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“I want a trial by battle.”
The outlaw wearing the Hound’s helmet who was about to put a noose around Jaime’s neck stops dead in his tracks; he obviously wasn’t expecting it.
Jaime hadn’t thought he’d ever be in this position, but it was the only thing he could think of that would at least buy him more time. He should have listened to Brienne when she had told him to just go away when he had run into her, but he had to ask for explanations and he couldn’t have known that she had a couple of Brotherhood members following her.
To apparently see if she had the guts to kill him for some reason he hadn’t even imagined back then. Jaime guesses that the answer would have eventually been no, since she had just urged him to run.
He couldn’t have dreamed of ending up in front of a revived Catelyn Stark, if the – the thing using her name still could be described as human; and clearly no one believed him when he said he had no idea that his own father had orchestrated the Red Wedding. He curses the second he told Roose Bolton to bring Robb Stark his regards – couldn’t he have kept his mouth closed for once?
Still, since they didn’t even try to give him the benefit of the doubt, he might as well try. With his right hand, he could have killed any of them; he isn’t sure that he could win with only his left, but the last thing he wants is to die hanged when he could die fighting.
There’s arguing after his request – the priest, the name is Thoros or so Jaime thinks he heard, is obviously talking about some other time when they accepted to try someone else that way, so refusing him now would be hypocrisy. It takes them ten minutes to come to a decision.
When the woman that used to be Catelyn Stark speaks, Jaime doesn’t understand a word, but it still sends chills down his spine.
“She wants to know if you have a champion or if you’d rather do it yourself,” the priest says.
Good. At least he’s not going to die by a rope, if –
“He has one.”
Brienne’s voice sounds slightly shaky in the silence that had followed the priest’s statement. Jaime hadn’t seen her since they were caught in the clearing; only now he notices that there’s a dark red scar around her neck, as if someone had tried to hang her, too. She’s looking at Thoros, her hand clutching at her belt.
Someone behind him snickers and says that it’s no surprise – a whore stays a whore until the end.
What do they even mean? Jaime thinks, but he can’t waste time with them, not when Brienne has taken a couple of steps forward, almost putting herself between him and her former liege lady. He should say that no, he’ll do it himself; but there’s something in the way Brienne is staring at Thoros, her shoulders straight, that tells him to shut his mouth. Maybe it’s also self-preservation instinct – she was almost as good as him when he had his sword hand, that one time they fought, and as things stand he’d have more chances of surviving if she took his place.
But he thinks that it’s mostly something else. She offered without being prompted; saying no would feel like slapping her in the face somehow. Or implying that she can’t do it.
The gods know that she’s perfectly able to do it, and really, Jaime has learned it firsthand.
The woman that used to be Catelyn Stark croaks something else and Jaime is sure that she has said turncloak. Brienne flinches visibly at that, but she doesn’t falter either.
“Are you sure?” Thoros asks.
“He saved my life once and I know that he couldn’t have been responsible for what he’s accused of. His family, yes, but not him. I also know that it isn’t enough for you, but if I can pay that debt, then I will.”
She’s lying, Jaime thinks. Or better, she’s telling the truth, but it’s not all of it. He can hear it, but he doubts they’ll let them talk things out for a moment if he asks. He lets it go – it’s enough that they agreed to the trial at all.
“Very well. My lady, choose our champion,” Thoros says.
Brienne doesn’t move and doesn’t look surprised either when Catelyn Stark picks the outlaw with the Hound’s helm.
A couple of others grab him by the arms so that he can’t move; it’s not as if they can tie his wrists together.
“I should have imagined it,” one of them says as Brienne’s hand reaches for her sword, “she never wanted to kill you in the first place. Pathetic.”
“Why, are you surprised that she’s his whore?” the other replies. “After all, her face is a match for his soul. Probably she’s the same as him overall, but at least he’s nicer to look at.”
Jaime barely feels it when the man not so casually throws an elbow right in his side, hitting him hard enough that he almost loses his balance.
He has no idea why everyone in the Brotherhood thinks that Brienne is his whore out of everything, but it’s not what is making him feel dizzy. It’s what he said after.
