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“Wouldn't that be a sight! A giant and a lady knight!”
Jaime paused inside his tent and cocked his head toward the opening, toward Bronn and Poderick, who from the red faces and stupid grins were well in their cups. The camps of Riverrun were small, and after his horrid discussion with Brienne, Jaime was rather attuned to certain words….like “lady knight,” for example.
“You think they’re fucking? You'd know, Pod. She keeps you close, almost up her considerable arse."
Bronn roared with laughter at Pod's stuttering response and from inside the tent Jaime heard Bronn clap Pod on the shoulder. Jaime walked closer to the opening of his tent and saw them, merely a few yards away, sitting on wine casks by the fire. Pod was sputtering and Bronn was still laughing.
“You can tell me, lad. I won't say ere word to the Kingslayer.” Bronn was chuckling, but interested.
Gossiping like an old hen, Bronn was. Jaime had half a mind to crack him on the back of the head with his golden right hand. Instead he slid further to the opening, scooting across the hard ground, listening.
“I am not with her at all times,” Pod admitted, a bit sheepishly. “Sometimes she says she has had enough of my hovering and sends me away for a bit.”
“Long enough to wrestle with that wildling giant?”
Pod stammered a bit, then said, “Lady Brienne is focused on the Stark girls. Doubtless the wildling made many advances, but-“
“Don't think she gave in, just once?” Bronn broke in, laughter in his voice. “Just once, maybe twice snuck off to his tent and let him fuck her for the warmth of it? I haven’t met the fellow but they say he’s as big as a bear. Hung like one too, I suspect.”
As Poderick choked on his wine, shocked by Bronn's lewdness, Jaime felt his face growing hot.
Of course Jaime had heard talk about a giant red bearded giant who was sweet on Brienne, but he'd dismissed it as fantasy. He had heard tales that giant blood was still in the veins of some of those wildlings. The idea that there was a real giant, a real man making advances on Brienne filled him with something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it felt almost like madness.
Some kind soul had stocked a wine cask in his tent, and Jaime filled a cup to the brim, hoping to quiet the storm growing within him. After he had downed a few full cups of wine, he found himself thinking (as he often did when he found himself in his cups, or late at night while he was lying awake, or when he woke up in the morning with half remembered dreams of a steaming bath and his cock standing at attention) of Brienne's small, high breasts, water beading off her erect nipples, water running down her muscular thighs and the shockingly tiny triangle of dark blonde curls at her cleft.
Jaime didn’t like to admit to himself that he thought of Brienne's cunt, but he had, and often wondered if he had been well enough to stand with her and face her, if he had put his hand there or his mouth, would the curls be soft or coarse? If he had slid his left hand there to cup her would she have gasped and spread her thighs a bit, or would she have knocked him down?
Of course it would have been the latter, and those were stupid thoughts, stupider still that he had seen her naked and bruised and weary and yet those thoughts came often, and when he took himself in his one good hand to relieve the pressure in his balls it was those golden curls he thought of, the slit of her cunt, the hot water steaming down her bruised thighs and all that flesh and he had been unable to stop looking into those defiant blue eyes.
He sat there in his tent and drank wine for what seemed like hours, picturing some handsome red bearded beast of a man with his huge hand in that cleft of curls, his mouth on her long neck, and he flushed red with emotion. He felt his cheeks with the back of his good hand and they were burning, as if his saddlesores from the ride had given him fever.
She would have spread her thighs for him, he supposed, had she snuck into his tent and welcomed his advances. The thought made him fill another cup. He drank it and lie down on his furs, hoping the wine would let sleep take him. Behind his lids he saw Brienne standing naked with her head thrown back and a man's head between her muscled thighs and he sat up so quickly he felt sick and dizzy.
As usual, the wine had made him feel worse, made his thoughts twisted and simple, and the only word he could think was “Mine,” as if he owned her, as if he had any piece of her save the look in her eyes when he told her that Oathkeeper would always be hers.
He doesn’t remember standing up unsteadily and knocking over the wine that was left, and the next morning there are only bits and pieces of him stumbling over Bronn's sleeping body but the memory of falling face first onto Brienne’s furs is painfully clear. It was muscle memory from being at her tent earlier in the day, he thought later, but he remembered Oathkeeper's blade at his throat, Brienne’s heavy breathing as she stood over him.
