Jaime frowned as he rotated his wrist towards the hearth. Given the time, either several hours truly had passed or the battery had died sometime during the processional. Trying to catch the edge of the smooth, metal clasp gave him some relief, until his expensive watch opened with a quiet snick, and he slipped its useless weight into his side pocket. His restless fingers twitched towards the cuff-links his little brother had lent him “for luck” but stopped short of the little golden lions dancing in the firelight. Jaime had once thought to bury them with Father, remembering how his mother had drawn them from her secret box of lace, pearls, and preserved blooms, and displayed them reverently in her gentle hand. He’d gifted them to Tyrion, instead.
He traced his steps back towards the frost-spattered window, ancient stone fitted with a modern frame and latches that did not crumble under his touch to be opened or as he leaned forward, his breath turning to thin clouds to scan the quiet landscape below. He could still hear echoes of music and raucous laughter from where lights twinkled in the white distance of Winterfell. Gods, he was a fool to leave her out there, and so was she for ever saying “yes.”
It was the moon that gave her away, some errant beam catching the line of her gown as she traipsed into the clearing below like a figment from a dream. His breath caught, and he looked over his shoulder, as though there were anyone around to stop them, anyone who would dare interrupt them again. He realized that they’d forgotten to drape her shoulders with anything other than fine Valyrian silk, as she turned a little circle, rubbing her bare arms, and then cupped her elbows. Jaime parted his lips.
Her name died in his throat as she turned towards the voice of another man, who took her pale hand in both his own and placed a gentleman’s kiss above her new, golden ring. He pointed upward, towards the window, and Brienne’s beautiful gaze followed.
“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to sneak a Lannister bride from her own reception?” Tyrion called. “Well?”
He meant to offer his thanks, but he was already unable to take his eyes from Brienne.
“You’re welcome!” Tyrion huffed and then turned to leave Brienne with gentler words, no doubt, though they were too quiet to hear. When she looked to the window again, her flush threatened to melt the snowflakes that clung to her hair like the little pearls of the wreath that crowned her head. And then she was striding forward, towards the tower door and just under his line of sight. Jaime busied himself with re-latching and shuttering the window, lest he rush to meet her half-way on the stairs. No, he had wanted her long enough to know waiting a bit longer would not be a death sentence, only torture.
A soft knock echoed from the other side of the chamber door, and he bit his bottom lip because only Brienne could be so proper. He had already crossed half the room when she let herself in and barred the door behind her.
“You were right, everyone's still drinking.” Her smile, this smile was new – not so much like the cat that had eaten the canary as the one that had freed the pretty yellow bird from its cage to run away with him on holiday. “How did you cover your tracks in the snow?"
“I had time,” he teased.
Brienne’s fingers slipped a bit on silvery fabric, as she worked to lift her damp hem with exceeding care and revealed one bare foot with a mournful sound. “Tyrion promised to find my shoe.”
Her slippers had been custom-made and, truth be told, Jaime didn’t give a dusty fuck about them, outside of the surprisingly sensitive feelings of the most peculiar heiress he’d ever met. The one afraid of roses, that one evening stomped blindly around a corner and, with a broken kitten heel, literally fell into his arms. The one who pretended to not stare longingly at the samples he’d brought home and mumbled how anything other than a quick shuffle to the courthouse would cost them dearly. Convincing her otherwise and of what he really wanted had been a slow, sometimes frustrating, but ultimately pleasurable process.
Brienne's expression told him that must be staring at her in the way that Tyrion would often warn him about, using his elbow. His fingers began to itch at his side again, and he decided not to care. “Come here.” He wondered if she could tell he was holding his breath as he waited.
Brienne walked slowly, still wearing just the one shoe He had dreamed of this evening enough to hope that the clock would not strike midnight, or at the very least he would not wake to an obnoxious alarm. Her large hand fell to his shoulder and, despite the winter, radiated warmth like a balm.
“It worked.” He might have laughed at his silly admission and his fortune, if Brienne wasn’t looking at him like that. He wanted to keep her looking at him like that for as long as possible. Brienne brought her hand to cup his cheek, as though she was aware he was quickly losing his senses.
