Chapter 3: Ever Just Out of Grasp
Jaime III
On the fourth day back at sea, the waters are choppy. They push and pull the ship in such a way that his stomach flips and tumbles with it. Each rough, turbulent movement annoys him more than the last. Leaving the island had felt rather difficult and left him anxious. There, he was free to ride horse and run for miles had he wished; but here, upon the damnable boat, he is restricted, cattle again, and the consistent swaying beneath his feet, is slowly driving him mad.
The sky is an angry grey, nearly as angry as the charcoal coloured waters, and both seem to reflect his mood. He walks back and forth, from the tip of the quarterback to the foot of the poop deck's ladders. It feels too much like pacing for his liking and he cannot banish the thought of resembling a caged lion. On his third pass around, the old man speaks to him as he swabs the deck behind him.
"Second leg's always the worst part." He is small, grey, and bent; withered like a branch ready to snap, with arms as thin as twigs, and hands that shake.
"What?" Jaime turns and leans against the railing, he's always leaning against bloody railing, forcing himself to cease his pacing.
"Second half, m'lord. Second half's always the worst. Drives men mad it does." He picks up his metal bucket and tosses more soapy water upon the deck. "I tells it truly. Twelve times I made the trip. Twelve times I seen the look in a man's eye."
"What are you on about, old man?"
"The look, m'lord." He turns his gaze from the wood and tilts his wizened head at Jaime. "You got to watch out for the look. Starts with a touch of it. Then...then men start goin' missin."
Jaime decides that the moment is ripe to walk away from the old man's ramblings. Seems like I'm not the only one who's gone a little insane. He descends the ladder and moves about the forecastle. He's restless and has to stretch his legs, move his arms, do something. He knows that which would cure this foul mood, but he can't do that yet. She won't let him do that yet. She's not ready. She doesn't love him yet. Not yet.
Damn it all! Why did I listen to Tyrion this time? The fifth one and the ninth were eager for him, for it.
He thinks of her upon that cliff before she jumped into the water. He sees her freckled breasts, her pink, hardened nipples, the hair guarding her cunt from his view.
Damn it all! This is torture. This is hell. You're in a hell, Lannister. The worst one. Take her and be done with it. Calm your old bones. Satisfy your aching-
"Begging your pardon, my lord." A squire trips before him and drops the contents of a box upon the deck.
"No need for pardons." He bends to help the boy gather parchment and rolls of wax. "What's your name, boy?"
"Roger, my lord." He makes quick work of his folly.
"Here." Jaime says as he hands the boy the last red cylinder. "Fetch the Maester Wyrdell when you've finished your task."
"Aye, my lord."
Old men and green boys; a less than comely morning. A group of sailors pass him, heading in the direction of the foresail, and at its rear, Brienne walks with Ser Isley. She meets his eye and blushes a rather lovely, patchy shade of red when he winks. Mayhaps not so unpleasant a morning as moments past would suggest.
Up the ladders and to the quarterdeck, he returns to his pacing. The old man is still there, in more or less the same spot as before, swabbing the same five planks of wood. By all rights, he should have been finished by now.
"Storm's comin." He sniffs as Jaime passes him. "I can smell it."
"That's preposterous." Jaime says sharply. "Focus on your moping, you old fool."
"Old," he nods his head and mumbles to himself, "yes, but fool…no. No fool, m'lord. I tells it truly. Storm's comin, and a big one. You watch. You'll see. You have to watch."
Jaime has lived near one ocean or another for most of his life. He knows how to read the colours of the clouds, as well as the broken, squally, heaving of the waves. The old man is right. A storm is coming. Nevertheless, Jaime is bored and irritated and the idea of provoking this madman seems as good as any to give himself a laugh; albeit a droll one.
"You can't smell a storm, you simpleton. Do you fancy yourself some type of wizard?" Jaime crosses his arms about his chest and smirks.
