Work Text:
Brienne blinked slowly into awareness.
Into the slight headache that clanged in her temple. Into the waning warmth of the room.
Into the unfamiliar ache between her thighs. Into the warm lump behind her, snoring softly.
A scrape outside the doorway into the hall, and she heard the heavy footfalls of the night watchman that must have stirred her into wakefulness.
Not night, but not morning, either.
So.
She was no longer a virgin.
Brienne long imagined this happening in one of two ways. The first was by reluctant consent, both by herself and a strange man who was as disgusted by her as she was by him, a joining of bodies in the dark, over as quickly as possible and only for the purpose of consummation and childbearing. The second was by force, a calamity all women faced, but that she increased her chances of on the battlefield and traveling.
She knew to react with a sense of duty to the first, and to go down fighting before the other.
But how does she respond to this?
She longed for this. But she was not a married woman. And he was not a man without complications.
This was a seduction from a grown man who kept the candle lit, who never looked away from her face except to throw his head back in exultation, who seemed to take pleasure in the contortions of her features, in the cries he pulled from her lips. Rather than be disgusted by her features, he seemed to glory in the length of her legs, in the muscle he found there, her small bosom, in the bend of her neck, in her eyes, which he begged her to keep open. This was a man who shook and sweated and groaned out her name as if he were dying.
This was a man whose respect she had craved. Then, his admiration.
And finally, she’d wanted his desire, his passion, and above all, his love.
Has she lost the possibility of all by bedding him?
She had bedded down with a man who certainly pursued her, who did not follow her into her room and between her sheets for duty. And it came back to her then, in a wash of sensation – his eyes, his legs, his deep chest. His eyes, and their earnest longing. His hand, and its desperate caress.
His mouth…
Just a few days before, she’d defended Winterfell with him at her back, their dance one of trust and protection as they kept each other from hell. Just a few hours ago, he’d lain between her thighs, straining together with her to reach the seven heavens.
But she’s done so without a vow of marriage or being forced. No excuses, but her own desires. And his?
The only women she knew of in similar straits were camp followers and a few irregular women who only did so after their husbands died or abandoned them.
Where did this leave them? Did he want to stay with her? Did she want him to stay?
At the very least, she probably needed to get some moon tea. Should she get up and get some?
Would he want to return? Would he rather forget about it, and ask that she do the same?
All these questions were doing nothing for her headache. Her body, tensing at each new query as it raced through her mind, combined with the heavy tread of the night watchman walking past again to return to his post, force the question for her.
Behind her, Jaime stirred.
He’d come closer in the night, perhaps for warmth, perhaps for affection. She’d never had a naked man this close. It’s a foreign sensation, but not unpleasant, every inch of her touching every inch of someone else, warm and furry, nose pressed against her shoulder. It feels decadent, like a hot bath after months of travel, like being presented with a feast of lobster and butter and lemoncakes after nothing but cabbage and hardtack for months.
His nose rubbed against her shoulderblade, and she felt him wake up beside her. Also a foreign sensation, though not as pleasurable as his naked skin.
Jaime’s breathing changes, and she hears him grunt. It was a noise that brought a pleasurable throb from her cunny, but she refused to think too much on this.
He rolled over, onto his back. Away from her.
She was suddenly cold, with the absence of his warmth and more.
Brienne had her answer to one of the questions. She knew now that she’d give a lot for him to stay.
But she knew it might come to this.
Best to stay still. Stay quiet. Let him make his escape back to his room.
They could nod at each other across the trestle table in the morning. Let her heart tear to pieces, she’d still maintain her dignity.
A slight fumble with the blanket, and he tucked it against her back, a guard against the chill of his absence. The sheets rustled, and she heard his feet thud on the floor, a pace across the room to the hearthside table, where his shirt and other items of clothing had been discarded.
It wasn't a tear rolling down her face, it wasn’t.
A wooden scrape, and a sizzle. Then another.
