Warnings: Here be canon-compliant coarse language and…attitudes, I guess you can call it. PTSD type moments. Jaime/Cersei…sorta. Oh, and sex. I don't consider it smut, but it's definitely more than fade-to-black. This is a dark universe, so please read responsibly.
Twelve
The next evening, Jaime and Brienne are quiet as they wait for the Wall's generators to reach full power.
Their day had been routine: their usual work out, then breakfast, then reconvening in Jaime's suite for data analysis and arguments over equations and theories. They studiously avoided any discussion about everything they experienced the night before or about the two universes still to be re-visited.
The Prince and Princess, then the Mad Jon universe. Jaime grimaces. Both universes will have their share of difficulties.
Jaime glances at the power level of the generators then reaches for his backpack. He digs into it and pulls out the bottle of Northern whiskey he had taken from the Lannister private jet, and sets it with a decided thump on the top of the desk.
"Jaime," Brienne scolds. "There's no drinking allowed in here."
"These are unusual circumstances," Jaime says firmly as he pulls out two shot glasses. He glances at her and shrugs as he puts the glasses beside the bottle. "Only if we need it."
Brienne opens her mouth then closes it again, and Jaime knows she's remembering what these last two universes are like.
"All right," she says grudgingly.
The computer pings to indicate the generators have reached full power.
Their eyes widen then they glance at the bottle before looking back at each other.
"You good?" Jaime says.
Brienne hesitates then nods. "I'm good," she says and hits enter.
*/*/*/*/*
Cersei flies to him as soon as he closes the door.
"Jaime," she pleads, her hands clutching at his shoulders, his arms, his neck, "you must convince Father to let me stay here! That fool he married me to is already out of his sick bed and bleating once more about returning north!"
Jaime gently sets her away from him. "The bedding was not to your liking, sweet sister?"
She slaps him, her palm stinging across his cheek.
"Don't be an ass," she snaps. "You know I took steps to ensure there would be no bedding!" She softens. "You know I cannot stomach anyone but you in my arms," she says, as prettily as any maid.
"Is that why you tried to kill the King of the North while he was at his own wedding feast, sitting at the Lannister table? Is that why you tried to kill my new bride at the same time? Do you want this hellish war to continue forever?"
Cersei's beautiful face twists, becomes something ugly. "Someone had to do something, and you were doing nothing—as usual! We are not cattle, Jaime, to be bought and sold to the highest bidder!"
"We have been bought and sold to ensure peace! If I hadn't ordered King Eddard to be purged—and if Princess Brienne had finished her wine—we would both be in the black cells right now!"
"Father would never allow it!"
"Father wants peace! Just like I do! Just like King Eddard and King Selwyn! Just like Princess Brienne and the high-borns who sit in our Great Hall; just like the girl who washes your sheets and the boy who shovels the shit from our stables! Just like everyone except you, it seems! If you had succeeded in your plan, Father would have executed us both, married the first girl he was offered, and replaced us with children who would be less painfully stupid!" He grabs Cersei's shoulders, and gives her a single, hard shake. "For the love of the Seven," he growls, "use what little mind the gods gave you! Let the King live! Go North as Queen! Whelp him a cub or two, and then rid yourself of him if it pleases you so much!"
He releases her with contemptuous shove.
"And what of you, sweet brother?" Cersei's eyes are cold, her lips sneering. "Will you rid yourself of that cow you've married once she's borne a litter or two of your cubs? Is that…creature…really who you wish to have as your Queen? As the mother of your children?"
Jaime steps closer, overshadowing his twin with his height and bulk. "Princess Brienne is my wife," he growls, "which means she's mine to do with as I please. Mine! I took steps to ensure she blames me and not you for what happened, but you overstepped yourself last night, Cersei. Do not do it again."
Cersei does not back away. "Watch your words with me, Jaime," she purrs. "Remember who I am and what I've done. Remember to whom you belong. Remember who is your rightful Queen."