The man picks his bucket up and splashes more water upon the deck to his left. "No wizard, no m'lord. Sailor I've been all my life." This one's not sharp enough to notice the derision. Gods! Where's that sot Burrin? "All my life, m'lord, and I made the trip twelve times. I know storms. Storm's coming."
"Cease your rantings." Jaime says dismissively, moving to leave, to find a better target.
"Made the trip eighty years ago. A boy then I was. Must have been your grandfather's father we had in escort. He'd but the one hand too."
Jaime freezes in his stride. He turns back to see the man staring at him with pale, cloudy eyes.
"What's your name, old man?"
"Kenton Hill, m'lord. Was Kenny, then just Ken, now everyone calls me Old Hill."
"Kenton Hill." Jaime remembers a Kenton Hill from his third journey to the colonies. Kenton, or Kenny as he liked to be called, was a tall child who grew like a weed during the voyage. He'd blonde hair like sand that curled, signifying him a bastard of the Rock. Jaime wondered whose child he'd been. They were between Tyrions then, so the sire couldn't have been his brother. He was going to figure out the mystery once he returned. The trip was long, as it always is, but he'd convinced his sister to accompany him, assuring he wasn't lonely outside of his bed; though that was until she grew bored and resentful and left him to content himself with the crew for company. That's how he met the little bastard. The child was always up under foot, but was useful, and in time, Jaime grew fond of him. He took him to squire for a time, and even planned to keep him on after the voyage back, he was a good lad after all and had Lannister blood, a knighthood and lands were in his future; but things on the continent went awry, and when the crew escaped, he and his sweet sister had yet to rise anew, so they were forced to find another way home. And that was an entirely different ordeal in itself. He can feel his phantom fingers twitch just thinking of it.
"Yes, m'lord?"
"You're right, Kenny. A storm is coming. You should go below and-"
"Sails!" The barrel men of the crow's nests cry for all to hear. "Sails from the east!"
Jaime looks to the poop deck and sees Burrin near the helm, a spyglass in hand, the lens upon his eye. He climbs the ladder in four strides and is in front of the man before he finishes looking.
"What of the flags? Are they of the Reach?"
"No, m'lord. No flags are raised."
"What? Not even white?" The first mate, Tiegs his name is, though Jaime never remembers, hands him his own spyglass. He sees a force of ten ships. Even with the distance, he can make out the model of each: four Braavosi galleons, three brigantines, two large Lynese fleuts, and a Westerosi man-of-war fashioned differently than his own; the sails are larger, there are two main masts instead of three. It sails in the style of Oldtown's vessels. There is no way the garrison of ships could have slipped past his fleet, even if they were three days behind his flag ship and the two frigates of his convoy. It is simply impossible.
"M'lord what are your commands?"
"Signal Tunt and Cheryl. Prepare the port batteries. I trust that once this storm begins, it won't be a problem for you, captain."
Burrin retracts his spyglass. "No problem, m'lord."
"Good. We shall know exactly who these friends of ours are soon enough."
He closes the spyglass and hands it back to Tiegs. "Boy," he addresses a passing squire. "Yes, you. Fetch the Maester Wyrdell. Tell him to come post haste."
"Aye, my lord."
Wyrdell arrives after a half hour. "Have the words post haste come under new meaning within the last hour, Maester?"
The boy has the decency to look abashed. "Messages from Captains Cheryl of the Crimson Revolver and the Captain Tunt of the Golden Fury have been received, my lord."
Jaime reads the scrolls in moments. Both rolls of parchment smell of a woman's cunt, same as the boy's hands come to think of it.
"When next I summon you, you shall arrive in a timely manner." Wyrdell looks to the wood of the deck.
"Yes, my lord."
"Your cock will have to wait." Jaime exhales in exasperation and narrows his eyes. "Inform each captain that they are to have their guns ready. Their vessels should be brought port broadside at the enemy's approach. After we shoot, they are to fire at will. Once the storm hits, they will follow the lead of Captain Burrin."
