It's a curious thing, he says. Brienne drags a clumsy hand up her waist and to her chest, pinching herself over the threadbare shift.
His hand runs up her thigh, tickling the light brush of hair on her legs. They reach a delicate spot right at the juncture of her thigh. Her own hand is uncomfortable there, so she moves it towards the center, fingertips grazing the place hidden by smallclothes and tightly curled hair.
"What is?" she huffs. It's a whisper, barely. She pinches herself again and draws a sharp, small breath.
That you could have such a pretty cunt, he mutters. He grins and his fingers rub the entrance, slowly. With a face like yours, who knew? His thumb presses...
She gasps and needs to pause for a moment. It's only her middle finger so far, that and her hand twisting her nipple, but she doesn't want to peak so quickly. Her head flops to the side and she squeezes her eyes shut.
His mouth is at her nub; she feels the rough catch of his beard as his tongue flicks. Her back arches, arches, and he lifts his head. His chin is wet.
Who knew Brienne of Tarth was such a dirty little wench?
She wants to feel his head between her thighs again. Silently, she reaches for him.
I always knew, he says, letting her hand rest on his shoulder as he lowers himself down again.
Her fingers are working quickly, moving in circles where she imagines his tongue. Tiny spikes of pleasure travel across her body. Her knees start to shake; soon the quake will travel to her inner thighs. She's done this enough times to know.
His mouth goes to her nipple and she pinches, hard. The mouth at her cunt is replaced with a hard cock waiting to slide in.
Filthy girl, he whispers into her chest as his cock rubs at her entrance, teasing. Dirty wench, you just want to fuck.
"Yes," she whispers, adding a second finger and moving her hips.
No man may love you, he says, his breath hot in her neck. But there is at least one man who will fuck you.
She knows he is right, and she feels the beginnings of orgasm at the base of her spine. Her legs shake and the wet of her cunt spreads to her smallclothes.
He pushes in and shouts her name.
She feels her body opening up and she arches as she falls over the crest of orgasm. Warmth rushes through her body in waves and her vision blanks out. She feels the nub in her cunt pulse, pulse.
After, she removes her hand from her smallclothes. Her fingers are pruned and she feels vaguely embarrassed. Podrick is sleeping not three yards away and she has been sent on a quest by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; there should be no time for frivolities and pleasure. Imagining herself and Jaime together is frustrating, and she has no illusions as to how he would respond were she to...
She pushes it back in her mind. He is a pretty man; that is all. Brienne closes her eyes and has troubled dreams of auburn-haired girls and golden knights.
It's a curious thing, she says.
He stares at the ceiling of his tent.
What is, my Lady? he asks, turning towards her.
There are times at night when his mind goes to her, unbidden. He freely admits to himself that he worries about her, and worrying about Brienne prevents him from worrying about Riverrun, about Cersei, about his hand. Which is a relief, in a way.
Her gaze is cold. It's a curious thing, she says again. I ventured to the Vale and through the Riverlands. I went from Winterfell to the Westerlands, rode thousands of miles, aching all the way. I traveled through the heart of Dorne and across the Wall. And do you know what I found, ser?
His stomach begins to gnaw at him, little by little. The ceiling of his tent is deep and black as ever. This is the part of the night where the regrets come.
"What did you find?" he huffs. It's a whisper, barely.
Nothing, she says, and the word falls heavy and flat in the room.
He cannot say anything, simply flexes his good hand and stares at her.
You sent me on this quest and I found nothing but pain. It was futile. Take your sword; I don't want it, she snarls, tossing it on his bed. Lannister steel will do me no good. Lannister faith has been worthless.
Jaime tries to think of a way to protest.
I am sorry, my Lady. Truly. Mayhaps she is dead.
Mayhaps you should have died with her.
He turns to his side and buries his head. A reunion between he and Brienne would never happen like this. Would it? He tries to renew this imagined scenario into a happier one.
Though her ungainly mouth twists, her eyes are bright and beautiful. Hurt.
Jaime's heart swells, painfully.
I am doomed to fail and fail again. How can you stand it, Jaime? How? Why did you condemn me to this?
"Please don't hate me."
