Author's Notes: I don't own either ASOIAF or Game of Thrones. This is purely for entertainment and not for profit.

Also, often my mental image of characters is different from the actors that played them in the show. The show ages up a lot of characters and/or just ignores their descriptions from the books. For example, in the books Addam Marbrand is of an age with Jaime and is described as having shoulder-length, dark copper hair, but in the show he looks to be more of an age with Tywin and has slicked back, graying blond hair.

One of the things Jaime hated about squiring for Sumner Crakehall—and there were many—was that the old man always rose for the day at an ungodly hour, which meant that Jaime had to rise at even ungodlier hour. He had long since learned to make whatever preparations he could in the evening after his lord had gone to bed, rather than to try and rise even earlier to get it done before the old man woke. But he still had to go to bed shortly after dusk so that he could rise at least a couple of hours before dawn, and that went as far against Jaime's natural sleep schedule as it was possible to go.

He often thought, as he was blearily helping Lord Crakehall into his armor or dragging himself sluggishly to the training yard, that he would have progressed even further than he had in his sword training if only the man would rise an hour or two later.

And that wasn't even to mention the fact that he hardly ever got a decent spar when the only available partners were the old man himself (Crakehall had to be at least sixty!), the clumsy oaf Merrett Frey, and various soldiers in Crakehall's household who couldn't hold a candle to Jaime in terms of skill. Of course, he could tell that Crakehall must have been a relatively skilled swordsman before time had dulled his reflexes and sapped his stamina. The man did a good job of teaching him new techniques and critiquing his form and making sure he developed good habits.

But Jaime longed for a real fight, a real test of his abilities.

Mostly he longed for the days when he would not be at the beck and call of an old man that he knew full well was beneath him in every way that mattered—talent, rank, breeding, wealth. Sense of humor. The good sense not to keep the same hours as a scullery maid.

Jaime knew that was selfish and distinctly un-knightly of him. He should want to be knighted for honor or glory, or to save damsels in distress, or to protect the innocent, or something. But he wasn't exactly the epitome of knighthood in the first place, with his decidedly unnatural inclinations, so what use was it pretending otherwise?

Case in point, he was in very real danger of being unable to leave the table without disgracing himself, if Ser Brynden Tully kept looking at him with those clear blue eyes and speaking in that deep, raspy voice. Of course, Jaime had been the one to pester the man incessantly for stories of the War of the Ninepenny Kings and his other battles… even after he'd faced the same problem of his rebellious body responding to the man nearly every time they had interacted since he'd arrived at Riverrun nearly a week ago. But that was beside the point.

Was it unmanly to grow hard while thinking about another man, or just to act on it? Did it count as a perversion if he only retreated to the privacy of his bed chamber and tugged himself to completion while thinking of the Blackfish?

Jaime didn't know, and he didn't have anybody to ask.

So, perhaps he was better off at Crakehall with the old boar, after all. At least there wasn't anyone there worthy of Jaime lusting after. That was just Jaime's luck: He hated the day-to-day routine of being a squire, but his first opportunity to escape from Crakehall for a few days, to deliver a message to Hoster Tully, had resulted in him nearly exposing his perversion to a decorated knight and his lord brother and whoever else happened to be watching at any given time.

"Are you alright, Lord Jaime?" Lysa Tully asked from right beside him.

The girl had been next to him at every meal since he had arrived, and at every other opportunity she could find too, simpering and giggling and generally making a nuisance of herself. She was pretty—not as pretty as her sister, Catelyn, but pretty enough, with her copper hair and blue eyes and fair skin and delicate features, for all any of it mattered to Jaime. Which was not at all. He was too busy dreaming vague, blurry dreams involving Jaime somehow being a man grown and capable of doing unspeakable things to her warrior uncle. Things that would have him drawn and quartered or at the very least exiled to the Wall if anyone should know he fantasized about them.

