Game of Thrones/ASOIAF Fic: Undressed
Author: bratanimus
Title: Undressed
Fandom: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Jaime/Brienne (implied Podrick/Sansa)
Prompt(s): In hiding, mirrors
Word Count: 3,526
Rating & Warnings: M for sexual content
Summary: Brienne, Jaime, and Podrick are escorting Sansa to Lady Stoneheart and Winterfell. When Jaime and Brienne enjoy their first night of privacy, Brienne finds herself more exposed than she ever thought she’d allow.
Author’s Note: This is a brief (and racy!) preview of a four-chapter piece to be posted soon. It is a continuation of The Wrong Things for the Right Reasons, but can be read on its own. This scene was posted at the gameofships Get Lucky Porn Battle. Many thanks to my beta, mrstater!
“Good night, Podrick,” Brienne said, taking a lamp and climbing the ladder. She and Jaime would leave the boy to clean up and take the first watch, as he usually did. Sansa was already nestled into the bed downstairs.
There was a small, half-circle window built into the wall of the sleeping loft of the dead miller’s house, a surprising extravagance to find in such a modest home. Heavy clouds hid the moon; but the ground, blanketed in snow, was so white that it seemed almost bright inside. A short table sat beneath the window, and Brienne placed the oil lamp on it and looked around. The straw mattress was well worn but clean, and a few personal items lay scattered about the perimeter: a comb, a broken mirror, an ancient baby’s rag doll propped in the corner, an empty chamber pot. The ceiling was low over their heads, forcing them to stoop to move about and to inspect the ticking upon which they would rest.
Jaime took the broken mirror and sat on the bed. He looked squarely at Brienne. “We need to remove your bandage.”
Brienne unconsciously brought her hand to her left cheek.
“It must be healing,” said Jaime. “You change the dressing every day. It may be time to leave it off and let it breathe.”
Feeling more vulnerable than she would ever wish to admit, Brienne could not bring herself to speak. But she knew Jaime was right. She had delayed removing the linen for long enough. She had not seen herself in a mirror yet and had been tending her wound by feel, or by letting Podrick be her eyes - but only when Jaime was otherwise occupied. She would avoid looking at Podrick’s face whenever he helped her, for she could not bear to see revulsion in his guileless eyes if her face looked as terrible as she feared.
Brienne sank onto the bed beside Jaime and he handed her the shard of mirror. She held it on her lap and fingered the edges delicately, as if it were a knife whose sharpness she could not estimate. Small shuffles and clinks from downstairs told her that Podrick was washing their dinner bowls and spoons, and Brienne tried - unsuccessfully - to place her mind there instead of on what she and Jaime were about to do. Jaime began to peel away the cloth while Brienne kept her eyes downcast. Neither word nor breath escaped Jaime’s lips as he removed the linen and set it aside on the table. His fingers found her face and moved from her cheekbone downward over her scarred cheek and onto her jaw and neck. “Can you feel that?” he asked.
Brienne cleared her throat. “My cheekbone and jaw. Less feeling, in between.”
“As I expected.”
Somehow Brienne could not bear to see herself in the mirror yet. She was surprised to realize that she wanted to see Jaime’s reaction to her disfigurement first, before she passed judgment on herself. Before she could consider otherwise, she looked at him. His gaze did not remain on her ruined cheek, but met her eyes at once. His mouth was a thin line, his jaw set.
“How is it?” she whispered.
Jaime’s throat worked. He looked from the wound back to her eyes. “You look even more formidable, my lady.” A wry smile started in his eyes and eventually worked its way down to his mouth, which quirked upward in a tight-lipped grin.
Brienne surprised herself with a breathy laugh, though her heart was thundering with dread. Do it! she told herself, and she brought the mirror up.
It was bad, but not worse than she had imagined. She thanked the gods that the wound was smaller than she’d thought it would be. But the scarring was pink and angry, a ragged, mouth-shaped brand. She could see the carvings those horrible teeth had dug down her cheek, like fingernails raked through dirt. Her breathing, already shallow in anticipation of the awfulness she would see, quickened in anger. Yes, she had scars all over her body, wounds she’d earned in battle fairly; but this was her face, her face, and Biter had done it purposely to violate her. She might have died if not for Gendry, but now she was saddled with the memory of that foul act for the rest of her days.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she cursed under her breath, for crying would make her eyes swollen and render her ruined face even uglier. Besides, she did not cry, would not cry. She set aside the mirror and cursed again, angry with herself for caring, so late in her life, for her appearance. And then she barked with laughter, realizing she hadn’t known what a gift an unmarred face, even hers, had truly been. But she had borne hardship in her life; she could bear this. She would bear it.