“Jaime, I love… I married—”
Her mouth was pillowy and soft, tamed by a strict regimen of sugar-scrub and a light layer of gloss that was quickly diminishing as the kiss continued to shift and deepen. Brienne wound her arms around his neck and shoulders for support, and he was overtaken by the urge to take her as one would a wife. His wife. Bending downward, Jaime swept one arm behind and under Brienne’s knees, which easily gave way as his other arm wrapped tightly about her waist, and lifted her from the floor. They were both a bit breathless from the effort, and he tried to commit it to memory, how Brienne's wide and too-blue eyes were looking up at him, even as he shifted her weight against his chest. Her remaining slipper fell to the rug with a light thud.
“Tell me again, sweetling.” Jaime sought Brienne’s lips with a light growl. She turned from him instead, tucking her freckled face in towards his neck. He wondered if he’d been too forward until he felt the clumsy bump of Brienne’s nose under his jaw. The first tentative brush of her lips there as husband and wife.
A gentle nip. “You heard me.” Brienne’s lips curved against his skin, and her name escaped him as a groan, rather than the playful warning he’d intended. He felt what could have been either a bead of sweat or the tip of Brienne’s pink tongue running down to his collar and could practically hear her thinking, consciously or not, of how to undo his resolve. “If I refuse?”
“I have ways of making you talk." The promise was underlined by lowering Brienne to the bed in the corner. She uttered a protest against his lips, though Jaime did not know if it was in response to setting her down or concern for the veil at her back. As he worked to remove his suit jacket, Brienne lifted herself ever so carefully disentangle the flow of lace and re-adjust her crown of blossoms and pearls, rather than remove it.
“Jaime… here? What about the Starks?” All our guests? The last question was voiced by Brienne's pretty blue eyes, imploring him to reason.
He knelt in front of her and smiled when she further pressed her cheek into his touch. The next few kisses were soft and unhurried. His other hand traced her draped neckline, and when Brienne brushed her tongue against his bottom lip, Jaime lightly scraped a nail over one peaked nipple through the fabric. He swallowed Brienne’s cry, and she broke the kiss. This time, he brushed his lips against her fevered cheek, tasting the freckles there briefly. He had waited so long to taste all of them. “No one knows to look for us here." He had seen to extra precautions just to make that so. His hand slipped back, under the length of her veil and to the soft nape of her neck to guide her.
“But Volantis,” Brienne sighed against his lips.
Ah, the honeymoon. “I’ll be even gentler, then. It’s going to be so good, Brienne, I promise.” Everything they would possibly need had either been packed days in advance or was already waiting for them in a suite far away. He could do so much to relieve her of her worries, if she would let him try.
Brienne broke their kiss with a whimper of loss. Jaime barely grazed the tip of his nose against her cheek, thinking of how delicious she tasted and how good she would look spread underneath him.
“What if we miss our flight?”
“It’s chartered, departure isn’t for hours.” Very gently, Jaime grasped Brienne’s wedding crown, lifting it from her pale hair. He guided the attached veil carefully around her and layered it in a neat pile as he rested the piece at their bedside. “Why? How much time do you think we’ll need?” he asked with a happy laugh. She was now as thoroughly flushed as he had ever seen, and how he longed to see how far it extended under her clothes, how quickly he could exacerbate her condition.
Brienne’s fingers fluttered to the buttons of his shirt and did little more. Her voice was suspiciously light. “What... what if I want us to wait?”
Jaime closed his eyes to the ceiling and groaned. To release her was to struggle against every muscle and instinct, but of course he did. What truly mattered was that her heart was his, just as he had unknowingly given his years ago. He looked down to find her watching him with dark eyes, reclined on her elbows. Jaime bid almost all his blood to flow in the opposite direction. “Then, I say yes, for however long you can keep your hands off me.”
“Though, let’s not leave, yet. I’ve had to share you all day.”
She laughed, then. “Me, who sweats like a pig, even in snow. And you, not one hair out of place and so ridiculously pretty that—”
To stop her was a conscious decision, but the kiss had come from instinct. By the time Jaime realized what was happening, Brienne was stretching out below him, returning his affections the best she knew how.
“You always do that,” she panted, though he was in no better shape. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”
Jaime settled for glaring at her lips. He thought to capture them again, if not for pleasure then to stop whatever nasty falsehoods might bubble from them on an otherwise beautiful day. He had half a mind to remind her that she was speaking of his beloved wife, who deserved respect. He pushed himself up by his arms for a better look and tried not to crush her. He inclined his head in apology. “All right, I’m listening.”