There's a deadness in her eyes that causes a shiver to go down his spine.
He straightens and takes a step away. There's an almost sadistic triumph on his sister's face and it takes all his willpower not to clench his hands into fists. He takes a deep breath and wonders again how one can so love someone and yet so hate them at the same time.
He wonders how he could have been so blind for so long.
"The carriage is waiting for you," he grates out and turns away. "Dress warmly; I would hate to hear you caught a chill on the way North."
*/*/*/*/*
Cersei's been gone several days when Jaime goes in search of Brienne and finds her in the frozen mud of the training yard, sparring with Sandor Clegane. Clegane is skilled, larger than Brienne and strong with it, but Brienne is faster, quicker and simply better, and Jaime can't help granting her a grudging respect and admiration for the same strength and skill he had once cursed while on a bloody battlefield.
He lurks in the shadows of the armory until Brienne finally disarms Clegane and they remove their helms. Brienne is grinning and even Sandor has something on his face that might be considered a smile as Brienne claps a hand on his shoulder.
"Good contest, ser," she says, trying to catch her breath, sweat leaving her straw-like hair plastered to her forehead and against her neck.
"Someday I shall win, Lord Commander," Clegane rumbles.
Brienne laughs and Jaime's eyes narrow at the sound. He thought the woman didn't know how to laugh.
"I have no doubt you will," Brienne says, her grin making the jagged, thin scar across her left cheek twist and dance. "Nobody wins every battle."
Jaime's eyes narrow even more when he realizes Sandor Clegane—Sandor Clegane—is, yes, actually grinning as he says, "Until tomorrow, then, Lord Commander?"
"Aye," she says, "until tomorrow."
They turn towards the armory and both stop short when Jaime steps from the doorway into the training yard. Their grins freeze then fade. Jaime's eyes flick from a wary Brienne to a now stone-faced Sandor and back to her.
"I wondered where you were off to in such a hurry this morning, Your Grace," Jaime says, his voice silky smooth.
Brienne raises an eyebrow. "If you would listen to me when I speak, Your Grace, you would know I always make my way here after breakfast."
Jaime's eyes are cold as he turns his attention to Clegane. "Are you my wife's preferred sparring partner, ser?"
"Aye," Clegane rumbles. "I'm one of the few who are strong enough for her. Your Grace."
Jaime's eyes narrow at the man's insolence before he dismisses him with a sharp movement of his head.
Jaime's ire grows when instead of immediately leaving them, Clegane gives Brienne a searching look. She gives him a small nod. Clegane flicks a contemptuous glare over him then offers them a scant bow and strides away.
Jaime waits until Clegane is out of earshot before he turns to Brienne.
"Have you found the man you will use to cuckold me?"
Her jaw drops, then her eyes spark with rage. "You have already dishonored your vows to me in this marriage, Your Grace."
"I have since given you my word—"
"Your word," Brienne snorts and stomps past him. "Your word will evaporate like snow in the spring once you see...her again. The only hope you have of keeping your word to me is to keep away from her until I've given you the heirs I've promised you."
"And if you don't?"
She spins and glares and for a moment Jaime wonders if she's going to try to kill him with the tourney sword in her hand. From the look on her face, she'd likely succeed.
"Why did you seek me out, Jaime?" she almost spits.
"We have received visitors from Dorne. Prince Oberyn Martell, his consort, Ellaria Sand, and his niece, Princess Arianne Martell, have arrived to pay their respects upon news of our marriage."
Brienne's glare turns to dismay. "Wonderful," she groans.
*/*/*/*/*
Oberyn Martell and his consort ooze sexuality, and Jaime's not certain if he's more uncomfortable with the way they look at Princess Brienne, the way they look at him, or the way they look at the two of them together. Mayhaps he should advise Princess Brienne to put extra fortifications against her door while the Prince and Ellaria are in King's Landing.
He again notices Oberyn's and Ellaria's interested stares in his direction.
Mayhaps he should do the same.