She brings her wrist to her eyes and wipes at them, crying. Jaime begs her not to weep, and then goes to her. He has never seen her this vulnerable and cannot help but embrace the girl.
He shifts to his back again. It is as dark as ever, and quiet. His eyes close and he sees Brienne before him, huge and trembling.
Her hands grasp at his shoulder blades and she leaves tears in his neck as they sit together. He holds her. She weeps as if mourning-- her honor, her innocence, something-- and Jaime's good hand buries itself in her hair. His throat is too tight to speak.
She lifts her head from his shoulder. Please don't let me be alone, she says, her eyes blue and lips pink. I need you, Jaime.
He's only let his thoughts stray to her in this way once or twice before. In the daylight he tells himself he misses Cersei.
He kisses her on the mouth, gently. He tastes tears and his hand goes to her cheek. She presses into the kiss.
It wouldn't be like that, he knows. The woman would likely be skittish and unpracticed. He doubts she would accept even a kiss-- she'd be more likely to geld him. Inevitably, shamefully, his cock begins to harden.
She kisses him and her hand moves to his knee. Their lips part and she blinks tears away, brushing one or two with a finger. The gesture is strangely elegant.
Jaime, I'm sorry to have failed you. I tried so hard.
Don't, he whispers, kissing her again with a renewed sort of fervor. Her hand grips his knee, then slides to his thigh.
They fall to the bed, still entwined and kissing. Brienne removes her tunic and moves so that Jaime's leg is between hers. The skin on her arm is so soft.
Jaime's hand trails to his groin. His fingers pet at the hair just above his cock. He wonders if he should really do this while thinking about Brienne. She is so honorable, so sincere, so pure in a way that he wishes he could recapture. What would she say if she knew that a man like him was thinking about her and tugging at himself?
They're nude now, suddenly.
Jaime decides he doesn't care.
A wave of warmth floods down his body from where he and Brienne's lips are joined, from where their tongues touch. He grabs the woman's small teat and pinches at a nipple. She arches into him, uttering a small cry.
Her hands are large and rough, and she's slightly wider than Jaime. But her hips curve in a way hidden by her every-day garb, and her legs meet at the same juncture as any woman.
Your kisses are quite lovely, he murmurs. She blushes and averts her eyes. She is no beauty, true, but her features are familiar and comforting. Beloved.
His left hand is weak, less assured as he presses a thumb to the head. He lets out a sigh; imagining Brienne in the midst of pleasure is more stimulating than he had suspected.
Sucking on her nipples draws sighs, fingernails at his back. Her knees raise and he leans on his elbow, good hand going to her cunt. Sliding his fingers along entrance, he watches her face for changes.
She grips his shoulders, pulls him close and kisses him. He didn't expect that.
There. He has a nice pace now, alternately teasing and stroking. He feels his chest rise and fall as his breath becomes increasingly labored.
She kisses him and whispers Thank you, rolling her hips into his and squeezing his cock between their stomachs.
He speeds up, stifling a moan as his imagination shows him sinking into Brienne, entering her body and making her gasp. His cock is hard and weeping.
He thrusts into her as she cries out his name, their hips moving in perfect time. Her mouth is hot on his, her tits bouncing and hands grappling. She grabs at his hips and pulls him in deeper-- she's strong enough to maneuver him, and he nearly comes from imagining it.
Jaime's shuddering breath falls in time with his hand, and he feels pleasure building inside of him.
I love you, she says, and he knows it is true. Someday he may say it, too.
The tendons in his neck stretch, his toes curl. He groans.
He gives a final, desperate thrust and moans her name into her ear.
He milks his cock, breathing heavily through his nose. His seed is hot and sticky and falls all over his fist.
Afterwards, he wipes himself with a spare rag and falls back on his bed, cock tucked back in his smallclothes. He is troubled, and regrets not ignoring the instinct to stop. It's Brienne he thought about. Brienne of Tarth. A stubborn, ugly and huge woman, one who saved him and who he saved and who knows him-- perhaps better than anyone in this world. He does not love her. He does not.
She's merely familiar, he tell himself. Familiar and kind, that's why he thinks of her in this way. It is what any man would do, who knows and likes a woman this well. That's all. He closes his eyes and has troubled dreams of sapphire stars and blood-stained swords.