Chapter Text
A dress has been collecting dust in the wardrobe for a year. It was sewn from red and gold silks for Brienne to wear upon the return of her husband from the war. “I did not wear a dress for our wedding. Why would I wear one now?” she had asked. When word came that he and other men had been intercepted on the journey home and imprisoned in Salt Shore, the ladies looked at Brienne as though her refusal to conform had been the cause of it.
She is reminded of the garment upon news of his release and again upon the eve of his return home. But when Brienne is called to greet him, she arrives in the Great Hall wearing a shift tucked into breeches.
“My lady,” her attendant whispers, “the dress?”
Brienne answers with a shrug. She surveys the table set for two and the feast fit for a King and Queen and their kingdom – a thick soup of barley and venison, mutton, spiced squash, loaves of bread, leeks and carrots, sliced melon and plums, custard and honey cakes. She turns to ask if anyone else will be joining them only to find she’s been left alone.
She pours wine into a chalice and takes a sip. The liquid sears a path down her throat, making her wince, until it spreads warmly in her belly. Another sip and another and Brienne can feel the tension unravel in her shoulders. She pours more and tilts her head back to down it at once.
“Save some for your poor husband.”
Brienne wipes a dribble of wine from the corner of her mouth but does not turn toward the sound of Jaime’s voice. She closes her eyes and takes several quick breaths. She sets the chalice on the table and rotates slowly to face him.
“They do not serve wine in battle or the prisons,” he goes on. “How I’ve missed it.” He stands, waiting – for a response, a reaction. Getting none, he says, “I hope the war did not leave you too lonely.”
“I hoped the war would make me a widow,” Brienne tells him, and for a brief moment she thinks Jaime looks wounded by her words.
“That is no way to greet your lord husband.” He steps further into the room and closer to the candlelight. If he’d been hurt by what she said there is no longer a trace of it in his green eyes.
She can tell he’s been cleaned and shaved and dressed in a new leather jerkin. Brienne’s breath catches at the sight. She doesn’t have to love or even like her husband to recognize that Jaime Lannister is a beautiful man. She can see the war and subsequent imprisonment did nothing to his appearance but grow his hair longer. The weight he lost is inconsequential; it will return to his bones after he partakes of the feast.
“You’re quite right,” Brienne says. She pours wine into the second chalice and carries it to him. Stopping an arm’s length away, she gives him a formal nod. “Welcome home.” She lifts her hand, offering the wine.
Jaime takes the chalice from her. “I hope this isn’t Dornish,” he says, but drains most of it from the cup regardless. His eyes sweep along the table. “I’m famished. Shall we?”
She nods and takes her seat. When Jaime appears to be waiting for her to begin, Brienne says, “You start,” and watches him fill a plate with mostly meat.
He has worked his way through a second helping of every dish and started on the honey cake before he speaks again. “I was glad to see Casterly Rock is still standing. I suppose it wasn’t very difficult for you to be both lady and lord in my stead.”
Brienne glares at him across the table and stabs a piece of meat with her knife, eating it from the tip of the blade.
“Aren’t you going to inquire about my capture?"
She thinks how she’s been more or less a prisoner on Casterly Rock since after their wedding, and that wine is not all the Dornish are known for. “I can’t imagine it was all that terrible for you. I’ve seen how the men and women behave there. I’ve seen their attire.”
Jaime grins. He wipes his finger along the surface of his plate, gathering cake crumbs and dribbles of honey. He sucks his finger into his mouth, licking it clean and releasing it from between his lips with a pop. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”
Rolling her eyes, she states, “Not at all.” Brienne takes a bite of cake and washes it down with another drink of wine. She stands from her seat. “I’m rather tired, as I’m sure you are. Goodnight, Ser Jaime.” She doesn’t wait for him to respond, and when she nearly collides with Tywin in the doorway, she only acknowledges her goodfather with a curt nod.
*
The food is cleared away but Jaime asks for more wine. It is delivered to the table but intercepted by Tywin; he grips the bottle and stares gravely at his son.
“What?” Jaime asks.
“You and Brienne have been married for two years without producing an heir,” Tywin states.
Jaime rolls his eyes. “Need I remind you, father, I’ve been away for one of those years.”
“And the one before that?”
“She returned to Tarth when her father took ill. Not once but twice.”