Prince Oberyn and his consort, along with his niece, Arianne, have been paying court for several days; have said all the right words of congratulations, and have even expressed blatantly false regret at arriving too late to also extend their best wishes to King Eddard and his new Queen. Considering Prince Oberyn had once vowed to kill Queen Cersei with his bare hands the moment he again laid eyes on her, Jaime is reluctantly impressed with the man's acting—and his self-control.
For a moment, Jaime sees, once again, poor Elia Martell's features twisted in agony even in death. Her murder and Cersei's subsequent marriage to the last of the Targaryens are some of what led to the longest and bloodiest war in Westeros history.
Not to mention Rhaegar's sudden, inexplicable passion for Lyanna Stark that took everyone by surprise. Who knew such a milksop of a man even knew what passion was?
Jaime sips his wine and wonders if King Eddard has taken his words of caution to heart and employed a food-taster. More fool him, if he has not. Although mayhaps the King in the North will need to be more wary of the contingent of Lannister men, led by Ser Gregor Clegane, who were sent as a gift to the Queen.
He watches as Prince Oberyn turns his attentions to Princess Brienne and reduces her to an embarrassed, tongue-tied lump within one, no doubt witty, turn of phrase. Although—Jaime's eyes narrow—there seems to be a glimmer of amusement on Brienne's blazing red face.
Brienne's eyes flick to him and she freezes, like a rabbit in front of a snake. She truly has beautiful eyes, he thinks, but they're blue, not the green he has sworn so many times to love until his death. He helped send Cersei away; he wonders if that frees him from that promise. He wonders what would happen if he were to beg the High Septon for his counsel on the matter.
He can't quite stop the bitter twist to his lips at the thought.
So many stains on his soul, so many things he's done…so many things he failed to do, all in the name of love. He'd be lucky if the High Septon simply removed his head without torturing him first.
And despite it all, he thinks as he continues to hold Brienne's gaze, a part of him still loves his sweet sister. Still yearns for her, for the girl she was, for the girl he had believed her to be.
He was relieved to see Cersei go but Brienne is right: he would never be able to resist his sweet sister if she were here. He knows he needs must bed his bride, but Cersei is not yet far enough away.
There shall be no bedding tonight, he thinks, his expression growing cold as he stares at his wife. Brienne's eyes widen and he's shamed that he cannot be kinder to her. Then he's angry because he's ashamed and he abruptly turns his face away.
He does not look at her again.
*/*/*/*/*
"Prince Jaime is an asshole," Brienne says flatly. "Why was he glaring at me—her—like that?"
Jaime hesitates. "He can't help who he loves," he finally says and winces at how weak his words sound.
"Does he have to be so cruel?"
Jaime sighs. "It's complicated."
She rolls her eyes. "It's always complicated," she growls.
*/*/*/*/*
Brienne is still simmering with anger by the time the generators have returned to full power.
"Need a drink?" Jaime asks as they settle back into their chairs.
She glares.
"No. Do you?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Not yet," he says and hits enter.
*/*/*/*/*
"Where are your ladies-in-waiting?" King Selwyn says.
Brienne glances up from the book she is reading and blinks at his question.
He is slouched in his chair, a flagon of mead at his elbow. He says he has not yet grown so used to his royal status as to forego mead for wine at all times. His eyes, so like her own, are watching her with shrewd intelligence.
"I don't need ladies-in-waiting," she says, lowering the book. "I'm no lady."
Selwyn grunts something that might have been amusement. "You may not be a lady, but you are a Princess, and the next Queen of an eventually reunited southron Westeros. King Tywin will not live forever—nor shall I. I will also be leaving for Tarth in the next few days and you will be alone here, with the Lannisters. You needs must begin to surround yourself with a court you can trust...or at least one you understand how to manipulate."
Brienne stares at him in horror. "I have no desire to play such games, Father!"
"You have no choice, child. You either learn to play the game or the game plays you. You are going to be Queen and you do not have the choice to pretend you can ignore it all."