Besides, neither Lysa nor her sister were anywhere near as pretty as Jaime's own sister. He had wondered, sometimes, whether that was the reason he was the way he was: because Cersei had set the standard, and no other girl could match it.

He and Cersei had played at having sex since they had been too young to know what they were doing. It had started as the kind of natural curiosity that he had since come to understand was not at all uncommon for young children; they had only been curious about each other's bodies. But it had felt good, and they had shared a nursery and a bed, and they hadn't known that it was wrong, so they had never stopped.

Until a servant had caught them at it when they were around six, and their mother had been so horrified that she had moved Jaime clear to the other side of the castle and put a guard outside Cersei's bedroom door. Then they had known it was wrong, even if they hadn't understood why.

Lady Joanna had died not quite a year later, and Cersei had swiftly circumvented her guard and taken to coming to Jaime's rooms in the middle of the night. He had offered up a token resistance the first night, grieving as he had been for his lady mother and remembering that she had told them never to do it again, but Cersei was persistent and Jaime still had not really understood why it was so bad to make each other feel good.

But since he had started becoming a man, Jaime had realized that he was not really attracted to his sister in that way, nor to any other girl he had seen. What he had done with his twin had felt good, but it had been the play acting of children with no actual sexual attraction involved and without really knowing what it meant. So he supposed it was not really Cersei's fault. It would be easier if he could blame some outside factor besides himself for the way his blood raced at the idea of Brynden Tully rather than the man's nieces, but easier or not, it was not true that anyone was at fault besides himself.

"Lord Jaime?" repeated the Tully girl.

Jaime jerked his eyes away from the Blackfish to face her and saw that the entire family was looking at him with concern. He clenched his teeth and pinched his own thigh underneath the table in an attempt to fight the blush he could feel creeping up his neck.

"My apologies, Lady Lysa," he offered, voice strained. "I am just exceedingly tired. I guess the journey is finally catching up with me."

And they kept very different hours at Riverrun than he was used to at Crakehall, although he knew enough to know that he should not offer up a criticism of his lord as an excuse.

The Blackfish raised one of his heavy auburn eyebrows, and Jaime swallowed convulsively at the sight.

"That's too bad. I had thought to invite you to train with me tomorrow morning."

Jaime fought valiantly not to let it show on his face exactly how excited he was, but he was not at all sure that he succeeded.

"I would be honored, Ser Brynden," he rushed to assure the other man, a grin breaking out across his face that he could not hold in. "A good night's sleep will set me to rights."

Or rather a good night of pleasuring himself until his body was too spent to react to the knight while they were sparring.

Hopefully.

In any case, the opportunity to train with the Blackfish—and possibly, if Jaime proved himself an apt pupil, to properly spar with him—was too great for Jaime to pass up, even at the risk of utterly humiliating himself. After all, he was still young enough that inconvenient erections could be explained away by the presence of a stiff breeze.

When Jaime had heard that Lord Leyton Hightower was hosting a tournament to celebrate the marriage of his daughter Denyse to Desmond Redwyne, his first thought had been something uncharitable about why this daughter got a tourney to celebrate her wedding when none of Hightower's other children had. He didn't recall a tourney being held to honor the union of Alerie Hightower and Mace Tyrell just before Jaime had been sent to Crakehall, for example, although it was possible there had been and he had just not been informed of it. That was unlikely, though, because his father would have sent someone to represent the Lannisters at such an event, and whichever of his many uncles had gotten the nod would have told Jaime all about it. They all knew exactly how much Jaime loved hearing about tournaments.

The next he had heard about it was that Lord Crakehall's two eldest grandsons, Tybolt and Lyle, intended to compete.

Jaime did not know much of Lyle, who had been sent away to squire for some vassal lord or other shortly after Jaime had arrived at Crakehall, but he was distinctly unimpressed by Tybolt. The eldest grandson was nearly eighteen and had declined to spar with Jaime for the past year or so, ever since it had become clear that he was likely to lose to his grandfather's young squire. He hadn't admitted as much (What man would?), but it was clear from the way he had, out of nowhere, developed a routine that kept him well away from the training grounds until after Jaime was called away to other duties.