Tywin releases his hold on the bottle and says, “That is precisely why you should not be sitting here getting drunk while your wife is alone in bed.” He shakes his head. “I never should have let you fight in that nonsense of a war. Let the Dothraki have The Stepstones! The only thing you accomplished was costing me a fortune to free you from Dorne and delaying putting a babe in Brienne’s belly. You should have been here, as Lord of Casterly Rock, with your wife.”
“I never wanted to marry that beast.”
Tywin slams his hand on the table. “You would be on the Night’s Watch or dead if Lord Selwyn had not agreed to a union between his daughter and the Kingslayer. Or have you forgotten that beast saved your life?”
Jaime heaves a breath and grabs the bottle. He pours wine until it begins to flow over the rim of the chalice. He gulps it down as his father rises from the table, shaking his head in disgust. Alone in the Great Hall, Jaime leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, conjuring the memory of how he met Brienne and came to be her husband.
The ship bobbed on the water and Jaime wretched into the Narrow Sea. He had spent the last decade in a prison cell for killing The Mad King, and the sudden change from being surrounded by dank concrete to bouncing water was taking a toll on him. He’d been trying to guess their destination, but watching the scenery only made his condition worse.
Tywin slapped him on the back and said, “Pull it together, son. You need to make a good impression when we get there.”
“Where is there?”
“Tarth.”
x
There hadn’t been time to ask why they were sailing to Tarth; Jaime had to vomit over the side of the ship again, and twice after that. Suddenly, all was still and Tywin was giving him clean clothes to change into.
“What’s in Tarth?” Jaime asked, finally, as the boat docked and he felt solid ground under his feet.
Tywin took a deep breath before he said, “Your soon-to-be wife.”
x
Jaime protested as the carriage trudged up hills and rolled along uneven, winding roads.
“I appealed to King Robert for your release on the basis of you being the only viable Lannister heir to carry on the family name. You have two choices, son,” Tywin told him. “You can serve on the Night’s Watch or take a wife and be Lord of Casterly Rock.”
“Staying in prison was not an option?” Jaime asked; he had not lost his sense of humor in the cell.
Ignoring him, Tywin said, “There aren’t many young ladies in Westeros who want to marry the Kingslayer. There aren’t many fathers who want to marry their daughters off to him either.”
Jaime did not like the implications there. “What you’re saying is my soon-to-be wife is desperate for a husband?”
“She’s a nice young woman, Jaime. From a good family.”
It was a kind way of saying she was ugly, Jaime knew. “What’s her name?”
x
“Brienne!”
Jaime listened as Selwyn Tarth shouted for his daughter. The man – towering above the Lannisters – had seemed even-tempered, but anger edged into his voice each time he had to call for the young woman and received no answer.
“She is probably with the horses,” Selwyn said.
“Jaime, why don’t you look for her,” Tywin suggested.
Jaime glared at his father. “I don’t know what she looks like,” he said, and he noticed a brief but awkward glance between Selwyn and his father.
“She’s quite tall,” Selwyn told him and pointed in the direction of the stables.
x
Only horses occupied the stables. Jaime wandered further, able to appreciate the clean, salty air of Tarth as his equilibrium was restored. He was stopped in his tracks by the unmistakable scrape of steel being unsheathed from a scabbard. Hand on the hilt of his own sword, Jaime spun to face the threat. He squinted; the glare of sun marled his view of the person’s face, but he could tell his possible opponent was a rather tall man. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes and nearly laughed. “Are you a... woman?”
She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. Her nostrils flared at the cruel tone of his voice.
“Are you Brienne?” He received no answer, but Jaime knew she had to be his betrothed. She was the ugliest woman he’d ever seen, and it made sense that her father would be worried enough about her chances of finding a husband that he’d consider a disgraced knight. She was tall and the blonde hair on her head was cut shorter than Jaime’s. She wore breeches and if she had a woman’s shape, it was hidden under the billow of a shift. Her plump lips were chapped and barely contained her overly prominent, crooked teeth. The saving grace of her face was her eyes – blue as the water he’d sailed on.
Jaime took a step closer and said, “Do you have any idea who you drew a sword on?” He paused to allow a response. Given none, he told her, “I’m Ser Jaime Lannister.”
“The Kingslayer.” She spat the moniker at him, her tongue curling around it with spite and glee. “It would seem my instincts are spot-on.”
The corners of his mouth flinched into a sneer. He was prevented from launching a retort when his father and Lord Selwyn appeared.
“I see the two of you have met,” Tywin said.
