“No, over here.”
Lysa giggles as she clings to his hand; she’d drawn him into a shadowy nook, but he steers her farther down the hall, a gleaming on the wall catching his attention. The new alcove proves equally secluded, but it has a large looking-glass on one of the walls, and he prefers it for that reason.
Jaime unlaces his fingers from the Tully girl’s and strokes up and down her arms while she watches him with rapt eyes.
"You're the most beautiful boy I've ever seen," Lysa says in that strange, blunt way of hers. She's a peculiar thing- silent and shy one moment, inappropriately forthright the next. She lacks her sister's easy way with conversation; there's a concentrated effort behind everything Lysa does, and Jaime can't help but find it exhausting.
As much to keep her from speaking as anything else, Jaime leans in and kisses her on the mouth. She responds with a surprising enthusiasm- her spindly arms coil around his neck, and it's all he can do to shift to the side enough to catch his reflection in the mirror.
It's only kissing, after all. And he's kissed more girls than he can count- servants at Casterly Rock, the daughters of hedge knights and bannermen. But Cersei was always there, standing just behind the girl, green eyes glittering with fire and challenge and wickedness as she stroked the black or brown or tawny hair (but not gold, never gold).
He can almost imagine her here now- so long as he can see his own eyes in the looking glass, Cersei is not far away.
The next moments pass quickly, until Lysa somehow finds herself kneeling on the ground, limpid blue eyes staring up at him as her fingers tease at the laces of his breeches.
This girl could be my wife. The idea continues to feel strange and alien, as blurry and vague as the notion of himself as the Lord of Casterly Rock. Marriage, husbands and wives- Cersei will become a wife to someone else, a fact that never seems to gall her as much as it should....
As he loses himself in his reverie, Lysa finishes untying his breeches, and he sucks in a breath at the feel of her hand tightening around his cock. No one has ever touched him there save his sister- he stares at the green eyes in the looking glass, but they do not appear angry, merely curious and perplexed. And this girl could be my wife someday...
Lysa replaces her hand with her mouth, and it becomes abundantly clear at once- she's done this before. He shifts his focus from the mirror and stares down at her- Lysa's hair is lighter than her sister's and her brother's. In the torchlight, he even thinks he can see streaks of gold in the auburn.
He drops his hand to her head and combs it through her hair as she licks and sucks. A tiny tug brings her gaze up, and the way she looks at him- so desperate, so hungry, so eager to please- sends a chill of disgust to his core.
He looks back up at the mirror again- the green eyes are disdainful, repulsed, almost accusatory. And Jaime finds that he thoroughly agrees with their estimation of this pathetic creature on her knees... wife, indeed.
Jaime extricates himself from Lysa, mumbling some chivalrous nonsense about preserving her honor. She seems to believe it readily enough, and she allows him to escort her back to her chambers, where he bids her a curt farewell.
He's still half-hard in his breeches when he returns to his chamber. He positions himself in full view of the looking glass when he takes his cock in hand and strokes it the way Cersei would do, his gaze locked on the green eyes in the mirror as he whispers apology after apology.