienne as well; a stained pink satin gown and a linen undertunic. “I am sorry, my lady .
These were the only women’s garments in Harrenhal large enough to fit YOU.” It was obvious at once that the gown had been cut for someone with slimmer arms, shorter legs, and much fuller breasts. The fine Myrish lace did little to conceal the bruising that mottled Brienne’s skin. All in all, the garb made the wench look ludicrous. She has thicker shoulders than I do, and a bigger neck, Jaime thought. Small wonder she prefers to dress in mail. Pink was not a kind color for her either .
A dozen cruel japes leaped into his head, but for once he kept them there. Best not to make her angry; he was no match for her one-handed. Qyburn had brought a flask as well. “What is it?” Jaime demanded when the chainless maester pressed him to drink. “Licorice steeped in vinegar, with honey and cloves. It will give you some strength and clear your head.” “Bring me the potion that grows new hands,” said Jaime. “That’s the one I want.” “Drink it,” Brienne said, unsmiling, and he did. It was half an hour before he felt strong enough to stand. After the dim wet warmth of the bathhouse, the air outside was a slap across the face.