Authors Notes: Things will be moving on at pace, and things will happen that may not be everyone's cup of tea. Anyone extremely strict about their OTP may want to look away now. Although if you have followed the story this long, you probably know where this is heading… Yet, you have been warned!
Summary: "Yes, I please you with my sparkling wittiness, with my skills in cyvasse and with my unswerving loyalty. Yet there are more ways I would like to please you, dear wife, if I only were allowed." He didn't lift his head but moved to press his lips against the crown of her head. He dropped the brush and let his arms slither down her sides, his good hand caressing her shoulder and sliding down to brush the side of her breast.
Jaime
If there hadn't been the ceremony in the Sept, the big feast and that one night he had shared with Sansa, Jaime would have hardly noticed that he was, in fact, a man wedded during the first weeks of their married life. Oh, and the change of his lodgings. He had moved to the rooms next to Sansa's, a mirror image of hers, with a door joining the two bedchambers together.
The entrance had been locked for years and covered with a wall hanging, but it had been opened up again and its rusty hinges cleaned and oiled. Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn had not lived that way, their marriage being unusual in that they had shared one bedroom, but that was not common in noble marriages.
The morning after the wedding Jaime had woken up before Sansa and spent a long time examining her as she slept. She had looked so relaxed, so beautiful, and Jaime had felt a new surge of emotions grow inside him. Not lust - although certainly that was always lurking at the back of his mind when he laid his eyes on her curves, her soft skin and sensuous mouth – but protection, caring, wanting to make sure that this woman by his side would always be happy. Knowing one thing that made her so he had sighed, left the bed as quietly as he could and gone to find Sandor.
Telling him that he still had a few hours before Maester Weimar would arrive to officially bid good morning to the newlyweds – and check the sheets for signs of consummation – Jaime had sent Sandor to Sansa, hoping that she would appreciate the gesture.
It seemed that she had, as when Jaime had slipped back into the room later, she had welcomed him with a warm embrace and whispered words of thanks into his ear. She had also assured him that they had not despoiled the purity of their wedding bed by doing anything untoward in it, and Jaime found that oddly comforting.
Maester Weimar had eventually arrived, surreptitiously glanced at the sheets - probably more embarrassed about it than the new couple – and wished them a joyous new day as husband and wife.
Since then things had fallen into the same routine as before, especially after the southern troops and royal visitors had departed. King Aegon had wanted to stay longer, and both Jaime and Sansa had no doubt that it was because of Arya. Aegon had sat next to her at the wedding feast and had been so taken with the unusual young woman that for the next few days he hadn't left her alone, always following her wherever she went. Arya had taken that in her stride with remarkable patience. She might have been persuaded by Aegon's gifts in storytelling, her own interests towards the dragons and the colourful life Aegon had led across the Narrow Sea, or the fact that Aegon simply was a genuinely nice young man. He had taken her on a ride with Rhaegal and Arya had come back with her cheeks flushed, hair tousled and such a grin on her face that Jaime and Sansa had exchanged quiet glances across the room. Had Aegon found a new bride to pursue after Sansa had slipped through his fingers? Maybe so, but in any case he had left with the royal entourage without proposing and Arya had returned to Gendry's side without a word about Aegon or what had transpired between them.
One thing that gave Jaime much happiness was the time he spent with Brienne. In her absence he had thought of her often, wishing her all success on her quest, and now that she was back, he was reminded once again of the close bond they had formed.
Jaime had always found his relationships with other people rather straightforward; some individuals he detested on sight, their own actions or words condemning them in his eyes, and once he had made up his mind about someone he rarely changed his views. Most people drifted in and out of his life as politely tolerated casual acquaintances; temporary comrades in arms or links in a complicated network of alliances, political webs and alike. Some became more than that; friends and good companions, only a very few becoming truly close friends like his childhood friend Addam Marbrand and a few others. And then there were Tyrion, Sandor and Sansa, and there had been Cersei.