Brienne chanced a look over her shoulder to see him, golden and naked, hunched over her fireplace, awkwardly placing wood with one hand into the dying embers, then stirring them with a poker.
She turned back quickly, staring at the wall with confusion, then shutting her eyelids firmly. Was he making sure to feed the fire before he left? Follow her instructions, even as he took everything she wanted out the door?
A pause, then a ceramic scrape as he pulled the chamber pot from under her bed. Her eyes flew open as she heard a forceful stream hit the pot. Surely he’d just want to pull on his clothes and sneak out? Couldn’t he do that elsewhere if that was the case?
He finished up, sliding the pot back under the bed, and she could hear the creak of bone and sinew as he stretched.
Surely, he’ll start pulling on his clothes. It would be awkward and long, given how long it took for him to pull them off until she started helping. But she’d lie there, still and patient, for however long it took. Once the door was closed she could give in to the threatening tears.
But until then-
A creak of the ropes of her mattress – she’d tightened them before he arrived, but they were unused to the amount of activity that had gone on atop them, and had loosened in the middle. As a result, she lay at the bottom of a small mattress valley.
Then, another creak as he climbed fully on, sliding under sheets and furs, down into the valley with her, curling against her body. His chest against her back, his furry thighs against her furry thighs, chilled feet against her ankles, an arm without its cold hand about her waist. Warm breath at her nape, tickling the sweat-curled hairs with a relieved sigh.
“Sorry to wake you,” Jaime murmured, because of course he could feel the rigidity of her frame, and probably that involuntary sob as she felt his arms go around her. “But I’m not about to let my lady go cold.”
Brienne moved then, for the first time, feeling more daring than any time she’d ever held a sword. She took his poor mangled arm, the one she’d convinced him to bare in all its scarred sadness, in her hand. Stroking it gently with her thumb, she pulled it up her side, pressed it to her lips, cradled it between her meager breasts.
She could feel his chest hitch against her back, then the bristle of his cheek against her shoulder, and knew that she wasn’t the only one undergoing some extraordinary emotion here.
Brienne rolled onto her back then, into his embrace, because as fearful as she was to look into his eyes, she was more fearful of not meeting them. She had feared a return to the cynical, mocking man she’d first met, the disdainful Kingslayer. But this was not Lord Jaime, who looked uncomfortable and uneasy at his queen’s side, nor was it the Lord Commander, the uneasy soldier who did not let himself promise things to a woman that he might not be able to keep.
This was Jaime, sleepy with exertion and emotion, soft green eyes earnest and pleading. This was the man at the heart of the flame.
“I thought you were leaving,” she stated baldly, unused to honeyed words used in bed with a man. She has rarely had opportunity to use anything but direct statements, and right now, she can’t deal with aught but his truest self. And she can’t afford to miss any nuance here.
One of the worst things about direct words, though, was that when someone was open and vulnerable, they could hurt. She watched helplessly as her words became arrows that flew into his heart, as his face fell, began to close.
“Oh…I’ll just…just get my clothing, then.” He started to roll away, but the valley of the mattress was something he was clearly unused to. He fumbled for a moment, and Brienne saw her opening.
Reaching over, she gripped his side gently, pulling him back towards her. But she misjudged the angle he was rolling at, and he ends up rolling atop her.
Again. Brienne rather liked him in this position. So did Jaime, if the flash of renewed desire in his eyes is anything to go by, and he paused in his attempt to leave, gaze fixed on her face.
She blushed, but held him firm about the waist. She felt that delicious ache that he had pulled from her not so long ago, but couldn’t afford that distraction.
“I’m not…I’m not asking you to go,” she stammered, forcing herself to push through. Far, far too many things have nearly killed the both of them in the past few years, and she’s not about to lose him due to a misunderstanding of her feelings. “I should much prefer if you stayed. Much prefer.”
His eyes pin her down, and he shifted slightly, not trying to get away, but lifting his hips slightly to take his weight off of her. She wished he wouldn’t, but understood if he needed to.