Brienne sighed, then looked at him in that quiet way of hers that often made him wonder what she saw in him, what she was looking for, and if she had ever come close to finding it. Her eyes for him, and just for him he’d noticed, held an undeserved softness. She spoke carefully and with an undeniable fondness, this time. “Maybe, I don’t want to wait either, no matter how you look. I… am so stupidly in-love with you that… Look at me, Jaime. Truly. This is the end to your dream wedding?"
He shifted to lie at her side, instead, stretching alongside Brienne and gathered her to his chest. His hands sought to lend friction to the gooseflesh of her freckled arms, then moved to her bare back. One hand traced the line of her spine, down to the small of her back, up to between her shoulder blades, then back down again. His lips brushed along her forehead, tickled once or twice by wisps of hair that had once been tamed stiff with spray. They brushed from her temple, to the red apple of her cheek, until he kissed the shell of her ear; happy, warm, and content. “Fuck, yes,” he hissed, eliciting a new line of shivers.
The next time their lips met, he grasped the material of Brienne’s dress with one hand, holding it taut as his other hand sought its tiny teardrop zipper, easing it downward. When the material parted, he ran both hands greedily over the freckled expanse of her back, then worked with her to slip the material from her shoulders, down her arms that then wound about his neck. Jaime murmured encouragingly against her lips, in between kisses. “Just… like… that.”
Her tongue yielded to his, as his hands came around to cup her delicate breasts, each thumb brushing over a stiff, sensitive tip. The next time the kiss broke, Jaime brushed his lips down her neck, towards the slight, creamy swells of her chest, tipped in luscious pink, and wondered how they might taste. He took his time, testing her flesh with mouth, teeth, and tongue. Brienne’s hands took root in his hair, and he purred in satisfaction at the new arrangement, as she began to arch to him like a blossom to the sun. He loved the new sound she made when his index finger and thumb worried over her reddened flesh, gently rolling and tugging, as his tongue soothed her other nipple.
Still, she moaned when he stopped. He licked his lips to look down on his tousled bride, thoroughly kissed, nipples glistening like candy in the firelight. His unsteady hand fell to the toned muscles of her stomach, to where the top of the garment had pooled and bunched above her hips. Below, the flowing silks of her skirts had twisted in their passion, tangling about Brienne’s long legs and strong thighs. Would they still be pale, or was she flushed pink down to her toes? Though, that would be nothing compared to the delicate pink of her cunt. He wondered if there was already honey glistening in her hair and hissed at his own body’s resistance to remaining clothed.
It took more effort than he thought to swallow, to find his voice. He almost managed a smile. “It’s more of a gown, really. You see, not all dresses are for formal occasions, whereas gowns—”
“Shhh,” he soothed with a kiss to her damp brow, then sat up with more control than he’d realized. His fingertips slowly tugging at the expensive trappings of her legs, doing little more than stroking the fabric. “You do realize that we could buy countless more like it, but there is only one of me? Am I to be jealous of a dress?”
Brienne managed to glare, then simply shook her head against the pillow. She covered his hand, tracing along her thigh, with his own. “You were the one to choose it for me. I… I don’t want to ruin it.”
He murmured comfort at the sweet words. For her sake, he might feign concern for the bothersome garment. “It’s likely already stained. May I see?”
Brienne frowned but nodded. She shifted to help him unwind the material from about her legs, then gathered a good portion into his hands. He worked the fabric up her legs as she obeyed his instructions, helping him to reveal inch by feverish inch. “You said a little snow wouldn’t hurt the fabric. The hem is almost dry.”
He gave her bare knee a warm, comforting squeeze. “The inside of your skirts, Brienne,” he explained to his sweet bride and licked his lips. “What we’re looking for is more like melted sugar, than snow.”
“Just like that,” he praised again and helped rotate her knees outward. He had managed to get a good bit of material from under Brienne, before her elbows gave out, and she fell back to the pillow with a whimper. Close enough, he decided – more than enough, and went to make himself at home under her skirts, pressing a kiss to one thigh and then easing her other leg over his shoulder. He kissed upward until his lips and chin slipped on the sweetness he’d sought and one of them moaned. Dizzy with desire, Jaime surged forward and met a thin, wet barrier of lace. That was something new.