*/*/*/*/*
King Selwyn departs for the Stormlands several days later. His formal leave-taking takes place in the Great Hall, with all the pomp and circumstance befitting a King.
Brienne takes her private leave of him in the blustery cold of the Red Keep's courtyard. King Selwyn throws off his royal mien to wrap his arms round Brienne and hug her as tightly as he can. It is odd, she thinks, burrowing against him. He is a head shorter than she is, yet when he hugs her like this, she is naught but a small girl who still believes her father is powerful enough to stand against the entire world.
He releases her and she notes with surprise that he has tears in his eyes. He blinks rapidly, and clears his throat.
"You are the only child the gods granted me with my beloved wife, your beautiful mother," he says, his voice gruff. "You have my eyes and my unfortunate teeth." He grins, showing off his crooked teeth, and she laughs. "You may have taken after me in those respects, but you have your mother's look, and—warrior or no; Lord Commander or no—you have her gentle soul and soft heart. You are my only child, and I could not bear to see you perish on the battlefield, which is the only reason I agreed to the terms of this truce." He reaches up and cups her cheek, his thumb gently tracing the scar left by a sword in some battle or other. "Whether you will win your war with the child-bed when your time comes, well. That is up to the gods. But I have more hope you shall survive that than if we had continued that blasted, useless war."
Selwyn turns as Jaime strolls up to them to more personally wish his good-father a safe journey.
"This is my only child," Selwyn says when Jaime finishes speaking. Selwyn's voice is once again turning gruff, his eyes boring into Jaime. "I leave her in your care. I leave her under your protection."
"Father," Brienne says, gently, blinking away the moisture in her eyes, "look at me. I need no man's protection."
"I shall beg it from my good-son anyway."
Jaime bows, deeply. "You have my word," he says.
And with that, King Selwyn Tarth hugs her one last time, then mounts his horse and rides out of the Red Keep.
*/*/*/*/*
In the days that follow, in between entertaining—or mayhaps fending off—the emissaries from Dorne, Brienne worries at her father's words regarding her ladies-in-waiting. Whether she likes it or no, he's right. While she will never be the Queen the smallfolk expected or wanted, she has a duty to be a good Queen, nonetheless, and one way to do that is to strengthen her family's alliances with the highborn families loyal to the southron Throne.
Besides, worrying on who should be the first to be invited into her inner circle distracts her from worrying on her marriage. She and Jaime have yet to consummate their union, but she's more than willing to delay it for as long as she can. Jaime is a beautiful man—Brienne cannot deny that—and she knows that other women find pleasure in the marriage bed. But for an unnatural woman like her—over-large and ugly and mannish…
Brienne is no stranger to pain: she has been slashed by swords, broken her bones, been trapped beneath the heavy weight of her dying war horse. She sometimes wakes, screaming, with the smell of blood in her nostrils and the shrieks of the wounded in her ears…yet she still cringes away from what she will face in the marriage bed. Septa Roelle has always taught her the pain a woman like Brienne experiences is worse than the worst pain anyone could imagine. If only Brienne was a different kind of woman, Septa Roelle would say, and heave a mournful sigh, tears standing in her eyes.
Brienne clings to her only glimmer of hope: that she will be lucky enough to fall pregnant immediately and therefore escape the agony of the marriage bed within a few years.
Assuming a woman such as her can fall pregnant at all.
But those are worries for another day, she thinks grimly. She, unfortunately, needs to gather a court of ladies round her.
*/*/*/*/*
Brienne carefully considers the surviving high-born families and their daughters for several days, then reluctantly decides she needs must approach Jaime for his counsel. It's not that she trusts him, or that the tension between them has eased to any great degree.
She simply has no one else she can ask for advice.
She invites him to ride with her outside the city walls, and she suspects he agrees out of pure surprise.
"Ladies-in-waiting?" he says, his brows wrinkling in confusion once she explains her dilemma.