Jaime was more than a little excited when Lord Crakehall announced that the entire household would be attending the tourney, but then he had to bite his tongue for the duration of their journey to keep from saying something (true) that he might be made to regret to his lord's grandson. It was especially difficult during the two weeks they spent on a small ship, aboard which he wasn't able to easily avoid the other boy.

His spirits were lifted by the opportunity to knock the arrogant shit onto his ass a half dozen times in the name of helping him practice for the melee. Although Tybolt had avoided sparring with Jaime while they'd been at Crakehall, he hadn't been able to say no when the old man himself had offered up his squire as a suitable training partner while they were at sea. It had even been a new challenge for Jaime to learn to keep his balance and fight just as effectively as ever despite the rolling waves and the pitching of the ship, and he always appreciated new challenges.

"Jaime," Lord Crakehall called him back on their final night before reaching Oldtown, just as Jaime was leaving the man's cabin, "you haven't shown any interest in participating in the tourney."

Jaime struggled for several moments to comprehend that statement, blinking in what was probably a very stupid-looking manner at the elderly knight.

Finally, he managed to say, "I am your squire, ser."

Crakehall leaned back in the single, small chair in the cabin, which creaked audibly underneath his weight, and pinned Jaime with a curious stare. "Aye, as my squire, you would need my permission to enter. But you haven't asked, as I expected you would."

"I…" began Jaime, then realized he didn't know what he meant to say. He took a breath and gathered his thoughts, then tried again. "It didn't cross my mind that I would be allowed to enter, ser. Most squires are only allowed to enter once they're of age, or at least close to it."

"Aye," Crakehall repeated. It was one of his more annoying habits, in Jaime's opinion. "However, most men of six and twenty don't possess the skill you have now. I see no need for you to wait three more years until you're six and ten."

"Are you saying that I can enter the tourney?" Jaime asked, just to make sure, hope sprouting in his chest like a living thing.

The old man smiled. "You can enter the melee. Your lord father would kill me if I let you enter the joust before you're a man grown. Besides, we haven't brought your horse."

Although he smiled when he said it, Jaime knew that it was no idle turn of phrase. Tywin Lannister really would kill Sumner Crakehall if he allowed Jaime to enter the joust and he got injured, which was a rather likely possibility given that no boy of thirteen could stand up to the likes of a grown man in a joust. Except, perhaps, for Gregor Clegane, who was of an age with Jaime but had already been taller and heavier than many grown men the last time Jaime had seen him two years ago.

Still, the melee was what Jaime really cared about, anyway. He may be good in the tilts, but he was preternaturally gifted at swordplay, and he knew it.

Their arrival at Oldtown would have been exciting enough just because it was a place Jaime had never been before, especially given its size and the variety of different things to do and see. The preparations for the tournament and all the visitors from across Westeros bustling about made it even more exciting. What really put things over the top, though, was the presence of Uncle Tyg and Uncle Gery on the docks when Lord Crakehall's ship made port. Jaime had to exert a considerable amount of effort to wait for the old man to walk down the gangplank, and to follow sedately behind him, rather than running and shouting and leaping into his uncles' arms.

He hadn't seen them, or anyone else in his family, for two whole years!

It was only later, after the staid greetings and Lord Crakehall's agreement to let Jaime stay with his family during the tournament, and after a near-silent walk from the port to his uncles' lodgings, during which Jaime was nearly vibrating with suppressed feelings, that Jaime all but collapsed into Tygett's arms.

"There, lad," his uncle comforted him with an arm around his shoulders as Jaime tried very hard not to start sobbing into his chest. "Crakehall hasn't been mistreating you, has he?"

"Of course not!" declared Gerion, and Jaime could almost hear the roll of his eyes. "He wouldn't dare. But surely you remember what it's like to be away from your family for years at a time, old man."