Jaime swore his father was delighting in his son’s misfortune, and he observed a moment of strain between the Tarths; when Lord Selwyn reached to put his arm around his daughter, she stiffened and avoided the embrace.
x
The days on Tarth were long and fraught. Jaime and Brienne were both hoarse from heated conversations with their respective fathers, and more than once he heard Tywin and Selwyn engaged in a shouting match. His only hope of not marrying Brienne the Beauty was her father’s reluctance to tie his daughter to the kind of knight who could betray his oath.
Jaime escaped the confines of his room at dusk, walking the lush grass under a plum sky. Despite the circumstances, he was grateful to be able to roam free. His imprisonment on King’s Landing hadn’t been all bad – there were visits from Cersei, though scant, and he was released once a day to train – but everything had been on someone else’s schedule.
He found Brienne in the training yard and watched her lunge at an imaginary opponent, slicing at the air with a wooden sword. “Don’t grunt, my lady,” he said, startling her. “You give yourself away.”
She pushed a frustrated breath through her teeth. “I’m no lady,” she retorted, and then asked, “Did my father send you?”
Jaime shook his head. “I don’t think your father much cares for me, wench.”
Brienne glared as if to say his chosen term of endearment was no better. “Then why is he arranging our marriage?”
He approached her, standing close enough to see a smear of dirt on her cheek. Jaime opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t answer that,” Brienne said. “I already know. I’m his only heir and he’s worried the Tarth lineage will die with me.” Most girls were married off by the age of ten and six, and it was well known she had surpassed that by four years. “Every suitor I’ve had has left here black and blue.”
Jaime grinned at that but also found himself taking a slight step back. “My father says I can either swear myself to you or to the Night’s Watch.”
“I suppose I should be flattered if you choose me, but I’m not. Neither of us wins. Marrying me is still your punishment.”
He could not argue the statement. Brienne was not his intended solely because she was the only woman in need of a husband enough to settle for him. The King and his counsel had no doubt named her because they knew it would inflict a lifetime of displeasure on Jaime. Tywin Lannister could have his gaggle of heirs, but they could be cursed with Brienne of Tarth’s looks. Even Cersei would likely give the marriage her stamp of approval; no chance of her beloved brother ever desiring or loving his wife more than his sister. He saw the shine of tears in her eyes and almost felt worse for her than himself; the misery of knowing you were being courted for your lack of beauty!
“It can’t be all bad,” he offered, though Jaime's tone signified he himself was not fully convinced.
“How?” Brienne asked, quickly wiping the back of her hand across her eye right eye to catch a tear before it fell.
Jaime drew in a long breath, buying time. He spotted another wooden sword on the ground and went to fetch it. “I can teach you how to fight.”
She scoffed but he caught a glimpse of pleasure flash across her face.
“You need to practice with something heavier,” Jaime said, tossing and catching the sword to demonstrate its lightness.
A while later, Selwyn and Tywin found their grown children standing in a cloud of dirt, wooden swords crossed. When the dust settled, Jaime noticed them, and he noticed the moment Lord Selwyn decided to allow the marriage; Brienne was smiling.
*
Brienne calls for a bath and soaks until the pads of her fingers and toes prune.
She climbs out of the water and moves near the fire to let the heat dry her skin, dripping water across the room. Facing the flames, she hears the door squeak open and expects its one of the girls returning to check on her. “I’m alright,” she says, annoyed. Brienne hears the door close and turns around. She gasps at the sight of Jaime standing inside her chambers.
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he reminds her when she crosses one arm across her chest and reaches a hand down to shield the tuft of wiry, blonde hair between her thighs. It’s the truth but also a lie; Jaime never spent much time gazing at her body, and what he sees now is not at all what he recalls of her from before. She has changed in his time away.
“My robe is on the chair,” she snaps.
Jaime finds it and hands it to her. He averts his eyes but sneaks a sidelong glance as she slips her arms into the sleeves.
Brienne ties the robe closed, the knot snug enough she may need help loosening it later. “You should have knocked.”
“This is my room too, remember?”
She flinches. “Well, it hasn’t been for a long while. I maintain you should have knocked.”
He holds his hands up in surrender.
Brienne hadn’t considered he would return and so soon sleep beside her. She sits on the edge of the bed and doesn’t know where she thought Jaime would rest his head, but it wasn’t in her- in their room. In a sense she had expected, if he did return home, he would be vastly different. So far, she finds Jaime to be as smug as ever.
She swings her legs onto the bed, settling under the covers. She hears the rustle of fabric before she realizes he is undressing. Brienne groans her disapproval but watches sideways as he, already relieved of his shirt, tugs on the strings holding his breeches in place. The material loosens around his hips and slips down to his knees. She watches as Jaime shoves them all the way to his ankles, kicking them aside.