Wyrdell nods. "Right away, my lord."
Jaime watches him go to his ravenry. Damnable boy. He concerns himself with cunts at a time such as this. You're a hypocrite, Lannister. You'd bar your door and stay between your woman's legs given the opportunity. Jaime smirks. Indeed, I would. There is no sign of his woman to be sure. I'll find her before they're upon us.
"M'lord, the flags have been raised," Burrin starts.
"-and?" Jaime cuts in. They must be of the Reach, or even the River Kingdom...
"Black flags. A skeleton with a gray iron hook for a left hand. Ten of the same."
"Pirates?" They are being accosted by sodding pirates?!
"Aye. They're mayhaps a league away now and gaining quickly. The winds are against us."
Jaime turns to his second in command. Ser Robert stands upon the ladder, awaiting his instructions. "Ready the stern guns. Fire upon the nearest vessel just as they break range. Tunt and the Crimson Revolver will follow suit."
"Aye, my lord." He nods and leaves, walking briskly to relay the orders to his captains and thus further down the line.
Jaime looks through the glass again. The fucking winds are against us. "Bring us about port broadside."
"Aye, m'lord."
He goes to find Brienne. As he passes the quarterdeck and scans the forecastle, he sees man after man at the gunports to his left. He sees ropes and soldiers and flint rocks, but no Brienne. Where are you?
There is cannon fire, muffled and far away, and in moments, he hears the whistle of iron balls cutting through the air above him. Jaime looks up just in time to see them fly overhead, landing in the murky water on the other side of his vessel. He runs to the poop deck.
"Give me a spyglass!" He demands when reaching a squire.
Two of the galleons have turned about. Their gunports are open, and Jaime knows that there will be another assault once they reload. "Get us broadside captain!"
"Aye, m'lord!"
There's more cannon fire in moments, from more than the two ships. Burrin, to his credit, is a rather competent helmsman and steers in a way that avoids much of the bombardment. Their ship remains unscaved for the time being. When Jaime looks through his spyglass, looks to his frigates, he sees that the Golden Fury wasn't so quick to maneuver, and the stern of the vessel has taken damage.
"Seven hells." He curses. "Tunt's stern is hit."
"Bugger all!" Burrin says from behind the great wooden wheel.
More explosions and more iron balls attack their stern, then off the port quarter, until finally their port beam is exposed, and they are ready to fire.
"Fire at will!" Jaime calls to Krynshaw from his place by the poop deck's ladders. The guns of his ship explode one after the other in what may be the sweetest chorus Jaime could think to hear. His smile is broad and once the smoke clears, he opens his spyglass to assess the damage. They've set the forecastle of one of the galleons to flame. A cheer spreads through the deck for a moment before Jaime commands the men to reload.
They receive an onslaught from a brigantine, prompting Jaime to descend the ladder and yell, "Brace yourselves!" A ball hits the ship, clipping the floor of the poop deck, lodging into the pole of the mizzen topsail. Wood splinters in the air around him and he shields his face with the back of his hand.
"The other galleon, captain!"
"Aye, m'lord!"
When they are in range Jaime yells for the men to fire. The air is a cloud of thick grey smoke when he hears the targeted ship explode. He sees it ablaze and sinking as a proper cheer is raised around him. With his spyglass, he sees that Captain Cheryl of the Crimson Revolver has positioned his ship much the same as Burrin, though his starboard is exposed to the assault instead of his port. The frigate takes another galleon down and when Jaime glimpses the Golden Fury, he sees them in the midst of battle with a brigantine.
The grey smoke of the cannons mixes with the grey of the sky and the seas. It is no sooner than the men reload that the waves begin to lap violently against the vessel. The rain comes quick and sudden. The wind picks up and whips with a vengeful fever. Burrin steers them as best he can, through the cannonade and the enlarging surf. Jaime sees the man's face, red and puffed in concentration. They avoid much of the barrage as far as he can tell. When again they are steady enough to fire at another brigantine, Jaime addresses his men.
