*Final* chapter, but also the longest, probably should be rated M, you've been advised.

The afternoon ceremony was much less of an ordeal than it would have been back at Casterly Rock, so that was already a point in its favor, Jaime considered. Lord Selwyn had insisted on a handful of witnesses, unsurprisingly, but they made a small group. The septon waited at the head of the hall. Brienne, he was pleased to see, had made the concession of a blue dress which she probably meant to replace the moment she decently could, but she looked nice. Maybe he'd help her take it off, if she let him. She was nervous as all hells, he didn't need to be within twenty feet of her to see that.

He wanted to tell her that none of this mattered, but with her father in earshot that probably wasn't the best message to announce. Later.

He took her icy hand and squeezed as they stood together saying the words, whatever words they were saying. None of it registered particularly except the moment he covered her with his cloak. That represented everything, and he took it seriously. And as subdued as she'd been, she looked up at him with trust.

Which gave him a moment of self-doubt. Gods, he hoped he wasn't going to let her down, on purpose or otherwise.

But it was done, and they were being politely applauded, and the septon was delivering his concluding words.

Jaime didn't especially relish the performative aspect of kissing Brienne in front of everyone, but it would have seemed insulting not to, and more than that, he didn't want her to feel rejected. So he took her hands in his at the end and kissed her respectfully the way he'd done (or tried to do) the night before. Her response was willing, if hesitant. They'd have to work on that. Again, later. When no one else was around.

They endured two more hours of a decorous evening dinner and celebration which was equally, thankfully, restrained, and then they could go.

"Fuck," Jaime announced, wholeheartedly, when he was finally leading her down the hallway with the unspoken but clear expectation (not his) that they go forth and produce an heir, probably that very moment.

Brienne made a sound of similar relief, but worded it more gracefully: "I thought we should never be done."

"I did tell him we weren't going to stand for too much of it." Jaime had thought he might be feeling trapped right about now, but oddly enough he felt light. Brienne was actually so undemanding, (compared to the noblewomen he knew, including his sister) and her own need for independence and freedom was so aligned with his own.

"I am glad it's over." They had both been striding, but suddenly she pulled back on his hand. "Wait, where are we going?"

"Right now? My room?"

"But—"

"We do have to sleep," he reminded her. "We're not leaving until tomorrow."

"But can't we—"

"What?" He spared a bit of a smile for her skittishness.

"Go...go for a...a walk?"

"You want to sleep outside on your wedding night?"

From the look on her face she rather did.

"What have you got against beds, woman?" He gave her hand a jesting squeeze.

"Or we could—"

"Brienne."

"I don't know how to do any of this," she nearly wailed.

He growled in mostly indulgent exasperation. "I haven't gotten married before either, all right?"

"It's different," she said, her chin setting mutinously.

"Do as you're told and we'll be fine."

He meant it as another jest but she took it wrongly and seeing her expression he protested at once, "I'm joking. I'm not serious. Why are you so worried? Gods, wench."

She tilted her head in reproof.

"Come," he said, making an effort to sound gentle, and she followed him the rest of the way to his quarters.

Once there, he asked her if she wanted to drink, but she did not, determined apparently to be in possession of all her senses. Which was fair.

"Are you going to take this off?" he asked, running his hand along the sleeve of her dress from shoulder to elbow. Brienne shivered a little. "Do we have to?"

"We don't have to do anything. Want to fight?" he said invitingly.

"I can't fight in a dress."

"So take it off then."

"We also don't have our swords."

"Don't think we'll need them tonight."

She was blushing. "I cannot take this dress off in front of you."

"I've seen you less clothed," he reminded. "In the bath? When you thought I wasn't looking?"

Brienne gaped at him. "How could you?"

"I can look now," he said. Challenged.

Her gaze wavered, but she did not deny it.

He reached for the strings at her neck but she stopped his hands.

"The bed," she whispered.

Right, the bed. The floor, up against the door, he didn't care.

They met on either side of the bed and he pulled his shirt off.