He knows that people think he’s some kind of heartless monster; they don’t call him Kingslayer for nothing. The only part of himself he could see in Brienne, maybe, it’s something of his fifteen-year old self, but that’s the entirety of it. What if she looked like Cersei? , he thinks, and he feels sick when he realizes that maybe his sweet sister isn’t the only person who might be his mirror, after all.
It’s a different sort of mirror, sure; but still, the idea that someone could think that Brienne’s looks match all the blood that was on his right hand makes him want to retch. It’s… not fair. He should laugh at himself, he hasn’t thought about anything in terms of fairness since he was seventeen, but it’s the only way he can put it. It’s not fair that the one thing Brienne wants is a chance to have all the things he has spit on since he realized that oaths are worthless, and that people still respect him more because of his looks. The thought that if the inside matched the outside he’d be the ugly one out of the two of them makes him feel sick all over again, and that’s when he hears Thoros laying out the terms and concentrates on what’s actually going on. Everyone in the brotherhood is whispering under their breath, even if they’re doing it so that they can be heard. At the tenth ugly Lannister whore he hears, Jaime turns his attention to Brienne, who is still standing in front of the fake-Hound, sword in his hand, her lips tight in a thin line. She has tied her hair so that they’re out of her face, and everyone can see that half of her cheek is gone; between that and the scar around her neck, her looks didn’t improve any. But then he glances at her eyes and then he feels as if he’ll really retch; she looks like someone who’s entirely not surprised of what she’s hearing. Of course she does – he had commented plenty about her looks himself, didn’t he?
And seven hells, he’s sure that she could take anyone in this entire group, but if the other man plays dirty she could lose, and they’d both die on the spot, and – no, he can’t let this go. Thoros has just finished speaking and is asking if they understood the terms, and that’s it – he either tries to speak to her now or he might never have the chance.
“May I have a word with her? I only need one minute,” he shouts, and bites his tongue when one of his captors closes his nails around his right wrist.
Thoros glances at him, then at her, and before anyone else can object he nods. “One minute only. You may go,” he tells Brienne.
She walks quickly towards him until they’re face to face.
“If you want me not to do this, I won’t –”
“None of that,” he answers. He doesn’t have time for fancy words, or for dancing around what he has to say. “I’m honored that you would even consider risking your life for me, but that’s not what I wanted to tell you.”
Her eyes widen, and he wishes he had his hands free, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?
“First, don’t ever think that not keeping an oath turns you into me. If they think that, fine, but you couldn’t be me even if you tried. And that’s a compliment, don’t look at me like that. Second, whoever thinks that you could be anyone’s whore has no idea what they’re saying. Third… oh, bugger it,” he says, and then he leans forward and kisses her. For the first time, he’s glad that she’s as tall as he is, since he couldn’t have leaned down. He doesn’t push it, and keeps it strictly chaste – since he can’t do this properly, it has to look like the kind of kiss you wouldn’t give a whore.
The chatter suddenly dies; when they part, her eyes are so bright that it almost hurts to look at them.
“You meant it,” she whispers as she looks straight at him, and he figures she could read him just fine. He meant it, indeed. He wouldn’t have kissed her out of pity, and while he still isn’t sure of how to call whatever it is that he feels for her, it doesn’t really matter for now.
“Wench, don’t get yourself killed,” he replies, because everything else that comes to mind, he’d rather not say in public.
She smiles for a split second before turning back towards her opponent, and it lights up her eyes. As she raises her sword with a grace that only someone with skill can have, he can’t help thinking that in this light, right now, not only she looks like a proper knight, but she’s beautiful as well. There isn’t another word he can find for it.
--
He had figured that her opponent would have underestimated Brienne, but he hadn’t thought that it’d take her a couple of minutes to be done with him.
He had also played dirty, on top of it, and it hadn’t stopped her from winning regardless.
They were let go (him, Brienne and the two hostages that the Brotherhood had who apparently had been in Brienne’s party before they were all captured), but they all agreed that it would have been a good idea to run as far as they could – everything smelled like unfinished business. At least they were given back their horses.
