Archive of Our Own

The taste of ash fills his mouth and the echoing screams of the citizens of King’s Landing fade slowly from his hearing as he shakes and sweats into the soaked bed sheets beneath him.

It’s no different than any other night in which the horrors of Daenerys’s invasion play out in his nightmares, but Jaime feels particularly worn thin this night, especially after returning just a week ago from a month on the road with the Queen as she’d toured the land beyond the remains of the Wall and established a treaty with the wildlings.

As Lord Commander of the Queensguard it fell to him to ensure that Sansa remained alive and well, protected by the legion of bannermen that made up her guard at all times. It had been a brutal journey—one he had been ill prepared for with so little experience of true winter, but their Queen had never once complained of the vicious winds that cut through clothes like cold steel. She was like the northern winter itself; cold, deadly, and starkly beautiful.

Not that he thought of her like that—it’s just that he’s grown to admire her in the year that’s passed since Jon had killed Daenerys and ended a bloody reign before it could begin, but he had felt like he knew her little beyond what he observed of her in her official capacity as Queen. She was just and fair, but firm with her liege lords and citizens, steely and strong with the wildlings, kind and gentle to the young children of Winterfell, and whip smart with a cunning she had learned from Baelish and his sister.

Shoving aside both thoughts of the Queen and his sweat soaked sheets, Jaime pushes himself upright and looks over to where the fire in his hearth has burned low, only the occasional snap and pop come from the logs, but still, it must have been enough to bring the rush of dragon-fire to his dreams for another night.

He’s told the servants to build his fires low at night, but they frequently ignore his commands—either as an aversion to him in particular or as a southerner who they think too foolish to survive without their silent, judgmental assistance.

Going to the basin by the window, he wets a cloth and wipes himself down with the icy rag, shuddering as it cleans away the sweat and lingering sensation of his nightmare. Tossing it aside, he dresses quickly, determined to walk the parapets till he’s tired and able to sleep again—if sleep will come that is. Far too many nights he finds himself wide awake, hands shaking as he stares out at the darkness beyond the castle walls, panic in his chest like he hasn’t felt since he first saw the dragon swooping out of the sky as the Dothraki devastated their caravan.

There are no enemies rushing at the walls, no dragons, no white walkers, but still, still his mind and body betray him and send him flinching from the flames or frozen in place when a child screams too shrilly. He shuts the door to his quarters gently, not wanting to rouse any of the guard that slumber nearby—least of all Jon Snow, who stays just across the hall from him and seems to sleep even less than Jaime does.

He’d tried to slip away to live beyond the remnants of the Wall, but Sansa, in a rare display of temper, had demanded he stay and named him Warden of the North—a penance perhaps for his alliance with the dragon queen and the damage she had wrought on his people. Whether the man stays out of guilt, shame, or obligation, Jaime is damned glad to have such an excellent swordsman and leader of men at his right hand to ensure that the Queen remains safe.

The air is so cold outside that it hurts to inhale, but he does it anyway, savoring the stinging pain and the way it chases away the sense memory of superheated air searing his lungs as a dragon roars overhead. He nods to one of the guards and begins his journey around the walls of Winterfell, the bitterly cold air sinking beneath his clothes till he’s sure that his skin will turn to ice and he’ll shatter like the Night King had.

Pausing at the furthest north wall, he looks out into the dark at the forest and the mountains beyond, the night silent and empty in a way that makes him shiver, dread making his stomach turn unpleasantly.

The night is dark and full of terrors indeed.

He goes back into the castle when he can no longer stand the cold and winds through the hallways, listening to the soft tread of his boot on stone as he passes the empty dining hall and hearing rooms where the Queen hears weekly petitions from the people in the villages and nearby towns. He approaches the library and then pauses, studying the light coming from under the edge of the doors—at this time of night no one should be inside unless they shouldn’t be, or, like him, they’re also unable to sleep.

Whatever the reason, he unsheathes his dagger and slips into the library quietly, following the light and soft shuffle of pages turning around a corner till he’s face to face with the source.

He stares at the Queen for a long moment, her eyes wide, the blue of them like a crystal in the candlelight, hypnotic in a way that leaves him frozen until she lifts a finely arched brow and the corner of her lips tilt up expectantly.

He sheaths his dagger and nods to her politely, “Your Grace,” he murmurs, “you shouldn’t be here alone,” he tells her and watches the way she purses her lips, clearly displeased with his words.

“I hardly think I’ll be assassinated in the library Ser Jaime,” she replies tartly, “It’s been some time since someone cared enough about me to try and kill me.” Like your sister remains unspoken, but it’s there nonetheless and Jaime nods in agreement, distantly surprised that there’s no rise of grief or anger at her implications, at the memory of his cruel sister, his disastrous love.