Brienne alone had traversed through all those phases; from a despised enemy to a tolerated presence to a respected companion to a best friend. That alone was unique. That Jaime knew how Brienne had harboured feelings towards him had made it even more complicated. That was the reason why she had initially so resolutely resisted his attempts to make her share his furs in their cold camps. When she had eventually relented, Jaime had felt her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she lay against him and her breath constricting as he had pressed his head against her shoulder. It had been hard for him to accept it, and the fact that there was nothing he could offer her in return but his friendship.
He wondered if she still felt the same. Although they spent many hours together in the training yard or in the hall sharing their experiences since the time they parted company, he couldn't detect that same wordless longing in her eyes or awkwardness whenever he got too close or touched her in their bouts with arms.
Brienne examined the hoof of her mount, frowning and clearly not liking what she saw.
"I should have paid more attention to his gait. This stone has been lodged here for too long, I don't like the way it has forced him to step awkwardly and stretched his tendons. I had better take it easy for the rest of the journey and walk him back to the keep." She glanced up towards Jaime who sat on Honor, patiently waiting for her.
"That's fine, wench, we have plenty of time before sundown."
"No, you'd better go ahead, I can manage on my own." Brienne lowered the horse's leg and straightened herself. They were returning from a long ride with some of Winterfell's troops, partly for examining the woods for outlaw activity, partly as an excuse to get out of the keep for a breath of fresh air.
"Nonsense, the others are already too far ahead and I would rather spend my time with you than ride by myself. We shall both walk, stretching my legs will do me good." Jaime dismounted and took the reins of his horse and started to walk without waiting for Brienne's answer. After a while he heard her following.
They walked in silence for a while, a cool breeze caressing their cheeks and wafting lush smells of woodland into their nostrils; sap and needles of pine trees, moss and shrubs, the scent of forest life.
Jaime felt more than saw Brienne glancing at him under her brow as they strolled ahead, their horses following on long leads. She clearly wanted to say something and he waited patiently until she was ready.
"So how does it feel to be married?" she finally asked.
"Oh, can't say I notice much difference," Jaime blurted without thinking. Only when Brienne took a deep breath did he realise how it could be construed, and Brienne's next words confirmed it.
"Really? I didn't think you so dishonourable, and Lady Sansa…I thought her to be a real lady." Brienne had taken to Sansa with admiration and respect and thought her to be a shining example of a noble lady, a culmination of all things Brienne herself could never be. Yet her tone was not judgmental, only surprised.
"No, gods, I didn't mean it that way! It is not at all as it sounded and as you obviously think – as a matter of fact, it is quite the opposite." Jaime jumbled his words. Nobody knew the truth of his marriage besides Sansa and Sandor, and he found himself embarrassed. To have been married for weeks and still not bedded his wife – what must Brienne think?
"Oh." Again silence ensued. Then she continued. "Why?"
"It is complicated. This was a political alliance, you may remember me telling so," Jaime sighed.
"But why wouldn't she…I mean, with you…" Brienne struggled to continue and Jaime was touched by her confusion and inability to understand why any woman would not want to bed him. "I understand she has been scarred by her experiences, but she will miss so much if she doesn't…"
Something in the way she said it made Jaime look at her suspiciously. She was not blushing, she sounded like she actually knew what she was talking about. That's it, I have to get it out of her!
Jaime turned, grabbed the reins out of Brienne's hands and threw them - and his own - across the necks of their mounts and seized his tall companion by the arm and dragged her to the side of the road, where he plunked her unceremoniously on the ground. She was so astonished that she let herself to be thus handled without a struggle. Jaime knelt in front of her and pressed his arms against her sides.
"Listen, wench, it is time you finally spilled the beans about what you actually did in Braavos. What do you mean, 'she will miss so much'? How would you know? Did some brave Braavosi finally go where no man has gone before; did you finally drop your breeches for some honey-tongued foreigner?"
Brienne stared at him, eyes widened, and finally he saw the familiar red creeping across her face. She looked surprised, abashed but also upset. Seeing that was like a splash of cold water on his face and he immediately felt ashamed of himself.
"My apologies, Brienne, I shouldn't have been so crude. Yet this is what companions in arms share; they compare their conquests whether in the battlefield or in the bedchamber." His poor attempt for a jape falling flat, he let her go and leaned back on his haunches.
