Brienne VII

Brienne and Jaime were already heading back to the house for lunch when Frankie approached, trying to herd them back even more quickly, yipping in reproach when he perceived them lollygagging.

They exchanged a look. Jaime shrugged.

"Last time, it was only Tyrion," he said. "But…"

"But what if something really is wrong?" she finished. They lost nothing by hurrying, and so spurred their mounts to a gallop.

That morning, Myrcella and Tommen had gone to school with the Starks, their first day taking lessons with the rest of the town's children. They'd been excited, touchingly so, wondering aloud how long it might take for them to make friends and whether their governess had taught them the same things or if they would be behind the others. Brienne had grave misgivings about the entire thing, but they insisted they wanted to try, and she could only admire their courage, even as she dreaded the heartbreak she was sure would ensue.

When she and Jaime arrived in the yard between the house, corral, and barn, dust was still kicked-up from the arrival of a wagon, and the front porch was full of Starks. Tommen's face was red and angry, and Myrcella was sitting in Pa's lap on his wheeled chair, her slim shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Pa's hand was shaky, but he was patting her narrow back as best he could.

Jaime was off his horse before it had come to a full stop. "Myrcella?" he demanded. "Tommen?"

She hurled herself at him, driving a faint 'oof' from him at the impact. His arms came around his daughter and he tucked her head under his chin, hand in her golden hair, the other rubbing her back. "What happened?" he asked, mystified and concerned. "Tommen?"

Brienne had followed more slowly, and now approached the boy, who looked only a few seconds away from an outburst of his own. She held out an arm to him, and he came to her with gratitude plain on his features, hiding his face against her.

"Robb," she said, her voice low but firm. "What happened?"

The eldest Stark looked uncomfortable and angry. Not as angry as Arya, however; she was pacing back and forth along the porch, muttering angrily. Bran and Rickon were quiet, but both looked upset as well. Brienne peered more closely at Arya and saw that her blouse was torn, the split skirt she wore as her sole concession to feminine attire was streaked with dirt, and she had the beginning of a prodigious fat lip.

Brienne then looked at Rickon, and noticed a bruise starting to rise around his left eye. It would doubtless be spectacularly purple by the next morning. She sighed, having figured it out.

"It didn't go well at school," she said. "Someone said something rude to Myrcella or Tommen, Arya and Rickon walloped them for it, and you all left early to keep from causing more trouble." She gazed around the group. "Am I right?"

"Mostly," Bran said. "It was… bad from the very beginning, lots of staring and whispering, but no one said anything outright until mid-morning. Myrcella went out to use the necessary—" here, he blushed to mention such an indelicate thing about a girl, but plowed on— "and when she tried to come back, the older girls wouldn't let her in."

"They said she and Tommen are the products of sin," Arya hissed.

"Foul and filthy," added Rickon, sounding every bit as bloodthirsty as his sister. He and Tommen were the same age and Tommen had said they were friends; doubtless this was why the youngest Stark was so incensed, but Myrcella and Arya were not especially close, having little in common. Probably Arya was just furious at the mistreatment of any vulnerable person. Brienne couldn't blame her; her own temper was seething through her veins, and the urge was strong to wreak a little mayhem herself.

"And then some of the other students began to agree, told them they'd dirty the school by stepping into it again," Bran continued in a low, regretful tone.

"Then Arya lost her temper and tackled the girls to the floor," Rickon said, no small amount of glee in his voice. "Got in a few good licks, too, didn't you?"

Arya didn't reply, but she flashed a wicked grin at them all before returning to pacing.

"And then Rickon picked a fight with the boys who were talking out," said Bran. "So I went outside to get help. I knew Robb was to come into town to pick up feed and saw he was there and fetched him."

"I went right away," said Robb, taking up the reins of the story. He paused, clearly unhappy to keep going. "I tried to calm everyone down, but Miz Roelle said that she can't have such disruptions in her school. I didn't think talking would do anything but make it worse, at that point, so I just got everyone out of there and came right here."

"You did the right thing," Brienne said tiredly. Talking wouldn't accomplish anything when people were determined to be ugly. Probably just make the whole thing worse.

