Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Here you are, m’lady!”

Her table-mates quieten down at the intervention. Brienne winces into her drink. The temptation to retaliate and put the wildling in his place, while always emerging whenever he's around her, is at its peak when she reluctantly looks at him. Like always, she controls her disgust only for the sake of his good friend, the King in the North.

Tormund walks around to her side and stops by her chair, closer than she’d appreciate. “Or should I call you Ser?”

Unsure how to be polite any longer, she meets his question with what she knows is a tight smile.

“Now that the dead are gone, I was hoping for some—” To her shock, he takes her hand. “We could spend some time together—” Before she can bring herself to break free of his clutches, his mouth brushes her hand. “You and I—”

The loud groan of a chair breaks the moment. It’s Jaime on his feet, his happy face wearing a stiff discomfort. The warmth in his eyes is replaced by a cold wave she can feel across the table. “I need some air,” he tells Tyrion, answering the question on his face. “It’s bloody hot in here.”

He storms out of there, but before he disappears down the corner, he turns, his eyes meeting Brienne’s for a brief moment. She can’t read through the look, but something in it prompts her to drop Tormund’s hand like a hot potato.

“Do you need some air too?” Tyrion asks, eyes twinkling, though his tone is innocently inquiring. 

Brienne pushes her chair and gets up. “I must leave.”

Temptation demands she follow Jaime up to Tyrion’s chambers where he’d be put up for the night and seek an explanation for his abrupt exit, but her nerves come into play. Instead of taking a detour, she retires to her room.

Her mind, a storm of thoughts, what-ifs and what-might-be’s, revolving around Jaime’s reaction, she begins stripping. As she takes down each piece of her clothing, she takes to each detail of his face when he’d watched Tormund make a move on her. There was a silent anger on that handsome face. There was an intense longing in those eyes—

No.

He might have been laughing and joking with her, but eventually he’d be back to where he belongs. That parting look was one of envy and a possessiveness that not necessarily need have anything to do with his heart.

But the way he smiled at me at dinner...

She stops when she’s down to her shirt and pants and stands before the looking glass, frowning at the face he’s insulted and the body that has filled him with disgust.

But there has been none of that since he came to Winterfell.

Lips pursed, she turns to the last few days in her mind. He has been nothing but kind, not only treating her like the lady she is, but also bestowing upon her the highest honour only the best of the warriors in the realm could boast of.

But he isn't. He can’t be—

A light tap on the door breaks the stream of her thoughts. She knows who it is; who else can it be? Her heartbeat rises as she glances at her reflection - the colour flooding her cheeks won’t go away despite her frantically willing it to. One way out of this is to pretend to be asleep and deal with it in the morning, but when the pounding gets louder, she gets to the door.

For a tense moment, he stands there without a word, bottle under his arm, two goblets in his hand. Then he frowns a little, and head slightly tilted, he asks, “Still awake?”

The question is silly and unwanted because barely minutes have passed since they walked out of the feast. But Brienne knows better than to point that out. “So are you,” she says, and steps aside to let him in.

He goes straight in to set the wine on the table, but his fingers are still curled around the neck of the bottle. He looks drunk, but not so much that he can’t make out his senses. For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of the fire and their breathing as his sharp eyes study hers, as if trying to draw out what’s in her heart. “So,” he drawls, looking her up and down, his eyes, for a tingling moment, resting on her chest -  more precisely - the gap between her laces. “Tormund Giantsbane, huh?” His fingers strangle the bottle as he mouths the name. 

“He’s been trying since I first met him,” she says, eyeing his iron-grip on the bottle. “But I’ve never let him succeed.”

Visible relief in his eyes, Jaime relieves the bottle of its agony. “Why?” His voice is thicker, eyes deep pools of desire as he approaches her. “Because you fancy someone else?”

“I don’t just fancy you. I—” She bites her lip, her heartbeat and the throbbing between her legs, both getting out of hand.