“What has so captured your attention this late at night?” he asks, aware that with anyone else around, his tone and casualness with the Queen would be seen as the height of effrontery, but here, in the dark quiet walls of the library, it feels right. To his surprise, her pale cheeks color and she ducks her head for a moment before sighing and turning the book around so he can see the page she’d been reading when he found her.

The Forms of Swordplay

Beneath the words are drawings of a man in various poses with a sword that he recognizes as the basic forms taught to all young men interested in the art of war. He’d had them taught to him when he could barely walk, and by the time he was a young man he’d been in the Kingsguard and a renowned swordsman—none of which tells him why the Queen is reading such a thing.

“You have interesting reading habits, Your Grace,” he murmurs, sighing internally when he sees her guard go up, shoulders stiffening and chin rising so her imperious gaze can meet his.

“It’s imperative that I know my men are well trained,” she snips back and he smirks because it’s an obvious lie—he and Jon have already spent time ensuring that the guard are well trained in swordplay and hand to hand combat.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he replies mildly. “Of course, if you wanted to learn swordplay, you would only have to ask,” he tells her, “I’m sure your—Jon would be happy to teach you.”

Her face closes off and Jaime silently curses his clumsy words. She snaps the book shut and tucks her hands behind her back, her bearing regal for all she’s in just her nightclothes and a dressing gown, her command no less assured for her state of dress.

“I thank you for your counsel Ser,” she replies woodenly and he takes it as the dismissal it so clearly is, bowing and murmuring a polite goodbye before rising and meeting her gaze once more.

“I could teach you,” he blurts out, and he has no idea where the words come from, or why he offers—Arya or Jon would be able to teach her easily and both are better fighters than he is now, but now his offer lies between them, and surprise flits across her face, her head tilting slightly to study him as she purses her lips in thought.

“Very well,” she murmurs finally, voice throaty and low, “I will meet you here at two hours before dawn the day after tomorrow,” she tells him with a tight little nod of her head that’s not quite a dismissal, but is an obvious close to the conversation.

He nods his agreement and waits till she’s brushed past him and the room has fallen dark to exhale heavily and wonder what in the seven hells he’s gotten himself into.

The time passes quickly and before he knows it he’s back in the darkened library, leaning against one of the tables waiting for her to appear and wondering if she’ll actually come.

The soft rustle of skirts turns his head towards the doors and a moment later she rounds the corner, lantern in hand as she approaches, swift and nearly silent. He looks her over as she approaches, holding back a frown at her skirts—it’ll hinder her ability to move, but he doubts she would ever be caught in breeches, even just here with the two of them where no one else would see.

Her hands move restlessly over her clothes after she sets the lantern down on the table, fingers plucking at the collar of the simple tan blouse she’s wearing before they slip away to smooth over the skirt she’s wearing that looks as blue as the summer sky—as blue as her eyes. Her hair is braided back from her face, and for a moment he’s struck by how young she looks, and he’s reminded that she’s just turned 20–nearly the same age he was when he shoved his sword through the Mad King’s back.

Her cheeks color and he realizes he’s staring—looking away sharply, he clears his throat and ignores the way his own face heats in embarrassment. “Good morning Your Grace,” he murmurs and sketches a short bow before forcing himself to meet her gaze when he rises.

Her lips twitch nervously and she nods to him, “Good morning Ser Jaime,” she replies quietly, fingers twitching nervously in her skirts like she wants to cling to them, but she’s forcing herself not to. Clearing his throat again he nods awkwardly and then gestures for her to follow him when he steps away from the tables and moves to stand in the open space between the tables and shelves along the walls.

“We’ll start with the forms you saw in the book,” he tells her, “while you can’t truly learn swordsmanship from a book, you had the right idea.” She bobs her head nervously and he wonders if she’ll call a halt to all of this before they even pick up a blade—she’s clearly unsure, but she’s surprised him before with her stubbornness, and there’s something that tells him that she won’t give up so easily.

Stepping into the first form, he points to his feet. “You need to have a solid base so your opponent can’t throw you off balance,” he tells her, “your feet should be only slightly further apart than your hips.”

She nods and adjusts her feet, but with her skirts in the way he can’t see if they’re right and he hesitates for a moment before gesturing to the fabric. “Those will hinder your movement,” he tells her, “and prevent me from seeing if your stance is correct.” She huffs a breath and stares at him with a disgruntled look before fisting her hands in the fabric and pulling it up so he can see her feet and a good portion of bare calf.