He’s sure that they rode for at least half a day before they decide to stop – they have to be closer to the Vale than to Riverrun right now; Brienne takes first watch, and Jaime pretends to go to sleep. But he isn’t planning on doing that anytime soon; he needs to talk to her without anyone else listening and this is as good as it’ll get for a while.
When he’s sure that Pod and Hyle Hunt are sleeping, he stands up and sits next to her near the fire; she tenses slightly, but she doesn’t tell him to go. She isn’t looking at him in the eyes either.
“What was it about?” he asks, keeping his voice low.
“It means a lot of things. Be more specific.” Jaime can hear that she’s desperately trying to postpone the discussion and that she knows even too well what it is that he wants to know.
“Why was everyone so ready to think that you were my whore. And I don’t mean that I’m offended, but as far as I know, you aren’t anyone’s whore and least of all mine.”
She takes a breath, her fingers gripping the corner of her shirt. She tells him about how exactly she earned the scar on her cheek, and her voice is steady for most of the tale; meanwhile Jaime curses himself for having ever sent her on her own on that crazy quest. He had forgotten that her skill alone wouldn’t have kept her safe, and maybe on one side it’s a compliment, but on the other… what the hell was he thinking?
“I was feverish,” she says. “It lasted days. When it was over and they put me under trial, everyone was calling me like that. Apparently…”
She stops, taking another breath and staring at the fire. “I kept calling for you.”
Brienne doesn’t say anything else, but it’s all in the tone of her voice. Jaime is honestly taken aback for one second – she called for him? But then he remembers her face when he kissed her before and what he feels is completely inadequate. She really had to be at the end of her rope to call for someone at all, but that it had been him out of everyone… he feels as if he hasn’t done anything to deserve it.
“Why would you? I sent you to that insane quest, you should hate me instead of –”
“You trusted me with it,” she whispers, and he stops dead in his tracks. “You understood where I came from, and you gave me that sword because you thought I was good enough to use it. You never told me to go home and find myself a husband. I knew it was dangerous. I was ready to die if it came to it. And I could never hate you for giving me what I wanted.”
He swallows, moving so that he’s kneeling behind her. He understands that even too well now, and for some twisted reason it makes him feel better, if just slightly. Still, he can’t shake it out of his head. I kept calling for you. He knows what it might mean. He thinks, can I live up to it?
He doesn’t know, but then he thinks, I want to. And if it was anyone else he wouldn’t bother – hells, hasn’t he stopped trying to live up to what his sister thought of him even when he realized that they weren’t mirroring each other so closely anymore? – but in this very moment… he really, really wants to. He thinks that it would be different if Brienne thought that he was the kind of gallant knight you hear about in songs, but they both know better. Brienne knows the sort of person he is and the sort of person that he’s been, and she isn’t asking him to live up to any expectation; after all, she only stated a fact. She isn’t asking him to do anything. She probably isn’t expecting him to do anything, either, and maybe he should have specified that when he kissed her it wasn’t out of gratitude.
His left arm is inches from her waist. But he doesn’t close the distance between the both of them, even if it’s bare inches.
“… May I?” he asks, his voice suddenly a lot less sure than he had planned.
“Yes,” she answers, sounding out of breath, her entire frame tense; he wraps his arm around her, moving closer so that her back is against his frame and the side of her head against his cheek. She suddenly relaxes as if she had just been waiting for him to make a move; he thinks that her hair might not look flattering, but it’s quite soft and the feeling is not unpleasant at all. She’s completely different from what he’s used to – her shoulders are broader than his own, she’s slim in the parts where she’s supposed to be full and vice-versa – but at the same time she feels familiar in a different way. He realizes at once that it’s because she has the body of someone who wields a sword instead of using sewing needles, and suddenly touching her doesn’t feel so strange anymore. She’s right, because she’s shaped like him; she isn’t pretty or beautiful, but it doesn’t mean it can’t be a different kind of beauty.
“You know,” he says, “I don’t usually kiss people out of gratitude.”
She turns enough that he can see her face; and hells, she’s looking at him as if she can’t believe that he said that he wants to do it again. Then again, he has no idea of what he’s doing here – he never needed to guess what would make Cersei happy, and all the other women that he refused had been the ones making the first move. But damn if he doesn’t want to figure it out.