“But I don’t want you here out of shame, and I won’t shame you,” she finished. “You’ve made no oaths. If you feel it was a mistake, I will not hold you to anything, nor bear you any ill will.”
Jaime just blinked at her. It’s a rare occurrence when she is the verbose one, and he is the laconic.
“And…do not stay just because of my…” she searched for a word to describe her new state, and cannot find one that isn’t offensive. “…virginity.”
His lips quirked in a half-smile. “You no longer are. I do remember seeing to that.”
Her lips pursed in annoyance. “I hate the other words that describe a woman when she has been seen to in such a way. I was called a whore when I was yet a virgin.”
Jaime’s mobile features pulled into a scowl. “That bastard, he…” and then he trailed off, staring at her hard.
“What?” she asked. “It wasn’t just one, and most of them earned scars for their words.”
“No,” he says slowly, and she can see his sleepy mind trying to rally and find the right words. “Is it…is that how you think of yourself now?”
“It is how most of the world would look at me. I know it was a source of amusement for your brother, but the consequences for women are fairly severe.”
She smiled briefly, trying to reassure him. “Fortunately for you, I am an unconventional woman. I have long since stopped caring what they say.”
Jaime slid to her side, curling against her, face-to-face. “I used to say that, when they called me Kingslayer. But it did bother me.”
Brienne nodded, and felt his shortened arm curl about her waist again. “Whatever the term for my new state, you need not stay just because of that.”
“Think you I am a man who goes about in search of virgins to bed and discard?” he grumbled.
“No, but I know you are a man of honor, and a kind one at that. My honor, though, can’t be found between my legs.”
Jaime opened his mouth to say something glib – she could see it in his eyes – but he seemed to think better of it and instead shifted closer, nearly nose-to-nose with her.
“I did this in the wrong order,” he muttered, more to himself than her, sounding regretful, and the tone was an arrow to her neck.
Since she’d woken up, she was aware that they were both out to sea, unaware of how to proceed. But now he drifted away, and she was painfully aware of her inexperience. There had been some awkward moments the night before, and not all of them had to do with his missing hand.
“I…what order are they…is it supposed to go in, then?” she asks, trying not to stumble over her words. She’d seen enough open-air transactions between camp followers and soldiers, had heard enough bawdy jokes and tales to think that she had a concept of the basics.
“What?” Then understanding dawned across his face, and with it, a soft grin. “No, you did everything beautifully.”
There’s a word that she’s never heard used in conjunction with anything to do about her person but her martial skill. She wants to believe, but experience has taught her…
“I did things out of order last night. I should have asked for your hand in marriage, told you I loved you, something…” She felt all the blood rush to her face in sudden understanding, but Jaime grunted in frustration, eyes cast down. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never done this before, and it’s so important that I get it right.”
“Neither have I,” she pointed out. “But I expect nothing, ser. I only know that I am where I wished to be and never thought I would.” She smiled, a wobbling construction that struggled to stay upright. “I love you. But you’ve made oaths that you’ve regretted before. To be one of them would…wound me.”
It was an understatement, and yet she felt that she’d said too much. Far too much.
She dipped her head then, unable to meet his eyes any longer, wishing she still had her back to him so she didn’t have to see his soft eyes.
“You fear I would not want to wed you in the morning?”
“I fear…I fear a coldness in your eyes when you see me in full light. I fear you regretting choosing me. I fear loving you and waking up to seeing you gone from my bed.”
Brienne saw the knobbly scars of his stump loom closer in her vision, felt its odd texture touch her chin and lift it tenderly so that she had to meet his eyes. Eyes brimming with unshed tears.
She hadn’t realized that it was men who might weep on her shoulder.
“I know those fears, Brienne,” he whispered, a hand’s span between their lips. “I know them because they are mine. I fear you’ll realize what I am in the light of day – in the light of remembering what I’ve done. I fear you’ll find that you’ve made a poor bargain.”