“Better?” she asks, her sarcasm as sharp as Valyrian steel and he can’t help the smirk that curls up his lips.

“Better, Your Grace,” he replies before turning his gaze to her legs and shaking his head. “Your knees need to be less stiff,” he tells her, exaggerating his own position for a moment and bouncing in place to show the limberness in his knees, “you have to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

She bites her lip but nods and shifts her skirts higher, her posture shifting, and he can see her knees, the hints of her thighs in the flickering light entrancing for a moment, cream against the pale blue of her skirts.

“Like this?” she asks softly and he snaps his gaze away from her thighs, face hot as he meets her gaze and nods.

“Good,” he tells her, “now follow me into the next stance,” he tells her, gaze flicking back to her still raised skirts. “You can drop those,” he says, and determinedly ignores the swoop of disappointment when she lets the skirts fall and she’s covered once more. She is his Queen, he has no reason—he needs to focus, she’s here and he’s promised to teach her, and that’s what he’ll do. He’ll keep his word, as he’s strove to do since he first made that promise to Lady Catelyn, and again when he’d sworn himself to Sansa.

He goes slowly and shows her each stance, correcting her posture when she isn’t quite right, and when they reach the end of the stances, they go back through them, holding each one as he counts till 200. He doesn’t feel the strain of it in his arms, but he can see hers wavering as they go through the forms, and by the time they’ve gone through them three times her cheeks are pink and her arms are shaking where she holds them.

“Steady,” he tells her gently, “you’re almost there,” he assures her before finishing his count and nodding. “Relax.” She slumps immediately with a loud exhale, and his gaze catches on the rise and fall of her ribs, contained in her corset, and it occurs to him that this is another thing that will hinder her ability to train herself for combat. Telling her that is an entirely different thing than knowing it however, and he forces his gaze away from her ribs as she breathes steadily, one hand pressed to her stomach as she looks to him, gaze questioning.

“You did well,” he tells her, enjoying the way her lips curl up in a tiny little smile that betrays her pride at his praise. “How are you feeling now?” he asks, glancing over her form for a sign that she’s too weary to continue.

“Sore,” she admits, “but I want to learn more, I want to know how to defend myself.” Her expression darkens and she looks away from him, gaze fixing on the lantern, the flickering flame shadowing her face. “I don’t ever want to be at the mercy of a man who intends to do me harm again.” Her arms wrap around her body and her teeth worry at her bottom lip before she speaks again; “If I am to die, it will be at my own hand,” she says before looking up at him, eyes hard and chilly, chin lifted defiantly. “I will never allow myself to be taken against my will ever again.”

Jaime swallows hard at the horror barely concealed in her words—he knows what she endured with Ramsey in the vaguest terms, and so he cannot fault her for this desire to be able to protect herself, to have her fate in her own hands. “Then we will train until you can take on the finest of swordsmen,” he tells her, something in his stomach fluttering when she smiles at him—a true smile, filled with approval and pleasure, and he feels it like a warm caress on the shoulder and shudders minutely.

“Thank you Ser Jaime,” she murmurs, holding his gaze for a moment before running her hands over her skirt and shifting her face into something less open and warm, more regal. “Is there more today?” she asks, “we haven’t even touched a blade.”

At this, he cannot help but grin, remembering his own frustrations as a boy at not being allowed to handle a blade until he had mastered the basics. “You won’t handle a blade until you’ve mastered your forms,” he tells her firmly, “practice them three times a day, just as we’ve done them here, and when you can do them without your arms shaking, we’ll move on.”

Her frown is deep and her brow furrows in displeasure, but she doesn’t fight him, just rolls her shoulders and glances away as she nods and folds her hands over her stomach. “Very well,” she agrees before looking back at him, her jaw firm, expression determined as she speaks. “I will not give up,” she tells him, “not now, not ever.”

Jaime finds himself moving, feet carrying him forward without thought and then he’s in front of her and she’s tilting her head back to look up at him, the light of the lantern flickering off the sharp planes of her face. They stare at each other for a long, breathless moment before he finally ends the silence, voice kept low for fear of breaking the moment.

“I will push you, Your Grace. You will ache and hurt and curse me—but if you listen, I will make you strong, a steel sword sheathed in velvet that your enemies will never see coming.”

Her breathing is loud in the quiet of the library, but his is too, and he can’t name the tension that wraps them in its embrace, holding them as they stare at each other.

“Sansa,” she breathes out, “here, with you I am just Sansa,” she whispers and presses her hand harder into her corseted stomach, eyes blazing like blue lightning in the darkness. “Please let me be just Sansa,” she says, and when her fingers brush against his flesh wrist he jolts but holds still. “And you be Jaime,” she says as her fingers encircle his wrist, squeezing gently.

