Work Text:
I. Aftermath
In the seconds afterwards, she rests her forehead against his bloody cheek. Their joined breath makes rasping shapes in the frozen air. The smell of cold embraces them. It dances with the smell of iron, of blood and sex. It is tinged with power but if a battle has been won here, she cannot begin to fathom which of them is the victor. She can feel Ned watching them. She has felt him all day. It is so strong she thinks she could will him alive again. She can almost see his face. Should she imagine dismay or amusement, disgust, or anger, or grief, etched upon his features? Perhaps it should be a little of each. She uncurls her scarred fingers from Jamie’s dirty blond hair and rolls up onto her aching knees. She can still feel the ghost of him inside her. The thick empty ache of their joining – and she is disgusted with herself. So is this how it was Ned? Are we equal now? A thin hysterical laugh bubbles up from her throat. She uses Jamie’s shoulders to help her stand.
II. Jamie
“Care to tell me what’s so funny?”
Jamie stares at her hard and wonders at his unparalleled ability to bed hysterical women.
“Fuck you.”
Her voice is broken. She wipes tears from her eyes inelegantly and fixes her hair back into place while he smiles his cocky self assured smile.
“Forgive me my Lady, but I believe you just did. And rather thoroughly. Tell me, did your lord husband go in for this sort of thing or is it your natural proclivity to enjoy men chained to stakes?”
“Really, Ser Jamie? Surely you can do better than that?”
And there she is. The Great Lady Stark. Mother of Wolves. Her mask firmly back in place. This is not the woman who was riding my cock but a few moments ago. What a great shame. She really was quite magnificent. The fury in her. The self righteous indignation. She could give Cersei a run for her money. And it will be the end of you, Lady Stark. He thought it bitterly. He was surprised that he found no joy in it, but his grin did not falter. He had his own mask to wear.
“My apologies my Lady, as I told you before, I am far from being at my best. Let me try again...ah yes. I have it. I should have thought of it earlier, I find that it’s always best to twist the knife in an open wound. Your late Lord Husband for example: when he first arrived at King’s Landing I had my squire suggest to him that his filthy northron ways and his filthy northron clothes would not be welcome there. My squire suggested that he might like to slip into something more comfortable. Something more fitting for playing the part of the King’s Hand. He wasn’t nearly so accommodating as you.”
There it was again for a brief second; the fury; the fire in her; dangerous and consuming and visible for the world to see. When they had her head, he would light her passing in the sept. He would use only three candles; the Smith for her fire; the mother for her fury; and the Stranger to see her safely home.
“Some advice, my Lady: if you intend to continue playing this farcical game of thrones for much longer, take care to dress for the occasion and see that your mask doesn’t slip again. You have more to fear than lions in the Riverlands.”
Catelyn smoothed down her skirts checked her hair one last time. Her eyes never left him until she turned her back on him. She squared her shoulders, and walked away.
Jamie closed his eyes and listened to the sound that her feet made as they crushed the fresh, wet grass beneath her. Her constant, determined pace grew ever more distant. His fingers curled around the soft supple leather. Such tiny hands, he laughed to himself. She had left her gloves behind. For once in his life his smile was genuine.
III. Catelyn
She could not sleep. Her mind would not rest. Despite the near freezing night without, the braziers kept a high, stifling damp heat. She could not breathe; her furs prickled uncomfortably, and lay tangled at her feet. She told herself that they were the reason her skin crawled but the soreness at the juncture of her thighs told a different story. She ran a hand up her nightgown and cupped herself there. She touched a finger to her clit and flinched. She still throbbed.
Jamie fucking Lannister. The man who had betrayed two kings. The man who had crippled one of her sons and now waged war against another. She had meant to crush his skull. She had meant to send what was left of him back to his sister in so many pieces that not even the silent sisters would not be able to put him back together again. She had meant to do it herself with a rock and her bare hands. Instead she had fucked him until she was raw and shaking and hysterical. The worst of it was that she could not say why. The irony of it was that it had been the why of it all that had brought her to him in the first place. And it had been her need to know the why of it that had made her stay long enough to let it happen.
Is this the way of war? Is this the bloodlust from battle that men speak of to justify rape? No. It was not the same.
Catelyn remembered the jest that the sellsword Bronn had made after they were attacked on the eastern road, about needing a woman after battle: “Well I’m willing if she is” the Imp had leered at her. Is that what it had been? It had been consensual. It may have been raw and hard, it may have been ugly and unkind, but it had been needed. It had been wanted, by both of them. She had almost walked away. She had started to, and then something he had said had hit her so hard it had knocked the breath from her lungs. His words had almost sounded tender and it had hurt to remember how long it had been since she had heard Ned speak to her so.