He is down to his smallclothes and she can’t help but be reminded of their wedding night.
She had come to terms with becoming Lady Lannister in the sept when Jaime draped the cloak over her shoulders, adding a sense of finality to the proceedings. It was then Brienne began to dread what happened after they were pronounced man and wife.
Through the remainder of the nuptials and the feast that followed, she had to battle for breath against the lump in her throat. She had begged her father to do away with the bedding ceremony, but she knew what happened when men – and even women – drank too much at a wedding; the ribaldry could mean she and her father were defenseless against custom.
Unbeknownst to Brienne, her new lord husband had overheard a huddle of Lannister cousins plotting the bedding. The men wanted it so they could remove her clothes piece by piece and verify their cousin had truly married a woman. Jaime had paid Tyrion to cause a diversion, and by the time the bride and groom were ready to take their leave, all the men could do was linger outside the room and press their ears to the door.
It was almost as bad, she’d realized, as the two of them stood on opposite sides of the room with the sound of other men reaching them through the wall. Brienne moved to extinguish several candles, leaving only enough light to see her way to the bed. She lowered her gaze to the floor as Jaime stripped down to his shift and smallclothes, every article of clothing landing with a soft thud at his feet. She looked up in time to see him grasp the hem of his shirt and peel it up the length of his torso. He discarded it and her breath snagged at the sight of his skin glowing in the soft candlelight.
Even in the near darkness, Brienne could see the shape of muscles in his arms and the broad planes of his bare chest dusted with light-colored hairs. She was surprised by the way her mouth went dry and she felt the urge to squeeze her legs together. She’d always known he was handsome, but Septa Roelle had described a man’s body in such grotesque terms that Brienne had not been prepared to like the look of him.
He looked at her expectantly across the bed, and when she did not move a muscle, he circled around to stand before her. “I can help you,” Jaime said, reaching for the strings tied in a bow at the hollow of her neck.
Brienne swatted at his hand. “No, don’t. Don’t look at me.” In the dark he wouldn’t even be able to see her blue eyes, the only feature she knew other people found aesthetically pleasing.
He turned to face the wall.
Her fingers trembled, struggling to loosen knots and lift the barriers between Jaime and her skin. If asked, Brienne would truthfully state she was not nervous about losing her maidenhead. Rather, she was disgusted to know that a man without honor was going to take hers. She decided not to remove the sleeveless shift she’d worn beneath her tunic and whispered, “Okay.”
Jaime turned, understanding it was as naked as she intended to be. With none of her hesitation, he divested himself of his smallclothes.
She held her head high and lifted her gaze even higher, refusing to look. The two of them had shared only two conversations about sex prior to the wedding; in the first, Brienne confirmed she was a maiden after Jaime made crude jokes and suggestions. In the second, she confronted him about the rumors of his relations with Queen Cersei. He confessed they had lain together out of curiosity and loneliness - failing to conceal their forbidden affair had managed to continue after her marriage to King Robert and during his imprisonment. To her great shock, she felt more uncomfortable about how her body would compare to his beautiful sister than the implications of the siblings’ relationship.
The men outside the door knocked and hollered and grunted. They shouted obscene suggestions and Jaime reached around Brienne to fold the covers down on the bed. “We have to do... something,” he said.
She nodded but did not move.
“Wench,” he said through gritted teeth, and then, softly, “Brienne.”
“I know,” she whispered, barely audible.
Jaime sighed. “We could pretend,” he suggested. “Make... noises.”
She appreciated his offer but knew enough to know it would not work. “They will check for blood,” she stated matter-of-factly, and it was then she turned to the bed and stretched herself across it. She fixed her eyes on the ceiling. Jaime cleared his throat and she felt her body shift on the mattress as he knelt there beside her.
Jaime maneuvered to cover her body with his own, and Brienne closed her eyes as she felt the weight of him sink down onto her. She waited, but he did nothing more. “Well, get on with it,” she snapped.
He urged her legs apart but her limbs were heavy and stiff. “I will not force you.”
“You are not forcing me. I... have no choice.”
“Is that not the same thing?”
“We have no choice,” she clarified. “You killed King Aerys and I was born ugly and now here we are. Married. Punished for our crimes.” The way Jaime looked at her made Brienne uncomfortable; there was too much concern shining in his eyes. “You are not forcing me,” she said again. “I simply... don’t know where to start.”
