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There is much to do in the rebuilding of Winterfell, the buildings and its people both, and the war to the south still lingers; the Dragon Queen wishes to mobilise her forces and Lady Sansa does not, and it feels hours are wasted every day by their barbed insults and verbal clashes, a subtler warfare than swords and maces but just as deadly. It is that and only that which makes the people look warily out the windows as dusk falls far too early, as the wind begin to blow, bringing with it a driving snow that makes every moving shadow beyond Winterfell’s walls too reminiscent of— It is only the unease of the unknown, that is all. Still, when Brienne returns late to her quarters to find a supper of soup and fresh bread warming over the fire and Jaime in her bed….
Sometimes she is not certain that she did not die after all, and this is her reward.
“I did not see you at the war council,” Brienne remarks, loosening the fastenings of her armour.
“You and I both know that invitation was meant only to spite the Dragon,” Jaime counters. “I thought it best to spare Lady Sansa my presence.”
“It could have made her appear weak.”
It feels like a reprimand, so Brienne sets aside the vambrace she was removing and crosses the room, presses a kiss against Jaime’s upturned mouth. “I missed you.”
He smiles. Because of her. He smiles because of her and this, what they are doing, is the simplest thing she has ever done.
“Eat,” he says. “I suspect Lady Sansa had you work through the midday meal.”
“Only because she did,” Brienne replies. “Neither of us noticed how late it grew, not until…”
He nods. “The storm.”
Their room is far from the edges of the castle where one might hear the howling wind, but she cannot quite shake the memory of it. Still, there is a warm meal and a warmer bed and a body even warmer still that waits for her. She pulls away, sits before the hearth, the meal and the flames making her drowsy. So drowsy that she does not take note of the soft footfalls as Jaime approaches, as he reaches around her to ease the bowl from her hand and kiss along her neck.
“Come to bed,” he murmurs. “You are exhausted.”
I’m not, she means to protest simply because she does not appreciate being treated like a disobedient child, but his hand is extended and his smile is so soft and perhaps it is only… care. Love, though they do not speak the word. She can permit that.
“Not all of us can live a life of leisure,” she laughs as she takes his hand.
He pulls her in, smug as he tilts his face up. “I’ll have you know even a one-handed man can carry heavy stone.”
“Ahh,” she says. “The west wall. I had wondered why I had not seen you even in passing.”
“The masons will have their pick of rubble,” he says, tugging them both towards the bed. “And I spent the rest of the day in the armoury, for there are not enough left who can judge what needs repair and what only cleaning.”
“Well, I am glad you found entertainment.” She is glad he has found purpose, but it is too— There are some things they do not speak of, no matter how easy it is between them.
“I can think of more agreeable ways to spend my hours.”
So can she. She had not expected… That he cared for her had been no true surprise, nor the depths of her own feelings. That he was happy had been more unexpected, perhaps, and that with his happiness came a gentleness she was almost frightened to hold. But the pleasure… oh, she had not known what it would be like, this movement between two bodies, the brush of his beard against her skin, the exhilaration of pushing one another to the very brink only to catch each other as they fell. Had not known that the taut tendons of his throat, the flush of his cheeks, the grip of his fingers as he anchored himself to her, could be as dear to her as her own peak.
“It is still early,” she says, reaching for the laces of his shirt. Early enough, at least, when their days are so long.
“Are you not tired?”
The laces are soft as she wraps them around her finger, pulls him closer. His mouth parts, just enough she can see the edge of his teeth, his lips pink and dry and pliant beneath hers, his eyes dark.
“Not so tired,” she says, voice low. “Come to bed.”
Outside a storm blows, but in this room there is only the heat of his kisses, the warmth of the furs against her skin as they undress slowly. There is only the tenderness of his tongue tracing the curve of her breast, the peak of her nipple, the firm silk of his cock and the coarseness of the hair at its base against her palm. It wraps around them, cocoons them from all that may interfere.
She wraps her legs around his, rolls him, laughs at the press of muscle against muscle, at the weight of him above her. Kisses him again, still laughing, and aligns them so he can press inside. He grimaces, and she stops him with a hand on his chest.