Brienne met his gaze calmly. Jaime knew there must have been something she had lived through that she hadn't shared with him. The way she was now at ease with lewd jokes, the way she held her head up high in the company of men-at-arms and most poignantly the way she didn't stammer or go red in the face whenever Jaime became too close or grabbed her by the waist or shoulder during practise. He also knew that he had no right to ask her any of that – especially not as long as he didn't share the truth of his marriage with her, his best friend. Yet it was not only his secret to share but Sansa and Sandor's as well.
"There was a man… He was from a town deep inland and was visiting the city with his sister and his friend. They stayed at the same inn where I was waiting for Arya, and we became friends." She spoke quietly but assuredly.
"Ssshh, you don't have to tell me, it was uncouth of me to ask," Jaime pressed his finger on her lips but she brushed it aside and smiled.
"No, I don't mind, really. Actually, I want to tell someone, and who would be a better person than you?" She shifted into a more comfortable position, resting her elbows on the ground.
"I first became friends with the sister. The place where they came from didn't see women only as homemakers and child bearers, but they were allowed to train with men and take up an occupation in their own right. All three of them were guards to a merchant who travelled between their hometown and Braavos. The third man in their party was her lover, although it took me a while to realise that. Oh, their culture is so different to ours; to them I was not a freak and abomination to my sex but someone they could respect. I wrote to you about it, you may remember." She stopped and Jaime reflected on how odd it must have been for her; for the first time in her life she was considered someone worthy of admiration without it being tinged by disapproval of her way of life.
"Their friend – Savros – didn't shy away, making it clear that he enjoyed my company, and that he wanted me." Her blue eyes threw a wordless challenge at Jaime and he recognised it for what it was. You didn't want me but there was someone else who did. He lowered his gaze, ashamed of ever hurting the strong, gentle woman in front of him, even unintentionally.
"I resisted him for a long time, only wanting his companionship in a foreign country far away from home. Yet then came the day when I got the message telling me about your upcoming marriage to Sansa." She lifted her head and stared defiantly at Jaime. "That evening when he escorted me to my room as usual, I let him in."
Jaime's mind swirled. My marriage? The thought that losing her hopes about him had driven her into the arms of a stranger stung. He lifted his hand to her face, brushing across the ugly scar left by Biter's attack.
"Was he…good to you? Was he gentle?" Brienne pressed her cheek against his hand for a moment but then lifted her head and grinned, her whole expression changing.
"Yes, he was very good to me! Had I known what I had missed all those years…" She left her sentence unfinished and Jaime beamed back at her, relieved to see her glee.
"So the loss of your honour didn't really come into the picture then? And what happened then?" He moved to sit next to her and they shared a companionable smirk with each other.
"I had reconciled myself to the fact that my honour was not something worth guarding a long time ago, I just didn't expect to lose it on a foreign shore." Brienne shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. Jaime instinctively knew that she had made her decision when travelling with him, most likely hoping that he would be the one to take her maidenhead. Once again his heart constricted at the thought of how misplaced her feelings had been and how little he had deserved them.
"We shared a room since then and when Arya came around and I left, we said our goodbyes knowing that we would likely never see each other again. He was a good man and I will always think of him fondly, yet it was not meant to be more than that." Brienne looked past him and he wondered what the man had thought about losing this unique woman to her duty. Poor bastard, he must have recognised Brienne for what she was; a wonderful, gentle-hearted woman with a passion that she usually kept well-hidden.
"I am glad you had that. And Brienne, I have to tell you that you wouldn't have received anything better from me. I know you think highly of me but that is not warranted, you had better believe it. I don't deserve the affections of anyone as good as you; you know how messy my love life has been. Not only Cersei, but…" Brienne looked at him sharply and he felt she deserved to know the truth. "You know how you felt about Renly and how misguided that was because of the way he was?' Well, with me it would have been the same – although I didn't know it myself at the time."
It was Jaime's turn to look away while he waited for Brienne's reaction. It came in the form of her hand on his arm, squeezing it assuredly.
"Is that why you and Lady Sansa haven't… but with Cersei you could…?" Brienne didn't seem to find the correct words. Jaime patted her hand gently.
