.

Dany VI

It was no great surprise to Dany that a rift had formed between her and Jon, though she was increasingly upset about it by the day. She just didn't know how to cross it, to mend the breach. Dany knew she was unreasonable, but… his comment during dinner with Tyrion had infuriated her. It had seemed like he only took her to bed because the specter of execution breathed down his neck, as if she were devoid of any personal charms that might otherwise inspire him to it.

Is that how it truly was? Was there nothing between them besides their bargain? Was all the tenderness and passion and emotion they'd shared— or which she'd thought they had shared— one-sided? Was it entirely in her head and her heart, and nowhere within him at all? Had she truly been that mistaken, judged the situation so poorly? Dany had offered her heart to him with the hope— no, the belief— that he'd understand the magnitude of such a gesture, would appreciate it, would value and esteem it.

Would give her his own in exchange.

But if she had been so wrong, if he didn't care for her beyond how she pleased him in bed, if he serviced her under duress because of their agreement, she didn't want him. It made her skin crawl, soured their marriage into something cheap and tawdry and horrible, as if she'd hired a prostitute… and not only that, but that she'd hired one who resented her for his need to take her coin.

Dany couldn't bear it. The moment Jon had said those words, she'd known she would hire Tyrion, regardless of whether or not Jon wanted to. That had been the only thing she was certain of, that night; that, and not being able to countenance the idea of sleeping beside her husband as if nothing were wrong. As if he hadn't admitted— to a perfect stranger!— that he only bedded her to escape death, as if he hadn't stomped away and left her to cope with the awkwardness left in his wake.

To his credit, Tyrion had left soon thereafter, clearly recognizing the tension and being loath to make it worse. After a promise to keep her updated with daily reports, he'd collected his driver and they'd been off. A fine glow of anger had settled in Dany's belly, and a wish to distance herself from him. The seraglio room promised a distraction, would perhaps help take her mind off how irked she was at Jon… and her simmering lust for him.

That was yet another change her body was experiencing: a constant thrum of physical desire had plagued her for the past week, beginning not long after the realization of her pregnancy. It had gripped her so fiercely that, when Jon was gone for the day, she had to give herself relief, and at night, she used him hard, wearing him out with multiple climaxes. After Tyrion left, her needs had been no less fierce; if anything, they were stronger, buoyed by her anger.

By the time Missandei had led Jon to the seraglio room, despite her intentions to keep him at arm's length, she'd been glad to see him. They'd made love— no, they'd fucked, she must use the proper term— and fallen asleep.

But for all the exotic novelty of the room, sleeping on a mound of cushions was not terribly restful; they insisted on shifting all over, being lumpy where she wanted them smooth and providing no padding where she needed it most. Dany had woken before dawn and left Jon there, unconscious.

After washing and dressing, she'd found Missandei starting her day in the kitchen, going over the day's menus with the cook.

"Is my parents' suite ready?" she asked, for Missandei had been managing the renovation of those rooms. She'd reported them nearly ready for use only a few days earlier.

Missandei nodded. "All that's left is to hang the drapes, make the bed, and move your things into it."

"Do that today, then, please," said Dany. "But leave Mr. Snow's things where they are."

Missandei's features didn't give a single twitch to indicate her thoughts on the matter, but her dark eyes softened as she gave another nod and bustled away to begin.

"I want dinner ready to be served within fifteen minutes of Mr. Snow's arrival in the evening," was Dany's next directive. Her idea was that, if she kept his schedule regimented, there would be less opportunity for awkwardness between them. He'd come home, they'd eat, she'd retreat to the library to work, then go to bed. They could see each other for meals, exchange pleasantries, and that would be it.

And once his conviction had been overturned, he would go. Tyrion would push through their divorce, and it would be over.

Except Jon didn't seem to agree with her concept of a genteel neglect of each other. He picked up right away on her efforts to keep him at an emotional arm's length, shooting her dark glances that were by turns confused, irritated, frustrated, and just plain weary.

That first night, Jon had made an overture to her, coming up behind her as she sat working at her desk. He'd swept aside her hair and applied his lips to the nape of her neck, behind her ear, while trailing his fingertips down her throat to delve into her cleavage. He coaxed her to stand, urging her to sit in the same chair in which he'd deflowered her, but she'd refused; she'd not sully that memory, would not replace it with something that seemed sordid in comparison.