“What?” He comes closer, his breath gushing into hers, wrapping her skin in a passionate embrace. “You know—” He takes her hand and brings it to his lips. “I can do this too, my lady.” His touch warms her right from the tips of her fingers to the core of the arousal beating hard between her thighs. “Or should I say—” She squirms when his beard tickles her “—Ser?”

She can’t hold back a smile. “Shut up!”  

His eyes teasing, he returns her smile and lets go of her hand. The next instant, he’s all seriousness, his gaze, impassioned, the tension between them, unbearable. Then he kisses her, full on the mouth, long and hard. She drapes her arms around him and pulls him closer. She inhales his scent. Closing her eyes, she lets it get in as his laboured breathing cuts through hers, his touch commanding her senses. She drinks from his lips, taking in something that’s more than the wine he’s had - the taste of him. Sweat and wine and leather and something deeply intoxicating, he gets her heart into a state it has never been in before.

Gods, it is bloody hot in here!

Her lips parting, she draws him deeper with a sigh. She wants to be consumed by the heat of his body. He drags them both to the edge of the bed, kissing her harder on their way there, his tongue darting into her mouth, rolling over hers in demanding strokes. A moan bursts out, unwilling to be contained inside her, when his hand glides down, inside the gap in her shirt to cup her breast. Yes, he is drunk. Yes, this is their insatiable need for each other. But the way he’s touching her suggests there’s a depth to it he can’t put into words. There lies a promise in the way he’s devouring her that this will last more than this stormy night of passion.

He withdraws. “There might be no turning back after this,” he warns, playing with the strings on her shirt. “You’ll be stuck with me.”

She begins to undo his tie. “As if I’d want anything other than that.”

When he kisses her again, she realizes she can’t breathe without his breath on hers. Emotions flow, the flood overwhelming, the current dragging them deeper into a craving for more. She rushes to rip his shirt open. His urgency, as hot as hers, with a clumsy hand he attacks her pants. When he can’t keep from kissing her, he does it again. Tongues caress. His stump wanders. When their clothes are out of their way, he lays her down on the bed and moves over her, his passion, fiery, his arousal, naked with the need to be sheathed in her.

She’s bursting with anticipation when he brings his lips to hers. When he starts kissing her again, she gives herself to this night, her senses, his to keep aflame. With his aggression, he binds her to his desire. With the tenderness of his fingers that explore her body, he unlocks those cuffs, but tempts her to stay. 

With another man who might have craved just her body in drunken lust and she, a means for a release, this might have been all about tumbling into bed and surrendering to their carnal urges, but with Jaime—

She shivers when his fingertip strolls up to the peak of her breast; his hand is an eager traveller, her body, his chosen path. The hot kisses they share and the stump that crawls between her thighs tell her he wants to leave no inch of her untouched. She gasps when he moves against her, his shaft gliding along her wet opening, his chest hair rubbing against her soft breasts. She squeals, grinding her hips against his, when he traps a breast, cupping and squeezing it. When was the last time she’d squealed like a girl? 

Lust is an animal that seldom lets go without taking its due. Desire is seductive; it seldom takes its leave without drinking its fill. He’s drowning in both. He is both. A man who can’t keep his hand and mouth off her, he seeks both in her. His breath hot and heavy, he drags his mouth down her neck to take in every drop of sweat that lies in his way. 

With another man, this might have been about his pleasure, but with Jaime— 

She cries out loud when his mouth meets a nipple, grabbing the back of his neck when he tugs at it with his teeth. He licks and sucks, his stump drawing closer to her aching cunt. He reads her sigh, then gives her what she wants, pressing into her, teasing her clit. She lurches into him when he pushes hard. Her fingers in his hair, she works hard for every breath as the limb he’s deemed useless seeks to achieve a purpose.