Brienne scrambled under the covers and thrashed around for far too long trying to remove her clothing. He took his pants and boots off in the meantime and ripped his side of the covers open to join her.

Finally.

He kissed her hard, and put his hands all over her, pausing only once to pull the blanket away and check on the condition of her collarbone scar. Healed nicely now, and he dropped a kiss there too, then moved further south to breasts and stomach. Brienne gasped and held his head close. They were both hungry. There was going to be no delicacy and he hoped she could handle that because he wasn't planning on taking his time, not tonight, not right now. They had no words for each other. It was fierce and desperate and satisfying.

And quick.

Perhaps too quick, he thought, raising his head to read her expression. She had...a tiny smile? He hoped?

"I don't know that face," he whispered, momentarily and unfamiliarly self-conscious.

"You're so warm," she whispered back, wriggling a little. He grunted with the pleasure of it; the strength of her legs around him, yet the softness deep between them. He didn't want to come away from her. As far as he was concerned they could sleep thus. But eventually she shifted, and he rolled to the side, pulling her against him. She snuggled her face against his neck and put a tentative arm across his chest. He murmured in approval of the closeness. As long as she was contented too. If she wasn't, they could work on it later; he needed a few minutes.

They both dozed off before long, in a cocoon of warmth and satiation. At some point in the early morning, while the light was still pale and feeble, Jaime stirred again, having dreamt of things completely unrelated and startled, pleased, to find Brienne still at his side. She'd turned, though, her backside pressed against his stomach, her head trapping his arm. He rose up on his free elbow and reached for her, running his hand along the length of her body and squeezing anything soft. She made a surprised sound of awakening. He leaned over her and began to drop kisses along her neck, where her hair was curling, growing longer. He took his time, this time, and both of them were rewarded for it.

Later still, after more sleep and the sun had climbed still higher in the sky, they woke.

"Must we get up?" Brienne murmured, her lips next to his ear.

He stretched, lengthily, languorously, tucking a hand around her backside, because it was there, and he could. "If we want to be on a ship by tonight."

"We don't have to."

"When did you get lazy?" He used his leg to pull hers closer.

"It's only the first day," she murmured, sounding embarrassed.

"It's a good day to get this—" he squeezed again—"back in the saddle."

"Jaime, please. Promise me you won't talk like that—or do that—around other people."

"I do not believe I wish to make such a promise." He cocked his head to be able to look at her. Her mouth tightened. He leaned and kissed it open and yielding again, until she was breathless.

"Now get up," he said, pushing aside the blankets to her protesting squeal, "and get some proper clothes on, and let's go."

"Yes, my lord," she murmured, only slightly sarcastic, gathering the blankets to her chest while he got dressed.

In fact, they did not manage to get on the road until considerably later—Lord Selwyn wanted some words and final lunch together and then there was the amassing of supplies, given that they had such a long journey back to Casterly Rock. Still, their horses were up for the challenge of reaching the port by nightfall, and they managed to get the last ship of the day leaving the island.

The crossing was not leisurely—it was busier and more crowded than their first arrival, necessitating them both being in one room which meant there was little chance of sleep and less still of any intimacy. When the ship finally docked and they were able to resume their journey by horseback, leaving the city, their silence was less companionable and more travel-worn.

Jaime knew his new wife wouldn't complain of fatigue; before doing that, she'd probably ride until she fell off the horse. So it was up to him to call a stop to travel for that night, once they were away from the city and its environs. They could easily have stopped by expecting the hospitality of Storm's End again, but without discussing it neither of them had wanted to, not under the mantle of their fledgling relationship.

They bedded down in hedgerows again, after a quick bite of packed provisions. Here, too, there was no notion of removing clothes or engaging in other pleasurable pursuits; it was cold, and they snuggled together chastely to sleep away the darkness.

Morning brought the predicted aches and pains of back-to-back nights without a bed. Brienne was game, however; she made a fire and boiled some tea to wash down their breakfasts and warm up by. Jaime knew he should not let her get comfortable doing this, or he would get used to it. But if it pleased her to do so occasionally, he would not argue overmuch.