While she struggled inwardly, Jaime’s eyes followed her every shift in mood; and he seemed to be trying to assess whether he should speak or simply allow Brienne’s tide of emotion to roll in and crash wherever it may. His hand had somehow ended up resting upon her knee, and the calm assurance Brienne felt from the weight of it there was comforting. In that simple moment she saw Jaime once again restraining himself from trying to fix her, like nearly every other man she’d known had tried to do; she saw Jaime allowing her to be no more or less than who she was.
And at last she finally understood - knew it from her flushing skin inward into her very bones - that she loved him. She looked away, wondering if she could bear that, too.
Downstairs Podrick had finished cleaning up the dinner things and trod softly to where Sansa lay, probably still wide awake, on her small bed. Brienne heard him spread out a blanket and some furs on the floor. Then the whispering began. Brienne and Jaime raised their eyebrows and smiled at each other.
Jaime put on his sternest voice. “You have the first watch, Podrick, unless you’ve forgotten.”
Then ensued much scrambling and apologies and gathering of sword and wet cloak. Podrick had nearly reached the door when Brienne called out, “You may sit by the fire. Just stay awake and keep the door bolted.”
“Yes, my lady. Ser. I won’t. Fall asleep, I mean. I’ll stay awake.”
As Podrick settled into the chair Sansa had earlier vacated, Jaime and Brienne stifled their snickers and crawled under the furs together, and somehow that was the end of any discussion about the scars on Brienne’s face. Her heart pounded; after all, their little roost in this loft was the first place they’d had any semblance of privacy together. She wondered if Jaime kissed her - would he want to kiss her again, now that he’d seen her disfigurement? She batted the thought away - whether she could keep from sighing and moaning as she usually did when they reached for each other while Podrick and Sansa slept. She doubted that Sansa would sleep much tonight, if at all, and she didn’t relish the thought of the two downstairs hearing what she and Jaime got up to under their furs. Even so, she knew if he wanted her she wouldn’t resist his advances. There was a certain freedom in surrender, she realized. The Kingslayer’s whore she was, in name and probably quite soon in deed, and that was that.
As she lay back on the straw mattress, a sharp twinge caused her to hiss in pain. She sat up, rubbing her ribs where Jaime’s blow had landed during their practice today. Jaime silently rose with her and began, with his one hand, to pull her heavy woolen shirt and linen undergarment over her head. Like an obedient child, she helped him by lifting the other side until she was bare from the waist up except for the fabric binding her chest. Where was her modesty? How soon after she’d met Jaime had it fled? For there was no question that she would let him undress her to view these wounds, too. The light from the lamp and the bright snow outside gave her nowhere to hide, but she sat up straighter. There would be no shame in this.
Jaime’s own hiss escaped his teeth when he saw the purple bruises peeking from under the cotton binding that flattened and protected her small breasts. He untucked the edge and began to unwrap it, with Brienne helping to pass the fabric around her back until she was naked. She’d always thought that allowing herself to be disrobed by a man was fantasy, something that would never happen in her waking life; or, if it did, it would be part of some humiliating horror she was forced to endure for a man’s sport, as when she’d been forced to don a dress to fight a bear, or worse, if Vargo Hoat and his men had been crueler than they’d been greedy. So she was surprised by how captivated she felt when Jaime’s hand passed gently over her bruises, feeling her ribs with his fingertips.
“Take deep breaths in and out,” he whispered, bringing his ear to her lips. She obeyed and he listened, keeping his hand on her ribcage. He must be listening for a rattle, or wheezing, indicating fluid in her lungs from a broken rib; but they both knew her injuries couldn’t be as bad as that - she’d been wearing her boiled leather. Still, she had to acknowledge his thoroughness, and a smile stole across her face as she wondered about his other motives for undressing her. His eyes were downcast, probably eyeing her breasts, and he must feel the thundering of her heartbeat under his hand, which somehow embarrassed her more than being naked did. She looked away and tried to slow her frantic heart by imagining being examined by a maester; but it had been many years since she had submitted to any such prodding, and no maester had ever made her heart flutter like Jaime did. And his ear was right next to her mouth, begging to be kissed.
