Comment fic meme

[gotexchange_mod]

Some members liked the idea of having a kink meme/comment fic meme on got_exchange, especially since the other ASOIAF/GoT kink memes are fairly dead at the moment. (It's only posted on the mod account journal because I don't want anonymous comments on the exchange comm.)

A couple of rules before we start:

- please include the pairing/character (and maybe a short

Comments

Someone Must Protect You, 2/8

[just_a_dram]

She knows what he is, his crimes, his failings: he numbered every one along their journey together, seemingly trying to frighten her into being less gracious, less unafraid. It very nearly worked, but Sansa no longer believed in romantic songs or true knights. She knew men are very rarely all good or all bad. What counted most to her was strength and reliability, and Jaime was strong despite his hand and he was determined to follow through with his promise. That journey to bring her home seemed at times the only thing keeping him alive.

But that quest was over. And he was out there, being made to fight.

“My lady?” a nervous voice calls, drawing her attention from her hands, which she has been staring down at, thinking them useless and stupid in their uncalloused perfection. She could go without a sword hand, but Jaime requires one.

She looks up and sees her serving girl hovering with the tent flap pulled back.

“How did you find me?” Sansa demands a little harshly. She is not in her own tent. She is not even in her brother’s, where one might expect to find her waiting. She is in Jaime Lannister’s tent. Completely uninvited, although Brie couldn’t know that. She does not even know what drew her here or how long the battle raged before her feet found their way to his simple tent.

She has no energy to pretend to be mortified at how this might appear to the girl.

Brie struggles to find an answer that will not displease her mistress, and
Sansa shakes her head in irritation. “What is it?” she asks.

“Lord Tyrion said to keep you safe,” she tries.

“Yes?” she presses. She can appreciate Tyrion’s kindness more now that she knows true evil has nothing to do with the shapes people take. It also helps that they are no longer wed to each other against their will. “Do we need to leave?”

If the battle is going badly, they will need to flee before they are within the grasp of the enemy, who would like nothing more than to have Sansa Stark as a hostage.

“No, but I wanted to be sure of you, so I might find you quick if need be.”

Sansa nods. “How does it go?”

“I don’t know, my lady. I can’t bear to look,” the girl confesses.
Sansa would be annoyed, but she can’t bear it either. So, she waves her away and turns on Jaime’s stool until she can rest her head on the camp table and wrap her arms around her head until the din of battle is muted.

…

She sleeps. But she is only aware that she sleeps, when his voice rouses her. She thinks he says her name, but in her fogginess she only knows one thing.

“You’re alive.”

“Are you disappointed?” he asks, unceremoniously tossing his helmet down on the ground with a dull clatter.

She takes stock of him quickly. He is dented and bloodied. His hair mats to his head in one place, where it looks like he is bleeding still, but he is alive. The last of his kind. Like herself.

She swallows, staring up at him from his camp stool, her fingers gripping the edge of the table before her.

“I’ve left you speechless,” he says, as he fumbles one handed with his breastplate. “I must cut an impressive figure.”

“Oh, be quiet,” she orders, as she finds her feet and steps up to him, batting his hand away, so that she might assist him with one of the buckles that holds his breastplate closed.

“You’re in a mood,” he observes, watching in barely contained bemusement, as she awkwardly works to free him from his armor. The grace with which she can ply a needle or turn a step on the dance floor seems to escape her in this task, particularly with his eyes upon her. “You have no gentle words for a knight fresh from the battle?”

“I haven’t the patience for courtesy today,” she says, her hands trembling, as she tugs on a thick leather strap. “I’ve been very short with Brie.”

“Wonders never cease.”

“Please, be quiet,” she begs, her hands freezing at the third fastener, as she looks up at him. When he looks back at her with an unfamiliar kind of intensity that makes her heart race, she attempts to return to her task.

“What are you doing here?” he asks so softly she could almost miss it with the rattle of men returning from battle all around them.

“Waiting,” she confesses.

“Jon is fine,” he tells her with a weary sigh, sinking into one hip as he lets her work.