"Oi!" cried Tygett, who was only five years older than Gerion, and the both of them still firmly in their twenties. Then, after a pause, he admitted, "I was never away from Casterly Rock for two years complete when I was a squire. I was able to visit at least once or twice. I'm sorry I didn't realize, Jaime."

Jaime pulled away, trying to discreetly wipe away the few tears that had managed to escape his eyes. He didn't know if he was successful at hiding them, but even if he wasn't, neither of his uncles commented on it.

"I'm sorry," he told them anyway. "Father says that crying is a weakness."

The two men exchanged looks, each with an almost identical arch of a golden brow and glimmer of anger in his green eyes.

"You mustn't take everything Tywin says so seriously, Jaime, even if he is your father," Gerion said with a heavy sigh. "Genna said that he shed a tear when your mother died. And don't you dare ever tell him—or Genna, for that matter—that I told you that."

As Jaime was still trying to wrap his mind around that information, Uncle Tyg added, "Most every man experiences sadness or loneliness or just pure frustration enough to cry at some point or other, nephew. Obviously, he wouldn't want to go crying in front of his men or other lords, but so long as he only expresses his emotions in private, among family, who could criticize him for it?"

The mood greatly lightened after that initial display, and the three of them had a wonderful few days catching up and japing and practicing at swords.

But Jaime spent many of his waking hours, and many sleepless hours curled up in his bed at night, wondering whether either of his uncles would have any insights into the things he felt about other men, or his lack of feelings towards women. Whether they would judge him harshly if he were to confess it. Whether they would tell his father, who Jaime knew for certain would not tolerate it.

He had heard enough demeaning, mocking talk about men who laid with other men that he was ultimately too afraid to bring up the subject with his uncles, even hypothetically.

The melee was held four days after Jaime arrived in Oldtown, and no fewer than forty men participated. As he was standing on the field waiting for the gong to signal the start of the competition, Jaime picked out the competitors he knew from the crowd. Uncle Tyg and Uncle Gery were standing on either side of him, of course, although he had no intention of letting them protect him like they undoubtedly planned to do. Tybolt and Lyle Crakehall were next to each other on the far side of the arena from Jaime. He saw Mace Tyrell, several of the Hightower sons (Who even knew which ones.), Ser Elys Westerling and several other men whose sigils he recognized as banner houses of his father, and, most importantly, Ser Jonothor Darry, who was wearing the distinctive white armor of the Kingsguard.

Although Jaime had attended tourneys before and had watched melees, nothing could have prepared him for the absolute disaster that was participating in one. It was a disgusting, horrific, dirty, loud, awful, glorious, amazing mess.

As soon as the gong was rung, he leapt to his right and crossed blades with a tall man in dark armor, who provided almost no challenge before he left his flank open and was cut down with an efficient flick of Jaime's wrist. After that, Jaime determinedly rushed forward, further into the thick of the brawl, and away from his uncles. He'd be damned if anybody would be able to say, whether he won or lost, that Jaime Lannister only got as far as he did because his uncles were watching his back.

Men fell before him as easily as wheat before a sickle.

He was made for this. It was the purpose for which he had been born.

He loved it.

He took particular joy in using his shield to bash in Tybolt Crakehall's elbow, as both Jaime and Lord Crakehall himself had warned the other boy would happen if he didn't correct the way he held his shield. Then he spun his sword in a graceful arc that met Tybolt's blade and sent it careening out of his hand, disqualifying the boy he disliked so much from the competition.

Later, he saw some Reach vassal or other approaching Uncle Gerion from behind as he was engaged with Mace Tyrell. Jaime immediately moved to intercept the man, but he did not make it in time. Jaime was so enraged that the man would dare attack his uncle from behind that he purposefully aimed for the man's hand where it was wrapped around the hilt of his sword, rather than at the blade itself, and managed to cut off at least one of the man's fingers as he sent the sword flying. Jaime felt nothing about maiming another man except for elation at a job well done, and pleasure at avenging his uncle's unfair disqualification from the competition, and satisfaction that nobody in the crowd would be able to deny that he was competing solely on the strength of his own merits.