For a second she tenses again, and his first instinct is throwing his right arm around her, too, but he stops midway. His fake hand got lost when he was captured first and for some reason he can’t forget Cersei’s reaction whenever she saw the naked stump, whenever it was that she had to. He’s about to move it back but then Brienne realizes what he was doing and reaches out, grabs his wrist and moves it above his left hand. All of a sudden he’s without words; he tightens his hold as she turns her head further. He knows what is going to happen, but the position is awful and that kiss they shared before was too brief and too chaste. If he’s going to kiss her he’ll kiss her properly. She deserves that, at least. He motions for her to kneel and turn, and when she does he reaches up with his left hand, cups her cheek and closes the distance between them.
She has rough lips, and it’s obvious that she hasn’t really kissed anyone before, but when she parts them, she does it with a pleased moan. When his tongue runs along her bottom lip before and upper one after to get them wet, she presses back, all eagerness. Her hands move to his neck, and while her fingers are rough and not as slim as he’s adjusted to, it’s fine; he likes how it feels. He shivers when her tongue brushes across his, and she obviously guesses that it’s the good kind of shiver since she doesn’t jerk back or break the kiss. He runs his thumb along her cheek as he keeps on kissing her as thoroughly as he can, while her hold on his shoulders is becoming almost painful. When it’s over they’re both short for breath and he finds himself brushing strands of hair away from her forehead. He wishes he had his right hand still, but he’ll have to deal. He moves his stump upward, brushing it against her ruined cheek, not knowing if that is welcome, but then it’s his turn to shiver all over when she turns her head and kisses it. It does things to his stomach that he can’t name, and but what about destroys him is that she hadn’t looked uncomfortable while doing it. It makes him uncomfortable, but not her. Maybe having his own hand under her eyes while they were tied together on that horse was worse, he figures, but he isn’t about to tell her not to do it.
Then it hits him.
He’s her first.
It’s not as if he hadn’t known that before. But for some reason he can’t help thinking that she should just get away from him and find herself someone better; she wouldn’t even need to look far, considering how Hunt kept on joking about marrying her in the few pauses they took today.
When he looks at her again, she has obviously sensed it. “Did you – did you regret it?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
“No,” he’s quick to answer. “But you might.”
The change isn’t subtle; one second she has the eyes of some wounded bird, the second they suddenly look determined as she shakes her head and moves closer, bringing her hands to his cheeks again.
“You told me you dreamed of me, once.”
He nods, dumbfounded, not telling her that by now he hasn’t dreamed of her just that one time.
“If you think that I did, too, only when I was almost dying, then you’re wrong,” she says, and as soon as he grasps what she’s meaning, he can’t keep himself in check any more. He kisses Brienne again, open-mouthed, groaning in satisfaction when she opens up to him without a hitch, her hands going to his hair and carding through it. He curses the place they’re in – they can’t afford to make too much noise and he doesn’t want to let things get out of control. Oh, his dick is stirring inside his breeches and he loves how she’s melting against him, shivering as he runs his hand over her back, but he’s not going farther than this without a bed, in the open and with the risk of waking two other people up. He kisses her scarred cheek after they part, his lips going over the freckles still left; she bites her tongue and he wishes he could hear her moan, but all in good time. When they find an inn, he’s set on telling her straight that he doesn’t want her to keep herself in check; for now, he’ll have to compromise.
He takes his time, pressing his lips to her forehead and eyes, trying not to linger when he tastes salt; when he kisses her beneath the ear, she’s almost boneless against him, tiny gasps still leaving her mouth. Now that they’re this close, he notices that she looks so much more tired than she did when they first met, and he’s sure it’s not all because of this morning’s fight. He wonders how she’s been sleeping lately – bad, from the way she looks.
“Wench, you should have never taken first watch,” he says, his tone fonder than he had thought it’d be. “You’re this close to passing out.”
“I’m not –”
“Go to sleep. I’ll take it. Last night I wasn’t probably being worried out of my mind while two of those outlaws were trailing behind me.”