"Miz Roelle is the teacher?" asked Jaime. He reached out his other arm for his son and Tommen detached himself from Brienne to go to him.

"Yes," Brienne replied, her tone grim, and she exchanged a weary look with her father, for she too had been on the sharp side of Miz Roelle's tongue during her years of schooling. Miz Roelle had thought nothing of sharing her low opinion of Brienne's looks and prospects for marriage, loudly and in front of the entirety of the school's pupils.

Robb, catching the Tarths' exchange, glanced away, uncomfortable; he had been there, witnessed much of it firsthand when he and Brienne and Jon had attended school together, though he and his brother had been a few years behind her.

"She won't be for long," said Jaime. Brienne shot him an alarmed glance, which he returned with a wide, nasty smile. "Don't worry, wench, I won't lay a fingertip on the old b— bird," he hastily corrected, when he remembered young ladies were present. "Lannisters have other means of repaying debts, you know."

"I thought you didn't want to be a Lannister anymore," she blurted in response, before remembering that she wasn't supposed to have heard that, had only learned of it due to her snooping during his conversation with Tyrion.

He didn't seem to realize her lapse, though, for which she was immensely grateful, and nodded thoughtfully.

"True," he allowed, "but there's nothing that says I can't be more Tarthlike after I handle this."

"Just— just leave it," Myrcella whispered, pulling a bit away from her father. "Making her miserable won't change anything. Nothing will be better."

"We'll feel better," said Jaime, the light of battle in his eyes.

"And then what?" asked Brienne, but gently. "We'll have cost that awful woman her livelihood, disrupted the education of three dozen students, angered their parents… and over an issue that will always be upsetting, and which will never change."

Jaime stared at her over his children's heads. She watched as his righteous ire faded, turning to resignation. "This is my fault," he said. "I am— I'm so sorry. Myrcella, Tommen. I'm sorry."

"Just your— fault?" asked Pa. He looked grim, but still there was that twinkle in his blue eyes. "No— help?"

Brienne frowned until she caught his meaning, and then had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. No, Jaime hadn't brought this upon them all by himself. Cersei had surely had just as much a hand as he in their predicament; more, possibly, since there were ways to keep from catching a man's seed, and ways of uprooting it if it had taken hold, and she had used none of them.

To her surprise, and stifled delight, Jaime blushed, just a little. "I… might have had some help, yes," he muttered.

Robb coughed, clearly unhappy with such a topic being had not only in mixed company, but with children present, even though those children were not only well aware of the situation but some of whom were the living results of it.

"Will Miz Roelle cause trouble with your mother?" Jaime asked him. "I'll pay a call today, apologize to her—"

"No!" exclaimed all four Starks and Brienne.

"No," repeated Robb, offering a wan smile. "No, I don't think that would be… helpful."

That was his diplomatic way of saying that Catelyn would likely shoot Jaime on sight. Brienne had known the woman over a decade and was not blind to her faults. Intractability and a judgmental nature were two of them.

"Let us know if there's anything we can do to help, then," Brienne told Robb, and he nodded, touching his hat brim.

"Let's go," he told his siblings, who obligingly went to clamber into the wagon. Before he followed them down the porch steps to where Grey Wind was waiting patiently, he stopped to address the Lannister children.

"I'm sorry," he told them quietly. "You don't deserve that. You know none of us Starks feel that way."

Tommen nodded and, just like a little man, put out his hand to shake. Robb pumped it twice before reaching for Jaime's hand as well. Then he turned to Myrcella, who had yet to excavate herself from the shelter of her father's chest. "Myrcy?"

She straightened, bravely squaring her shoulders as if facing a firing squad. She left behind a soaked spot on Jaime's shirt, and as they all watched, two more tears coursed down her flushed cheeks. Brienne recalled that Myrcella had a powerful infatuation for Robb. The poor girl must be wishing the earth could swallow her forever, she thought with a pang.

"Thank you, Robb," Myrcella replied to him, her voice almost inaudible, but she held her hand out to him like a queen bestowing a favor upon a hopeful subject, even with reddened eyes and mussed hair.