"Since my skills as a warrior and Lord Commander are no longer as needed, I needs must build my relationships with the Houses outside the Stormlands."
"And you have asked me to ride with you because...?"
"What Houses do we need to soothe, Your Grace? What Houses do we need to subtly threaten? I am more used to solving my problems with a sword and an army, but now it appears my fate is to learn to use a woman's weapons in order to strengthen our children's hold on the southron Throne."
There's a flash of amusement on Jaime's face at Brienne's disgruntled demeanor and tone, and she can't help but smile a little in response. She knows she's being ridiculous.
"I have no one else to advise me, Your Grace," she says, "and my role is to support you as much as it is to support our children."
Jaime raises an eyebrow. "Is that now part of our bargain?" he says drily.
Brienne gives him a haughty glare. "It was the bargain we made when we spoke our vows in the Great Sept," she says, then softens. "I am as sick of war as anyone."
They ride in surprisingly comfortable silence for long minutes and Brienne starts to relax. She even cautiously allows her hopes to rise that this union may actually grow to be...cordial. She is no beauty, though men and women call her so with mocking faces, but she does have other strengths to bring to the marriage.
"I am a strong Lord Commander," she says abruptly and Jaime startles a little and turns a surprised face in her direction. She continues, "I bring the second largest army on the continent at my back and upon my father's death—may it be long in the future—his bannermen will swear fealty to me."
Jaime's usually stern mouth twitches towards a smile. "I, too, am a strong Lord Commander. I bring the largest army on the continent at my back and upon my father's death—may it be long in the future—I shall be King. Your bannermen will swear fealty to me instead."
Brienne clamps down on her urge to knock him from his horse with one swoop of her arm. It would do him good if his arrogant arse were to land in the mud.
She grits her teeth, and says, "The North has always been friendly with the Stormlands, as has Dorne."
"I have the Reach, the Westerlands, the Crownlands and the Riverlands," he says, bored, and she eyes him suspiciously. He sounds almost too bored.
"I do not have the Ironborn," she slowly says.
"Nor I," he says.
"Nor do I want them," they say together and then stop and share a cautiously amused glance.
Brienne's shoulders relax a little more.
"You seem determined to expand upon the dowry your father bestowed upon you," Jaime says.
Brienne says, "Despite the unfortunate beginnings of our union and the threats we've made on either side—"
"Are you including my drugging you and tying you naked to the bed with the 'unfortunate beginnings', or with the 'threats'?"
She flushes a deep, dark red. "The threats, of course," she says stiffly.
"Of course." He glances away, his mouth quirking again into a smile. "So despite the recent past...?"
She clears her throat. "Yes. Despite the recent past, I want our marriage to be...tolerable. For both of us. And I do bring strengths to the union that I think benefit the realm once our two Kingdoms merge together."
"Ah," he says softly, "therefore the army, bannermen, and allegiances with other Kingdoms."
She nods and looks away, feeling foolish. It's nothing, after all, that he didn't already know.
They ride again in silence and then Jaime says, "They are not small, these strengths you cite, and I have not been as kind to you as mayhaps you deserve."
She blinks surprised eyes at him.
"You are very young, are you not?" he continues.
"I have seen twenty-three years, Your Grace," she says defensively, "and the last three have been leading men in battle. I am not as young as all that!"
He chuckles, soft and low. There seems to be no mockery in it although it sounds rusty and seems to surprise even him. "I am thirty-six, Your Grace," and now there is mockery in the title, "and have been on the battlefield since I was sixteen. That's twenty years. Almost longer than you've been alive. You are practically a child."
Brienne frowns, then blurts out, "How is it you have not wed earlier?"
Jaime shrugs. "Cersei," he says simply, and something inside her shrivels. "While I am now willing to do my duty whenever you wish to invite me into your bed, you will be the first woman I have touched other than Cersei. In my youth, I was even more single-minded in my devotion to her. And..." he trails off, scowling.