They travelled well that day on the north road again to Bronzegate, with their first planned stop in a fortnight being King's Landing, from where they would take the long road west. Before that, of course, there were yet many miles to ride and nights to sleep. Before reaching Bronzegate they stopped by the side of a river and had a quick bath in its cold water and an equally quick interval of coupling afterwards, rolled up in blankets. There was no time or privacy for much else. Once they reached the town's environs, Jaime was looking forward to the prospects of warm water, food, and a bed. He noticed Brienne always got quieter when other people were around, particularly now that they were formally a couple. It gave him pause when he considered the vast community of his ancestral home, but that was a problem for later days.

Tonight, they were settled at a busy inn, with their own room and fireplace and a chance to bathe before having a proper meal. It was really their first such opportunity since leaving the island. Brienne was embarrassed by the domesticity of it, he could tell. She made him leave her alone while she had her bath, and because she was not coquettish about it he didn't tease her overmuch.

"Sure you don't want to stay in here?" he asked, once they both were clean and dressed again, standing together in the middle of the room.

"I will come," Brienne said, "unless..."

He raised eyebrows.

"You don't want me to."

"Why wouldn't I want that?"

"Perhaps you could drink more freely," she said, running fingers through her hair with a serious expression.

"I'll drink freely whether you're there or not," he answered, since there hadn't been any alcohol of any kind since their wedding night.

"Hm," Brienne said, not approving.

"You can tell me if you don't like something," he said, "but that doesn't mean I won't do it."

"I already know that about you."

He smiled. "When did you first learn it?"

Brienne smoothed down the front of her clean tunic. "When we first fought, perhaps. Or when you nearly took the hand off that poor boy." She gave him a glare of memory. "And then mine, for that matter."

"I would never waste a good sword-hand like that. Should have threatened to take your tongue."

She pursed her lips at him.

"What's that? You want a kiss?" He grabbed her belt and pulled her close, while she dug in her heels, resisting. On principle, he assumed; she liked him, he was fairly certain of it by now. Maybe she just liked the things they did while rolling around together.

She smiled a little, but only let him access the side of her neck. "Fine," he said, "I'll have it later."

In the common room, filled to capacity with all manner of people, there was scarcely a space to be found to sit and he was about to find someone to bring them food upstairs after all, but then some soldiers were leaving a table. One of them pushed past Jaime and he probably would have let it pass—it was crowded—but then the same one stopped at Brienne, trod on her foot, and then announced, "Gods, what a brick wall!" when she regrouped.

Neither he nor Brienne wore anything to identify themselves, but this fellow was in house Buckler colors. It didn't matter. He saw her face, she shook her head. It was always a challenge in a crowded room to withdraw one's sword swiftly, but he was ready nevertheless. "You offend me." The man was half unseeing, so thoroughly drunk, but that was no excuse. "Worse," Jaime continued, "you offend my lady."

"I am quite well," Brienne protested.

"There, she's in no need of a bodyguard," the soldier fairly belched, "even has her own sword, look at that." Jaime could have had his entrails spilling with one slash, and it was very tempting; he was tired, thirsty, and hungry.

"Please let it go," Brienne hissed at him between teeth.

"Apologize or suffer," Jaime said, keeping it simple.

"Suffer what?" some chirpy friend asked.

"Bleeding from a hole you didn't have before," Jaime said. He didn't have the patience for anything more elaborate. They appeared to evaluate that. There was a bit of a crowd drawing. But at the same time, mostly nobody was paying attention. Brienne was mortified, he knew, but that couldn't be his first concern. It was probably never going to be his first concern, if he was completely honest with himself.

They could've fought. There were at least four of them. But they were all very well inebriated.

Someone milling about them recognized him. He heard it's the Kingslayer. Jaime Lannister, that is.

It wasn't often he was recognized this far east. Fuck. Now they'd back down.

He got a bit of respectful elbow room from all sides.