“Go on. Be off with you.” Those had been his last words to her. Ser Jamie’s voice had had the same cadence to it, or so she had imagined:
“You should get some sleep. It’s going to be a long war.”
It was the world weariness in his voice that had made her turn back. She had been shocked and curious to find that she had anything in common with the man to whom Bran’s life had meant so little. She had thrown herself on the ground next to him and clasped her hands to his head, so that he could not look away from her:
“Why?! I’m going to ask you again, I need to know why?!”
He hissed and tried to pull away in pain.
She had suddenly become aware of the tackiness of the blood on his face underneath her gloved hands. My Gods! She thought, I almost apologised! But it had been a ploy. She had let down her guard for just a second and his hand had been at the back of her neck forcing her head towards him. He was not chained as tightly to the stake as he had first appeared or she would never have dared to get so close:
“Because of a woman like you.”
He whispered through gritted teeth before crushing her lips to his.
She had fought him. She had beaten her fists against his chest. She had tried to push herself away. But he had held her there effortlessly, and as his hand had clenched in her hair and his tongue had passed her lips, something had changed in her. Warmth pooled tight in her belly, it was a deep hungry ache and she had kissed him back:
Her tongue found his. The kiss was long and slow and deep and she moaned when he bit into her lip.
He had let her go then. He had leaned back against the stake and smiled that self assured grin:
He had her then and he knew she would not leave until she had the truth of it. She raised her hand, meaning to knock the smirk off his face for good. But he was quicker, he caught her wrist as it fell, twisting it until she had cried out. He let go and covered her mouth.
“Be quiet! Such anger, such passion Lady Stark, just how I like my wenches. The offer still stands my Lady, why don’t you slip out of that gown?”
She had bit down on his hand, she had meant to make him bleed but he just laughed it off and let her go. As she lay sleepless in her bed, Catelyn told herself that she had only intended to tempt him with the promise of something she would never give. But she had given it. As he had known all along that she would. She had hitched her skirts and straddled his waist. She had told him that she thought it too cold to go skyclad.
“It’s no matter my Lady” he had replied, “We’re all naked in the dark.
She had wrapped her hands around his throat, her face so close to his that she could almost taste that kiss again:
She rolled her hips against him. Her voice a whisper on his lips.
“Are you telling me, that you were willing to kill my son, to protect the honour of some kitchen maid?”
She rolled her hips against him once more and felt him harden against her.
“I wonder, Ser, what would you be willing to do for the sake of a high born lady?”
He pushed up against her. Wetness pooled between her thighs.
She could tell herself that it had been a natural reaction to being so close to an undeniably handsome man. She could tell herself it was a reaction to possessing power in a world in which she had so little, but the gods forgive me, she thought, the truth of it was that I wanted him. The terrible realisation of the reality of that desire had only made the want stronger:
He pushed against her again and she rolled into his thrust, a small, barely audible moan escaping her lips. “Really, my Lady, do you think so little of yourself? She was no kitchen maid. But you knew that already, didn’t you? We both know. But do not mistake me for a fool; neither you, nor your cunt will make me say it aloud.”
Catelyn wondered now if she had taken that as a challenge, she had never been able to refuse a dare. Was that what it came to in the end? Had they just been testing each other to see who would break first? She had reached down between them and unlaced his breeches:
As her long, gloved fingers curled around him she asked “And what of your cock Ser? What might I learn from him?” He tilted her chin, as if he meant to kiss her again.
“ You really do have a filthy mouth for a sothron lady. I really must wonder at what other tricks you picked up in the north.”
He bit down on her ear, teeth and tongue dragging across its shell. She shivered and his breath came a little harder with each stroke of her hand.
What Catelyn remembered was the fear in her then. Fear of being found for sure, but mostly she had feared him. She remembered the sounds of the camp as Jamie Lannister had cupped and squeezed at her breast with his one free hand. She remembered the sound of footsteps passing by unawares of what was taking place just a few meters away from them, as he had rolled his hips into her. But mostly she remembered the dead look in his eyes. She had frozen in his lap. Her hand had stilled on his cock. For a few seconds, she had not even dared to breathe:
“What’s the matter my Lady, have you suddenly remembered where you are?”