Inside his cocoon, Jaime savored the taste and muffled sounds of Brienne. He enjoyed a painless and blunt scratching at his shoulders, Brienne attempting to uncover him as he kissed her cunt more soundly and toyed with the waistband of her delicious underclothing. Perhaps she thought he’d stop, once she succeeded, but he only closed his eyes to the light of the waking world, pressed his tongue to the top of her slit, and savored his name pouring from her lips.
Jaime helped Brienne ease her shuddering thigh from his shoulder, not wanting to push her too far, too quickly. He emerged with her lace panties dangling from his index finger. “Something blue,” he rumbled in appreciation. Brienne would never allow him to keep her wedding gown as a souvenir of their first, eager night together – to ask would be too much, but maybe she would never miss a scrap of sapphire lace. For now, he let it fall to the floor.
He pulled back for what he hoped was the final time tonight, fingers slipping on the buttons of his shirt. Brienne reached to help, but Jaime shook his head, unsure what half-wild look might be in his eyes. He motioned towards her dress with his chin, aware of his limits. “If you don’t want it torn…”
She nodded her understanding, and they both went to work removing the rest of their clothes. He might have made a greater show of it, but he had never ached as badly as he did for her, only her, and never more than now. He’d just worked his thumbs under the waistband of his undergarments, when Brienne ran a finger, feather light, along the length of him, and he jerked forward helplessly.
“The color suits you,” Brienne said in response to his moan. “May I?”
His head fell back as she cupped him in her hand, clever and fair-minded thing that she was. He was tensed so tightly, trying to regain control that he couldn’t manage to shake his head. “I-I think I can manage.”
“Oh,” Brienne breathed and blessedly released him with a tremulous smile, “okay.”
A few moments and muttered curses later, she was stretching under him and one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Her lips tickled against his, the deeper his finger slipped into her tight cunt. Her tongue clashed with his when one finger became two, which slowly pushed in and slid out, and it seemed her moans grew louder when she thought his mouth might be there to muffle them. He tenderly slid his thumb from side to side at the top of her slit, pressing against her clit, and she screamed, her hips fucking his fingers on their own. He continued, even as she fluttered and clenched around him, until she was flooding his hand with her pleasure.
Her eyes were a stormy blue as she gaped up at him, as though trying to process what had just happened to her. “You… you said we would… together,” she accused, though she made no move to release his hand from her thighs. She squeezed tighter around him and moaned, unaware of how close he was to coming, himself.
“Such a romantic, Brienne,” he said, voice hoarse from the beauty he’d witnessed. His hand slipped from her easily, coming to stroke her damp curls, before she gripped his wrist. “Such a sweet bride. How else was I to manage?”
By the time they were ready, he was nearly lost. The feel of Brienne yielding, her body taking him in, so hot, wet, perfect and deep was almost more than he could handle. He barely felt her thighs brushing along his own as they rose to squeeze his hips. She clung to him as they began to move and Jaime swore to his wife, the old gods and the new that he had never felt anything better nor wanted anyone more.
The longer they danced, the more his urge to watch her grew her and that, too, was almost his undoing. Jaime had never been more certain that Brienne had been made just for him, glorious and becoming quite vocal in her pleasure. He nuzzled crook of her neck, tasted the skin as it vibrated with the sound of his name over, and over. He luxuriated in the sound of her helpless moans and slipped his hand between them to ensure his promise was kept.
Brienne writhed against him and sobbed. She opened completely to his demanding kiss and surrendered to her body to the deep climax that drew her under. He followed her easily, unable to withstand the rhythmic pull and pulsing heat of her cunt. His hips jerked mindlessly against her, pressing impossibly close until he was spilling deep inside, forgetting everything but the name of the woman he desperately loved.
He protested against her lips as her legs slipped to the bedding below; she tiredly nipped him in response. They slowly burrowed under the covers for a reprieve, and Jaime groaned in contentment when Brienne laid her head against his chest. He smiled as he rubbed her back, encouraging her to stretch against him like a lazy lioness. One who could whisper her love and remind him that now would not be a good time to fall asleep, even as her eyes closed and breathing slowed.
He closed his eyes with a smile to dream of all the ways he could tell Brienne he’d postponed their flight until late tomorrow.