With another man, as Septa Roelle had never missed an opportunity to point out, this might have been one of her countless wifely duties - should she have wed one - but with Jaime— 

She struggles for a release, but he pins her down and takes his time. She can’t help moaning, but he tackles those with kisses that draw out more of the sounds Septa Roelle would never, even in her nightmares, bear to associate with a well-bred lady. He rubs and massages her, dipping into her wetness, stroking her hard. The tension builds up, low in her belly, gripping at her. She spreads her legs and raises her hips, exposing more of herself to his hand, every muscle aligned to his intent, her senses, focused on this one feeling.

With another man, it might just have been about cocks and cunts and mindless pounding, but with Jaime—

She curses loudly when, just with his hand and his skilled mouth on her tits, he brings her to a climax that leaves her shaking, but aching for more. 

His chest heaving, he looks up at her. “I walked out because I was jealous,” he admits, the way he says it filling her with a deep heat. “I have been envious of Renly as well and I couldn’t—” Pressing her down with the weight of his body, he brings her arms over her head and locks her wrists down with his hand. 

“Only you,” she assures him, her lips reaching for his.

Another man wouldn’t have looked into her eyes with such tenderness. But Jaime—

He shifts his hips; his cock throbbing at her entrance. Wet and aching and impatient, she reaches for his erection, and he slowly slides in, first just the tip, cautious and tentative.

Another man wouldn’t have been this caring, especially with an unlovable woman like her, but Jaime—

He gives her a look that tells her he’ll be gentle; that he’ll never hurt her. When he lets go of her hands and thrusts into her, she gasps at the flicker of pain. When he sinks all the way in, he holds still, waiting for her discomfort to die down. It begins to diminish when he moves, holding her gaze, his hips grinding back and forth, his cock plunging in and out of her soft warmth. She lifts her hips, mimicking his rhythm, but stops when she feels inexperienced and awkward. With a kiss and his hand guiding her hips, he’s there to show her. 

With another man, this would have been just a few hard strokes and done, but with Jaime—

He slows down, then speeds up. He floods her with sensations, his closely threaded chants of ‘Gods’ and ‘fuck’ , giving her a glimpse of his own. His tongue wants to play; her hard and aching nipples gladly comply. His fingers start another game; one that her clit is only too happy to join in. Within moments, his groans get harsher, soaring to the roof. Within moments, he builds up a frustration she’s desperate to break out of.

His pounding gets aggressive, his thrusts escalating. Like the sand that absorbs the water embracing it, she draws him into her every time he drowns into her.

Another man would’ve fucked her in the dark, too disgusted to look into her face, but Jaime—

He looks down at her flushed body, eyes blazing with admiration, then seizes her mouth in a kiss that paves the way for another. He has her name on his lips. Like a strand of pearls, they’re linked with her whispers of his, love, the thread binding them together. Unlike any other man, this one desires her. While he has insulted her amply in the past, he tells her that with every stroke, every press of his finger and every nudge and pinch of her nipple, how ardently he desires her.

Another man would only have taken, but Jaime—

With stroke after stroke, he gives himself to her, wholly, whole-heartedly. The room is swaying. Or is she somewhere up in the skies? And is there any difference between the two? What only matters is that words fail her when her descent begins. What matters more than that is only one finds its way to her lips when the world is no more upside down.

Jaime.

He ploughs on, fuelled by his insane passion. She can feel his need; the desperation to be where she is. The journey comes to an end when he staggers towards his release, then stills, mouth pressed between her breasts, her name burning into her flesh. 

Another man would’ve pulled out of her right away and pulled up his breeches, but Jaime—

He brings his mouth to hers in a tender kiss. “I’m staying here - with you.”

She smiles against his lips. “As if I’d want anything other than that.”

Brienne holds him in a comfortable embrace. He stays inside her, his heart ticking to the steadying pace of hers. With another man, this sense of contentment and easy intimacy might have been an unfulfilled dream, but with Jaime, she knows, this is how it will be every night.