There had been that challenge in his voice again. He didn’t believe she would go through with it. She had unlaced the top of her stays and placed his hand at her breast to show him that she would:
His fingers flicked at her right nipple, and she bit into his neck to silence the moan in her throat when he twisted her nipple sharply before rolling the delicate flesh between his fingers. She smoothed her fingers over the head of his cock in return and he pushed up into her hand demanding more. His fingers dug into her hip, pulling her to him more closely.
“Don’t play with me Cat.”
Both of her hands went to his chest and she shoved him violently back against the stake. “Don’t.” She shoved him again. “You don’t get to call me that.” He bowed his head in acknowledgement.
“My apologies...Lady Stark.”
The smirk on his face told her it had been intentional. She made a show of pulling off her soft leather gloves with her teeth as she moved over him. Taking him in hand she dragged the head of his thick cock through her folds, teasing herself with it. He grabbed for her arse in an attempt to pull her down on him, but his chains did not let him reach her properly. She pushed him back against the stake. Her forehead rested against his, fire flashing in her eyes as she spoke, “Don’t play with me, Ser Jamie.”
Tongues and teeth duelled in a seering kiss. His chained hands would never reach her and so she decided she must help herself. It had the added benefit of making him suffer a little more. Her fingers found her clit and she stroked herself as she hovered over him on her knees, clinging to him as she buried her head in his neck. Her whimpers of pleasure appeared to have no effect on him. He only looked on her like she was a curious specimen in a maester’s study. She pushed two fingers inside and curled them upwards until she hit that sweet spot. She felt a gush of wetness and she was close, so close, but she had to stop. She needed him to feel that. She needed him to feel her take her pleasure from him. Her eyes met his as she smeared her wet fingers across his mouth. He licked his lips and laughed, “Nicely done, my lady” as she finally made to lower herself down on him.
She hissed as she took him in. The angle was all wrong and it had been too long since she had shared Ned’s bed on the night of the feast at Winterfell. But it felt good to be full again. She rocked back on him experimentally and moaned as he hit a little deeper.
“yess..”
Jamie’s hand was at her breast again. It was the only part of her that he could properly reach. But she had to give him his due: he made good use of it. She used his shoulders for purchase as she rocked against him. Jamie spread his feet and bent his knees as he met her thrust for thrust. She chanced a look at his face. Still those eyes sent a sharp thrill of fear through her belly.
His hand tightened around her breast, her hair was a mess and whole sections of it fell over her face. He brushed it away and cupped her cheek. “yes...yes..come on..come on..harder. harder now” he whispered. Catelyn was struck once again by his capacity for tenderness. But this time his actions were a sharp contrast to the harsh cruelty of his words. “I’m impressed. You take instruction well.” She tightened her muscles around him, again and again. She pressed her palm to her clit, her fingers stroked the base of him where they joined. She was grinding herself on him now, harder with each turn of her hips. Her rhythm was erratic and all of her own making. Just to show him that she wasn’t his to control. She was on the edge again. She could feel her orgasm coiling like a whip in the pit of her stomach, pulsing, a dull, full ache just out of reach. She moaned into his neck in frustration. Beating her fist against his chest. “Enough. Enough. Come, come, damn you! Why won’t you finish it?”
Jamie pulled her back with him, crushing her to him as he leaned back against the stake. She felt the scratch of fabric and the cold air hitting her bare breast before it was enveloped in the warm wet heat of Jamie’s mouth. He sucked and bit at her as he bottomed out inside her. Her legs trembled and she collapsed against him as she came.
His hand had covered her mouth and nose. She had panicked and struggled against him, thinking he meant to kill her then and there. But then he had growled at her:
“Shh. Stop it! Hush! You can’t scream like that. Are you mad? I really do hope your guards have drowned in their cups. Otherwise, there’s like to be some fearsome gossip by morning.”
