Work Text:
Serves To Gild
His torch's pale flame serves to gild
-" The Wedding Night" by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Brienne of Tarth is known throughout the land as a very pious maiden. In fact, if the Maiden could be ugly, that would be her, as Addam Marbrand had thoughtfully remarked to his friend Jaime Lannister in a moment that led to discussion of a duel. The ugly maiden herself had forbidden it.
It’s my wedding, she had said with a frown. Looking to Jaime, a trace of a pout settled on her very large lips and she added, If anyone should get to duel, it’s me.
Nonetheless, for all her piety, her first actions upon arriving to their new bed chamber on their wedding night are not to blush and stare at the floor, as is sometimes her way and had been a concern of his. Nor does she cry, or cower, or tell him coldly to get on with it, as he had been warned by some sources.
The very pure and ugly maid of Tarth says, “I apologize for my forwardness, my Lord, but I must ask you to undress me immediately.” With a huff, she throws her hands up--as much as her wedding gown allows, and says, “Tear it off if you have to!”
“My goodness, wench--”
“Not now, Jaime!”
“Ahh! What is this, my wife shouting at me on our wedding night? You’re supposed to be shouting for entirely other reasons,” Jaime complains even as he complies. Her gown is beautifully embroidered, but not overly complicated to undo. Still, he sees the issue as soon as he loosens the gown enough to lower it. He works quickly.
“Torture!” Brienne cries, holding up her corset with a fierce glare before throwing it to the ground with a mighty grunt. “Torture, I say!” She takes a deep breath, running her hands over her ribs through her shift. “When the septon called on me to speak, I thought I was going to faint, no , not because you’re so handsome, but simply because I could not take a breath! I will make a solemn vow here and now that I will never wear a corset again.”
“How did it happen this time?” Jaime asks, starting to loosen his own formal attire.
“Lady Olenna, of course,” Brienne sighs. She can deny Lady Olenna very little. “But,” she says decisively, pushing her gown to the floor and stepping out of the pile of puffy fabric. “I no longer need to live to please Lady Olenna.”
“Nope, just my father. Out of the frying pan and into King’s Landing.”
“Your father will probably erect a shrine to me if our first child is male,” Brienne scoffs, seating herself at the small table next to the fireplace and picking a handful of grapes from the serving tray there. Without the gown and the corset, she’s left only in silk stockings, small clothes, and a new silk shift gifted to her by Jaime’s aunt Genna.
“At least we stopped the bedding ceremony,” she says, crossing her legs as she pops a grape into her mouth, seemingly unaware that there’s a distinct tent forming at the front of his breeches.
Jaime tosses his tunic onto the pile. “No one who saw you fight the other day would have dared to try, wench.”
Brienne nods in satisfaction at that. As soon as they had arrived in the capitol, they had both changed and met in one of the smaller training yards. Still, word got out quickly that the Lion of Lannister was playing swords with his betrothed, and a crowd of nobles and servants alike was soon watching them. Many were quite disturbed at first--Ser Jaime was not thought to be a cruel type, how could he undertake such violence against his own future wife?
After only a few minutes, however, they saw that his giant of a fiance was undertaking a fair bit of violence of her own, although she was defeated after a time, and opinion then split. Some were appalled, some were impressed. Some wanted a go. All were left with an unforgettable impression of the future Lady of Lannister; sweaty, triumphant, and wearing breeches, with her fiance cheering her on from the side.
Lord Tywin had been most displeased by the display, but the rather amused Lord Selwyn had sensibly replied, “What do you want to do, Lord Tywin, cancel the wedding? We already ordered the food.”
Lady Olenna, who had been massaging her temples as she felt the familiar twinge of a Brienne-related headache coming on, had added, “Very embarrassing, yes, and you must admit that the girl can fight, Tywin.” Then she had demanded wine.
Brienne bowed her head and swore to Lord Tywin that she would be a dutiful and faithful good-daughter.
“I notice you didn’t swear to lay down your sword or stop wearing men’s garments,” Tywin noted dryly.
Brienne was noticeably silent. Lord Tywin gave an ungentlemanly snort and left without further comment.
Later, he had reunited with his sister, after three years. He was surprised to find that she approved of Brienne--as much as she approved of anyone.
“She’s tough, in her own way. She lets her ladies get away with just so much, and then she puts them swiftly in their place. You can certainly tell she grew under the Queen of Thorns. She and the Little Rose make a rather amusing pair, in truth. She’s an odd girl, of course, although I imagine you enjoy that, and the Gods know she’s ugly--oh, do not give me that look, Jaime. Besides, aren’t you handsome enough for two, dear brother? I may have to visit you at the Rock. I will tell you, the capitol is deadly boring, and you might have noticed that it smells like shit.”
