The idea creeps into her head early in the morning, when she kneels before Daenerys Stormborn and pledges her fealty yet again- the little Dragon Queen, so tiny and delicate on that big, hulking monstrosity of a throne. She hates the sight of it, all sharp edges and unforgiving metal...and yet.
Jaime laughs at the suggestion- surely she’s jesting, she can’t really be serious, his position in this new regime is far more precarious than hers, does she want to see his head on a spike?
(She doesn’t answer that last question. His eyes flash in tandem with hers, and she knows she has him then.)
They’ve fucked on her throne in Winterfell before, the big chair of ancient wood and stone where her father once sat, her grandfather, all of the lords of the North spanning generation after generation. They tried it once with Jaime sitting on the throne and Sansa straddling his lap, but that felt wrong, criminally wrong- a Lannister had no place on this chair. And so from then on, Jaime would stand and Sansa would sit, coiling her legs around him as he pushed into her, his flesh-and-blood hand braced against the back of the throne, his golden hand digging hard into the skin of her hip.
They resume this position now, and she pushes her white skirts up over her thighs. He drops to one knee before her, his eyes gleaming with a fierce boldness that tempers the apprehension- she tips her head back and lets him slip his hand between her legs and bury his face in the softness of her bosom. But this isn’t why they’re here, and time may be short- she tugs at his breeches with enough force to split the laces, and he huffs an obscenity into her skin. But he knows well enough what she wants.
Jaime stands, Sansa spreads her legs wider, and he thrusts into her. The metal of the throne is cold and bracing against her skin, but it isn’t enough- “Harder,” she whispers. He grips the back of the throne with one hand, pushes the golden one into her side, and she’s pressed against the edges...almost there, she thinks as she tilts her body ever so slightly-
And finally, the blades cut into her skin- first a tiny ribbon of red over her white shoulder, but soon there are slashes everywhere. Jaime cants his hips upward, and she feels several of the gnarled scars on her back split open, the hot blood rushing down over her back. Her dress, winter white, Stark white, now streaked with Lannister scarlet...
“Sansa...” Jaime gasps, and his grip begins to loosen. But she reaches out and clenches both hands on his hips, pulling him into her as deeply as she can. Her teeth grind together, and she hisses- “Don’t. Stop.”
She feels something warm dripping on her brow- Jaime’s been holding the back of the throne too tightly, and blood leaks from his left palm. She glances up- her own blood has spattered into his hair, and it’s all red and gold and green- her head tilts to the side, and she sees the steps below the throne, where she used to bleed and bleed-
We’ve all bled for this throne...it belongs to us all now.
Jaime releases the throne and dips his hand down, his blood combining with the slickness between her legs. Dizzy with arousal, weakened by blood loss, she thrusts against him once, twice, and comes with a high, delirious sigh. She listens to her own shallow breathing- she hears Jaime moan and assumes that he must have reached his own climax, but there’s so much warm blood trickling down her legs that she can’t tell whether he’s released his seed.
Sansa closes her eyes. She feels Jaime’s arms encircling her, pulling her into him, and she lets him scoop her up and wrap her in his cloak. They’re both sticky and panting and weak- she presses her lips to his temple and tastes the metallic tang of iron- whether it’s her blood or his, she does not know.
As they steal away from the throne room, Sansa peers over Jaime’s shoulder to look at the Iron Throne. Their blood has already begun to dry, and it blends seamlessly into the myriad stains on the metal; it’s as though they were never there at all. She buries her face in Jaime’s neck and begins to laugh, her lips parted just enough to catch the hot, salty tears that run over her cheeks.
I LOVED THIS (no surprise there of course hehe)!! :D
The image of the two of them bleeding over the throne is so poignant and accurate and sad really because it more or less sums up much of the misfortunes of nearly everyone in this series (y)
her head tilts to the side, and she sees the steps below the throne, where she used to bleed and bleed-
We’ve all bled for this throne...it belongs to us all now.
OH MY GOD, this is so stunning. All the amazing imagery, cutting themselves on the throne, Stark white and Lannister scarlet, and of course 'we've all bled for this throne...it belongs to us all now' PERFECT LINE IS PERFECT.