Robb took her hand in his but didn't shake it; looked, in fact, about to place a kiss on it, like a hopeful subject to his queen. But he ended up just holding it for a moment before letting go. He nodded; she nodded back. He left, striding across the yard and leaping onto Grey Wind. Wheeling the stallion about, he rode off. Arya slapped the ribbons on the team pulling their wagon and followed him down the drive.

Myrcella wiped her face with her fingers. "I'm glad Pod wasn't here for this," she murmured. Pod was down the back 40 that day, making sure none of the cows had calved without them knowing of it. "He'd have felt awful."

"He'll find out soon," said Tommen, sounding glum. "And then he'll feel awful."

"We all feel awful," said Brienne. "But we'll get over it." When they all looked at her in surprise, she shrugged. "What other choice do we have?"

"Ig— nore— pain" began Pa, but couldn't manage the rest, so Brienne did it for him.

"Ignore pain. Either it will go away, or you will." It was a common saying in their family.

Jaime's smile was small, but not forced. "Is that the secret to the famous Tarth stoicism?"

"Yes," Pa said, so clearly that it made everyone laugh, thankfully breaking the tension.

"Let's have lunch," said Brienne, beginning to herd her little family inside. "And we'll make something special for supper, too. Tommen, how far did you get with the dewberries yesterday? Pick enough for a cobbler, do you think?"

.

.

The rest of the day was subdued. Pod, as expected, was upset to learn what had occurred in town, an uncharacteristic expression of anger on his usually placid face. Didn't stop him from having second helpings of everything, though.

Brienne was almost pathetically happy when it was late enough to go to bed, fully ready for the day to end. Jaime had been nearly silent, his face drawn and the smiles mustered for his children's sakes weak and transparent.

As they changed for bed, a quick glance in his direction told her he was preoccupied, troubled, withdrawn. He lay down beside her but didn't bother to pull the covers over himself, seeming too exhausted to bother or even manage it. He looked as haggard as the day she'd married him, and just like that day, her heart— wholly his by now— reached out to offer him comfort.

"Do you want— would it help—" Brienne's words stumbled to a halt, and so she just held out her arms.

Jaime shot her a grateful glance before easing into her embrace, his head nestling under her chin and his arm coming around her waist. After a moment, his leg came around hers, too, and then he was wound about her like a creeping vine. His breath against her throat was warm, and he hummed in satisfaction as their bodies relaxed fully against each other.

"Thank you," he murmured, rubbing his nose against her collarbone with what Brienne could have sworn was affection.

"Of course," she replied, a little taken aback by his gratitude, and ashamed that she'd been so cool to him that he'd consider it a favor to receive comfort from his own wife. "You don't— I'm sorry for making you feel like you have to thank me for something like this."

He moved a little away so he could look her in the face, brows drawn together.

"I mean," she continued, a little desperately, "We're— I'm your wife. It's— it should be normal for me to help you feel better when you're unhappy. You're— you've been kind, to me, when I was sad, so it's the least I can do to—"

Jaime's expression became resigned. "You're just returning the favor." He smiled, but it was awful, bitter and self-loathing. "What does it say about me that even though you're only doing your duty, I'll still take it, gladly?"

He returned his head to her shoulder, but there was tension in him, now.

"No, that's— I didn't mean it that way," Brienne protested, cursing her nervousness and inability to express herself well, especially to Jaime. Her stomach twisted in dismay, that she'd hurt him— as she clearly had— and that he was despising himself again.

"It's fine, Brienne," he said tiredly. "I understand."

"No, I don't think you do." Her voice was stronger, now that she had the fire of conviction in her. She was going to explain herself properly, and make him feel better instead of worse, if it killed her. "Jaime."

"Yes, Brienne?" He lifted his head again to look her in the eye, and his tone was dry, teasing. But she knew him by now. She knew he was hiding behind his humor, again, to conceal what he felt.

"You don't understand. I didn't mean anything about duty or returning favors. I meant that we're in this together—" for as long as their marriage endured, at least— "and we're going to help each other because it's what husbands and wives do, not out of duty but because we want to."

His face hadn't moved a muscle as she spoke; she felt her surety fading with each word, but plowed doggedly on.