Jaime didn't know how long it lasted. He was having so much fun, and was so much in his element, that it seemed like only minutes had passed. But the burning in his lungs and the aching in his arms and shoulders told him that he had pushed himself well past the two hours of sparring he was normally permitted each day.

Before he knew it, the only three competitors left were himself and Uncle Tyg and Ser Jonothor, who were engaged in a duel some thirty feet away from where Jaime had just driven Ser Elys to his knees into the quagmire of mud and blood that remained of the field.

Although it pained Jaime to consider it, he knew that his best option would be to help Ser Jonothor defeat his uncle. It would be more difficult for Jaime to defeat Ser Jonothor than to defeat Uncle Tyg, but if it were left to a duel between Jaime and Tygett then everybody would assume that Tygett let his nephew win. Jaime could not permit that.

Fortunately, it turned out that he didn't have to, as he was still several steps away from the two knights when their blades met with a clang and, in the blink of an eye, Uncle Tyg's sword was on the ground.

Jaime met the next swing of Ser Jonothor's sword without any hesitation or hitch in his steps. The impact rattled its way up his arm all the way to the shoulder, but Jaime spun away before the next blow could land, leaving the knight stumbling forward from the momentum where his sword had continued through thin air where he had expected to meet steel or flesh.

In the immediate aftermath, and even years later when he discussed it with Ser Jonothor, Jaime could never recall the exact steps of the dance between them. It lasted longer than with any other opponent he had faced that day—decades of experience against almost supernatural raw talent, strength and reach against agility and speed, well-earned confidence against sheer determination. Finally, with a screech of metal against metal and a vibration that nearly made Jaime's entire arm go numb, the Kingsguard's sword tumbled out of his hand and landed with a dull, final thud against the ground. Jaime was left standing before him, sword in hand and very nearly gaping in shock.

Fortunately, nobody could see his expression beneath his helmet.

Jaime almost couldn't believe it.

The crowd apparently couldn't either, for there was a shocked silence for the space of a half dozen of Jaime's quick, hammering heartbeats before the spectators erupted into cheers. They didn't even cheer his name, at first, because hardly any of them recognized him by sight. Not until Uncle Tyg all but tackled him to the ground, whooping with pride and joy, and Uncle Gery helped him back to his feet and pulled his helm from his golden head.

If the muscles in his arms and shoulders and upper back hadn't still been aching days later, and if he hadn't still been walking gingerly on blistered feet, Jaime would have thought it had all been a dream.

Life continued apace, and the reality of being a squire still wasn't all it was cracked up to be. There were only two more tourneys in the following two years, but Jaime won the melee in each of them. Neither of them included members of the Kingsguard and so they were not quite as impressive as his first victory, but they included some very worthy opponents nonetheless.

The third melee Jaime won, just after his fifteenth birthday, had a total of nearly one hundred participants. When all was said and done, they counted nine deaths, thirteen maimings, and more minor injuries than anyone would have been able to count even if they had wanted to try. Jaime had gone against his usual strategy and had deliberately formed an alliance with several other Westermen, most notably with Uncle Tyg and Addam Marbrand. At least until they had thinned the ranks a bit, and then it had been every man for himself. To the surprise of almost no one in attendance, Jaime had easily emerged as the last man standing.

Addam was two years older than Jaime, the heir of one of the foremost houses in the Westerlands and Jaime's second cousin once removed, and he had only earned his knighthood a few months prior. He had been brought to Casterly Rock to serve as Tywin's page when he was eight and Jaime was six, and they had been fast friends and eager training partners. Trusting Addam at his back had been easy, despite Jaime not having seen him for nearly four years.

Celebrating with his friend had been even easier.