Jaime sat back and looked her in the eyes, exhaling in relief. “You’ll heal,” he whispered. His hand was still on her ribs. She nodded. Of course. She always did. They regarded each other silently. A sweet, sad longing churned deep between her legs. She placed her hand on top of his.
As always, Jaime would begin as a gentleman, or as much of one as he was likely to be. He barely breathed his next words. “Brienne, can you keep quiet if I do this?” Leaning forward, keeping his eyes open, and pressed his open mouth to hers, and the sudden, throbbing desire in her loins nearly made her whimper. He slid his hand upward until it cupped her right breast and he gave it a squeeze, and still, somehow, she didn’t make a noise. She reached for his hips, for they were too far away from her aching pelvis and the fire within. But he wouldn’t come closer, not yet, for there was her body to explore, at last, and as he pulled back his eyes seemed to feast on it. A small smile crossed his face and he hummed quietly, satisfied, and brought his mouth to her left breast, keeping his hand on the right and running his thumb over her nipple. Brienne’s eyes closed, and she bit her lip to keep from moaning. His tongue seemed somehow larger and yet more precise than it had been inside her mouth a moment ago, and she thought she might pass out from the thrill of it.
Jaime’s warm breath made her shiver as he slid his mouth up her breastbone and neck and across her jaw, right underneath her scars. “I want to feel you,” he breathed when he reached her mouth again. Grasping the hem of his woolen shirt, he tugged it deftly over his head, and slung it to the side, then did the same to the linen shirt underneath. He slid his hand down to her hip and reached behind her with his other arm. Sitting up on his knees, he pulled her firmly to him, and she felt his need, hard and insistent, between her legs and his muscular chest against her own naked breasts. She moaned.
Jaime stopped kissing her and his green eyes glimmered like emeralds in the lamplight. “Shhh,” he breathed into her mouth, but Brienne silenced the reprimand with her tongue. He quickly lowered her into the mattress and kissed her, grinding his manhood into her through their breeches, over and over again, until she thought she might have to beg him to take her, dignity be damned.
But Jaime had other ideas. Propping himself up on his elbow, he shifted so that his length was pressed into her thigh and he slid his hand down inside her breeches, beneath her smallclothes, until he found her sex. The wet heat he found there made him moan, and he pressed his forehead into hers, closing his eyes as if he were in a dream. “Shhh,” whispered Brienne, and Jaime kissed her to silence her cry as he pressed the warm heel of his hand against her sex and slipped a finger inside her.
Brienne’s maidenhead had probably been lost long ago from the physical exertion of riding horseback, and she’d given herself the widow’s comfort for years, knowing that no man was likely to give her any pleasure. But when Jaime slipped a second finger inside her and began to rub the nub of her desire with his thumb, her eyes fluttered shut and she surrendered to the knowledge of his hand. He started slowly, rolling her sex under his thumb with the practiced, undeniable rhythm of an ocean wave tumbling over itself to reach the inevitable shore. She turned her head to the side and they lay forehead to forehead as he silently ministered to her need. She bit her lip and furrowed her brow to keep from making a noise, tilting her hips upward to take his fingers in even deeper. Jaime’s breath shuddered in and out against her lips and she kissed him, feeling his own unrelenting want against her hip. At last he found the rhythm that she knew would bring her to her inexorable finish. She held her breath, daring not to make a sound as she felt her body’s yearning slowly building, building under his touch - and with a rush of exhalation it was released, pulsing and contracting around his fingers. Brienne whimpered, and Jaime thrust his tongue into her mouth, swallowing the sound. She ran her hands up over his jaw and into his hair, grabbing handfuls of it as she kissed him back, hard, and wondered with a certain amount of giddy wickedness what else this man was capable of doing to her.