“But are you happy, sister? As Queen? Does the King?…” He is acutely aware of the many ears in the Keep.
“The King is a dutiful husband,” Cersei replied. Indeed, she is pregnant with her second child. Her wedding hadn’t been delayed. With a wry smile, she added, “With his beautiful silver head in the clouds. Actually, you will never guess who I speak with more often than anyone.”
“Who?”
“Our absolute nuisance of a little brother,” she laughed. “I still hate him, of course,” she said, without much vitriol. “But at least he’s not a simpering idiot.”
“Were you pleased with the wedding, then?” Jaime asks presently.
Brienne shrugs one large shoulder and says, “Twas a wedding. And the corset, well...let’s hope corsets become a distant memory once we reach Casterly Rock,” she shudders.
She had explained her plan to him thus: for the first week or so at Casterly Rock, she will be on her best behavior and wear lovely gowns every day. Then, one morning, she will simply come down in breeches and a tunic and say she’s going to practice in the yard, as if it’s perfectly normal. Many will be too flustered to refuse, and then too embarrassed to change their minds, and then too afraid to disagree with everyone else. You know how these lords are,” she said, utterly dismissive and not a bit intimidated, he thinks proudly.
Still, that had meant playing the roles of dutiful heirs for the time being, so they had made every concession on the wedding, leading to horrors like: corsets; the longest and most boring father-of-the-groom speech, surely, in Westerosi history, full of Lannister-family lore and well-wishes that somehow managed to sound threatening coming from Tywin; a rebuttal from Selwyn Tarth, who gave a spirited overview of roughly every single moment of Tarth history ever; Loras Tyrell’s singing...
All the while, his bride had been entirely uninterested in anything besides the food, and his bride could eat . Potted hare, pumpkin soup with roasted figs, smoked fish from Tarth, a stew of garlic and roasted boar, baked apples buried in brown sugar. Between eating and thanking the many guests for their sometimes fumbling felicitations, they had barely spoken a word since their vows.
Now, Brienne adds, “The food was incredible.” She rises from her chair. The pale blue silk of the shift does little to hide her body, from the close way it drapes her hips to the positively indecent way it clings to the peaks of her small breasts. He can only imagine the beautiful shade of Lannister red she must have turned upon receiving it.
She holds her arms awkwardly in front of her in an attempt to preserve a bit of modesty, though the gods only know why she bothers. She seems to think the same thing because she clears her throat and her moves her arms back by her sides after a moment, refusing to be intimidated by this , either. He thinks happily that he must be wedded to the bravest maid in Westeros.
“I swear to let you wear as little bloody clothing as you like, wife,” Jaime grins, pulling her close by the wrists and getting his arms around her waist before she can pull away. They had kissed with appropriate chastity at the wedding, and once at the feast for a moment longer, but this is a kiss meant for closed chambers, one that finds their tongues weaving together and their teeth bumping. If any of those clueless lords could see the way his island wench kisses --her reputation for piety would be lost.
Her hands are warm and heavy on his chest, roaming over every inch of it, then daring to dart lower for only an instant before she pushes him to the bed.
“Why, Brienne,” Jaime smirks giddily, starting to undo his own breeches impatiently.
Her face bright red, Brienne splutters, “We have both been waiting for this for a long time, have we not, my Lord?”
“Eager?”
“Well, with all the bragging you do…”
“What, you think I’m all talk, wench?” Jaime demands, sitting up enough to shove his breeches down, leaving his cock covered only by his small clothes, which do nothing to hide how hard it has become. Brienne gasps, her hand flying to her mouth and her eyes widening. They have touched each other, but never with much light available to speak of. She has never seen him hard. She quickly moves past fear and into fascination and only hesitates a moment before she sits next to him on the bed and reaches for him, settling her warm, rough palm over his silk-draped hardness.
“You do talk a lot,” she points out fairly, slipping her hand inside and closing her unbearably, wonderfully strong fingers around him and tentatively stroking him. “Is that all right?” she whispers, biting her lip.
“It’s perfect,” Jaime groans, not worried a bit about the clumsy rhythm or dry grip. It’s her very own freckled arm attached to that grip, finally .
“I think I understand how it goes in,” Brienne says, almost to herself.
“I’m going to rip that shift off you in a moment, wife,” he growls, pushing into her hand even as he knows he should stop.
“You’d better not,” she says, sounding utterly unconcerned. She does, however, withdraw her hand and pull her sheath over her head in one graceless move, leaving her wedding hair rumpled past recognition. A blush stains her cheeks, of course, but Jaime had no idea her blush reached so far. He has only glimpsed her in clandestine moments, never in a well-lit chamber; the color makes the sweet pink of her nipples, hard under his attention, stand out even more than they already do on her small breasts.