Jaime was not really one for crowds or raucous celebrations. He couldn't have said whether he came by it naturally by way of his father's love for solitude and disdain for almost everybody else in the world, or whether it was just a byproduct of never having been exposed to such things growing up. He supposed it didn't really matter.

He could hardly think of a better way to enjoy his victory than to catch up with his childhood friend in the quiet of his private quarters, passing back and forth a flagon of strong, expensive wine Jaime had nicked from his uncle, and recalling various points of the melee with great excitement.

"That, that thing you did with your wrist," slurred Addam, a couple of hours into their private party. "The, the… you know, the thing. That was amazing."

Jaime didn't actually know which thing his friend was talking about. He had done many, many things. But he smiled happily and leaned backwards against the pillows in contentment, happy to bask in the praise.

Addam joined him a moment later, flopping next to him gracelessly on the small bed and letting out a little giggle that he'd probably have been humiliated for Jaime to hear at any other time.

"You're amazing," declared Addam. "No, really," he continued a few seconds later, as though Jaime had objected (he absolutely had not). "I always knew you would be. Almost from the moment we met in the training yard as boys."

Jaime turned his head to look at Addam, intent on responding somehow, and came face to face with his friend. Very nearly nose to nose. He was suddenly acutely, dangerously aware of the length of Addam's body pressing up against his, of the heat of the man's chest against Jaime's arm and of his leg against Jaime's leg. Their breath mingled in the narrow space between them, and frightened green eyes stared into wide, apprehensive hazel. Jaime could feel Addam grow stiff against his hip, undeniable evidence of what was happening, but he couldn't force himself to act on it.

Then Addam's hand moved across Jaime's body, grazing tentatively over his chest at first and hesitantly making its way down his stomach to pause just below his belly button, and Jaime found his courage. He grasped his friend firmly around the wrist and shoved his hand lower, to where Jaime desperately wanted it.

Jaime was as hard as a rock.

Addam palmed him through the thin fabric of his loose trousers, and the only thing Jaime could do was stare helplessly into his friend's eyes, which were intently watching him back.

"Addam! Fuck!" Jaime yelped and slammed his eyes closed when nimble, sword-calloused fingers shoved his trousers down out of the way and then wrapped around his cock.

Jaime's hips bucked upwards into the touch of their own accord, but he acted deliberately when he closed the distance between their lips. The kiss was sloppy, but enthusiastic, and Addam's lips were softer than Jaime had imagined against his own. After several moments, Jaime shifted the position of his head, and Addam reciprocated, and all of a sudden their mouths came together at the perfect angle. Jaime pulled the other man's lower lip into his mouth and briefly nibbled on it, until Addam parted his lips and Jaime was able to slip his tongue inside. Addam tasted of wine and something else Jaime could not immediately identify. The kiss felt amazing, like Jaime had always imagined it should, even though Cersei had never liked kissing and had rarely been patient enough to do it because it didn't give her pleasure in the same way as being touched between her legs.

He nearly whimpered when Addam pulled out of the kiss. He likely would have protested if the other boy hadn't immediately begun sliding his way down the thin mattress, leaving Jaime to watch in disbelief and anticipation as his friend's head of gleaming, dark copper hair hovered over his groin.

This was something Jaime and Cersei had never done together. It just hadn't occurred to young children that their mouths could be put to that use. By the time Jaime had learned about the existence of such acts from the more loose-lipped soldiers at Crakehall, he had come to understand exactly what it was he and his sister had been doing for all those years of their childhood, and he had come to realize where his real interests lay. He probably wouldn't have been comfortable continuing their experiments at that point even if he and Cersei had not been separated by several hundred miles.

But all those thoughts—and every other thought he'd ever had—flew right out of his head the moment Addam's tongue made contact with his sensitive flesh.

Jaime let out an almost soundless gasp, as if he'd been stabbed in the chest.

Then Addam wrapped his lips around the head and, after a moment's hesitation that made Jaime want to scream, pulled even more into his mouth until Jaime could feel himself hit the back of the other boy's throat. It felt so good, better than anything he'd ever experienced before, and Jaime's hands fluttered down to grasp at Addam's hair as he instinctively thrust his hips upwards into his friend's hot, wet mouth.