She'd gone to the chesterfield, rather, stretching out along it, letting him cover her with his strong, lean body. She'd let him strip her, touch her, and she'd reacted when he'd tongued her to a blazing peak, but she couldn't bring herself to do more. She'd never before thought about her actions when making love with him; her brain had shut down and her body had taken over, directing her every move in its need to pet and caress and kiss and lick and squeeze and hold.

The odd detachment she now experienced made such relinquishment of her senses impossible, and so she merely put her legs around his waist, and her hands on his shoulders, and stared past his head at the carved oak ceiling far overhead. His thrusting was pleasurable, and she reached another, weaker climax a moment before his, but the surrender she'd always felt before was absent. She couldn't restrain the tears that leaked from her eyes, trailing down her temples to dampen her hair, as she came.

Jon had levered himself off of her, face relaxed, eyes soft… until he saw the wet trails on her cheeks, before she was able to hastily wipe them away. He looked horrified that he'd made her weep, and after adjusting his clothes, stood helplessly as she stood and put her own garments to rights.

"Dany," he said. "Something's gone very wrong between us." He swallowed, clearly distressed. "I didn't mean anything by what I said, when Tyrion was here. Can we— just forget I said it?"

But how? Dany knew, better than most, what truth lay in words spoken in the grip of emotion. Her parents had, when enraged, spoken the secrets they dared not reveal in calmer moments. They had had an unspoken agreement that the insults and vitriol spewed during their rows would be forgotten, pretended to have never been said, but once released, how could they be taken back? Jon would not have had the words so easily on his lips if he hadn't been thinking about it, hadn't been feeling that way. Now that Dany knew how he viewed their marriage, and her, how could she pretend she didn't?

"I don't think I can," she replied quietly. "But it's— fine. You've done your part, and I shall do mine. You don't have to live here, if you don't want. I know you miss your family, so if you want to return to the Northpoint—"

"No," he said. "You won't run me out of my own home. Not like that."

He didn't understand, was taking it wrong, but Dany was too tired to try to correct him.

"As you wish," she therefore said. "I've moved into my parents' room. You'll have the same access to my accounts in town, so feel free to—"

"No, thank you," he said icily. "I have my wages from working. I never wanted your money."

Nor me. You only wanted your freedom. And the damnable part of it is, I can't blame you.

She nodded. "Please don't think I expect anything from you. You don't owe me your company; if you'd like to eat separately—"

"I wouldn't."

"—or spend your evenings apart, instead of with me while I work—"

"Not that, either."

"—I won't take it poorly, " Dany concluded, but she already had her answer. The next evening, they endured a tense dinner before retiring to the library. Jon read by the fire as she finished up the interminable paperwork of the day, and both were intensely glad for the interruption when Sansa, of all people, appeared long after dark.

Jon had come to her later, apologizing for tendering the invitation to his sister without asking her first, but Dany truly did not mind. She liked Sansa very much, liked having a sister even more, and if Sansa did not come to hate her for being on poor terms with Jon, would be appreciated company and a valuable buffer between them.

Dany was surprised how easily Sansa fit into their lives. She had perfect manners and was eager to help any way she could; also, she had a cast-iron stomach and did not shy away from helping Dany with her bouts of morning nausea. She got on well with Missandei and had a deft touch at dismissing Jorah when he came for his daily dose of yearning stares in Dany's direction.

She also had a fine hand and was happy to do rote work, such as copying form letters, so Dany could concentrate on things that required her attention. That alone reduced the workload so significantly that Dany had no more need to continue working after dinner, to her pleasure.

Once Sansa was gone— because she wouldn't stay forever, Dany was positive Sheriff Clegane would press his suit eventually; a man didn't look at a woman the way he looked at Sansa without pursuing her at some point— Dany would have to obtain a secretary to assist with the mundane tasks she'd been performing all along. She felt rather stupid, actually, that she hadn't thought of hiring one already.

But she was used to doing everything by herself. Accepting help was foreign to her; she'd always been the one taking care of everyone else, mediating her parents' arguments, solving Viserys' crises. It had set her apart from them, had established her as the responsible one and them as the ones who needed tending. Then overseeing the Targaryen holdings had only established her more firmly as having a commanding role. Dealing with others on an equal basis, where none were more in control than the other, made her seem all at sea.

As the days passed, the persistent arousal faded, replaced by feeling more and more unwell. Her nausea endured longer in the mornings, and she tired easily, needing to lay down and rest and eventually even falling asleep. Her appetite did not recover, and she found herself picking at her meals without enthusiasm.

