A wildly AU story where Jaime and Sansa are married, he has both hands, and Jaime isn't quite sure what to think about Sansa.
Her eyes are blank as he fastens his cloak around her. He's been betrothed to her a week now but she still hasn't exchanged more than ten words with him. Anger flashes in her eyes as he leans to kiss her, and the kiss is cold, like the North.
She is stiff during the feast, stiff during the dances and stiff during the bedding ceremony even as she is being groped by men she barely knows. When Jaime sits across from her in their new chambers, she is stiff as she refuses his offer of a drink.
Finally he snaps at her, "Gods, girl. I'm trying to be courteous!"
She is quietly defiant as she says, "I don't need courtesies, my lord. You and I both know that all the courtesies in the world cannot make up for what comes next."
He had not planned on taking her, not when Cersei was in the same keep as him. He wants to wait until they are in Casterly Rock, perhaps so he can staunch his guilt. Cersei had not spoken to him since his betrothal.
Her anger burns him, though, and Jaime realizes that he will bed the Stark girl tonight.
He laughs at her expression when he jests that she need not be so cold to him. "After all," he reminds her, "You may be feeling quite-warmer towards me later."
She smiles thinly, "I'm sorry if my lord believes me to be cold. I will try to please you."
Somehow his lips end at her throat, not her mouth, and then lower and lower, and Sansa tries to behave like a lady, but Jaime will be damned if he lets her win this game, and he will find her pleasure before his, damn her, even if she doesn't want it.
It is violent, how she shakes after he is done kissing her down there, and she has not yet touched him. Her gasps are almost as ragged as his, and she stares at him, between her legs as he smirks and kisses her there again. She shakes again, and says, breathlessly and angrily, "My lord, that will not bring a chil- oh!"
He does it again, and this time she pulls his hair to get him off because she cannot bear it any longer, it is too much, but he wraps his arms around her legs and holds her down until he is done licking and kissing. She sobs out and Jaime stops, right before she finds her release. Now she is tugging him back, but he presses a hand, still tangled in her leg, over her, stopping her buildup, and she is sobbing in earnest, pulling at his hair, clutching the sheets.
Not so cold now, is she?
She tries to press her legs together, and he sees the haze of desire in her eyes as well as pain, as well as hate, and slowly, he presses his hand harder and harder until she has come apart just by the force.
When she is done, he licks a way up her body and waits for her to calm down. There are tears on her face, and she is humiliated, he sees. She must hate herself more than she hates him, but she cannot meet his eyes now, no fire in them for him.
This is the moment he kisses her.
She does not move for a moment, but her legs are still trapped in his arms, and her chest is heaving and so she squirms, then pushes him.
He allows it. He will not rape her. But he will consummate this-whatever it was.
She wants control, he realizes, and grins at her.
So he gives it to her as she straddles him. He gives her control, but realizes that he is the one with the cards when she starts to bleed.
She hates him, this wife of his.
It's been weeks since their wedding. She hates him, he knows, because every night, he sees the anger in her eyes as he forces her moans out, as she marks him with her pain and her pleasure. He is so sure of her hate, and yet he loves it. It reminds him of Cersei.
Everything she does is akin to Cersei. Her eyes shine with anger at him sometimes, anger so fierce it hurts his mind even as he pushes deeper into her. Her words are weapons, just like hers.
There is a difference, though. When Jaime scathingly asks her why she does not take a lover if she hates him so, she explodes.
Everything about Sansa, save for in the chambers, is so perfectly controlled that Jaime jumps when she hisses, "Don't you dare imply that I would ever- I may not be your ideal bride, Ser, but I am sworn to you, only you, for my life. I am your wife and I would never commit such an atrocious betrayal."
At seventeen Sansa knows more of honor than Cersei does at thirty-six.
Sansa has been married before, but still a maiden, Jaime knows. Baelish killed her husband out of jealousy, and they had to wait two years before her next marriage to assure she was not with child. Jaime fiercely wishes that Sansa had stayed in her marriage. She'd been married a year and still a maid, before. Now, she was the bane of his existence, his lover, his hater, and the one who kept him up at night.
Since Sansa's declaration that she would only lay with him, Jaime refuses Cersei four times.
He wonders what has happened to him.