"Fire!"
The hail of cannonballs land true, riddling the stern of their target.
"Reload!"
The man-of-war has opened its gunports, and now seventy cannons are aimed at his ship. Robert has yet to give him the signal that the guns are at the ready and there isn't time enough to deflect, he can see it in Burrin's face. Damn it all!
"Brace!" He yells, though the end of his word is swallowed by the deafening salvo of enemy shots.
The blitz seems to last an eternity and as he shields his eyes, crouches down, he can hear the damage done to his ship more than he can see it. It ends in the screams and moans of his men. To his front, there are holes in the decks and the bulkheads. He looks up to see the fore topgallant sail, the main topgallant sail, the mizzenmast all in ruins. The mast has fallen backward, resting upon the starboard side of the poop deck, poking out from the stern. Wood splinters about the deck all around him as the winds pick up and it is a mixture of earth and sea flying sharply across his face. He wipes the water, the blood from his brow and orders the men to hold, to fire, to reload.
They hit the man-of-war in turn, though the damage is nothing in comparison to the assault his vessel has just received. The winds pick up then, and the rains, the spray of the ocean beat sideways in his face, against the ship. He faintly hears Tiegs yelling orders to gather this and to tie that down. Their battle is shifting and as the waves grow mountainous, Jaime knows the more powerful foe is the sea. He looks to his captain again. He sees the man through sheets of rain, fighting the helm to steer, battling the storm. The cannon fire has stopped and for the instant his eyes scan the open waters before them, he sees two enemy ships collide.
There is an explosion behind him, to the port stern mayhaps, and it propels him forward, making him crash into a rolling cannon, knocking the wind from his lungs effectively. He wheezes for breath as he holds onto the railing before him with a vice grip. For although his life is endless, drowning at sea is rather less than desirable, and last time it was a pain in the arse to eventually find a shore. Slowly, he staggers along the slippery wood of the deck, his hand gripping whatever it can tightly as a large wave rushes over the forecastle, sweeping everything not tied down, every loose dying and dead man, into the brine.
Where is Brienne? He scans the deck but sees no sign of her. You haven't seen her since before you spoke to Kenny. Find her, you fool. Things are slow going as he moves. The winds rush violently, and the ship is moving too fast, he knows. He wipes his face again and his head snaps to Burrin once more. The man is shouting, "Lower the sails! Damn you! Tie everything down!" What men they have left scramble to do as he commands.
Another wave comes over them and Jaime sees Ser Isley nearly go over. He's only able to grasp her tunic in the last moment, hoisting her back upon the deck with a strength he doesn't feel. She coughs and shakes uncontrollably.
"Th-thank you, my my-" she stammers.
"Get below!" He pulls her in the direction of the hatches. "Now!"
She goes on wobbly legs and when she's out of sight he turns to the quarterdeck, running about as fast as he dares move. He passes his squires and sees the boys help the sailors secure the cannons to their stations. He looks around the deck but, alas she's nowhere to be seen.
"-below!" A man yells from above him. It's loud enough to make out over the roar of the storm and the rush of the waves. In an instant, the voice is accompanied by the piercing, terrified screams of falling men. Two sailors land with a thud upon the deck. He's seen them before, young lads. One weeps in pain, his arm is shattered and the right leg is bent at a sickening angle. The other's neck is snapped, twisting his face completely around, and his dead eyes stare at the dark clouds above them. Another man falls to his death in the next moment.
"Kenny." He says as he rushes to the corpse. "Damn it, Kenny. Why were you even up there?"
Jaime looks up. Along the main topgallant yard, five men try to unravel the sail, flapping wildly from one end. He looks again and sees her, six bodies instead of five, dangling along the side of the pole, doing something so stupid as to try and cut the ropes connecting the ruined sail to the mast.