She has to concede that he’s right. She gives him a little nod and reluctantly moves away, but he’ll have none of it.
“I never said you had to move,” he says, bringing her back to rest against his frame again.
For a second he’s sure that she’ll leave anyway, but then Brienne tentatively curls up against him, her head on his shoulder, not saying a word. It’s not necessary though – the trust is there in the gesture, so raw that Jaime feels overwhelmed for a minute. But by the time he’s come to his senses again, she’s asleep, soundlessly. He raises his good hand and runs it through her hair, his fingers shaking; she shivers and moves closer. When he thinks that he doesn’t want to let her go, it doesn’t feel as shocking as he would have expected.
--
They find an inn two days later and before she can climb the stairs to her room, he tells her to leave the door open. Then he asks to have a bath drawn.
When he walks inside her room one hour after dinner, he notices that she had a bath brought up as well; her skin and hair are clean and she’s wearing a shirt and breeches that are obviously worn out but not as dirty as the clothes she had on the road were. She isn’t wearing anything else – no shoes, either. Cersei used to always dress impeccably when she knew they would have time to be together. He remembers taking his time unfastening her gowns and taking off all of her of her jewels, one by one, before freeing her hair from whichever clasp was tying it, or undoing her braids. Brienne’s hair isn’t long enough to be properly braided or tied fashionably and it reaches her shoulders rather than her waist; and there’s nothing other than the shirt and breeches that he might take off her, not that he could easily, considering that he doesn’t have one hand.
He has a feeling that Brienne is also not the person that would engage in that kind of seduction anyway, but it’s obvious that she hasn’t dressed casually, and for some reason his heart beats faster. He walks behind her, making his presence obvious; when she turns towards him, she seems almost insecure, her eyes not quite meeting his.
For a second he wishes he could punch Ronnet Connington all over again.
“I’m not the kind of person who offers roses in this kind of occasion,” he says, not quite knowing how to break the silence. She gasps, raising her head, his eyes finally on the same level as his.
“How do you know?” her voice almost shakes.
“He was in the army I went to Riverrun with. He took care to share that story while we were standing in a certain bear pit.”
Her whole cheek flushes in obvious shame. He moves closer, reaches out and cups it with his good hand, forcing her to look up at him.
“Then I punched him in his mouth and he had a close meeting with what remained of that bear.”
She smiles at that, and then shakes her head, obviously surprised at herself. “He was in Renly’s army, as well. There was a melee.”
“Did he fight against you?”
“He lasted two minutes.”
Jaime can’t help it – he has to laugh, but it’s plainly good hearted, and he’s delighted when she laughs along with him. She has a nice laugh, he thinks.
“I should have figured that you would have already taken care of him,” he manages when he’s more or less regained his speech. “But it still felt very satisfying.”
She looks more serious as she looks at him again. “You are right – but… thank you all the same.”
She’s flushing right now, and damn, but there’s something genuinely charming about her right now, and before he knows he has kissed her again, and she has kissed him back without missing a beat.
He pushes her towards the bed and they stumble on it, him on top, and at least it’s bigger than the one in his room. Her eyes are wide as she looks up at him and moves so that she’s laying fully on the bed; he moves so that he’s laying next to her, his hands reaching for her hair again.
He reaches out with his left hand and reaches for the laces on her shirt, and she stands still as he undoes them. When he’s done, the upper part of her body is naked in the moonlight and before she can raise her arms to cover her breasts, he reaches out and touches one. Small, but fitting in his hand after all; she moans as she arches into his touch, and he feels her nipple hardening under his palm. Jaime swallows, unable to wonder whether the rest of her is as responsive; and then he remembers that no one else probably touched her like that.
He moves so that he’s on top again and she’s laying under him, the shirt fully open and her frame naked and exposed. He runs his hand over her other breast and her stomach, palming the scars and a couple of purple bruises left from that fight three days ago; she gasps, her hands grabbing she sheets. Jaime takes his time, leaning down and kissing his way from her shoulder to her navel. He can’t have enough of seeing a swordsman’s muscles on a woman’s body, and the lack of softness and rounded curves doesn’t feel like a fault. He doesn’t tell her to be quiet – he likes how she moans every time his lips touch her skin.