Sansa seemed to think it her duty to remedy all of the above and could be found whispering with Missandei as they planned meals that might tempt Dany into eating more substantially, but without success. The only thing she could tolerate was the ghastly ginger tea, drinking cup after cup all day long even as she grimaced at its taste and how it would prickle her tongue with its sharpness.

She'd wonder, later on, if it were the tea that did it.

One morning, late, Sansa left off writing letters and went to tell Missandei they'd like lunch.

"Let's take it on the veranda!" she exclaimed. "There's a breeze, and the bluebonnets are in full bloom. It'll be lovely."

Dany agreed, not really caring where they ate, and soon they were in the rocking chairs on the veranda, a plate of little sandwiches on each woman's knee and tea— Sansa's cold and sweet, Dany's hot and overly spicy— on the little table between them.

Dany became aware of a faint ache in her belly. At first she thought it might be hunger, then as it strengthened, that her body was rebelling against all the ginger tea, and set her cup aside. Sansa sent her an inquiring glance but she managed a tight-lipped pretense of a smile.

Suddenly a lance of agony ripped through her, and a hot, wet gush spilled from between her legs, turning the spring green of her skirt red-black.

"Dany!" Sansa exclaimed, but it sounded like it came from far away as Dany's vision narrowed to a pinpoint, and then winked out entirely.

.


.

Brienne VII

Brienne woke all wrapped around Jaime yet again, to her immense mortification. Fortunately, he was fast asleep and not privy to the conflict that gripped her.

Also fortunately, he did not seem uncomfortable, if the way his arms were also around her was any indication. He smelled good, a sort of musky aroma she'd noticed before on men who were not soapy-fresh from the bath but still clean, the natural scent of male skin. He was the first man on whom she'd ever found it mouth-watering, however. His chest hair, just as golden as that on his head, his eyebrows, and the intriguing stubble on his jaw, glinted in the sunlight that slanted through the window. It was soft and springy. A caramel-colored nipple was directly beneath the pad of her index finger, and she realized the other must be under her cheek.

She spent a few minutes trying to muster up the rationale for her abandonment the prior night, for some reason to explain how she'd thrown caution to the wind and let Jaime… well, not make love to her, not entirely, but enough to let him close, closer than anyone else had ever been.

But there was nothing she could say, no way she could shovel the blame on him. It had been entirely her. He'd kissed her, but she'd been the one rubbing herself again him, going so far as to put his hand on her breast! She hadn't been forced or even coerced. She had wanted him, and she had let herself have him, as much as she could manage without risking a baby.

Gods, yes, she had wanted him. Wanted him again, at that very moment. Brienne wished she had the courage to be truly spontaneous, that she had the confidence to initiate making love to Jaime without him kissing her first. She wanted to whip off the blankets and put her hands and mouth on him. She wanted to rub her fingertip over his nipple, to turn her face enough to reach the other one with her mouth. She wanted to make them harden, wanted to hear his moan at the suction and wetness. Tension coiled within her, making her restless and reckless, an uncomfortable combination. The knowledge that he wouldn't mind, that he'd openly welcome it, made it all the more difficult to resist the impulse.

But he would leave. He would leave, and she'd be even more bereft by his absence, if she permitted any other encroachment of her boundaries. She was barely hanging on as it was.

That grim prospect seemed all the grimmer, now, after the previous night's debauchery. The memory of it made her muscles contract, and she realized with dismay that her arm, slung so companionably around his waist, had tightened. Brienne held her breath in terror that it would wake him, but he only kept laying there, doing nothing but breathing, as if the extraordinary scene of lewdness had never taken place the night before. She resented his utter peace and lack of conflict about it.

This is all too stressful, she thought, feeling harassed.

With exquisite slowness, she lifted her arm from around Jaime. When that didn't disturb him, she peeled the rest of herself away to lay on her own side of the bed, flat on her back and breathing like she'd just carried a steer. On her shoulders. Uphill.

Everywhere she'd been touching him, previously nice and warm, prickled at the cool early-morning air. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, lights pinwheeling behind her eyelids, and gathered herself together for the task of acting normal for the day. Finally, she heaved herself out of bed.

It was still very early, dawn more a suggestion than a reality, and she made short work of getting fresh clothes and creeping from their bedroom. Not wanting to disturb poor Pod so early by washing in the barn, she gave herself a whore's bath in the kitchen, dressed, and put the coffee on.