"Brienne." He breathes just as panic sets in. He watches her nearly slip twice and he doesn't know what to do in this damnable situation. I can climb to her and drag her down. You're good with your left hand now, Lannister. And yet, it is but one hand and to remain secure in this wind and rain, a man needs two. He curses himself. Seven hells! The storm fades away, the screams, the water spraying his face. It feels an eternity as watches her there, an eternity until the ropes give and the massive canvas falls, blowing away into the great grey chaos. She makes her way to the wet floor of the deck in no time at all and a cheer goes up for her as Burrin leads them out of the storm with a better handle upon the ship. They hold tight, for how long, he doesn't know, but soon enough they are beneath still grey skies.
She's talking to Wynne bloody Eastwood when he grabs her by the arm and pulls her to the hatches and deck below, to his council chambers. He closes the door and bars it before turning to her.
"What do you think you're doing?" She demands.
"What do I think I'm-" He scoffs. He's angry, more angry than he's been in quite some time. She holds her head high and meets his glare. "Are you fucking mad? Or merely trying to get yourself killed? If you wish to die, my lady, I can assure you there are easier methods."
He can see the excitement in her eyes, her blood is still singing from her foolhardy display. "I did as the captain bid me, ser." Her mouth is stubborn. "I did what no man dared do. I-"
"-could have died." He finishes. He steps into her personal space and his nose nearly touches her own. He kisses her then, well and proper like he used to, before pulling back. "You're a bloody fool of a pigheaded wench." He kisses her neck, can feel her pulse race beneath his lips. "You never heed me." He tears her wet tunic apart at the front. "You never heed." He sucks and licks his way past her collarbone, down her chest, stopping at her breasts. Against the table he pushes her, knocking parchment and ink pots and goblets to the wood and the rushes. Brienne moans as he swirls his tongue around the bud of her left nipple and her fingers run through his damp hair.
Jaime looks up at her. Sunlight comes through the glass ports, landing upon the table in faint slanted beams, illuminating her pale freckled breasts. Her mouth is open ever so slightly and her blue eyes are dark and hooded with hunger. When he takes the right nipple, suckling harder than before, Brienne bites her lower lip in pleasure, and he knows he can't wait any longer. He tears her black leather breeches apart at the laces, along the seams, and she's not wearing small clothes, which is marvelous. He smiles as her impatient hands reach for him. She unlaces the ties of his breeches in moments and grabs him firmly when he's free. Her hands are warm, are soft against his cock and he cannot stop a hiss from escaping his mouth.
There is confidence in her gaze, alluring and lovely, yet when she smiles at his reaction, it's rather timid and quite small. He kisses her chest, between the teats, her neck, her chin, and looks up at her face. "I'll stop now if that is your wish." The words taste like ash in his mouth but he's almost certain it's not a complete lie.
Her breath hitches. "No, no need to stop. I want this too."
"Alright." His smile is bright. Jaime kisses her quick. "Lie back." He makes his way down, past her breasts and navel, to the juncture of her thighs and her lovely sex. She smells magnificent, she always does. Two slow laps of his tongue elicit such sweet, delicate whimpers from her that never ceases to amaze him. The sounds should be impossible for one such as herself to make, and yet all Briennes are prone to them. He licks her folds and sucks her clit, works his fingers into her cunt until they come away slick and he's certain she's ready for him. Jaime holds her legs up, his stump at the back of her left knee, as he positions his cock at her entrance. He looks at her for a moment before she breathes. "Yes." And pushes into her only a fourth of the way. She's tight, lovely and taut, and the sensation can overwhelm him, it causes his balls to constrict, so he pulls back. She gasps as he moves in again, half-way this time. Her thighs tremble slightly as he thrusts himself in completely. Her eyes are scrunched shut. Her brows are drawn. She's biting her lower lip again and the more he looks at her face, the more he can see her mouth quiver in distress.