He winces and examines a scratch on his arm as Sansa rolls away, panting heavily. Her back is to him, and he sees that she gouged him deep, drawing blood with her nails.
"My love," he begins mockingly, and as predicted she freezes at the endearment, "You have been very passionate tonight."
He scoots forward so that she is against his chest, and shows her his hand, where droplets of blood pool. She doesn't react, so he leans forward and whispers, truthfully for the first time in their marriage, "Sometimes I realize that you are truly a wolf in a lion's cloak, Sansa."
This stirs her, and she gently, hesitantly, blissfully, takes his hand, and brings it to her mouth. She sucks the blood away, and Jaime feels a stirring. He presses against her so she can feel it too.
She is still, and Jaime takes his hand, hers still in it, and pushes it down, under the covers, between her thighs. He places her hand so she is cupping herself, and his hand is pushing her down, as he had on their wedding night. This time, though, she shudders.
He kisses her shoulder, gently, and moves their hands. It is not long before he is hard against her back and she is panting hard, hissing and grinding backwards. As before, he stops her when she is close, holding their hands pressed to her even as she bucks and twitches against his chest, her back still to him.
"Jaime," she pleads, "please, Jaime, I'll do anyth-"
His name is what undoes him, and then he is kissing her lips roughly, even as he pushes into her gently as he can, more gently than he ever has.
She has never called him Jaime before.
She is all around him now, as he spars, as he walks, as he eats. He never noticed. And as the ice in her eyes never diminishes, he tries to tell himself it is not him that she hates.
At Joffrey's wedding feast he finds himself looking at her, and he feeds her off his own spoon, just to see her lose control. Her eyes are burning but she still looks sweet, still smiles and recites her courtesies. She tells Lady Margery how pleased she is to be at the wedding, even as her eyes burn holes in Joffrey. She is too polite, his lady wife. The only way Jaime can see the true Sansa in public is to make her lose control. So, as he feeds her the cake, he makes sure to smudge cream on her lip.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he says, smirking at her as he moves closer. He wipes away the cream with his thumb and holds it to her mouth.
Hesitantly, Sansa eats it.
He hears the women giggling, but his eyes are only for her. And then Joffrey begins to die.
He runs forward the same time that Cersei does, and suddenly they are both clutching Joff, their son, their terrible son as he-
When Jaime looks up, there is shock on Sansa's face. Sansa's composed, controlled face.
"Did you kill him? The king?" Jaime asks later that night, as he comes into the room. He is by the door and will go no closer to his wife.
Sansa looks up from her needlework. "You mean your son?"
Jaime makes no excuses, so Sansa says, "No. Although I wish I had."
"And now Tyrion holds the blame," Jaime whispers, and Sansa nods sagely, not looking at him.
"And so he does."
That night, Jaime lies in bed and starts to shake.
Sansa is next to him, and says quietly, "I'm sorry for your loss, my lord."
When he comes back from visiting Tyrion, Sansa is trying to hide tears.
It's late, and as she looks up, panic crosses her features and she tries to snuff out her candle so he can't see, but it is too late. He strides to her and grabs her wrists.
"What happened?" he demands. She fights him, the little hellcat, and kicks him in the shin with her bare feet. She is sobbing openly as he clutches her.
Finally, she is still, against his chest, as he rocks her back and forth. "What happened?" he asks quietly.
She tries to disengage from him, but Jaime finds he is not letting her go. Finally, she whispers, "I'm with your child, my lord."
Jaime freezes. He is not sure what to say. Whenever Cersei had a babe, she was distant. Sansa was too, for other reasons. But a child? What kind of father would he be?
"But I- but I thought you would like a babe, Sansa. Why do you cry?"
She finally wretches herself away, and Jaime watches as she goes to a steaming cup on the dresser. She stares at it, and he knows that it is Moon Tea. For a crazy moment, he thinks she will drink it. Instead she smashes it.
"I don't want a Lannister child! Did you think I would, Ser? That I wouldn't-" she hiccups, "I don't..."
She falls on the ground, sobbing like he's never seen her do so before. He is shocked, until she says, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry-" and he holds her as she falls apart.
That night, Jaime holds Sansa in his arms as he stares at the ceiling. She is absently stroking his chest, and he shivers.