"And just like you were kind to me when I was upset, because you wanted to be… now that you need kindness back, I'm going to give it to you because I want to. Because I want you to feel better. I— I don't like when you're unhappy."

He didn't reply to that, just stared at her, bright green gaze roaming over her face as if he were scouring her features for any sign that he could truly believe her words. She certainly hoped he found her trustworthy, because she had meant the words, completely. After several long and awkward moments, he smiled again, and this time, it was one of his genuine smiles, a thing of true beauty that made that stabbing sensation begin in her chest once more.

She'd begun to recognize it as desire, because even she was not so dim-witted that she could not recognize how it was invariably followed by a heated awareness between her legs and a speeding of her breath, and then by a tightening of her nipples and rush of dampness at the very center of her.

"Ah," Jaime said softly, and she realized he must have seen something of her arousal on her face, because she felt him stiffen against her thigh, where he lay half-over her. The feel of his erection, hard and hot, made that stab of desire occur again, this time streaking from breastbone down to where she was heating and growing slick for him. Her hips, having a mind of their own, it would seem, pressed back against him without any direction from her whatsoever.

Brienne watched in amazement and confused lust as his pupils spread, leaving just a thin ring of emerald. She had only the briefest moment to wonder at it before he lunged forward, capturing her lips with his own.

Oh. Oh, gods. Had she been nervous about this? Reluctant? She could not recall a single reason why. There was nothing objectionable about kissing Jaime, nothing at all, and she felt grave regret at whatever misguided fears had caused her to delay it.

His lips were soft and warm, and he rubbed them insistently against hers, then used them to open her mouth for his tongue. Brienne knew this sort of kissing was common, but had always thought it looked soggy and distasteful. Now, praise the Seven, she was able to say that it was sleek and hot and the stabbing was not so much a stabbing anymore so much as a constant pulsing ache, and it had spread to encompass her breasts as well, making them feel almost sore, needing to be rubbed and soothed.

Jaime groaned into her mouth, and the sound cleared a bit of the haze in her head, so that she became aware she'd taken his hand and pressed it to her chest, shaping it around the slight curve of her breast, tightly enough that his palm was abrading her nipple even through the soft cotton of her sleep-shirt.

Brienne had the novel experience of being mortified at the same time as she continued to engage in the activity which had mortified her; she arched into the cup of his palm, and even found the courage to dart her own tongue into his mouth instead of just meeting its foray into hers. Jaime groaned again, and his fingertips sent darts of sensation over her skin as he hastened to unbutton her shirt, then peel it wide open to expose her chest.

He tore his lips from hers, and for several seconds they just panted at each other. He looked almost ethereally handsome, eyes dark and glittering, cheeks flushed and mouth swollen. Then his golden head descended, and he took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.

Brienne arched again, emitting a shocked moan, and then another when his teeth found the tight bud of her nipple, worrying it lightly. "Ah! Jaime!" she thought she cried out, not sure, really, her head swimming with few solid ideas, only sensations and impressions as pleasure wracked her.

His thigh came up between her own, and the pressure against her center was so welcome she ground down against him, hissing when her smallclothes— soaked with her arousal— dragged in an absolutely gorgeous way through her folds and against the stiff nub that had begun to demand attention.

Jaime left her breast and claimed her lips again, in a deep, thrusting kiss that had her glad she was already laying down, or else she would have collapsed to the ground. He slid his hand down into her smallclothes and between her legs, and then it was his turn to moan, because the calloused pads of his fingers encountered the drenched hair and swelling lips of her slit.

Brienne didn't care, anymore, if she seemed wanton or unseemly or demanding or needy. All she knew was that Jaime— her husband, hers, the only man who'd ever made her feel anything like this— was giving her this beauty, this glory, and she wanted more of it. She drew one knee up, and then let it fall open, spreading herself for his exploration, offering herself to him.

His breath became ragged. "Brienne," he whispered against her mouth, then began to lay a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her throat. His fingers skated lightly— too lightly— over the crown of her sex to down where she welled with moisture, circling her entrance until she felt fevered, desperate, tilting her hips for more of his touch. He pressed a finger into her slowly, so slowly, and the welcome intrusion made her breath catch. A second finger followed and she threw back her head, gasping his name and shimmying against him.