His tongue feels heavy and clumsy in his mouth, so he nods and tries to breathe steadily around the buzzing sensation that’s filling his skin, radiating out from where she’s touching him. “As you wish,” he finally murmurs, heart thundering in his chest when she smiles, another true one that warms her face and makes her eyes shine. She nods and squeezes his wrist once more before releasing him and shifting in place, a cautiously playful look on her face as she lifts her arms out from her body a little and wiggles them.

“I feel like wet noodles,” she tells him and he laughs, louder than expected and genuine in its pleasure, a grin spreading on his face that is answered by one on hers.

“It will be like that for some time,” he tells her honestly, “but you can handle it. You’re strong,” he says and then feels caught out at the look of surprise on her face—he’s said too much and for a moment he can hear his father’s voice calling him a fool, feel the slap against the back of his head that had happened so frequently in his youth.

“Thank you Jaime,” she says softly and he looks back to her, gut twisting at the way his name sounds in her low throaty voice, so intimate here in the shadows and flame.

He nods and glances away, “Of course my lady,” he murmurs. “We are finished for now, but I will see you at this time tomorrow morning.” He looks up and gives her a polite smile, “Good day Sansa,” he says, and when she nods in return and smiles, it’s awkward like his is, and for some reason he feels a rush of relief that she feels just as odd about this as he does. She said that they should just be Jaime and Sansa here, but he has no idea who this Jaime should be, or even who he is when he’s not Ser Jaime or Lord Commander.

Sansa brushes past him and he catches the scent of pine before she’s gone in a soft swirl of skirts and a flash of blue eyes that make him shiver for a reason he cannot name. He stays there, standing like a statue until gray morning light begins to peek through the windows and shift the shadows of the room.

He walks slowly back to his quarters, thinking over her words, her determination, the way her jaw had been firm when she’d looked at him like she expected him to scoff at her, the way she had accepted his guidance every time he’d adjusted her stances.

She’s hard, he thinks, cold forged steel wrapped in porcelain skin, eyes like shards of the sky and hair kissed by fire, and when he lays down on his bed and closes his eyes, her determined face fills his mind. He sleeps then, untroubled by nightmares, and the only fire he dreams of is silken hair that trails over his face while a low throaty voice says his name.

It takes her one week of practice to complete her stances without her arms shaking, and when she’s able to do that he hands her the stick he’d hunted through the forest to find, ensuring that it was the right weight to mimic a practice sword. He makes her run through the stances with the stick in one hand, and then makes her do it again, and again, until her arms are shaking and sweat is beaded on her brow, cheeks flushed pink.

Jaime is silently proud of her for fighting through her frustrations, and over the next weeks he adds in a series of body weight trainings designed to strengthen her arms, stomach and legs and watches as she struggles, her frustrations washed away with a simple word of praise when she does something particularly well. Soon she’s able to work through the forms with elegance and surety, until finally, her arms no longer shake with the stick in her hands.

“Good, you’re doing well,” he tells her when he takes the stick from her, and the pride that glows in her sweaty face makes something foreign clench in his chest. She smiles at him and tucks the loose strands of her hair back, her breathing unsteady as she straightens out of her forms, the fabric of her blouse damp with sweat under her arms.

She’s still wearing skirts and her corset—the odds I’d be attacked in any other clothing are low Jaime, I need to be able to fight no matter how heavy my skirt or how tight my corset is she had told him when he’d suggested she wear breeches instead.

“What’s next?” she asks, “do I get to have a blade now?” she asks as she pours out a cup of water from the pitcher that’s become part of their routine. She silently offers him a cup and he nods, murmuring a quiet word of thanks before answering her question.

“No, next is moving through the stances faster, and passing the stick from hand to hand when I tell you to,” he explains before sipping the cool water that tastes like winter and ice. In Winterfell, the snow and ice are used for cooking, cleaning, bathing and drinking, and the freshness of it still fascinates him after a lifetime of stale, warm water in King’s Landing.

Sansa sighs softly, disgruntlement clear on her finely boned face and Jaime bites back a fond smile—she’s far more expressive in private and in the past few weeks she’s taken him by surprise with jokes, cursing, and frequent bouts of laughter. “I suspect you enjoy torturing me,” she says with a wry twist of her lips, eyes bright with amusement and Jaime grins, rubbing a hand over his mouth for a moment as she sips her water and gives him an arch look over the rim of the cup.