Jaime slipped his fingers out of her and sat back, knees spread, and waited. Brienne sat up and unlaced his breeches. He released himself and, with her juices still on his fingers, grasped his length and began to stroke. Brienne could not take her eyes off of him. He must know she’d never touched a man, and in their nights of tussling under the covers, though she’d tentatively squeezed him through his breeches, she hadn’t yet reached for his naked manhood. Now, with the lamplight and the white light of the fallen snow making his angular face glow with an ethereal beauty - and despite purple and green bruises all over his shoulders, arms, and torso; despite lines on his face and dark circles under his eyes from too many nights with little sleep; and, yes, despite missing a hand - he looked like a god, beautiful and perfect, perhaps one that the Seven had cast away jealously in punishment for his physical splendor. While Jaime rubbed himself, he kept half-lidded eyes on Brienne as he watched her watching him. She sat up on her elbows and wondered how his manhood could fit into her, but it must be possible, and she knew now that it would happen. Perhaps not tonight - because she didn’t want to stop him, not until he’d shown her how best to pleasure him - but soon, soon, she promised herself.
Brienne watched Jaime’s movements for a while longer and, finally, drawing on a new sort of courage she hadn’t known she possessed, she knelt almost behind him, spreading her thighs around his right thigh and buttock. She pressed her sex into his hip and her breasts into his arm and ribs. She held his left hip with her hand, keeping him close. Then, as she tucked her chin on top of his shoulder - for once glad of her height, for it meant that she could watch - she reached for him with her right hand. He let go and she wrapped her fingers around his girth, thrilling at the soft moan she elicited from him, and at the new sensations of smoothness and rigidity under her fingers; and she began to slide her hand over him, as she’d seen him do. His warm, soft skin moved over the stiffness, and she found herself smiling. She kept at it, slowly, marveling at the wetness she saw gleaming on the tip of his manhood and wondering how soon she’d bring him to climax.
“Faster,” he commanded in a rough whisper. She obeyed, and almost immediately she was rewarded by his release. He produced a handkerchief to capture his seed instead of letting it spew onto the bedclothes, and his hips thrust involuntarily as she continued to stroke him. Brienne looked at Jaime’s face and felt a rush of satisfaction when she saw the utter abandon in his expression; his eyes were closed, brow knit, his mouth open in a silent sigh of ecstasy. His mutilated arm reached behind him to draw her even closer to him. It seemed right to continue to touch him until his shuddering had completely ceased, and so she waited until he’d turned to kiss her to release him.
Jaime folded the handkerchief neatly and handed it to her, and she gratefully accepted it and cleaned the rest of his seed from her fingers, grinning in what she was certain was a silly manner as she did so. She lowered her gaze, blushing and smiling. He pulled her to him and, placing his finger under her chin, tilted her face to his. He whispered, with a grin, “You’ve been holding back, my lady.” He kissed her again, his hand rough in her hair at the nape of her neck and his breath hot against her mouth. “I cannot wait to try that again.”
“You flatter me,” said Brienne, still blushing.
“Not at all. Flattery is what one resorts to when the truth is not an option.”
“Your moral code is interesting, Ser Jaime.” But she kept on grinning like a fool.
“Come and lie down with me, wench,” he whispered. And she did.
As they settled down beneath their covers and watched the white flurries through the windowpane, Brienne was grateful for the heat rising from the fireplace downstairs, and glad that they had one night of true shelter before they wound their way back to Lady Stoneheart. Soon Jaime turned his body toward Brienne, and she mirrored his position. His hand found hers and held it.
“We should sleep,” whispered Brienne. Jaime nodded. But they continued to look at each other. Brienne couldn’t begin to guess what Jaime was thinking as he gazed at her, but the intensity of his eyes made her feel somehow intriguing, desired, and even a little beautiful. It was confusing, for she had never been any of those things; but she was quickly growing addicted to the feeling that she might be, at least in his eyes. She wanted to talk about what they’d done, and tell him how bloody amazing he had made her feel, and how incredible the act of pleasuring him had felt to her … but somehow she couldn’t. It was almost as if she knew to speak of it would break the spell, and she had no intention of doing that. So she just looked at her lover and prayed to the Seven, all of them, to keep her from driving Jaime away.
“What will we do after Winterfell?” asked Jaime. He spoke almost casually, as if he were merely making conversation.
But Brienne’s heart leapt into her throat, for she wondered the same thing, every day and night. After Winterfell Jaime would return to King’s Landing, and she … she wasn’t certain where she would go. Perhaps a visit to her father, though he’d implied that his welcome would be warmest if she happened to bring home a promising candidate for her lord husband. So it would be a cold visit home. After that, she did not know.
But Jaime had said we. What will we do after Winterfell?