“Jaime?”
He shakes his head, goes to kiss her once more. She turns her head.
“Something is wrong.”
“Only my arm,” he says.
“You’re hurt?”
She pushes against his chest and he rolls off, sighs as he stares at the ceiling. She reaches for his arm, finds where the golden hand usually rests is chafed and bruised, skims her fingers over it, careful not to press too hard.
“This looks sore,” she says softly.
“It is no concern.”
“I disagree. If you are—”
“It was only the rebuilding. I am fine.”
Her thumb strokes over the scars at his wrist and he grimaces.
“This does not seem fine.”
He shudders, a tiny, tremulous thing, and she reaches for him, rests her hand against his chest to feel the beat of his heart.
“I would not have you hurt yourself more for my benefit,” she says. He lays his hand over hers, squeezes it softly.
“It is not only your benefit.” Then he tilts his face towards her, grins; there is so much beauty in this unstudied ease, so much promise. “You could always… ride astride.”
She flushes, feels the heat creeping across her cheeks. It is not… There is no shame in it, nothing truly shocking in the suggestion, only the newness of such—
“You are certain?”
Another lazy smile. “More than.”
She sits up, runs her gaze over his body as if there is some hidden secret in how to…
“I’ve seen green-broke stallions treated with less suspicion,” he says in amusement, and that will not stand. She shifts so she rests above his hips, uses one hand on his chest for balance as she strokes his cock with the other, as she aligns them once more and sinks down upon him. This position is—
“Brienne? I’m not hurting—”
“No,” she says hurriedly. “Doesn’t hurt. Feels…” Full seems a silly word, but it is the only one she can think of to explain the pleasant ache of stretch, how deep he reaches as they both begin to move, a fumbled dance they soon find the steps of.
It’s good like this, good to set the pace, good to press him down as she kisses him, good to scrape her teeth against his throat to make him shudder, to bite the curve of his shoulder as her peak approaches. His hand slips between them, slides between the folds of her cunt to touch her in that place that—
It’s white hot and sudden when it overtakes her and for a moment she forgets to move, mingles her breath with his as she gasps, then she grinds down to catch the last threads of it, whimpers through the last pleasurable shocks, feels his hand still between them, teasing more from her and she rises and falls again, listens to his indrawn breath, his moans, as she rides him, tighter and tighter until—
“Brienne,” he groans. “Gonna—”
She rises up, too fast because he gasps, fists himself to stop— It is an awkward scramble to shift back, but she catches his hand in hers to stop his movement, raises an eyebrow in question. He nods and she lowers her head and takes his cock, still slick with the taste of her, into her mouth and runs her tongue around the head; he shouts, grips her shoulder and mumbles some encouragement, and oh he is beautiful beneath her, open and wanting and musky in the way that makes her clench her thighs though her muscles still shake from her first peak, and then he’s pleading with her please please— your mouth— your— please as he comes, and perhaps she likes this best of all, taking him to the bone with her body, a battle they both win as she swallows down his spend, warm and slightly bitter but not unpleasant.
She pulls away, slowly, looks over the stretch of his body to meet his hooded gaze. He’s smiling and she laughs, crawls her way up the bed to lie beside him. She thinks of the storm, far from this room but waiting for them come morning, draws the furs over them both. Rests her head on the pillow, watches his profile as his breath slows, as the flush fades from his cheeks. Wonders.
“Will you—” She swallows. “Lady Sansa asked, today, whether I would invite you to stay.”
He stiffens slightly and she wants to tell him to ignore her, that of course she would not ask—
“You are not headed south?”
“No. Why would I? I serve Sansa and Arya, not…”
A nod. “Then I suppose I must stay, if Sansa will not take my head for the impertinence.”
Must. It is a cold word, laced with obligation and no freedom to—
His brow furrows as he turns to look at her. “Do you not wish me to?”
“I would wish you to…” Stay. Stay happy. Stay mine. “I will tell her in the morn.”
“In the morn,” he agrees, and pulls her close.
Far away, the wind howls, but inside they sleep.