Brienne leaned a hip against the sink, crossed her arms, and stared dully at the floor while waiting for the water to boil. She pondering the wisdom of her idea to make a small room in the barn for Pod. He should have some privacy, instead of just sleeping in the loft and keeping his things in a battered old trunk in the corner and hanging his clothes on nails hammered into the wall. But if Jaime and the children were leaving when the appeal went through, Pod likely would go with them. Was the expense and effort worth it?

A touch on her arm had her looking up in surprise. Jaime was there, watching her curiously.

"You alright?" he asked. "I said your name a few times. And the coffee is ready."

"Ah," she said, "sorry. I was thinking."

"I can see that," he said, smiling, and took a dishcloth to pick up the coffee pot. He poured them each a cup, handing one to her and watching her carefully while she, just as carefully, avoided eye contact and sipped in silence. "What were you thinking about?"

"Whether or not to make a room for Pod in the barn," she replied, deciding to be honest with him, at least about that much. She didn't have to reveal why she was undecided about it.

Jaime nodded. "I was thinking we could build a bunkhouse. Only a matter of time before we hire on more hands, isn't it? Might as well do it sooner rather than later."

"Can't afford a bunkhouse," she muttered. "I've got enough spare boards to make two more walls in a corner of the loft, and building a bed and wardrobe or cupboard for him is easy. There's wood enough for that, too."

Left unsaid: Once you're gone, I won't be able to expand the ranch, so there will be no need for more hands, and thus no need for an entire separate bunkhouse.

"My money is yours, now," he said mildly, with a frown, "and we can afford a dozen bunkhouses. I thought, also, we could get started on adding at least one bedroom, for now, so Pa and Tommen don't have to continue to share."

"Can't afford that, either."

"Brienne…"

"No, Jaime."

"But—"

"No."

"You're just being obstinate," he argued, looking frustrated. "You have to admit it's crowded in here, and we could do with expanding the house. There's no reason not to."

There's plenty of reason, she thought, irritated to be pressed about it.

"The E-Star is still my father's property, despite his illness," she began, about to say that they couldn't do anything without Pa's say-so, and that he didn't want any changes made.

"He thinks it's a terrific idea," said Jaime. "We talk about it when I help him every morning and night, in fact. He's had a few ideas about adding on a washroom, so we don't have to head out to the barn to bathe, and—"

Her irritation flared into full-blown anger. "You talked to him about it behind my back?"

His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed.

"No," he said coldly. "Well, yes, only in that we discussed it without your presence, but there was no secrecy about it." He paused. "I'd never manipulate you, or him, into doing what I want." He let out a harsh, derisive laugh. "If I wanted to do that, I'd have gotten started weeks ago. And it wouldn't be about building additions."

Brienne flushed, because she knew he meant her. Sex. He had been as persuasive as a man could be, using every weapon in his considerable arsenal, to get her to bend to his will. It was to her immense misfortune that their goals— to make love until they exhausted themselves and each other— were perfectly aligned, and thus she was so very susceptible to him.

"So you walk around all the time without a shirt because you're just trying to get some sun?" she snapped. "You hold my hand and call me a pet name and kiss my cheek because you just want to be pals? Yes, I'm sure your motives are pure."

She set her coffee cup down hard on the table and stalked out the back door, unsure where she was going but needing to be away from him.

Of course, he followed her.

"I didn't do that to manipulate you, either," Jaime said. He reached out and grabbed her arm, tugging her to a halt. "I'm trying to get you to admit you love me."

"You don't think that's manipulation?" Brienne asked, incredulous. She wrenched her arm free and kept walking.

"It's not," he said stubbornly, "because I'm not trying to change your mind about anything. I only want you to be honest with me. And yourself. You won't do it without being pushed."

"Maybe I don't want to be pushed."

"I think you do. I think that's the only way you'll ever let yourself go." When she ignored him, he pressed on. "Like the way you let yourself go, that first time. I saw you. I heard you."

Brienne went very still, frozen as waves of humiliation crashed over her.

"You brought yourself off, right in front of me." Jaime chest heaved with agitation. "And you watched me, too."