He expels a quick, harsh breath, and she feels the tickle of it across her face.
“I fear you will realize this, then stay with me out of duty. That you would rise quickly each morning to spend as little time as possible in my arms. That I would lose you.”
Her brow knit in consternation. “You could not.” She rose up on an elbow, inadvertently putting him at eye level with her chest, blushing at his curled smile and pulling the fur up.
“Jaime, you are the best of men. It is one thing to say you believe in fighting for the innocent. It is quite another to suffer for them for years, to change yourself into a champion of justice and protection.
“You fight like a true lion, but with the heart of a knight. You keep your oaths. You always have.”
His green eyes lit up with an idea, and she already knew what it was.
“Then, my lady and knight, I swear this oath-“ but she put her hands on his lips, stilling his words, but stroking his cheek.
“Not yet,” she whispered, steeling herself against the disappointment in his eyes. “In this I would like you to…to know me, before you swear any oaths.”
Jaime knit his brown in confusion, and it made Brienne want to move her hand up, to smooth those lines out. Would he accept such a gesture? Was it cloying or clinging, like spring sap that refused to dislodge itself from one’s skin?
“Neither one of us has loved openly,” she continued, letting her hand trail up his cheek, across his eyebrow, then finally into the furrows of confusion. “And I know little to nothing about being a…a woman who loves and is loved, rather than someone who pines in a minstrel’s song.”
His eyes widened, the muscles about them relaxing, and Brienne felt something deep in her stomach relax as well. “Most knights jump headlong into their oaths without much thought, without much knowledge of what it truly means. You and I take our oaths seriously. Let us give one another the grace of time and experience before we make any more.”
Brienne expected him to protest, but instead, he merely pressed his head into her hand like a cat, before reaching up and pulling her fingertips back to his lips.
“There is wisdom in what you say,” he began, his lips a constant, buzzing caress on her fingers. “But I still would like to promise you something. Anything. Something to show you that I mean this, and I desire you.”
She looked at him in the utter stillness of the room, once again amazed that such devotion could be offered to such as her, that a man like Jaime might find her worthy of pursuit.
Just then, a log in the fireplace shifted, the birchwood rolling off the others and resting at last against the cinders on the stones. It was unnaturally loud in the little room, and they both glanced over at the interruption.
After a moment, they turned back to one another, and Brienne had her answer.
“If you would like to make me a promise at this time, let it be this,” she replied. “Keep the fire burning. You can let it grow cold, but keep a few embers ready to light back up. It is delivered daily. If you find yourself with doubts, wishing to go elsewhere, let it d-… let it grow cold. It will give me a chance to prepare myself.”
Jaime looked thoughtful, considering her words. “I can agree to that, with two provisions.”
“Which are?”
“If it goes cold, please ask me before assuming. Pod, good lad that he is, might have extinguished it by accident.”
Brienne smiled ruefully. “And the second?”
“May I keep my lady knight warm in other ways, as well?” The hungry gleam had returned to his eyes, and she found her own hunger beginning to rise again. She smiled, cheeks aflame, but not enough to keep her from rolling a bit closer, not enough to keep her from pressing against his chest, not enough to keep her from reaching for his demanding kiss.
Unfortunately, the soreness deep in her cunny protested as Jaime’s knee insinuated itself between her thighs. She must have stiffened, because Jaime ceased kissing her for a moment.
“Sore?”
“I’ve had far worse,” she replied, thinking of her days in the saddle, stiff as a plank, of broken arms and inflamed wounds, each potentially mortal and certainly concerning. Beside them, this ache was nothing. And yet…
Undeterred, Jaime smiled roguishly at her, and that throb redoubled. “It’s not a muscle to overwork. In the meantime, however, there are other ways, just as pleasing.”
Brienne had a vague idea of what he meant, but when his head disappeared under the furs and she was left staring at the flames burning merrily in the fireplace grate, she began to realize.
Keep the fire burning…he meant it in more ways than one.