Heads began to duck. "Apologies, my lord. My lady."

Who is she then? No one seemed to have put that together yet. Jaime re-sheathed the sword and took a breath of irritation. The men shuffled past, cowed.

"Now everyone is looking at us," Brienne said through thin lips once they were sitting.

He shrugged and took off his cloak. "I didn't plan that."

"I was completely fine!"

"He ran into you, I saw him."

"Are you really going to do this?" she demanded, leaning low over the rough-hewn table as if that made them any less visible.

"Do what?"

"Every time someone gets remotely in my way? Do you know—if I had a coin for every time someone walked into me and said something stupid—if I took offense every time—"

"Well, I'm not used to it," he retorted, trying to quell the irritation but it was growing again. He put up an arm to notify a harried servant and gestured for alcohol. "And you do not get to tell me how to handle things, remember?"

Brienne sucked in air, placed her fingers along the table carefully. "I am not telling you, my lord. I am asking you. I will beg if necessary. Please. Do not intervene on my behalf."

He leaned back, locked his own hands behind his neck momentarily and then leaned forward again. "I thought you understood what it meant when I put my cloak around you in your father's hall."

She reddened painfully. "I did. I do."

"It meant I don't stand by and say handle it yourself, Brienne, because you can." Could that damn girl bring the ale, or whatever passed for it here, any more slowly?

"And," he added, since her eyes were sparkling, or sparking, hard to know which, "you'd better not be about to cry, because you never did that before, so do not start now."

She gave him a smile that was more of an angry grimace. "I am not about to cry. But I do believe I will return to the room."

"Why?" Now that they were here, now that they'd made the scene, might as well stay to ignore it, or enjoy it.

"I am not hungry."

"Look at you lying so nicely to me. Wasn't that in our vows?"

Hm, that might have been going a little far. He probably wasn't going to get that kiss later.

At least the alcohol had arrived; the girl dropped it off and vanished. Jaime poured some quickly, while Brienne stared at him. Then she slid out from the bench, and said, "I may be sleeping when you return. Please do so quietly."

He widened his eyes at the jug of ale like it was his companion. Well, it would have to be, for now.

In fact, as it happened, he wasn't left alone for long. Some gentlemen from lesser houses who'd recognized him joined his table, along with whatever women they had with them (some of lower repute, but he wasn't about to judge). They were politely curious about Brienne, but were left guessing—Jaime could evade questions better than anyone, and redirect conversations with utter ease, even when drunk (though he was careful not to become so—Brienne had been fairly clear in her parting warning). Never mind going to sleep, she was probably going to be waiting up with her knife out.

Brienne was almost too angry to cry this night. It wasn't even as if the fellow downstairs had injured her—he'd barely stubbed his toe against her boot, for all of that—and even if he had, she could easily have sought redress without violence as the initial option. Why did he behave so? Did all men behave so? Did all husbands? No, he had done it before. And this time everyone had been watching them. They would never have been able to eat their dinner in quiet peace and, as she had been hoping, finally share a conversation that wasn't exchanged over the backs of their horses. She had no wish to cultivate an argument with Jaime, particularly on a night when there were no comforting woods in which to flee should solitude be preferable, but she also didn't know if she could fall so easily to sleep as she had indicated.

She stoked the fire with far more energy than needed, hoping meanly he would come in already hot from drinking and find it sweltering.

Besides, she was cold, she thought, rather more virtuously, and that was her primary motivation.

She laid down in the bed. As beds went, it was comfortable, though not very wide. She jammed the bolster in the middle and lay close to the edge. Enough time passed that it seemed she might be able to sleep after all, and then his voice outside: "I'm coming in. Don't stab me."

Why didn't I think of that? I could have pretended I thought you an intruder.

Brienne closed her eyes, stubbornly.

Jaime opened the door and entered, closing it behind him only to turn and announce, "It's hotter than seven hells in here, did you burn an entire tree?"

He had not drunk that much; she could tell. This pleased her, but not nearly enough.