He laughed at her and wriggled his hips. “You have a job to finish my lady”
Catelyn was grateful that he’d had the good sense not to come inside her, and better control of himself than she had clearly had herself. Catelyn curled on her side in a ball with her head in her hands. It was as if her body was trying to protect her mind from the images playing out in it. Why am I torturing myself with it? What’s done is done. It will do no good to dwell on it. But in her mind’s eye all she could see was the dark silhouette of his features, all she could hear was the hiss of his breath as he’d slipped out of her, all she could smell was the scent of herself on him as she’d knelt between his thighs and taken him into her mouth. He’d talked at her all the way through it. Thinking on it now, she wished she’d finished him with her hands. Or better still she should have walked away leaving him chained with a raging hard on and no way to take care of it himself. But she hadn’t wanted the mess, and she’d wanted questions and sniggering whispers even less. She had learned long ago that if there was no evidence that was as good as it never having happened:
She was down on her knees sucking and licking at him like a whore. He told her as much. She cupped his balls, while her other hand took up a firm rhythm at the base of his cock and her head bobbed up and down on him, creating a soft suction around the head. Every so often she gave his balls a squeeze and flicked her tongue over his slit. She was careful to look up at him as she flicked her tongue over him before drawing him back into her mouth. She would not let him she that she feared him. Besides, Ned had always liked it. All men had egos. And all men liked to think you were all for them and no other. It had never taken long. As it turned out, all men played out much the same in the dark. Although Ned had never talked so much and he had never been so vulgar:
“Ah...yes Cat...” She had bit him for it. But he only laughed and tried to provoke her again.
“Gods I can smell you. What they say about Tully girls is true...”
If she glared at him then, or squeezed his balls a little tighter than was necessary, he did not seem to notice:
“you all come as wet and wild as the rivers that bore you..fuck, yes. Just there.” His hips rose erratically to meet her mouth. “You...Know...Littlefinger...Littlefinger told me that...now...now...assuming that he wasn’t talking about you...it might be worth pondering where he acquired that little gem of information.”
He seemed to be having trouble forming his words. It wouldn’t be long now. She felt the brush of his fingers against her hair. She was thankful that his chained hands allowed him no more than that, or she was sure he’d be pushing her to take more of him. He’d enjoy nothing more than the sound and the feel of her choking on his cock.
“Think on that. I’ll warrant you... he’s more involved... in this little war than either...either of us know.”
In the long hours before morning, she thought of little else. The pieces were there – Littlefinger, Jamie, The Imp, Cersei, the King’s death, the dragon bone dagger, Lysa, her insanity, John Arryn, the sickly Lord Robert, Ned’s death, Bran and Arya and Sansa - but try as she might, she could not make them fit together. He had promised to help her. Had he betrayed her just as easily? And what of Ser Jamie? What was his part in all of it? What game was he playing? And why? It always came back to the why with him. She had told him the world was cruel because of men like him. He had replied that there were no men like him, but for himself. Had she been so wrong about him? She would never forgive him for Bran. But part of her wondered. Part of her wanted for it not to be true.
Had he been trying to help her with his snarling remarks and vulgar pillow talk? She would not underestimate him. Why did he seem to give her so much when she had given him nothing but meaningless release? He was playing her for sure – but what had he wanted? She wondered if he’d found it. She remembered how he’d tried to pull away from her as he reached the edge of his tolerance. Had he meant to draw it out further? Or had he only meant to humiliate her by coming over her face and hair? That was more likely. But it made no matter. She had won that little battle:
Catelyn held him there, pumping his shaft in a firm, fast rhythm. She hummed around him, rolled his balls in her hand, pressing a finger into the smooth patch of skin beneath. He came silently, smiling down on her with amused disinterest as she swallowed his load. She had nearly choked on it, but it had been a necessity. She licked him clean as she stared up at him defiantly. She wiped at her mouth subconsciously, with her thumb before she slipped his spent cock back into his breeches, and laced them uncomfortably tight. “Enjoy that, did you?” She crawled back up to straddle his lap. “Not particularly. No.” “Really? You could have...” his words were swallowed up by her hard kiss. She wanted to make him taste himself on her. She wanted him never to forget it. “...fooled me.” He finished when she finally broke away. “Shut up! My gods! Dont. You. Ever. Shut. Up!” She punctuated each word with a hard thump to his chest. By the end they were both laughing. His sudden tenderness shocked her again when his hand stroked her hair, tucking an escaped tendril behind her ear, before leaving a light kiss on her forehead. She sighed and rested her head against his bloody cheek.
“I am sorry, you know. Truly”
She had been dumfounded. She had raised her head and stared at him hard.
Nothing. He offered nothing more. All she heard were the sounds of the camp and her own heart thumping in her chest as the wind blew through the trees. Finally she spoke:
“Am I supposed to forgive you now?”
He had urged her head back to where it had rested, and for some bizarre reason, she had let him.
His hand played in her hair. “No. No.” He whispered.
She had not feared him then. He was the one who was afraid. He was just a man, she had realised. Just a man, with weaknesses, the same as any other. And men could be broken. Life was fragile. It meant very little in the end.