There are things he’d love to do to her right now, and something tells him that she would let him, but while before losing that hand he wouldn’t have even thought about it twice, right now he isn’t sure that he can go on without knowing first.
“Listen, tell me how far you want me to go. We don’t have to –” He starts, even if he wants to, but it’s not a given that it might not come back to haunt her in the future if he takes her maidenhead and anything happens to him.
For a moment she looks confused, but she’s quick in getting what he means. He expects her to think about it, not to move upwards and kiss him before turning the both of them so that she’s on top, looking down at him.
“The last time someone was willing to marry me, I put an end to it because I wouldn’t give up my sword. And I was their last choice. If you want me, you can go as far as you like. As if I care for marrying anyone – who even knows if we’ll survive this war in the first place.”
He wants her, all right, and since she put herself in the right position for what he has in mind to do, he doesn’t waste time. She’s rigid when he touches her waist, but she breathes out in relief when he slowly makes his way downward, inside her half-opened breeches. He feels her shiver when his fingers touch the outside of her smallclothes, and his cock hardens when he finds that the fabric is wet.
“Wench, I think we’re both wearing too many clothes,” he says, his voice so hoarse he can barely recognize it. Before he knows, she has rolled off him and she’s getting rid of breeches, smallclothes and shirt; he manages the breeches but not his own shirt, but he figures that it’s good enough. She crawls back on top of him, her legs on the sides of his; her whole cheek is flushing red, her eyes wide as his fingers reach up again, touching her between her legs. Her lips part, a soft sound coming out as he rubs his fingertips in the wetness and tracing circles around her clit without going farther from now. She moans out loud when he pushes a finger farther up, inside her now; her hands shake as she holds herself up above him. Jaime has to smile at the effort – she really doesn’t need to bother.
“I can take your weight, you know. Don’t feel like you have to be careful.”
Brienne just glares at him and stays where she is, but he can feel that she won’t be able to hold herself up much longer. He adds a second finger, still going slow, and she clenches around him before slowly lowering herself against him, her hips twitching against his. And now she can probably feel how hard he is. He kisses her shoulder, his thumb scratching along her clit while he keeps on sliding his fingers forwards and backwards. Her eyes are more black than blue, her cheek still flushing that healthy, dark pink, and he can’t help it – he kisses it, and doesn’t move away when she turns her head and her lips meet his again. They’re growing swollen, he thinks when she moves away, and while it shouldn’t be a good look on her, it is. Everything about her right now looks just right, and since he can’t touch her shoulder he keeps on touching it with his mouth, holding a breath in when her hands reach up and one buries itself in his hair. She’s so very warm, and he can’t help searching for friction against her thigh; he moans when she moves so that her leg rubs against it.
Considering how hard she’s clenching around him, and the small, breathy sounds she’s making; she has to be this close, and if he was in her place, he isn’t sure that he could pay attention to his own arousal. He pushes his fingers in deeper, his right arm thrown around her shoulder; when her shoulders tremble and she comes with a sigh that makes Jaime’s blood boil, he presses his lips against her hair and doesn’t make a sound as she falls on him completely.
His fingers are wet when he moves them away; Brienne’s eyes widen in surprise when he licks them clean. He also knows that he’s going to come against her thigh if she keeps on moving it against his cock in small thrusts.
“Wench, if you don’t stop that I might –”
“You might?” she interrupts him, her voice hoarse, and his throat goes dry. “What if I would like you to?”
And then she rubs her thigh again over his cock, slow and deliberate. He moans, rather shamelessly, and if she looks surprised for a second, she doesn’t let it get to her.
Her fingers are slightly trembling when she closes them around his erection, and when she starts jerking him off she does it like a man would – no way around it. She doesn’t even try to let it linger or to slow the pace down or any other refined technique someone more experienced would use to draw it out, and her fingers aren’t as slender as he’s adjusted to. Still, she isn’t being tentative or hesitating and that’s what gets to him. Her fingers are stroking his length and her thumb is brushing along the head surely, as if she really, really wants him to get off. He’s already leaking against her palm, the skin as rough as his own hand’s, and he’s far from worrying about how much it’s exactly turning him on.