The idea creeps into her head early in the morning, when she kneels before Daenerys Stormborn and pledges her fealty yet again- the little Dragon Queen, so tiny and delicate on that big, hulking monstrosity of a throne. She hates the sight of it, all sharp edges and unforgiving metal...and yet.
Jaime laughs at the suggestion- surely she’s jesting, she can’t really be serious, his position in this new regime is far more precarious than hers, does she want to see his head on a spike?
(She doesn’t answer that last question. His eyes flash in tandem with hers, and she knows she has him then.)
They’ve fucked on her throne in Winterfell before, the big chair of ancient wood and stone where her father once sat, her grandfather, all of the lords of the North spanning generation after generation. They tried it once with Jaime sitting on the throne and Sansa straddling his lap, but that felt wrong, criminally wrong- a Lannister had no place on this chair. And so from then on, Jaime would stand and Sansa would sit, coiling her legs around him as he pushed into her, his flesh-and-blood hand braced against the back of the throne, his golden hand digging hard into the skin of her hip.
They resume this position now, and she pushes her white skirts up over her thighs. He drops to one knee before her, his eyes gleaming with a fierce boldness that tempers the apprehension- she tips her head back and lets him slip his hand between her legs and bury his face in the softness of her bosom. But this isn’t why they’re here, and time may be short- she tugs at his breeches with enough force to split the laces, and he huffs an obscenity into her skin. But he knows well enough what she wants.
Jaime stands, Sansa spreads her legs wider, and he thrusts into her. The metal of the throne is cold and bracing against her skin, but it isn’t enough- “Harder,” she whispers. He grips the back of the throne with one hand, pushes the golden one into her side, and she’s pressed against the edges...almost there, she thinks as she tilts her body ever so slightly-
And finally, the blades cut into her skin- first a tiny ribbon of red over her white shoulder, but soon there are slashes everywhere. Jaime cants his hips upward, and she feels several of the gnarled scars on her back split open, the hot blood rushing down over her back. Her dress, winter white, Stark white, now streaked with Lannister scarlet...
“Sansa...” Jaime gasps, and his grip begins to loosen. But she reaches out and clenches both hands on his hips, pulling him into her as deeply as she can. Her teeth grind together, and she hisses- “Don’t. Stop.”
She feels something warm dripping on her brow- Jaime’s been holding the back of the throne too tightly, and blood leaks from his left palm. She glances up- her own blood has spattered into his hair, and it’s all red and gold and green- her head tilts to the side, and she sees the steps below the throne, where she used to bleed and bleed-
We’ve all bled for this throne...it belongs to us all now.
Jaime releases the throne and dips his hand down, his blood combining with the slickness between her legs. Dizzy with arousal, weakened by blood loss, she thrusts against him once, twice, and comes with a high, delirious sigh. She listens to her own shallow breathing- she hears Jaime moan and assumes that he must have reached his own climax, but there’s so much warm blood trickling down her legs that she can’t tell whether he’s released his seed.
Sansa closes her eyes. She feels Jaime’s arms encircling her, pulling her into him, and she lets him scoop her up and wrap her in his cloak. They’re both sticky and panting and weak- she presses her lips to his temple and tastes the metallic tang of iron- whether it’s her blood or his, she does not know.
As they steal away from the throne room, Sansa peers over Jaime’s shoulder to look at the Iron Throne. Their blood has already begun to dry, and it blends seamlessly into the myriad stains on the metal; it’s as though they were never there at all. She buries her face in Jaime’s neck and begins to laugh, her lips parted just enough to catch the hot, salty tears that run over her cheeks.
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The image of the two of them bleeding over the throne is so poignant and accurate and sad really because it more or less sums up much of the misfortunes of nearly everyone in this series (y)
her head tilts to the side, and she sees the steps below the throne, where she used to bleed and bleed-
We’ve all bled for this throne...it belongs to us all now.
*is dead* O__O
I AM FOREVER IN LOVE WITH YOUR PROSE BB <333
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So glad you enjoyed- thank youuuuu!! xoxo
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Thank you so much for this. I love it, and especially Jaime's thoughts here. So great.
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Seriously, this was amazing, SUPER KUDOS.
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