Jaime began stroking inside of her, rutting his cock against her hip in the same rhythm. Brienne's breath sawed in and out. One arm was around his back; she ran her palm over the rippling muscles of his shoulders, then along his spine and to his smallclothes, which she shoved down until she could cup the muscled rise of his backside.

Oh, how marvelous, she thought hazily. But there was the matter of her other hand, and how she wasn't doing anything with it. She brought that hand up to frame his cheek, to rake through his hair, to slide down his chest and ridged belly to where his erection was throbbing so insistently.

"AhBrienneyes," he moaned when she curled her fingers around it.

She sucked in a breath, shocked at the feel and heft of it, weightier than she had expected, and impossibly silken despite the underlying solidity. The smooth, rounded tip was damp. Brienne wondered if that dampness would taste the same as when he had come, days earlier, and brought her hand up to lap at her thumb, where she had collected a droplet of it. Jaime's eyes were bright as he followed the motion, and then fluttered closed at the sight of her licking it off.

"I'm so hard for you," he breathed, the words so soft they were more a suggestion than a sound, but they made her pelvis arch and his fingers sink even more deeply into her.

"I'm… for you…" Brienne attempted, but could not bring herself to say the words, even as the tang of him lingered on her tongue. Thankfully, Jaime was curtailed by no such inhibitions.

"Wet? Yes, thank the gods, you are," he murmured against her nipple just before sucking it between his lips again, and then there was a sensation of pressure where he was plying her so sweetly with his hand, a faint sting as she stretched around a third finger. A sound escaped her, of pure want; her hand tightened around his thick shaft, and then it was his turn to moan.

Jaime withdrew his fingers, making her groan at their loss, to rake her smallclothes down her legs. He shoved his own off and his knee shifted, pushing hers wider, and he pulled from her grasp as he moved to settle his hips into the bracket of her thighs. The heated column of his cock glided in a long, slick stroke through the spread center of her, and panic struggled free of the muffling haze of her desire.

"Not— not that," she managed to gasp. "Not yet."

He lifted his head, her nipple releasing from his mouth with a pop, and stared at her with eyes that had gone a bit wild.

"You're going to make me stop?" The words sounded torn from him. His body, frozen over her, trembled from the effort of holding himself back.

"Just from that," she panted, her hand going down to encircle him once more, grasping firmly as she drew her fist from root to tip.

Jaime fell back to her side, his breathing harsh and his face perplexed, but even then, his pelvis kept flexing minutely, unable to resist seeking stimulation. It was intensely erotic to Brienne, watching him thrust into the air, and it sent eddies of heat and lust through her.

"Only that," she told him. "Anything but that."

His eyes flared again. "Anything?"

She swallowed hard. "Anything."

"Oh, Brienne," he murmured, then nosed around her breasts once more. "You don't know what you've just gotten yourself into." He followed the tracery of blue veins beneath her skin with the tip of his tongue, mouth teasing and nipping at the hard points until Brienne was arching under him again.

Past the faint hills of her ribs, beyond the jut of her hip bone, he curved a proprietary hand over the fair curls at the join of her legs before shifting between them once more, this time wedging his shoulders into the V of her thighs, instead of his hips. One forefinger, then the other, trailed from top to bottom of her seam as if in idle curiosity before parting her. "Have you got a pillow ready?"

"For— for what?" she asked breathlessly, stunned and horrified and near-mad with anticipation for what she was terrified— hopeful— he would do next.

"To keep everyone from hearing you scream," he said, and ran the blade of his tongue over her in a lazy swipe.

She barely got the pillow over her face in time. The strangeness of the pleasure, the very shock of it, was what tore the harsh sound from her throat, more than the pleasure itself. Soft, his tongue was so soft, wet and velvety as it explored her, and it was no time at all until she was shaking so hard he had to grasp her waist to keep from twisting away from his mouth. She screamed into the pillow, her body seizing, buffeted by waves of rapture.

"That was good, Brienne," he murmured against her thigh when she calmed, drawing the flesh of it into his mouth and releasing to show a plum-red mark. "But I think you can do it again."

"Again?" Brienne stared overhead at the whitewashed ceiling, her breathing ragged and body still twitching.