He throws his good arm around her shoulder, his hand grabbing a fistful of her hair, and he isn’t expecting her to lean down and kiss him as he jerks one last time and comes against her hand, hard enough that he can feel Brienne gasping into the kiss when it happens. He’s pleasantly surprised that she keeps on stroking him through his orgasm, and he certainly doesn’t expect her to lick her hand clean, too, instead of wiping it clean on the sheets. It also shouldn’t have made his blood run hot all over again, since there’s no grace in the way she does it, but he’s done with that line of thinking.
He unclenches his fingers slowly from the fistful of hair he had grabbed before as she lays down next to him, her hand cupping his hip. Her lips are the red of ripe strawberries as she brushes them against his, her leg hooking over his.
His cock twitches in interest.
“Wench, do you want to kill me? I’m not sixteen anymore. Give me a while.”
“I can be patient. But I was wondering – no, it’s not of import.”
“What was that? I thought we were a bit past the stage where you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
“I had another lead left. For Sansa Stark, I mean. I was thinking about the Vale. Maybe she searched for her aunt. And – I was wondering if you would come with. But I can’t ask that of you.”
For a second he’s about to refuse – he’s still commanding the Kingsguard and he can’t just leave his men, but…
First, he has technically done it already. Second, he wasn’t planning on coming back to King’s Landing after his sister’s raven – or better, he might have been considering some way to delay that moment. Third, he hadn’t wanted to lay that siege to Riverrun in the first place, or to spend his time searching for Brynden Tully – he’d rather look for his niece, at this point. And he isn’t sure he can stomach the fact that his white cloak is preventing him from doing what he knows is the right thing to do all over again. He never took the white for this and he never sent Brienne on a quest that was his last chance to regain some honor just to undo it all over again.
“Wench, I think I might just say yes.”
“What?” She sounds sincerely baffled, and her face reflects it.
“Sure. I don’t like what I do. I figured that I could start all over again, and my sister just sent me to do something that soils this damned cloak all over again. For all everyone cares, I’m exactly the same as before, except that I fight a lot worse. On the upside, you’re better company than Frey bannermen. Fine. I’ll come with you. I’ve never been on a real knightly quest – I might as well start now.”
“You don’t have to –”
“What if I want to?”
He tries to keep his tone serious. He wants her to know that he isn’t japing.
And then she gives him such a sweet smile that he can’t help it – he reaches out with his good hand and traces her lips with his finger. He can’t help thinking that whoever thought that she could be anywhere as ugly as he is to everyone else really hasn’t understood anything.
That’s a second before she moves away and straddles him.
“I think,” she says, “that if not enough time has passed, I might make an effort. If you come with me, I’m not sure that we’ll find many inns from now on.”
“Why, you’re welcome to try. I’m sure that with enough patience you might even succeed.”
“I told you, ser, the one thing I don’t lack is patience. A couple of times, it did get me where I wanted.”
He leans up meeting her halfway as she leans down to kiss him, her hands framing his face all over again. He still doesn’t entirely understand what she sees in him, but then again she has probably thought the same at some point.
“Are you really sure –” he starts, suddenly unable to shake his worry from before, but then she shakes her head, moving so that her groin is against his own.
“Jaime, believe me, out of all the things I’ve been called, a whore of yours isn’t the worst. If this gives people a reason to say it… let them talk. What do they know?”
She’s right, Jaime thinks. What does anyone know? No one knows why he killed Aerys except for her, and not many people can see past her face. One of which is him. And since when has he cared about such things?
She’s so very warm when her frame meets his, her breasts small but firm. Brienne isn’t even trying not to be loud, and she’s tight and wet around him as he brings his good hand down on her hip from her breast and coaxes her to move. She starts slow and keeps on going slow but it’s fine, it’s good, he actually wants this to last. He thinks about that first dream he had. He had thought that she could almost be a beauty, but he thinks that right now she just is one, no almost and no could.
As she tightens around him and he buries himself inside her, he thinks that she’d probably punch him hard enough to lose teeth if he ever told her such a thing.
Then again, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
End.