Brienne rides in silence, waiting, until finally Jaime sighs.
"I have been betrothed thrice before," he says.
Brienne gives him a startled look. "Oh?"
"Let us just say that I have been...unlucky."
She frowns. "Did they, too, learn of Cersei and break the betrothals?"
"All died before we could be wed," he says flatly.
"Oh," she says again, then, "oh. I'm sorry."
"As was I," Jaime sighs. "Melara was a pretty little thing, delicate and biddable. She would have been a lovely wife although whether she would have survived the child-bed…well. It never came to that. Lysa was also a lovely girl, shy and quiet, but with red hair that promised fire beneath the placid surface. Margaery was but a child, sixteen and pretty and sweet, but with her grandmother's iron will, I think, well-hidden from prying eyes."
"'Tis a pity none lived long enough to wed you and mayhaps give you the heir your father desires."
"The heir I also desire, Your Grace. Do not think it matters naught to me."
She swallows heavily. "I don't," she says softly.
"Good. The true strength you bring to this union, Brienne, is whatever strength hides in your belly. I need strong, healthy sons. Legitimate heirs. That is what the realm needs, not your armies or your allegiances."
*/*/*/*/*
Brienne scowls at Jaime.
"Seriously," she says, "Prince Jaime is an enormous asshole."
Jaime blinks. "He's also right."
"Still an asshole," she growls, and stomps from the control room.
*/*/*/*/*
She returns with coffee and they silently make their notes until the computer pings, letting them know the generators have reached full power.
They put down their pens and exchange a look.
"Ready?" Brienne says with a resigned sigh.
"Ready," he says, and hits enter.
*/*/*/*/*
Brienne sends ravens to a small cadre of highborn women, inviting them to court, and a moon after their arrival, Prince Oberyn and Ellaria announce they will be returning to Dorne. Princess Arianne, to Brienne's surprise, prettily begs to stay for a while longer, and Oberyn agrees. Two days later, Oberyn and Ellaria leave King's Landing with many protestations of regret and gratitude.
Brienne stands by Jaime's side as their guests depart.
Princess Arianne turns to her. "I love my uncle," she says, "but he is a bit overpowering, is he not?"
Brienne blinks. "The Prince is very charming," she says.
"But not as charming as your prince," Arianne says, giving Jaime a knowing, teasing smile.
Brienne blushes and Arianne laughs.
"Would you like to join me for a ride, Your Grace?" Arianne says and glances from Jaime to Brienne and back again. "Either of Your Graces," she says and now her smile is wicked.
Jaime's eyebrow rises while Brienne's stomach drops.
"Yes," she says, too loudly, and clears her throat. "Yes, I would love to go for a ride. But I wish to have a private word with my husband before we go."
"Of course," Arianne says. "Shall we meet at the stables?"
Brienne nods.
They watch the lovely young woman disappear in the direction of the stables, then Jaime says, "What did you wish to speak on?"
Brienne jumps a little and wonders what madness has gripped her. But she cannot deny it's time.
She straightens her shoulders and turns to face him.
"We have been married for two moons," she says.
"I know."
She scowls then says, "We have made a bargain. You have upheld your end of it, so far. The sooner we…" She stops, swallowing heavily, her face flaming as she looks despairingly in the direction Arianne had disappeared. She clears her throat again and says, "The sooner we…we…"
"Fuck?" Jaime drawls.
Brienne feels as if the skin of her face is actually on fire. "Yes," she says. "The sooner we…do that, the sooner our bargain will be complete and you will be free to…to…do as you will." She can't help but glance after Arianne again before meeting his gaze.
Jaime's eyes are filled with unholy amusement. "Are you inviting me into your bed, Brienne?" he purrs.
"When you are ready to join me in my bed, Your Grace, I will not say no."
*/*/*/*/*
That night, Brienne's beneath her blankets, reaching to extinguish the lantern, when Jaime opens their connecting door and steps into the room, startling her.