Jaime whipped his shirt off, swearing mildly at the innocent fireplace. "I know you're not sleeping," he added.

She opened her eyes and glared, trying not to get distracted by his chest, his scars that she was already coming to love, the flatness of his stomach.

Now he was taking his pants off. Well, the plan of overheating the room appeared to have backfired. He sauntered over and peeled back the blanket. "How do you still have clothes on?"

She sat upright and said calmly, "I'm not sleeping naked next to you tonight." Or any night soon, angry Brienne added. Days ago, perhaps even just hours ago, she would have blushed to verbalize such a bold statement, but she was beginning to realize he needed to be told things plainly.

"You didn't have a problem with it yesterday afternoon."

This was irrefutable, except, of course, that they hadn't been actually sleeping at any point. She continued to glare at him regally.

He reached for her shirt.

"Touch me," she said, evading, "at your peril."

His eyes narrowed. "Really."

And then he did touch her, so they wrestled—not in jest—for a few moments, discovering fairly quickly that they were well-matched. Jaime eventually pinned her, but she thrust a knee warningly towards his groin.

"I would not do that," he grunted.

"Let me up or I will."

"You need," he said, lowering his head to bite her neck, "to learn your place."

"My place is not under you." Brienne nudged just hard enough to make him let go of a wrist and then she'd twisted away, rising up on her knees to face him. He was up too, mirroring that pose, and for a few heartbeats they glared at each other, then he was tugging at her belt and she let him because she wanted to.

It wasn't lovemaking, she didn't have words for what it was beyond attraction and thwarted anger and need. Maybe there didn't have to be words for it. She scarcely knew what they were doing; all over the bed, in all kinds of positions and formulations and angry breathing and teeth and lips. Both of them were glistening with sweat by the end, and he rolled away with a satisfied grunt that was so arrogant she felt compelled to grit out through kiss-swollen lips, "I did not enjoy that."

"That's not what it sounded like just now," he muttered lazily against her breastbone.

"Yes, well, you are certainly not the first man to have been fooled by what it sounded like," Brienne said with false sweetness.

"You have the tongue of a sandsnake." He lifted his head to look at her now, mouth partly open. "Who would have taught you to say something like that?"

"I pay attention," she replied, coolly.

"Hm. Maybe next time we'll stop halfway and see if you want to keep going or not."

"You are very arrogant."

"I know. Do you know how stubborn you are?"

"I prefer to think of myself as persistent."

He made a scoffing sound and moved his jaw against her neck, rasping her skin, but she rather liked that. Possessively, she dug fingers into his shoulders, then just as impulsively, pushed him away. "I am hungry."

"You're lucky I knew that was a lie, earlier." He climbed off the bed with an exaggerated stretch of his limbs, then found his clothes and rummaged through a pocket.

"What is that?" She sat up, pulling the blanket to her chest with her.

He produced half a slightly squashed meat pie and displayed it with nonchalance. "Saved it for you."

"Oh," Brienne murmured, avidly. Scarcely had anything ever looked so good. She was ravenous.

"I was going to give it earlier," he remarked, sitting back down on the bed while she consumed the portion, "but the heat may have cooked my memory."

She side-eyed him and swallowed the last bit. It was delicious. "You might have brought more," she criticized.

"We ate the rest."

"We?"

"I found some acquaintances. Well. They found me."

"Who were they?" Brienne dusted the covers off and pulled her knees up to her chest, tucking the blanket round herself. It might still be sweltering, but she was not going to lounge in the nude the way he seemed comfortable to.

"No one you know." He spoke matter-of-factly, not dismissively, while gazing at the fireplace. "No one you would care to know."

"Were they women?"

He looked back at her with the ghost of a smile. "There were women."

"I suppose you were charming them?" She pretended not to care while busying herself by playing with some errant threads in the blanket's edge.

"No more than usual, why?"

Brienne shook her head slightly, still looking down. "I'm not under any illusions," she told the blanket.

"Such as...?" Jaime prompted.