Brienne surprised herself by giving Jaime the truth. “Whatever you like.”
Title: Undressed
Fandom: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairing: Jaime/Brienne (implied Podrick/Sansa)
Prompt(s): In hiding, mirrors
Word Count: 3,526
Rating & Warnings: M for sexual content
Summary: Brienne, Jaime, and Podrick are escorting Sansa to Lady Stoneheart and Winterfell. When Jaime and Brienne enjoy their first night of privacy, Brienne finds herself more exposed than she ever thought she’d allow.
Author’s Note: This is a brief (and racy!) preview of a four-chapter piece to be posted soon. It is a continuation of The Wrong Things for the Right Reasons, but can be read on its own. This scene was posted at the gameofships Get Lucky Porn Battle. Many thanks to my beta, mrstater!
“Good night, Podrick,” Brienne said, taking a lamp and climbing the ladder. She and Jaime would leave the boy to clean up and take the first watch, as he usually did. Sansa was already nestled into the bed downstairs.
There was a small, half-circle window built into the wall of the sleeping loft of the dead miller’s house, a surprising extravagance to find in such a modest home. Heavy clouds hid the moon; but the ground, blanketed in snow, was so white that it seemed almost bright inside. A short table sat beneath the window, and Brienne placed the oil lamp on it and looked around. The straw mattress was well worn but clean, and a few personal items lay scattered about the perimeter: a comb, a broken mirror, an ancient baby’s rag doll propped in the corner, an empty chamber pot. The ceiling was low over their heads, forcing them to stoop to move about and to inspect the ticking upon which they would rest.
Jaime took the broken mirror and sat on the bed. He looked squarely at Brienne. “We need to remove your bandage.”
Brienne unconsciously brought her hand to her left cheek.
“It must be healing,” said Jaime. “You change the dressing every day. It may be time to leave it off and let it breathe.”
Feeling more vulnerable than she would ever wish to admit, Brienne could not bring herself to speak. But she knew Jaime was right. She had delayed removing the linen for long enough. She had not seen herself in a mirror yet and had been tending her wound by feel, or by letting Podrick be her eyes - but only when Jaime was otherwise occupied. She would avoid looking at Podrick’s face whenever he helped her, for she could not bear to see revulsion in his guileless eyes if her face looked as terrible as she feared.
Brienne sank onto the bed beside Jaime and he handed her the shard of mirror. She held it on her lap and fingered the edges delicately, as if it were a knife whose sharpness she could not estimate. Small shuffles and clinks from downstairs told her that Podrick was washing their dinner bowls and spoons, and Brienne tried - unsuccessfully - to place her mind there instead of on what she and Jaime were about to do. Jaime began to peel away the cloth while Brienne kept her eyes downcast. Neither word nor breath escaped Jaime’s lips as he removed the linen and set it aside on the table. His fingers found her face and moved from her cheekbone downward over her scarred cheek and onto her jaw and neck. “Can you feel that?” he asked.
Brienne cleared her throat. “My cheekbone and jaw. Less feeling, in between.”
“As I expected.”
Somehow Brienne could not bear to see herself in the mirror yet. She was surprised to realize that she wanted to see Jaime’s reaction to her disfigurement first, before she passed judgment on herself. Before she could consider otherwise, she looked at him. His gaze did not remain on her ruined cheek, but met her eyes at once. His mouth was a thin line, his jaw set.
“How is it?” she whispered.
Jaime’s throat worked. He looked from the wound back to her eyes. “You look even more formidable, my lady.” A wry smile started in his eyes and eventually worked its way down to his mouth, which quirked upward in a tight-lipped grin.
Brienne surprised herself with a breathy laugh, though her heart was thundering with dread. Do it! she told herself, and she brought the mirror up.
It was bad, but not worse than she had imagined. She thanked the gods that the wound was smaller than she’d thought it would be. But the scarring was pink and angry, a ragged, mouth-shaped brand. She could see the carvings those horrible teeth had dug down her cheek, like fingernails raked through dirt. Her breathing, already shallow in anticipation of the awfulness she would see, quickened in anger. Yes, she had scars all over her body, wounds she’d earned in battle fairly; but this was her face, her face, and Biter had done it purposely to violate her. She might have died if not for Gendry, but now she was saddled with the memory of that foul act for the rest of her days.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she cursed under her breath, for crying would make her eyes swollen and render her ruined face even uglier. Besides, she did not cry, would not cry. She set aside the mirror and cursed again, angry with herself for caring, so late in her life, for her appearance. And then she barked with laughter, realizing she hadn’t known what a gift an unmarred face, even hers, had truly been. But she had borne hardship in her life; she could bear this. She would bear it.