"It is partially because of that. Yet as I said, it is complicated, and Sansa has her reasons too." Somehow his attempt to explain the situation to an outsider raised his own ire. He was man enough to take his wife, he wanted to have her, that much was abundantly clear. What truly prevented him? Sansa had only asked him to hold back on their wedding night, and neither she nor Sandor had gainsaid his talk about cubs and pups… what indeed was preventing him from taking his wife to his bed?
He rose to his feet, extending his hand to Brienne.
"Time to walk on if we want to reach the keep before sunset. While we do that, maybe you could tell me if any of these Northerners has caught your eye? As you put it so eloquently yourself, you will miss so much if you don't!"
Brienne laughed at that and they continued their journey, japing and arguing about who in the keep might be worthy of Brienne's attentions. They both agreed that wildlings had a healthy view about the role of women; they admired strength and bravery above all things and a fighting woman was to them something to admire rather than to abhor. No special candidate stood apart, but just knowing that Brienne was ready for one eased Jaime's mind.
Since the wedding Jaime had slept alone in his handsome new rooms. Although he knew Sansa continued to have Sandor visit her chambers, it didn't happen every night. Whether this was a courtesy extended to him in recognition of their newly wedded state, or if that had been their pattern before, he didn't know and didn't want to ask.
The door to Sansa's bedroom was not barred except when her paramour was with her. Then Jaime sometimes heard the quiet click of metal when it was bolted, carefully as to not attract his attention. Yet at the sound of it he couldn't avoid the images flooding into his head about Sandor taking Sansa into his arms, the two of them falling on the bed, Sansa's red tresses mingling with Sandor's black, the sight of her pale skin against Sandor's tanned and scarred arms… The wall was heavy and the door made of sturdy wood so he never heard the sounds they made, but he still often pressed a pillow over his head to shield his mind from the two of them.
No matter how hard he examined himself he couldn't detect any traces of the jealousy Sandor had referred to when he had told Jaime how he would care about his wife fucking another man once they were married. No, it was not that – he genuinely had accepted Sandor as his wife's lover. No, it was something else. It was that he felt so left out of their happiness, when he would have wanted even a small part of it for himself. He truly didn't mind sharing, but that assumed that he actually possessed something he could share. More than in a name only.
Yet many evenings the door was left invitingly open and he spent many pleasant moments with Sansa, going through the events of the day or playing cyvasse or other board games with her. Sometimes Sandor joined them, sometimes Arya or Brienne. Yet he liked best the evenings when it was only he and his wife, and at the end of the evening before he retired to his rooms he kissed Sansa goodnight. A peck on her cheek or her forehead, and a murmured "Sleep well, wife".
Jaime had stayed in the Great Hall later than usual, caught up in tall tales with a group of young knights visiting from the Neck. The mood was jovial, conversation rambling and as evening progressed and more wine and ale was consumed, increasingly coarse and unruly as often happened when a group of young males got together. The wenches inevitably crept into the discussion and boasts were made, tales of conquests between the sheets told and joys experienced shared. The beauty of ladies was also praised in more respectful tones. The boldest of the visitors threw a sly look at Jaime.
"What the rest of us may have pales in comparison with what our gracious host here has; the fairest lady in the realm warming his bed! Tell us, Ser Jaime, is it true that redheads are twice as passionate as those with fairer hair?"
The others, emboldened by drink, joined the inquirer, throwing their own questions or assessments of redheads in general, or of the charms of Lady Sansa in particular. Jaime didn't mind at first; men were men and meant no disrespect. Yet as it became obvious that all of them were openly envious of him for his wife and what they thought were many nights of passion he shared with her, his irritation grew. If they only knew!
He threw back more wine that he had intended and felt himself getting increasingly drunk. Eventually he stood up, declared that it was time for him to go and enjoy his good fortune and left the table to the sound of wolf-whistles and chortles from his fellows.
Entering his bedroom he noticed that the door to Sansa's room was closed. He crept closer to see if it was bolted, and noticing that it was not, he knocked on the door. Despite his inebriated state he felt a twinge of nervousness. It was late, would Sansa let him in? Why did he even want her to? Had he allowed the comments the men had made to influence him; had he fallen into the pretence that their relationship was what the others thought it to be; lustful and passionate, not a night going by without its consummation?