She resolutely picked at the frayed edge. "That you would do things any differently now, than you would before."

"If you mean regarding women, I told you before, I'm not in the habit of doing that, and I'm not about to start now. Though there are certainly times when it's important to know how to charm the other sex, wouldn't you agree?"

"I am not in the habit of charming anyone for any reason, so no, I wouldn't."

"Ah," Jaime said. "Well, that is because charm is artifice, and you are mostly guileless."

It sounded like a compliment, but Brienne couldn't be sure. She also wasn't sure how they'd gone from savage to serious in so few moments. It left her uncertain.

"Anything else you're worried about?"

She bristled a little at that. "You're no septon to whom I should confess."

He put up hands. "Only trying to set your mind at ease, if such a thing can be done."

Brienne relented. "Thank you," she said, "—for the pie."

"I should be a poor husband indeed if I starved you," he said, but somewhat distantly, as if his mind were already on other things. She felt somewhat badly. Perhaps she was being difficult. Touching the bed beside her, she offered, "Come now and sleep," by way of concession.

"Mm." He swung over on the other side and settled down. She offered him half of the blanket, and wriggled down until she was properly flat. They lay chastely side-by-side on their backs, a completely different picture than earlier.

"Good night," she said softly to the ceiling.

He put a hand on her hip and gently turned her towards him. Brienne complied, squirming lower so she could rest her ear against the steady thump of his heart just under his warm chest.

Two months later

Casterly Rock.

After a quarter of a year away, it felt less like home and more like just another place to rest his head, but Jaime was glad to see the end of their journey, anyway. Not that it had been a terribly difficult one; he and Brienne had gotten more comfortable with each other as the days had piled into weeks, and they had encountered no major trials. They'd had the odd spat, but usually resolved them quickly, and were beginning to be aware of the other's moods and needs.

Of course, here were new trials. His father, brother, sister foremost among them. He hadn't seen Brienne so visibly nervous since the first days following their ceremony. He'd thought it a kindness to present her to each of his family members in person before attempting to bring her to one of their very grand and very public dinners. It had not gone well. Cersei had hated her on sight and made no effort to hide it. Tyrion had been cordial enough, but clearly not understanding Jaime's reasoning (not that he had tried to explain it, yet). Tywin had been barely civil—which Jaime had steeled himself to expect and told a crestfallen Brienne later in private that it had nothing to do with her and everything to with Tywin's lack of involvement in the choosing of the bride. He assured her that they would warm to her but he was not at all sure that they would.

Now, he knocked perfunctorily on the door of Brienne's quarters, adjoining his, and came in before waiting for her personal servant to answer. She was attending to her lady in front of a mirror, the dinner hour being soon to arrive.

Brienne, except for looking miserable, would present very well, Jaime thought, gazing at her reflected face in the mirror. Though she'd probably wanted to hack it off at various points in their journey, she'd let her hair grow, and her maid had brushed it to a gleaming shine down the back of her neck. Simple jewels sparkled at the top. She was wearing a long dress of some silvery color or other; it matched his gold, but he mostly appreciated the way it clung to her strong white shoulders. The straps covered the scar, but he leaned over and peeled one away anyway, just to run his fingers across it. The maid ducked into the background, politely giving them some privacy.

Brienne put her hand up to touch his. He found it cold, gave it a squeeze.

"I don't know what these are," she said with a touch of petulance, angling her head to look at the gemstones decorating it.

"Very expensive Lannister jewels," he said dryly. "Try not to drop them in the soup."

"I shall simply not move my head for two hours, I suppose."

"You look nice," he said. He'd never called her beautiful. She wasn't beautiful. It wasn't what he'd married her for, nor what held his attention when she was close. She was his Brienne.

She tried to smile.

"You don't need to be nervous. There's only a—" he gestured "—few people you haven't met yet, and they don't matter. Cousins. Uncles."

"If they are Lannisters they matter," Brienne said, with a tiny sigh.

"Fuck 'em," he said. "I'm the only one who matters."

"And I will come with you to see the troops tomorrow?"