Brienne panted, too, unable to catch her breath, her fingers gone cold with horror even as the rest of her flamed with desire, because she couldn't seem to purge her memory of what he had done to her. The ferocity of how he kissed her, the velvet brush of his tongue between her legs, how he moved and arched and trembled as she took him in her mouth, the bitter and oddly compelling taste of his spend—

His gaze roamed over her face, and whatever he saw made his pupils flare until they swallowed the green of his irises. He stepped right up to her, his body far too close for comfort.

"What I don't know is why you're fighting it, why you're fighting me. We want each other. We're married. We want children. You're the only thing keeping us apart."

The sight of him, so close, was making her head spin. He smelled of coffee and clean laundry and warm, healthy male. Brienne was on fire, love and want pooling in her belly and between her legs and blazing in her heart.

"Oh, goddamn you," she said, and pushed Jaime up against the house. She crushed her mouth against his, having no idea what she was doing, so little experience in this, needing to touch him, to feel and smell and taste him—

"Gently," he murmured, hands in her hair keeping her from pressing too harshly close. He played his mouth against hers, tongue flickering between her lips, making her shudder and run her hands everywhere over him. She rubbed against him, shameless as a cat in heat. Her tongue didn't seem to belong to her anymore, acting on its own volition to flicker at his teeth, the roof of his mouth, the satin lining of his cheek.

When he pulled his mouth from hers, sucking in a ragged breath, her mouth kept going, trailing down his throat, enjoying the prickle of his beard against her sensitive lips. She pulled aside the collar of his shirt and buried her face against the join of neck and shoulder, inhaling his scent before closing her teeth around the sloping muscle there, as she'd longed to do for the longest time. Jaime bucked against her, their heights so perfectly aligned that his hard cock pressed directly between her legs, stroking sweetly against her.

His big hands slid down her back to her backside, and he wrenched her against him, grinding their hips together. She kissed him again, deeply and hard, so that his head was pressed back against the house. Did he mind that Brienne was being so aggressive? She couldn't seem to stop herself. Some tether within her had snapped and now she was helpless to hold back all the yearning and lust she'd kept contained for so long, day after interminable day of being near him.

His groan was ragged, and he kissed her almost frantically, rocking his pelvis against hers. It caused the hard ridge of his erection to slide right against her and Brienne moaned at the sensation. It made her tongue vibrate against his, a little ticklish and a lot arousing, and his hips bucked against hers again.

Brienne was drenched, the wet material of her smallclothes clinging to and sliding against her swollen flesh. The heat of his arousal radiated through their clothes, tantalizing and teasing her with the promise of what he'd feel like against her, bare. The thought of them nude and rubbing against each other like they were had her dragging him somehow even more tightly against her, lost to the thrust of his tongue and hips against hers.

Jaime's hand slipped under her shirt to cup one of her slight breasts, his palm warm and strong around her. His fingers pinched her nipple, hard, and with a gasp, as if she were drowning, Brienne shuddered and pitched headlong into rapture, grinding and grinding herself against him.

Jaime cried out, into her mouth, and writhed against her, shaking through a climax that caused Brienne's to go on and on long past when it should have ended, excitement thrumming persistently through her veins. He hadn't stopped kissing her even once, not since the moment his mouth had touched hers. Even then, when they'd both come and were slowly calming, his tongue twined and slid against hers so passionately she thought she could keep going indefinitely.

He opened dazed green eyes to stare at her, then rotated them so it was he pressing her against the house.

"My wife," he said, just like last time, their damp lips brushing with each word. "Mine."

"Yours," she agreed mindlessly. She was his, body and heart and soul.

"Tell me you'll never leave me."

"…Jaime?" Her heart constricted. Cruel, it was so cruel, to have the prospect of forever dangled before her like this.

"Say it, Brienne. Say you'll never leave me. Please."

But he wasn't being cruel. She knew him, by now… at least that much. He had been abandoned over and over, mother and brother and father and sister and son. He needed the illusion of permanency. It was the least she could give him.

"I'll never leave you." And she wouldn't. If they parted, it would be because he had gone, not her.

He groaned, and buried his face in her hair. "Do you mean it?"

"I mean it." Once begun, the words kept tumbling out. "I don't think I can live without you anymore." I don't know how I'll survive, once you're gone.

He shuddered against her, and her hands relaxed their grip on his shoulders to wrap around his chest, holding him close enough to feel the thud of his heart against where her own was pounding.

"I love you," he breathed. "Brienne. I love you. I love you."

Then why are you pursuing an appeal? she wailed internally, even as she clung to him, trembling. Why are you doing the exact thing you need to do to get away from me?