While she struggled inwardly, Jaime’s eyes followed her every shift in mood; and he seemed to be trying to assess whether he should speak or simply allow Brienne’s tide of emotion to roll in and crash wherever it may. His hand had somehow ended up resting upon her knee, and the calm assurance Brienne felt from the weight of it there was comforting. In that simple moment she saw Jaime once again restraining himself from trying to fix her, like nearly every other man she’d known had tried to do; she saw Jaime allowing her to be no more or less than who she was.
And at last she finally understood - knew it from her flushing skin inward into her very bones - that she loved him. She looked away, wondering if she could bear that, too.
Downstairs Podrick had finished cleaning up the dinner things and trod softly to where Sansa lay, probably still wide awake, on her small bed. Brienne heard him spread out a blanket and some furs on the floor. Then the whispering began. Brienne and Jaime raised their eyebrows and smiled at each other.
Jaime put on his sternest voice. “You have the first watch, Podrick, unless you’ve forgotten.”
Then ensued much scrambling and apologies and gathering of sword and wet cloak. Podrick had nearly reached the door when Brienne called out, “You may sit by the fire. Just stay awake and keep the door bolted.”
“Yes, my lady. Ser. I won’t. Fall asleep, I mean. I’ll stay awake.”
As Podrick settled into the chair Sansa had earlier vacated, Jaime and Brienne stifled their snickers and crawled under the furs together, and somehow that was the end of any discussion about the scars on Brienne’s face. Her heart pounded; after all, their little roost in this loft was the first place they’d had any semblance of privacy together. She wondered if Jaime kissed her - would he want to kiss her again, now that he’d seen her disfigurement? She batted the thought away - whether she could keep from sighing and moaning as she usually did when they reached for each other while Podrick and Sansa slept. She doubted that Sansa would sleep much tonight, if at all, and she didn’t relish the thought of the two downstairs hearing what she and Jaime got up to under their furs. Even so, she knew if he wanted her she wouldn’t resist his advances. There was a certain freedom in surrender, she realized. The Kingslayer’s whore she was, in name and probably quite soon in deed, and that was that.
As she lay back on the straw mattress, a sharp twinge caused her to hiss in pain. She sat up, rubbing her ribs where Jaime’s blow had landed during their practice today. Jaime silently rose with her and began, with his one hand, to pull her heavy woolen shirt and linen undergarment over her head. Like an obedient child, she helped him by lifting the other side until she was bare from the waist up except for the fabric binding her chest. Where was her modesty? How soon after she’d met Jaime had it fled? For there was no question that she would let him undress her to view these wounds, too. The light from the lamp and the bright snow outside gave her nowhere to hide, but she sat up straighter. There would be no shame in this.
Jaime’s own hiss escaped his teeth when he saw the purple bruises peeking from under the cotton binding that flattened and protected her small breasts. He untucked the edge and began to unwrap it, with Brienne helping to pass the fabric around her back until she was naked. She’d always thought that allowing herself to be disrobed by a man was fantasy, something that would never happen in her waking life; or, if it did, it would be part of some humiliating horror she was forced to endure for a man’s sport, as when she’d been forced to don a dress to fight a bear, or worse, if Vargo Hoat and his men had been crueler than they’d been greedy. So she was surprised by how captivated she felt when Jaime’s hand passed gently over her bruises, feeling her ribs with his fingertips.
“Take deep breaths in and out,” he whispered, bringing his ear to her lips. She obeyed and he listened, keeping his hand on her ribcage. He must be listening for a rattle, or wheezing, indicating fluid in her lungs from a broken rib; but they both knew her injuries couldn’t be as bad as that - she’d been wearing her boiled leather. Still, she had to acknowledge his thoroughness, and a smile stole across her face as she wondered about his other motives for undressing her. His eyes were downcast, probably eyeing her breasts, and he must feel the thundering of her heartbeat under his hand, which somehow embarrassed her more than being naked did. She looked away and tried to slow her frantic heart by imagining being examined by a maester; but it had been many years since she had submitted to any such prodding, and no maester had ever made her heart flutter like Jaime did. And his ear was right next to her mouth, begging to be kissed.