Addam made an unpleasant choking sound and tried to retreat, but Jaime hardly noticed at first. At least not until Addam's hands wrapped desperately around his wrists and tried to push him away.

Addam was at a disadvantage due to the angle, and Jaime could have ignored him and continued, if he had been so inclined. But he did not want to be the sort of man he had often encountered in the armory or the training yard who bragged about hurting or demeaning his bed partners. Therefore, he willingly (if reluctantly) pried his fingers out of Addam's hair and let his friend lift his face from Jaime's lap.

"I'm not ready for you to fuck my throat, Lannister," Addam rasped out, offering a lopsided grin and stroking up Jaime's cock with one hand to show he wasn't angry. "But if you can be still, I'll suck you until your eyes roll back."

Jaime blinked once. Twice. Again. He swallowed reflexively, trying to rid himself of the lump that had suddenly developed in his throat, though he knew not why.

"Have, have you… done this before?"

Addam drew his lower lip between his teeth and shook his head as if he were embarrassed. "No. Not like this. I've never been the one doing the sucking. But, but men talk, about whores mostly—women ones, you know, but there are boys too. So when I was staying in King's Landing as your father's squire, I slipped away and visited the Street of Silk, and I found a place where you can pay boys to suck you or, or—"

He cut himself off abruptly, breaking their eye contact and fixing his gaze downwards on some part of Jaime's abdomen. That was just a little bit hilarious, from Jaime's perspective looking down the length of his own body at Addam's face nestled in close next to his hard cock, his friend's hand still wrapped around it and stroking gently, almost idly. What could he possibly be too embarrassed to say, from that position? When he'd just had his mouth on Jaime and had promised to suck him to completion?

"Or what?" he asked, dying of curiosity and unwilling to let the matter go.

Addam met his eyes again, bravely, although his face was bright red. "Or to let you fuck them."

Jaime swallowed again.

"Their throats?" he asked, echoing his friend's earlier description of what he'd been trying to do to Addam.

"Yes." Addam's face turned even redder still. "And up the ass. For more coin."

"Oh," Jaime said, dumbfounded. "And you've done that?"

He had known the things men did with whores and with other men, of course. Jaime had been around soldiers and other loudmouthed men just like Addam had, although probably he had not been around as many at Crakehall or during his travels as Addam had in King's Landing. But he had never met anyone before who had actually laid with another man, at least not that he knew of. He was jealous. He could feel possessiveness and rage and maybe a little bit of hurt feelings building up inside him at the thought of Addam being with anyone else, even with whores, even if he knew that he had no right to feel those things about anything Addam had done before they'd met again and found themselves here. In Jaime's bed. There was also curiosity; of course there was.

Addam nodded his head, his cheek brushing against Jaime's cock with the movement, and confirmed, "I have."

Jaime let his desire and his anger flash in his bright green eyes as he pinned his friend with a hard stare.

"But you've never sucked anyone else, or let them fuck you," he demanded more than asked.

"I haven't," whispered the other man.

"Good," declared Jaime. "Those are for me."

Addam's pupils blew wide with lust, until there was only a thin ring of hazel still visible. And Jaime knew they were in agreement.

Jaime's head fall back against the pitiful pillows, and he sighed in pleasure as Addam bobbed his mouth up and down his cock, those calloused fingers still wrapped around the lower half of him. He let his mind wander to a future where he became a knight and took his place back at Casterly Rock, and Addam Marbrand, his best friend in the world besides his twin, worked by his side during the day and snuck into his bed at night.

Author's Note: I know that in reality (and in the books) a melee involved competitors on horseback, and one was disqualified if he was knocked off his horse. However, I much prefer the portrayal from the show of these mock battles being on foot. It seems more like a real test of swordsmanship (or whatever weapon of choice) that way.