Sansa called him in and he pressed the handle, pushed the door open and stepped inside. Sansa was sitting on a stool brushing her hair, dressed only in her nightshift, glancing at him via the mirror.
"Jaime, what an unexpected visit! I thought you would stay up late with our brave knights from the Neck." She continued her task, accepting his presence with ease. Jaime looked at her and the way her hair shone in the candle light. He took a few steps and held out his hand, his silent offer being accepted by Sansa, who after scrutinising him for a moment gave him the brush. Jaime continued to pull it through her locks, admiring their softness.
Sansa sat still, seemingly enjoying his ministrations. She closed her eyes and Jaime couldn't resist the temptation of pressing his head against the back of her head and breathing in her scent.
"I shared a few drinks with our visitors. Young men, eager for glory and brave deeds, even more eager to please their Warden of the North," he mumbled against her hair. Sansa froze and didn't move.
"Every man is keen to please you, my lady, and they envy me as they think I am the only one who can actually do that. Ha! If they only knew." Bitterness he didn't know he carried within him showed itself in his tone but he was past caring, drink having dulled his wits.
"You please me very much, Jaime," Sansa said softly.
"Yes, I please you with my sparkling wittiness, with my skills in cyvasse and with my unswerving loyalty. Yet there are more ways I would like to please you, dear wife, if I only were allowed." He didn't lift his head but moved to press his lips against the crown of her head. He dropped the brush and let his arms slither down her sides, his good hand caressing her shoulder and sliding down to brush the side of her breast.
"Do you know that sometimes in their cups men ask me if I take my golden hand into bed with you and whether I pleasure you with it, or if you prefer my stump better? And then they laugh and smirk and I would like to punch their heads in with it but still I don't, because I know that they mean no harm and are only covetous of my good fortune. And I answer to them that I do exactly as my lady wife wishes me to, and what she does is not their bloody business." He continued to skim his hand over the top of her shift, crushing the sheer fabric in his fist when he reached her hip, lifting the hem so that he could glimpse the curve of her calves and her bare feet.
"I would like to please you with my touch, with my hand on your skin. I am not completely useless with it, even though I have only one with which to give pleasure to a woman, you know. I would press my mouth on your smooth belly and kiss and suck and lick it and slowly make my way down between your legs and enjoy my wife as everyone thinks I already do…" He forgot for a moment where he was and who with, and let his careless talk to reveal the desires that had tormented him many a night since their wedding.
Sansa tensed under his hand and that small involuntary moment woke him up from his momentary lapse.
"Gods, my apologies, Sansa. I am too damn drunk, I shouldn't have come here. I'll leave now." He took a step back, cursing how he had let his feelings show so blatantly.
Sansa stood up as well, gathering her skirts around her. She looked serious but to Jaime's relief there was no anger on her face.
"I know it must be hard for you and I am so sorry about it."
"Never mind, I knew what I got myself into when I suggested this marriage. You have nothing to reproach yourself for." Jaime took a few steps towards the door and Sansa moved at the same time towards her bed which was situated next to the entrance to Jaime's room. They almost collided with each other, but Jaime stopped just in time to avoid it.
"Well, good night, dear wife," he offered, leaning towards her as always for a chaste kiss. Sansa offered her cheek and his lips brushed it, feeling its softness. Without being conscious of how it happened, the next thing Jaime knew was that his lips had reached hers. Just one kiss, he thought to himself, bent over her and closed his eyes. Sansa took a step back and Jaime's intoxication made him lose his balance and fall heavily against her.
Sansa had no strength to support his weight and so they both fell on her bed, Sansa on her back, Jaime sprawled on top of her. He sobered immediately.
"Damn! I am sorry, you must think me a brute. Let me just get my bearings," he murmured and started to lift himself.
"No." Sansa's voice was quiet but her message was clear enough.
"I know; I didn't mean this but I am just too bloody drunk." Before Jaime had moved away he felt her hand on his shoulder, pressing him against her.
"I mean, don't go." Jaime stopped and looked at her in surprise. What on earth did she mean by that?