"I want a child, Sansa." His voice is so quiet, she lifts her head to hear.
She looks at him, "So do I, my lord."
Jaime presses his lips to hers. She stiffens, and then relents and allows for the kiss. He pushes her onto the bed and kisses her neck until she is gasping and marked to his satisfaction. Then he is inside her, and every part of his body is aligned with hers. She moves her hips to meet his thrusts, but he slows down until she is clawing his back in desperation.
"Sh, shhh, Sansa." He kisses her, and she whimpers loudly. She may hate him, but her body does not. "Shh," and then he is kissing every part he can reach as he goes slowly, so painfully slow, that Sansa is a sweaty mess when he is done.
He stays on top of her, inside her, as he whispers, "You're giving me the most precious thing, Sansa. I don't want you to harm the baby. Please don't."
She is quivering, and says, "I won't. I didn't mean to drink the tea. It was- it was a bout of madness." Then, looking up at him with her ice blue eyes, she does something Jaime never thought Sansa Stark would ever do.
She strokes his hair.
He lays with his head on her chest and she keeps stroking his hair, hesitantly, as if she does not want to. Still, he is almost asleep when the words come out.
"I cannot let Tyrion die."
Sansa stills. "Then don't."
Perhaps she doesn't hate him so. He sees her watching him curiously as he talks to her stomach.
"And you're going to be a lion, or a wolf, if your mother sinks her claws into you faster than I can. And I think I'll love you, you little babe, more than anyone in the world."
Sansa snorts at that, "More than your dear Cersei?"
He rolls his eyes at her, but knows he already wants this child, this child with Sansa, more than he wants Cersei, who has become a vile drunk.
When her time comes around, Jaime insists on being in the birthing room. The midwife scolded him, but he said, "I will kill anyone who tries to turn me out, woman."
Sansa is panting in pain when Jaime returns to her side, and he allows her to grip his hand so tightly that he sees stars.
The winds are howling outside the keep, and winter rages around them. Still, Sansa's birth is an easy one, easier than Cersei's first, and she declares, once holding the babe, "You, my child, are a true Stark." Then she looks up in fear at Jaime, as if he will take the babe away for her words.
Jaime just laughs, and holds his son. "Should we name him Tywin? I think Tyrion would approve."
Sansa's face grows still, and then she smiles a bit, "I think that we should call him Eddard. Yes, that would go well in court."
Jaime is outright laughing when he suggests "Joffrey."
"Merryn."
"Robert!"
"Stannis."
"Aerys!"
And so they go on, naming every man who ever did them wrong. Sansa is shaking with laughter, and by the end, Jaime is so happy that he leans over and kisses her.
To his surprise, she kisses him back.
Domeric fusses as Sansa kisses his forehead.
Jaime watches Sansa tend to Dom. "I want to take you to Casterly Rock," he announces.
She stiffens and stopped playing with the babe.
"Why?" she asks, hope in her voice.
"You hate the Red Keep," Jaime says, "and King's Landing, and my sister. Let us go to the Rock. You can be your own Lady."
Sansa passes Dom to her maids and shooed them out. She looks to Jaime then, really and truly. "When can we leave?" she asks.
Jaime moves to her, and holds her hands in his, "Within a moon."
Sansa inhales sharply, and a soft look comes over her face. "I'd like that, my lord."
Jaime kisses her nose and whispers, "Please, Sansa, we've been married longer than a year-"
Sansa looks up at him and is quiet. Jaime knows she hears the plea in his voice. "Very well," she says, and cups his face, "Jaime."
He comes apart in her arms that night, and wonders if she knows, now, how completely lost he is in her.
"I think I love you, Sansa Stark."
She is frozen as a statue, and Jaime immediately wants to take the words and stuff them back into his mouth. But then he feels her smile against his chest, and mumbles, "No need to make fun of me, my lady."
Sansa kisses his chest playfully. They have been many things in bed, but never have they been playful.
"And why is that?" she asks.
Jaime is quiet, and then whispers, "I thought- I thought you hated me."
Sansa sits up, and studies him. "I did. Maybe I still do. But I like you as well. I don't know what that makes me, but I suppose I will have to find out."
So, what do you think? Should I go on?