Jaime sat back and looked her in the eyes, exhaling in relief. “You’ll heal,” he whispered. His hand was still on her ribs. She nodded. Of course. She always did. They regarded each other silently. A sweet, sad longing churned deep between her legs. She placed her hand on top of his.
As always, Jaime would begin as a gentleman, or as much of one as he was likely to be. He barely breathed his next words. “Brienne, can you keep quiet if I do this?” Leaning forward, keeping his eyes open, and pressed his open mouth to hers, and the sudden, throbbing desire in her loins nearly made her whimper. He slid his hand upward until it cupped her right breast and he gave it a squeeze, and still, somehow, she didn’t make a noise. She reached for his hips, for they were too far away from her aching pelvis and the fire within. But he wouldn’t come closer, not yet, for there was her body to explore, at last, and as he pulled back his eyes seemed to feast on it. A small smile crossed his face and he hummed quietly, satisfied, and brought his mouth to her left breast, keeping his hand on the right and running his thumb over her nipple. Brienne’s eyes closed, and she bit her lip to keep from moaning. His tongue seemed somehow larger and yet more precise than it had been inside her mouth a moment ago, and she thought she might pass out from the thrill of it.
Jaime’s warm breath made her shiver as he slid his mouth up her breastbone and neck and across her jaw, right underneath her scars. “I want to feel you,” he breathed when he reached her mouth again. Grasping the hem of his woolen shirt, he tugged it deftly over his head, and slung it to the side, then did the same to the linen shirt underneath. He slid his hand down to her hip and reached behind her with his other arm. Sitting up on his knees, he pulled her firmly to him, and she felt his need, hard and insistent, between her legs and his muscular chest against her own naked breasts. She moaned.
Jaime stopped kissing her and his green eyes glimmered like emeralds in the lamplight. “Shhh,” he breathed into her mouth, but Brienne silenced the reprimand with her tongue. He quickly lowered her into the mattress and kissed her, grinding his manhood into her through their breeches, over and over again, until she thought she might have to beg him to take her, dignity be damned.
But Jaime had other ideas. Propping himself up on his elbow, he shifted so that his length was pressed into her thigh and he slid his hand down inside her breeches, beneath her smallclothes, until he found her sex. The wet heat he found there made him moan, and he pressed his forehead into hers, closing his eyes as if he were in a dream. “Shhh,” whispered Brienne, and Jaime kissed her to silence her cry as he pressed the warm heel of his hand against her sex and slipped a finger inside her.
Brienne’s maidenhead had probably been lost long ago from the physical exertion of riding horseback, and she’d given herself the widow’s comfort for years, knowing that no man was likely to give her any pleasure. But when Jaime slipped a second finger inside her and began to rub the nub of her desire with his thumb, her eyes fluttered shut and she surrendered to the knowledge of his hand. He started slowly, rolling her sex under his thumb with the practiced, undeniable rhythm of an ocean wave tumbling over itself to reach the inevitable shore. She turned her head to the side and they lay forehead to forehead as he silently ministered to her need. She bit her lip and furrowed her brow to keep from making a noise, tilting her hips upward to take his fingers in even deeper. Jaime’s breath shuddered in and out against her lips and she kissed him, feeling his own unrelenting want against her hip. At last he found the rhythm that she knew would bring her to her inexorable finish. She held her breath, daring not to make a sound as she felt her body’s yearning slowly building, building under his touch - and with a rush of exhalation it was released, pulsing and contracting around his fingers. Brienne whimpered, and Jaime thrust his tongue into her mouth, swallowing the sound. She ran her hands up over his jaw and into his hair, grabbing handfuls of it as she kissed him back, hard, and wondered with a certain amount of giddy wickedness what else this man was capable of doing to her.