"Mm-hm," he confirmed, leaving a matching love-bite on the other thigh, then leaning back a little to admire the symmetry of his work. "Maybe even twice more."

"B-but what about you?" she said, a trifle desperately, wanting to deflect his attention, because she was positive she'd not survive another cataclysm like that so soon after the first. She propped herself up on her elbows and stared down at where he'd ensconced himself. His hips were pulsing against the bed, had been the entire time, she was sure, and though he was feigning a casual attitude, his breathing was quick and there was a faint tremor to his hands where they still held her waist.

"Can I… I want to do that to you," she said, pulling her legs up before curling them to the side, making room for him next to her. She loved this man. If she could not give him all of herself, she would at least give as much as possible. "I like how you taste."

Jaime's groan sounded like it had been dragged from the very depths of his soul. "Please," he whispered, hoisting himself back up the bed and reclining against the crumpled pillows. She took the one she'd howled into and handed it to him.

"On the off-chance I'm actually any good at this," she told him. "Can't have you shouting fit to wake the dead."

He started laughing, his wide shoulders shaking with it, but he sobered in the space of a heartbeat when Brienne nudged his legs apart and began to settle herself between them. She figured he'd looked comfortable enough, so it should be good enough for her own purposes, as well.

"You can do anything you want to me, too," Jaime said. His eyes looked black as he stared at her, almost unnerving in their intensity. She had the queerest feeling he wasn't just talking about his body, and so Brienne nodded soberly, giving the offer the respect it deserved.

His shaft rose like a pillar before her, deeply flushed with arousal, and Brienne felt her mouth water at the sight. But she pressed her face against his abdomen first, feeling the crispness of his golden hair against her cheek. She inhaled the scent of him, some primitive instinct uncoiling, dissolving her inhibitions entirely.

Brienne took him in her hand and angled his thrusting length down so she could close her lips around the swollen head, feeling rather than hearing his heartfelt sigh of relief shudder from his lungs. She lowered her head further, took more of him in. He was thick and succulent in her mouth, his flavor of salt and musk pleasing to her tongue. She drew on him, gently and then harder, and his hands came to bury themselves in the slippery locks of her hair as they straggled free of her long braid and cascaded over his lap.

"Brienne," Jaime whispered, almost reverently. His hips undulated to meet her on every downstroke, and it wasn't long before he removed one hand from her hair to bring the pillow over his face. He let out a ferocious-sounding growl into the feathers, surging into her mouth, filling it with his now-familiar taste.

It was not the most appetizing mouthful, but when he threw the pillow to the side and looked down at her, there was something vulnerable in how he watched her. She swallowed, ignoring the faint sensation of quease it gave her. To do otherwise would have felt like a rejection of him, and besides, Brienne was not in a prohibitive mood. Light kindled in Jaime's eyes once more, at the sight. There was something in his expression that spoke of relief, of gratitude, and she felt sure that Cersei had never taken all of him as Brienne had just done.

It made her feel bizarrely proud, that she was a better lover to Jaime than his sister had been, even if it were only in her speculations. She leaned up at the same moment he reached for her, and she went into his arms, letting him pull her down atop him. She mumbled something about being too heavy and crushing him, but he ignored it, wrapping his arms around her tightly, almost convulsively.

Brienne let her hands explore him, her fingertips tracing the ripples and bulges of muscle in his shoulders and arms, enjoying the heat and smoothness. Now that the pleasure was receding from an ocean to a mere lake, the lingering distress she'd felt since overhearing him agree to Tyrion's offer began to seep back.

He pressed a kiss to her cheek. She could feel when it turned into a smile, and shifted off him so she could see why.

"Brienne," he said, eyes still closed. His face was relaxed, blissful, all lines of strain erased. This close, their noses brushing, he was painfully good-looking, and she marveled yet again that she was allowed to be so near him. "My wife."

There was a catch at her heart to hear how tenderly he said it. When he had fallen asleep, she permitted herself to answer.

"Jaime," she murmured, her voice shaky as tears leaked out, trailing down her temples to soak her hair. "My husband."

Not for long, not forever, but for now… he was hers.