Though they’ve only stolen a few moments alone before the wedding, he knows her breasts are sensitive, that squeezing and kneading them will drive her into the most arousing frenzy. He imagines she will enjoy his mouth.
“What are you smiling about?” she asks apprehensively.
“Your nipples,” Jaime replies, quite cheerfully, and ducks down to put his theories to the test. First off, he would swear she tastes like lavender. Second, it is a good thing this chamber is probably well-insulated, because the moan that tears it’s way out of her mouth when he closes his lips around her nipple and sucks is such that men would either come running with weapons or come looking to compose sonnets. She grasps roughly at his shoulders, his neck, his hair, somehow managing to pant and hold her breath at the same time.
“So they please you, then?...” she asks dazedly, as her roaming hands reach the waist of his small clothes.
“Very much, my Lady. I hope to see much of them in the future,” he says, with remarkable politeness considering that his next action is to rear up and tear the small clothes from her body. “What shoddy workmanship!” he complains as he begins to roll down her stockings. “Someone will hear about this,” he adds, getting quickly distracted by the sheer length of her legs, which he has only seen in the smallest glimpses.
Her thighs are as freckled and strong as the rest of her body, and he has also of course come to something utterly new: the sight of the sweet, honeyed curls between them, only a touch darker than the pale blonde on her head. Her legs tremble exquisitely as he slowly removes each stocking and places his hands on her flesh, each of them taking in a breath of shock at the contact.
“My Lord…”
“Husband.”
“Jaime...That thing you did at the inn…”
“Yes?”
“I would be most gratified if you would do it again.”
“Your manners are impeccable, wife,” Jaime smirks.
“Piss off,” she smirks back.
“Seven hells, woman, is this how you’ll become if I don’t satisfy you?”
“Perhaps you’d better not find out, my Lord,” she grins. “I could crush you, you know! In fact, I have it on authority that at least two nobles out there are concerned that I might be doing that very thing right now, and then my father and I plan to coup.”
“My honest Brienne, an assassin?”
“Sorry, Jaime,” she snickers. “It was my plan all along.”
“Well, then, let me die with my head between the legs of the woman I love.”
“Jaime, that’s just very weird and gross,” she complains.
“Just lie back and think of Tarth, wench.”
It feels as good as it did the first time. No, in fact, it feels better, knowing that no one could rebuke her for the pleasure she feels now, at the hands--well, the mouth--of her rightful husband in the eyes of all Seven gods and whoever else was watching.
Still, she stops him before she peaks, whispering that she wants to wait for him. Even so, she chews her lip fretfully as they move under the blankets and Jaime reaches between them. If my maidenhood is as thick as the rest of me, this may be a frightful scene, indeed , she thinks grimly.
“I think you’d better try to relax,” Jaime says.
“Bloody easy for you to say, my Lord Husband,” Brienne replies, placing her hands on his shoulders. Shivering, she feels him against her, searing heat against her wet flesh. She takes a trembling breath and meets his eyes with a nod. Jaime leans down to kiss her as he presses inside.
The pain is considerable, enough that she can’t keep track her mouth and she bites his lip, which makes him laugh, which makes her laugh, and then it’s a bit easier. There’s a burning discomfort that lingers awhile, but the promise of pleasure teases her behind it until it blossoms, leaving her clinging to him as fiercely as he clings to her in the final moments.
Some time afterwards, Jaime rolls over and buries his face in her neck with a yawn.
“By the way, wench, did it look as did in the Dornish book?”
“Heavens, no, the ones in the Dornish book were absolutely monstrous. I’ve begun to doubt the veracity of the ‘The Dornishman’s Bride’.”
Jaime chuckles and says, “You know, you could have just said oh, my Lord Husband, it was even better than any illustration .”
“That’s not what you asked! Besides, I thought you valued my honesty? A knight can never lie.”
“You fancy yourself a knight now, eh?”
“You gave me a sword,” she shrugs.
“All right. You can be my knight, wench, and protect me always.” Brienne chuckles. “I’m serious!” Jaime declares, jumping up from the bed. “Come and put your cloak on me.”
“You are absurd,” Brienne huffs, but she climbs out of the bed after him, blushingly aware of him watching her; they’re both still nude, but she puts aside the urge to cover herself. Jaime fetches her bridal cloak from the floor and hands it to her. “Umm...Ser Jaime, my Lord Husband, I swear to protect you always.” She settles her cloak across his shoulders while he grins. “Against word or sword,” she adds.
“That’s my wife,” Jaime says happily.