Jaime stops, stays in to the hilt so she can get used to him, but her expression causes him pause. "Brienne?" He says her name gently.
She nods at his voice, though doesn't open her eyes. "I-I'm ok,okay." Again, he thinks of how young she is and wonders if he has acted too impetuously. She takes a long, deep breathy and grasps his hand at her hip, entwining their fingers. "I'm okay." She sighs.
He leans over and kisses her sweet, runs his tongue along the top row of her teeth, and the movement causes her to clench around him, making him grunt. You should whisper words of love. Her eyes always shine when she hears them. "You're beautiful." Jaime kisses her again and as he pulls back, her features twist in disbelief.
Her eyes are watery. "You need not lie, ser."
"It is no lie." He counters fervently. He doesn't know when it became a truth. Jaime moves then, slowly, in a gentle rolling motion and it takes her long moments to relax. He kisses her here and there as he thrusts. When her nipples harden further, to fine pink points, he disentangles their fingers and rubs the nub of her clit in time with his movements. She moans and smiles and pleads...please, Jaime..oh, please... and when her legs wrap around him, when she rocks her hips, grinding her cunt against him in a rhythm to match his own, she begins to chant his name. Such a lovely chant. He smiles despite his own growing need. She moves too quickly against him, and though he tries to slow her, holds her hips, her arse in his attempt, she doesn't relent.
"Fuck." He curses as he feels his pleasure build too quickly. His cock is sensitive and as she clutches around him in the beginnings of her ecstasy, he knows he will soon be lost too. Her chest heaves as she moves rather frantically, crying yes, Yes, YES, until her mouth falls slack, and her back arches and her eyes roll back to whiteness. She goes tense and he stops for a moment as she spasms, but he keeps pumping, he's almost there, and when she sighs his name again, trembling in her bliss, it's too much. He comes, wheezing and pathetic, with his forehead between her breasts.
It takes him too long to regain his breath, but once he does, he looks up at her, and as she smiles her eyes are big and blue and exquisite. "You're beautiful." He says grinning. "Truly."
She frowns a little and eyes him with all the suspension in the known world. It makes no matter. He doesn't care. Jaime kisses her as he pulls her up. "Come with me."
Brienne grabs the tattered remnants of her breeches with an altogether different frown. Too rash, Lannister. "Where might that be, m'lord?"
"Jaime." He insists, looking through chests for a spare he knows is there. He tosses them to her, and she dawns the garment before speaking further. He notices she didn't wipe his seed from her thighs, and it pleases him.
"Jaime," she says in echo, tasting the name outside of passion, "where would you have us go?"
He huffs a laugh. "My chambers, of course."
She turns to him whilst tying the strings of her tunic, brows drawn, mouth agape. "You mean to go again?"
He raises a brow, smirking. "And twice more if I am to speak truly...if you are willing that is."
"I," she chews her bottom lip, "I suppose, m'lor-Jaime."
"Marvelous." His breeches are on. His tunic is fastened. He pulls on one boot and then another, before offering his elbow. "At your behest, my lady."
Her smile is a precious thing, and though she walks past him out the door, she heads to his sleeping quarters and that's just as well. He takes her once, twice, thrice more, such as he said, though he would have preferred another round. Moonlight spills through the port glass when finally, he allows her rest. He should see to the damages of the ship and his crew, but he doesn't care enough to leave her, and it really can wait until morn. He is satisfied as he hasn't been in decades and Jaime knows he'll let nothing change that. Her back is to him, his knees brush the backs of hers, and his toes move against the soles of her feet. The moonlight shines upon her naked body, making it glow. He kisses the nape of her neck and she rubs her arse against his flaccid cock.
"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a time, my lady." Her eagerness amuses him.
"Not for long I hope." Brienne turns her head. The outline of her nose is crooked as it always is. He laughs outright and hugs her close, nuzzling her neck, kissing the hollow of her collarbone. "I broke a rule." Her tone is strange.
