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The Pirate Queen

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It’s been a long day. The children are finally asleep and she’s ready to join them, pleasantly tired, just waiting for Jaime to brush his teeth and come to bed.

“I’ve got an idea,” Jaime says.

“Hmmm…?” Brienne asks. She yawns, settles deeper into the pillows. There’s a lot to do tomorrow, and she wants an early start.

“Say you were a pirate queen,” Jaime says.

“…mmm-hmmm,” Brienne sighs. And then – “What?”

“The great pirate queen of Tarth,” Jaime elaborates. “Breeches, flowing linen shirt, cutlass and all. The terror of Shipbreaker Bay. Say you captured a galleon carrying the handsome heir to Casterly Rock.”

Brienne blinks at her husband. “That would be you, I suppose.” She can’t help but notice he’d emerged from the bathroom not in his usual worn pyjamas, but bare-chested, wearing only a soft pair of tracksuit pants, very low-slung on the hips.

“Right.” He crawls onto the bed, all sinuous feline grace. “Say you took the handsome heir to Casterly Rock prisoner, and set his ransom at one hundred thousand dragons.”

“That was a lot of money in those days.” All thought of sleep is forgotten; she’s entirely distracted by Jaime’s golden beauty.

“It was. And old Lord Tywin –”

She snorts out a laugh, an ungainly, undignified giggle.

“Old Lord Tywin,” he goes on, frowning at her in mock-reproof, “while he could definitely afford to part with a hundred K, did not negotiate with pirate queens – or anyone, really.”

“Now that, I can believe.”

“And so you refused to let your handsome prize go.” He crawls over her, eyes glinting with laughter, and leans down to kiss her, his lips soft and his mouth tasting of toothpaste. “Now – what will you do with him?”

“Hmmm, let me think.” She strokes the sleek muscle of his back, feeling him arch and preen beneath her touch. With a deft twist she flips him over and then clambers over him, almost clumsy in her eagerness. “You don’t mind if I plunder you, do you?”

“Please do.” He stretches, deliberately arching and flexing his muscles, rolling his hips against her.

She makes a low, hungry sound in her throat and reaches for the waistband of his pants.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, grinning. “Pirate queens don’t wear flannel nighties.”

She pauses. He’s laughing up at her, concocting this ridiculous story on a school night, and he’s so far from anything she’d ever expected in her ordinary, practical life –

“It’s cold, Jaime,” she argues, a last-ditch attempt at common sense.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he leers at her, and she sighs and gives in.