"Of course, if you keep the jewels out of the soup," he jested. "You can put them through their paces if you desire to. You can lead them into the field. You can declare war on—"

"Stop," she said.

He smiled into the mirror at her. "As my lady wishes. Are you ready to go down?"

"I do not feel so, but I suppose it is time."

He took her hand for her to rise.

"Wait, Jaime. Is there anything I shouldn't talk about?"

"Probably quite a few things," he reflected, "but I wouldn't worry. Say what you like."

She rolled her eyes at him.

They went below together.

The hall was all candles and music, light and shadow, laughter and voices familiar and strange. Jaime led Brienne behind him to his place at his father's side, though she was keeping such a tight grip on his hand that he couldn't have let her go if he'd tried. On the other side, Tyrion, Cersei. Bemused and insincere smiles, respectively.

They sat, exchanged pleasantries. Cersei murmured something superficially polite but catty in tone about Brienne's dress. Tyrion raised a glass in ironic toast to Jaime. They rolled their eyes and drank at the same time.

Tywin watched everyone with his unflappable expression.

Jaime had to remind Brienne to eat; she was too nervous to consider it, and barely touched her drink. He slid his knee sideways under the table to bump hers, hoping she knew he meant less hostage, more smile. She did not seem to get the message because she stepped on his foot. Rather hard. He winced and kept his knees to himself after that.

But she did seem to relax as the night progressed, and someone on her other side was genuinely polite to her and engaged her in brief conversation, and Jaime silently vowed he'd find a castle somewhere to gift that person if they didn't already have one. The evening passed more quickly after that, and with nothing terrible said by any of his relatives that he knew about. Which was still a possibility, since after the meal concluded they found themselves separated for a short time; someone pulled him off into conversation, and moments later when he looked around to find Brienne again she had disappeared with someone else. It wasn't until considerably later that they managed to escape to their rooms.

Jaime closed the door on their suite thanking the gods that all had gone tolerably well.

Brienne's skin was luminous in the candlelight. He came over to help her out of her dress, since he'd already sent the servant away. "I can't get this off," he muttered after only a few heartbeats of trying.

"Leave it on then," she said, sliding it up over her hips and leaning back on the bed.

He got his own clothes off pretty quickly and joined her.

"Mm," she murmured, later, when they were tangled and hot and satisfied, and he was running fingers idly up and down the length of her spine.

"Was dinner terrible?" he muttered into her ear.

"The food?" she murmured back.

"No, my family."

"Hm..."

"I lost you, for a little; I thought one of them might have cornered you."

"Yes. Your father did."

"Seven hells. What did he have to say?"

She made an amused sound in her throat.

He raised himself up on an elbow and tried to pick out her expression in the dim light. "Brienne, what did he say?"

Her shoulder, bare of the dress straps now, went up in a small shrug. "He talked about...things, and asked me, how long it had been since our wedding, and I told him what I could remember."

This seemed harmless enough, but his father did not really partake in small talk.

"And then he asked when we were planning on expecting a child," Brienne said, as if this were a completely standard question to be asked upon second acquaintance.

Jaime winced. "And how did you answer that?"

Brienne was quiet for a brief space. "I told him that he could not possibly expect to be more than the third person in line to find out that information, if and when it came to light."

Jaime blew out a breath. Not a statement of which he would expect Lord Tywin to approve. "Then what?"

"Then he laughed," Brienne said. "And he said that he wondered if, in choosing me, his son had finally done something right."

He was momentarily silenced.

"I agreed that you may have done," Brienne added. "But then I warned him that I will not always agree with him. And that I will not be like any daughter-in-law he might have been imagining."

Jaime tried to marshal his thoughts into a coherent sentence. "I—suppose he knows where he stands with you, then."

"You did tell me to say whatever I liked," she reminded him.

"I did," he concurred. "Kiss me, wife, and let's get some sleep. There's a great deal to show you tomorrow."

She complied, smiling against his mouth, and they curled up together in the vast featherbed.

END