She freezes when she sees him and thinks he somehow still manages to look magnificent even when clad in an ostentatious brocade bed-robe embroidered with fanciful lions and suns.
She gapes and he smirks.
"You promised to do your duty," he purrs as he prowls towards the bed.
She gulps, all the horrible warnings Septa Roelle had given her crowding into her brain, and she has a sudden urge to leap from the bed and run for her life.
But she is a Lord Commander, she tells herself staunchly. She has crossed swords with this very man on a bloody battlefield. Surely the womanly pain that is to be her lot in the bedchamber cannot be worse than the bite of a sword or the blow from a mailed hand.
And she is not craven. She will...endure.
She nods. "Yes, Your Grace," she says and Jaime barks a harsh, cruel laugh and shrugs out of his robe.
She gulps at the sight of his naked body, at the sight of his cock, jutting from his body.
She had been a Lord Commander of an army for three years; the naked male body is no longer a surprise to her—but she's never been this close to a naked man, let alone one as well-formed as Jaime. He's slightly shorter than she is, but he's broad of shoulder, slim in the hips, with a well-defined chest and torso, and arms that ripple with muscle with every movement as he pulls back the blanket and slides onto the bed beside her.
She gulps again as he laughs at her wide, terrified eyes and she quickly smooths her expression, lays flat on her back and waits, her eyes fixed on the ceiling above her and her hands clenched into fists by her side.
After a long moment where neither of them move, she remembers what some knight had told her years ago, and says, "Will this work better if I douse the lantern?"
"I don't know, Brienne," Jaime says, "will it?"
She risks a look at him and finds him watching her with an almost baffled rueful expression.
"Yes?" she says. "You—you wouldn't have to see my face, then, and I've been told all women are the same in the dark."
"I find that difficult to believe," he says drily and she flushes as she remembers Cersei's ample breasts as compared to her own small mounds of flesh. She will never be mistaken for a beautiful woman, not even in the dark.
Still...better the dark; it will hide her tears if she finds the pain unbearable.
She surges up and quickly blows out the lantern, plunging the room into semi-darkness, lit only by the banked fire in the hearth.
She lays back down, fixes her eyes once more upon the ceiling and says, "I'm ready."
His chuckle is low and husky and wisps across her nerve endings, making her tremble. "You are far from ready," he purrs and then he's looming over her and before she realizes what he intends, he's kissing her.
She hadn't expected kissing and she startles at the touch of his mouth against hers. He tangles his fingers in her hair to hold her still and then his mouth is hard and demanding against hers, and the first touch of his tongue against her lips makes her gasp. He takes advantage of her surprise to plunder her mouth and she's frozen with shock.
He lifts his head and even in the semi-darkness, he's beautiful as he glares down at her, his eyes glittering.
"Have you never been kissed?" he growls.
"I—Ser Owen Inchfield stole a kiss once," she stammers. "I pushed him into the campfire."
Jaime's teeth flash in a grin. "It must not have been a very good kiss," he says.
"It was meant in cruel jest," she says flatly.
"This may be cruel in that this is something neither of us wished to do, but this is not a jest. You are my wife, my future Queen, and I must bed you."
"I know. I said I'm ready."
"Mayhaps, but I wish to ready you for my cock, not just for doing your duty."
She blushes and scowls. "I don't understand."
Jaime sighs and gives her a surprisingly gentle kiss. "I know," he says. "The first bedding is the worst, so I'm told, but I will do my best to make it as easy for you as possible."
"Pain in the marriage bed is the lot in life for a woman like me," Brienne intones, reciting the lessons Septa Roelle had given her. "I shall endure."
He rears back at that, scowling, then he shakes his head. "We've spent too much time talking already," he sighs and kisses her again.
What follows is confusing and revelatory. Jaime kicks off the blankets and tugs her nightclothes from her body, leaving her as bare as he is. It's only the darkness of the room that allows her to retain some semblance of dignity. She finds the kissing rather...nice, once she gets used to it, only to be shocked again when his hand cups her meagre breast and his fingers play with her nipple. But that's not as surprising as when he puts his mouth over her other nipple and suckles. She arches against him then apologizes only to have him laugh and kiss her to stop her words before he returns to her breast.