Sansa shifted so that she could lift her legs onto the bed and squirmed to make room by her side for Jaime. She didn't let go of her hold of him and mutely Jaime followed suit and stretched himself out next to her. As they were lying there, Sansa on her back and Jaime on his side, he looked at her and lifted his eyebrows questioningly. Sansa stared back at him and in her eyes he could see something expectant. Did she mean what he thought she did?
"You don't have to leave. You are my husband in front of the Seven and we are supposed to be as one." She lowered her eyes and bit her lip before shooting a glance at him again. "Unless you want to."
"Want to? Leave you?" Jaime couldn't believe his ears. Or his eyes. He saw a faint blush sweeping across Sansa's face and throat. Tentatively he lifted his hand and traced his fingers along her cheek, dropping them to her collarbone, then following the neckline of her shift until they reached the spot between her breasts. She was breathing unevenly and he watched in fascination the roundness of her breasts as they rose and lowered in pace with it. He stopped there, not sure what he should do next.
Sansa's hand, still resting on his shoulder, started to move down his flank until it reached the hem of his tunic and slipped under it. Her fingers stroked the bare skin of his stomach and chest and he felt himself tense. Then she stayed her hand but her eyes didn't leave his.
Carefully, very slowly he slid his hand down her front until it was below her waist. He splayed his palm against her stomach and slid it further down until it rested where her legs joined. He felt how she shifted them slightly apart and taking it as the encouragement it undoubtedly was, he slid his hand even further, cupping her mound. Then he stopped.
It was a strange game they played. Still not dropping her eyes Sansa moved her hand again, turning it so that her knuckles brushed against his skin, dipping her fingers under the waistband of his breeches. Inevitably his cock had been hard from the first moment she had touched his skin and now he felt the tips of her fingers excruciatingly close to it.
"Sansa, are you sure?" he murmured in a low voice. Neither of them was naive about the ways of the world; what they were doing could not be explained as curious exploration or innocent touching.
Sansa's pupils had dilated so much that her eyes were dark and mysterious when she slowly nodded her head. Her fingers started to tug the fastenings of his breeches and Jaime raised his upper body and helped her by pulling the hem of his tunic over his head. Without saying a word they undressed each other; first Jaime, then Sansa.
Once again Jaime cursed the loss of his hand. He would have wanted to slide both of his hands down her slender body, to caress and touch every single curve and recess, to pull her hard against him. As things were, he did as much as he could with his one hand and Sansa received his caresses with evident enjoyment, sighing deeply when he did as he had said and pressed his face against the flat of her stomach, kissing, licking and sucking, making his way to the moist softness of her sex.
When he finally rested his elbows on either side of her head and positioned his member between her thighs, he felt a moment of hesitation. Yet Sansa cupped her hands against his buttocks and pulled him closer, welcoming him inside her. The feeling of her tightness and the sight of her face twisted in the rapture of the moment made him feel a renewed swell of desire and he started to pound into her relentlessly.
After a while Jaime rose up to his arms and let his eyes sweep her form; her firm breasts, the curve of her hip and belly, the sight of the auburn curly hair covering her womanhood where they were joined. He noticed the round mark next to her left breast, almost identical to the one he had noticed on Sandor a while back. He had asked him about it, curious about what kind of calamity had left such a strange scar, but Sandor had only brushed his inquiry aside. Seeing a similar mark on Sansa shed some light on it, although he was still left wondering what strange tradition it reflected.
That Sandor also saw Sansa like this didn't make him jealous or resentful – on the contrary, Jaime felt this was his way of sharing some of the intimacy he so coveted with Sandor. Then Sansa opened her eyes and when she looked at him he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was looking at him, that she was perfectly aware that it was her husband, her Jaime, who was inside her this very moment. He resumed his thrusting and could feel his release coming hard and fast, and from the way Sansa responded to him he suspected she was not far behind.
In the end she peaked first, and seeing her unravel in front of him undid Jaime. He made a half-hearted attempt to pull himself away to spill his seed on her belly but she had none of that and the thought of his come filling her gave him yet another surge of immense satisfaction.
That night Jaime stayed in Sansa's bed the whole night and had never felt better.