His forefinger draws lazy spirals upon her hip. "And which edict would that be?"
Brienne rises, turns, and rests on her elbows as she looks down at him. "I gave myself to you."
This one's a strange child. "Clarify."
"I promised myself I wouldn't fall- fuck another man after..."
"After?" He prompts.
"After my Emrah died. I promised him too." There are tears in her eyes.
"Emrah." The name tastes bitter on his tongue. "Who is this Emrah to you?"
Her smile is doleful. "Emrah is my…was my love." She takes a deep breath. "We apprenticed together under Master Endersen. He defended-he was always kind to me."
The perpetual key to your heart it seems. "And how did this Emrah come to perish?" He asks her gently.
"He," her sad smile turns positively forlorn and her blue eyes lachrymose, "there was a raid from the east. His Grace normally has ship enough patrol the waters but that day, somehow, they got through. The Evenstar led a host of men, but you must understand, Tarth is a small island, and we are mostly farmers and miners there. He called for all able-bodied men and I wanted to fight too but...my master forbade it. I even tried to disguise myself, so I could join the battle by Emrah's side, but Emrah knew me well enough to anticipate my plan. He found me with my armor and longsword the night before the fleet made land fall. He, he kissed me sweetly that night and made me promise," her unscarred cheeks shine wet in the glow of the moon, "and I never saw him again. When the raiders were defeated, a knight came to our forge and gave me their swords."
She is seated on her rump now, weeping for another man. Jaime watches her plump lips tremble; sees as her not so prominent jaw quivers; bears witness to her eyes, her deep blue eyes, swim with sadness, and in that moment, he knows that he's had enough.
"Do not weep for those slain in battle." His words are sharper than they should be. "The boy died a warrior's death, one fine for any man." He sits up and touches her arm. "Dry your tears." She sniffles rather delicately, such as all Briennes do, when he takes her in his arms. "Dry your tears."
He lets her mourn in silence for a time while he strokes her hair, while he kisses the side of her mouth.
"I should have fought beside them."
Then you'd be dead as well most like. "But you didn't, best forget your regrets. I've learned such thoughts lead to naught but heartache."
She pulls from his embrace and stares at him, brows drawn. "You never told me who you lost."
I lost you. He smirks. "It makes no difference. I've you now." You again. "And you're enough." I hope.
She looks at him then, with all the magic of those blue eyes, and smiles her non-horsey grin. Her lips meet his as she sits upon his lap, and in no time at all he's thrusting, bucking upward into her sweet, lovely cunt as she rides him, holding his shoulders, his neck, in her race to completion.
He keeps her there, atop him, his withered cock still inside her after the act, and when he leans back, resting upon the bedding, she goes with him. She's so quiet that he thinks she must have fallen asleep until-
"What vexes you, m'lord?"
You, child. He turns them and removes himself from her with a wince. Would that I could stay there forever. She lays on her back and his fingers brush across her abdomen. Jaime wonders if she will soon be with child. His seed has quickened within her countless times, and ofttimes there are children, most even live long enough to go off into the world and mark their own paths. This girl though, this Brienne, has nay over one year left to breathe and smile and share in his passions. She may fall in battle, as she has so many times before. Jaime thinks of this Brienne's tears for her Emrah and his own hypocrisy. Is there no end to this ceaseless dance? I shall mourn you until the world ends it would seem. The thought leaves him bitter. I couldn't save her that first time. I can't save this child either. So, he smiles.
"Naught to worry yourself with, Brienne." He pulls her closer to his person, makes so her body lays upon his, her head on his chest, ribs in his elbow. He holds her tight and sighs into her thin straw coloured hair. You can't save her. I'm too fond of this one. You can't even save yourself. When she falls, his heart may thoroughly break.
A/N:
I know precious little of boats and ships and naval battles, though I'm sure you can tell. As always, thanks for reading. More to come soon. We finally make it to our destination.