She's only just getting used to such attentions when he slides his flattened hand down her torso, over her stomach, to tangle his fingers in the thick hair at the juncture of her thighs, before moving even lower.
She yelps and pushes him away.
"You're not supposed to—what are you doing?"
"I'm making you ready for me," he says, infuriatingly calm.
"I don't understand!" she almost wails. "Just...just get it over with!"
"I will—but you have to let me do what I need to do."
She's thrumming with tension. She wants to punch him; she wants to run away. But she gave her word; she told him she would accept him whenever he joined her in her bed.
She reluctantly lays back down, and he laughs.
She flinches when his fingers go once again to the juncture of her thighs and she pulls in a sharp, hissing breath as his fingers explore those secret parts of her that only she has ever touched and even then, only with a wash cloth firmly between her fingers and her flesh.
She's taut; rigid as a sword and embarrassed by the liquid she can feel beginning to gather between her thighs, easing the glide of his fingers against her.
"Do you like this?" he asks, his voice rough and husky. "What I'm doing?"
What an odd question, she thinks, and then he carefully pushes a finger inside her and she flinches.
"Brienne? I need you to tell me if I'm hurting you."
"Pain is inevitable," she mutters. "Septa Roelle told me all about what a woman like me can expect in the marriage bed."
His fingers stop moving and she sees he's frowning down at her.
"Mayhaps you're right," he says slowly. "Mayhaps we need to get this first bedding done as quickly as possible so your maidenly fears can be put to rest."
Before she can reply, he's kissing her again and his fingers are stroking between her thighs more urgently, and to her surprised relief, she finds that none of this is unpleasant. It's mayhaps even enjoyable, although the liquid that is continuing to pool between her legs is embarrassing her.
She freezes again when Jaime moves over her, positioning himself between her thighs. She feels the blunt head of his cock at her entrance and she tenses even more as he slowly pushes his way inside.
There's a brief moment of pressure as he enters her but any pain is fleeting and then he stills. She frowns up at him, feeling...full...but she is not in pain. She wonders when the agony Septa Roelle had promised she'd experience is supposed to begin.
Then Jaime begins to move, and this, at least, she understands from seeing her soldiers with their camp followers, and from the animals she's seen rutting.
Jaime lifts her legs round his waist, and then he's thrusting against her with a steady rhythm and this, too, is...nice. Certainly not painful and actually...well...nice. She rather likes the heavy feel of Jaime's body on hers as he rocks against her. His thrusts speed up and she finds herself lifting her own hips to meet him and hopes he doesn't mind. He speeds up even more and then he's frantic as he works against her, his rhythm broken, until he thrusts one last time and freezes, shuddering against her, gasping, before he slowly relaxes on top of her.
She frowns up at the ceiling as his weight presses her into the mattress. She realizes her hands are clutching at the sheet beneath her and she relaxes, straightening her fingers. She's not sure what she's supposed to do with herself while Jaime is catching his breath, so she stays as still as possible and tries to make sense of what she has experienced.
She will have much to think on when he leaves her bed.
*/*/*/*/*
Brienne turns to stare at Jaime, blushes a shade of red he has not yet seen, then gabbles what might have been an apology before she bolts from the room.
Jaime lets her go, feeling a flush on his own cheeks, but whether it's from embarrassment or arousal is difficult to say. His cock is hard and straining against his jeans, and he groans and covers his face with his hands.
He'd been worried about dying while connected to his counterpart in another universe. He hadn't thought about how his body would react to his counterpart fucking someone. Fucking Brienne, because he sure as shit hadn't reacted like this when Prince Jaime fucked Cersei!
This...
He groans as he shifts on his chair.
This is a complication.
*/*/*/*/*