Jaime slipped his fingers out of her and sat back, knees spread, and waited. Brienne sat up and unlaced his breeches. He released himself and, with her juices still on his fingers, grasped his length and began to stroke. Brienne could not take her eyes off of him. He must know she’d never touched a man, and in their nights of tussling under the covers, though she’d tentatively squeezed him through his breeches, she hadn’t yet reached for his naked manhood. Now, with the lamplight and the white light of the fallen snow making his angular face glow with an ethereal beauty - and despite purple and green bruises all over his shoulders, arms, and torso; despite lines on his face and dark circles under his eyes from too many nights with little sleep; and, yes, despite missing a hand - he looked like a god, beautiful and perfect, perhaps one that the Seven had cast away jealously in punishment for his physical splendor. While Jaime rubbed himself, he kept half-lidded eyes on Brienne as he watched her watching him. She sat up on her elbows and wondered how his manhood could fit into her, but it must be possible, and she knew now that it would happen. Perhaps not tonight - because she didn’t want to stop him, not until he’d shown her how best to pleasure him - but soon, soon, she promised herself.
Brienne watched Jaime’s movements for a while longer and, finally, drawing on a new sort of courage she hadn’t known she possessed, she knelt almost behind him, spreading her thighs around his right thigh and buttock. She pressed her sex into his hip and her breasts into his arm and ribs. She held his left hip with her hand, keeping him close. Then, as she tucked her chin on top of his shoulder - for once glad of her height, for it meant that she could watch - she reached for him with her right hand. He let go and she wrapped her fingers around his girth, thrilling at the soft moan she elicited from him, and at the new sensations of smoothness and rigidity under her fingers; and she began to slide her hand over him, as she’d seen him do. His warm, soft skin moved over the stiffness, and she found herself smiling. She kept at it, slowly, marveling at the wetness she saw gleaming on the tip of his manhood and wondering how soon she’d bring him to climax.
“Faster,” he commanded in a rough whisper. She obeyed, and almost immediately she was rewarded by his release. He produced a handkerchief to capture his seed instead of letting it spew onto the bedclothes, and his hips thrust involuntarily as she continued to stroke him. Brienne looked at Jaime’s face and felt a rush of satisfaction when she saw the utter abandon in his expression; his eyes were closed, brow knit, his mouth open in a silent sigh of ecstasy. His mutilated arm reached behind him to draw her even closer to him. It seemed right to continue to touch him until his shuddering had completely ceased, and so she waited until he’d turned to kiss her to release him.
Jaime folded the handkerchief neatly and handed it to her, and she gratefully accepted it and cleaned the rest of his seed from her fingers, grinning in what she was certain was a silly manner as she did so. She lowered her gaze, blushing and smiling. He pulled her to him and, placing his finger under her chin, tilted her face to his. He whispered, with a grin, “You’ve been holding back, my lady.” He kissed her again, his hand rough in her hair at the nape of her neck and his breath hot against her mouth. “I cannot wait to try that again.”
“You flatter me,” said Brienne, still blushing.
“Not at all. Flattery is what one resorts to when the truth is not an option.”
“Your moral code is interesting, Ser Jaime.” But she kept on grinning like a fool.
“Come and lie down with me, wench,” he whispered. And she did.
As they settled down beneath their covers and watched the white flurries through the windowpane, Brienne was grateful for the heat rising from the fireplace downstairs, and glad that they had one night of true shelter before they wound their way back to Lady Stoneheart. Soon Jaime turned his body toward Brienne, and she mirrored his position. His hand found hers and held it.
“We should sleep,” whispered Brienne. Jaime nodded. But they continued to look at each other. Brienne couldn’t begin to guess what Jaime was thinking as he gazed at her, but the intensity of his eyes made her feel somehow intriguing, desired, and even a little beautiful. It was confusing, for she had never been any of those things; but she was quickly growing addicted to the feeling that she might be, at least in his eyes. She wanted to talk about what they’d done, and tell him how bloody amazing he had made her feel, and how incredible the act of pleasuring him had felt to her … but somehow she couldn’t. It was almost as if she knew to speak of it would break the spell, and she had no intention of doing that. So she just looked at her lover and prayed to the Seven, all of them, to keep her from driving Jaime away.
“What will we do after Winterfell?” asked Jaime. He spoke almost casually, as if he were merely making conversation.
But Brienne’s heart leapt into her throat, for she wondered the same thing, every day and night. After Winterfell Jaime would return to King’s Landing, and she … she wasn’t certain where she would go. Perhaps a visit to her father, though he’d implied that his welcome would be warmest if she happened to bring home a promising candidate for her lord husband. So it would be a cold visit home. After that, she did not know.
But Jaime had said we. What will we do after Winterfell?
Brienne surprised herself by giving Jaime the truth. “Whatever you like.”