He nodded and when he nudged her thighs apart with his knee, Brienne bent her legs, letting him settle between them. She felt him reach one hand between their bodies. Her eyes widened when Jaime rubbed the warm flesh of her cunt, and her body jerked and her fists pushed against his chest.
“Trust me,” Jaime whispered. “You don’t want it to hurt more than it has to. Alright?”
“Alright,” she answered shakily. She gasped when he touched her again, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the nub she’d to that point only explored by herself. A moan escaped her lips and, embarrassed by the noise, she could feel a blush crawl across her cheeks and down her neck.
Brienne turned her head aside when his lips brushed hers, and instead he kissed and suckled at her neck. Soon, his mouth sought hers again and she did not resist. It was clumsy, their teeth knocking together, her lips too rigid. She gasped when Jaime used a finger to stretch her, to prepare her, and she whispered a strangled, “Yes,” when asked if she was ready for him.
She whimpered when Jaime pushed inside her. He repeated the movement again and again and again, and each time she took more of him. Soon he was resting his forearms on either side of her body, caging her in, and thrusting slowly. She winced at the initial discomfort – a slight burn, a sharp ache.
The bed creaked loudly in rhythm with his hips. Brienne heard cheering on the other side of the door. She opened her eyes and was surprised to see Jaime gazing down at her. He offered a slight smile, and then his eyes fluttered closed and he dropped his head to her shoulder. She could feel his breath in hot puffs of air against her neck, and again he moved one hand to between their bodies, rubbing her in furious circles. She didn’t know when it had happened, but her arms were wrapped around him, hands clasped together at his lower back.
Brienne found the work of his body pleasant; small sparks of electricity had her on the cusp of gratification when Jaime suddenly grunted and his body spasmed as he spilled into her. He was finished, and while she didn’t know what to make of it so soon after, she found sex had been nothing like what Septa Roelle prepared her for. She was left with an oddly pleasurable but frustrating throb between her legs and wondered if that was what Jaime apologized for when he said, “I’m sorry,” against the thin fabric of her shift.
Brienne’s memory makes her sorry for being ornery with him. Jaime has been known to have good intentions. Reminded of that, she is no less nervous about the next day and each after that, but Brienne feels slightly better about finding her footing as Lady Lannister again.
Beside her, Jaime shifts and settles on his back. He had told his wife that her naked body was nothing he hadn’t seen before, but he can’t stop taking an inventory of all the ways it is new and different. Her backside is curvier than he recalled, and while the muscles in her back that had once seemed bulky and bulging are no less strong, it’s as though the rest of her has caught up to their size. Her body seems longer and leaner, and when she’d turned to face him, Jaime had been pleasantly surprised to see the slight indentation of a waist above her narrow hips. She had never let him see her breasts, and though small, he found them no less appealing. Above her neck, Brienne’s mouth has changed to better accommodate her teeth. Her lips look softer, less bitten.
“Fuck,” Jaime whispers.
He doesn’t realize he said it aloud until Brienne asks, “What?”
“Nothing,” he lies.
Jaime feels Brienne move and glances to see her roll onto her side, facing away from him. He can see that her hair is different, too. It’s still short, but thicker and wavy, and he clenches his hands into fists at the urge to touch the strands.
Sharing the bed with her, Jaime can’t help but think back to their wedding night. It had not been passionate. It had been awkward; he hadn’t been able to last long and there was sorrow in their hearts, even dread. But much to his surprise, Jaime had not needed to think of his sister at all to get through their first time. In the immediate aftermath he’d attributed his arousal and quick climax to how long it had been since he’d lain with a woman; in the time he served for killing King Aerys, sex with Cersei was limited, and during his so-called courting of Brienne, swordplay was the only physicality.
Looking back, Jaime has to admit the ability to fuck his new wife had more to do with Brienne than anyone else; she had been warm and tight, sweet and pure.
After walking in on Brienne after her bath, he can hardly remember why he’d earlier called her a beast. It's not only her naked form he finds attractive; he is impressed that she managed to survive a year as Lady of Casterly Rock without giving into Tywin’s notions of a proper woman. She is still choosing her own clothes and gulping wine and refusing to conform. Still holding her own against him.
Jaime slides a hair closer to his wife. He doesn’t have to think of Cersei at all to feel his cock swell and strain against his smallclothes. He doesn’t need to plot how to spend another year away from Brienne. Instead, he thinks he might like to find out what can happen if he stays beside her for a long while.