“Jaime?” she breathed, her eyes puffy with sleep but nearly blindingly blue and her blond hair unkempt and curly and still a bit wet. She had fallen asleep with candles still burning and Jaime could see the outline of her nipples through her shift and all he could do was imagine a man with two hands cupping her high breasts, running his thumbs over those nipples, something Jaime would never be able to do. Suddenly he felt heat behind his eyes and his head felt full and when Brienne lowered Oathkeeper he couldn’t think of a thing to say so he looked up at her until she fell to her knees beside him.
“I nearly killed you,” she said flatly. “What’s happened? Are you injured? Was it Blackfish?”
Her eyes traveled over him and she realized he was in no armor, just breeches and a tunic. “You smell like someone dumped a cask of wine on you.” She said dryly, and Jaime finally broke free of his thoughts and in fact, stopped thinking entirely.
He slipped his left arm around her surprisingly small waist and pulled her close. She did gasp, then, and though He waited a moment to see, she did not knock him down. He let his eyes trace her face, her strong jawline and full bottom lip, and kissed her, pulling that lip between his teeth.
She made a small, feminine sound in her throat and kissed him back, and Jaime felt her nipples hard against his chest and he realized he was rock hard, straining against his breeches and he didn’t want to talk about why he was here or how she might have to kill him. He didn’t want to talk at all he just wanted her closer and he pulled her taut against him, his cock against her belly and Brienne wrapped her arms around his shoulders and he pulled her into his lap, her shift riding up and exposing her thick long muscled thighs. He thought that if she moved even a bit while straddling him, he might come in his breeches like a boy. Then she did just that, sliding her hips up and down, her cunt hot even through his breeches, riding up and down the length of his cock and he grit his teeth and groaned and pulled her face down to his to kiss her again.
“You’ll be the death of me, wench, one way or another,” he said hoarsely against her throat.
She didn’t respond but put his head in her hands and looked into his eyes as if memorizing their shape and shade. Then, without breaking eye contact, she slipped her hands between them and freed his cock from his breeches. Her soft hand on him made him buck and he felt the slick heat of her cunt and before he came all over her like he was 14 he moved her hand away and slipped a finger into her damp curls, which were soft instead of coarse and when he slid his finger into her she bucked against his hand and gods she was tight around his finger, and although later he was disgusted with himself, he felt joy that she must still be a maiden.
“I don't know if you'll fit,” she said breathlessly and Jaime smiled at her.
“I was made to fit you, wench,” he said, and though the next day he wouldn't know exactly what he had meant by that, it seemed true at the time.
He slid his cock against the slit of her cunt, wetting himself and teasing her and when he eased himself inside her, gritting his teeth to combat the urge to slam into her until he filled her up, she cried out his name and he almost involuntarily bucked beneath her. Even in his lustful, drunken state he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her so he made himself stop and clasp her in his arms and lie her down on her furs while still inside her. He didn’t move for a moment that felt like an hour so that she could contract around him and that she did, her cunt muscles flexing around him and she felt so good and tight and hot that he felt he might explode if he didn’t move and then she began to buck her hips and she leaned up and kissed him as he began to move inside her and her breath became short and sharp and he said his name “Jaime Jaime Jaime" and her voice was like a siren's song luring him into orgasm. When he came he said “Brienne” but what he was thinking was “Mine mine mine.”
He thinks he told her that, drunken pillow talk, but he can’t remember. All he remembers is his mouth on her cunt afterward and she tasted like heaven and when she came she flexed her muscled thighs around his head.
He doesn’t remember all the things he said to her after, lying there beside her, but he remembers the feel of her long thigh against his, and her too blue eyes.
He remembers going back to his tent vaguely, remembers passing out on his furs with the taste of her cunt still on his mouth.
Jaime wakes up with a headache and a groan and wonders if it had all been a fever dream.
Then, when he bids her goodbye, she turns back to look at him once, and his heart seized up in his chest. It's yours, he thinks. It will always be yours, and he wasn't thinking of Oathkeeper.