“You enjoy it too,” he replies teasingly, something warm unfolding in his chest when she blushes, “but in a sense you’re right, I do enjoy training you,” he tells her, more serious now. “I—” he hesitates for a moment, the words tangling up in his head, and he can feel her gaze on him, sharp and clear. “I am not the swordsman I once was, and I have feared since you appointed me as Commander of the Queensguard that I wouldn’t be able to defend you as you need.”

The words burn like bile in his mouth and he glances up at her, gaze bouncing away when he sees how intense her gaze is. The weight of his golden hand feels enormous and he swallows hard, self loathing swelling within him. “Knowing that you have the ability to defend yourself should the worst arrive…that takes a weight off my mind.”

The silence in the room makes him sick, shame creeping up and choking him as he stands there enduring her scrutiny, everything in him screaming to run away—but he’s already said it, and he’s no coward, so he’ll stand here and endure it. He jolts when a hand wraps around his wrist and he looks up sharply to find Sansa much closer than she’d been before, her eyes bright and warm with kindness that makes his throat go tight and his face burn hot.

“Jaime, when I chose you to be my Commander I chose you because you know the game, you know how dangerous all the players are, and you know how to think strategically.” He grimaces at that, because gods, she’s right and it disgusts him.

A squeeze of her fingers at his wrist draws his gaze back up to her, and he’s stricken by her intensity, “Jaime, I chose you because you killed a mad king because it was the right thing to do and you made a vow to my mother when you didn’t have to, and you have honor—no you do,” she insists when he shakes his head, “you came north when it became clear that Cersei wouldn’t hold to her word because it was the right thing, the honorable thing, and I knew that you would be the right man to lead my Queensguard and protect me.”

Jaime shakes his head and huffs out a heavy breath, furious with the burning in his eyes that always precedes tears. There’s a long, heavy moment of silence before she speaks again, her voice quiet in the hush of the library. “I wasn’t making sure our men were well trained,” Sansa says, “that night that you found me, I was walking the castle grounds because I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t slept well in years—Ramsey would wake me in the middle of the night and—” he hears her throat click and feels her fingers tighten on his wrist, her pain tangible between them. Twisting his wrist out of her grasp he hesitates for a moment before tangling their fingers together and gripping back tightly when she clutches at it. Her icy blue eyes are rimmed in red, and her grip is strong as she continues speaking.

“I waited for someone to save me, prayed to the old gods and the new, and no one answered,” she whispers fiercely, “I learned the game, I survived, and now I’m taking control of myself and learning how to defend myself so that I need not ever rely on someone else to save me.”

He nods, biting back the I’ll save you, I’ll protect you that he wants to blurt out and instead squeezes her hand and gathers his courage. “I have nightmares too,” he tells her quietly, voice rough, and he feels stripped raw, uncomfortably seen, but he fights through it and continues. “I feel the dragon fire and hear the screams of the people and I cannot sleep. I cannot sleep, so I wander the castle.”

Sansa makes a soft noise and shifts closer, the hem of her skirts brushing against his boots and his heart stutters at the empathy in her eyes, a sharp exhale falling from his lips as she releases his hand and reaches up to cup his cheek. She doesn’t say anything and Jaime’s breath stutters out of his chest, his entire body trembling, emotion raging through him like a wild northern storm.

They stand like that until he stops trembling, a sense of peace settling around him as Sansa gently strokes her thumb over his cheek, her eyes soft as she looks up at him. Gently, he reaches up to lay his hand over hers for a moment, his lips trembling as they curl up into a soft smile that she answers with one of her own.

He pulls her hand away from his face and then, without thought to the gesture, brushes a kiss across her knuckles before letting her fingers slip from his. His chest aches with how hard his heart is beating and he can hear her breathing, loud and unsteady like it is when they’re training, and everything around him fades to the susurration of howling white winter winds.

“Walk me to my chambers?” Sansa murmurs and he agrees readily, tucking his hands behind his back as they exit the library and wind through the empty halls, both of them enveloped in a tense silence that makes his heart thrum and his blood rush through his head. The servants are up now, and they’re seen by at least three people before they reach her chambers, but Sansa seems unbothered by this, her face blank and calm.

Jaime wishes that he could mask his emotions as well as she can—his father had always berated him for his inability to do…well, just about anything that pertained to being a Lord. He finds himself at her chamber doors before he’s ready, his thoughts still swirling, so when she turns to look at him Jaime is left caught out and mute.

Sansa’s eyes flicker over his face and he wants to say something, but instead he finds himself choking on his tongue, painfully silent while she meets his gaze steadily. Her lips curl up at the corners slightly and her face shifts into something regal, and he sees the servant out of the corner of his eye as she speaks. “Thank you for escorting me Lord Commander,” she says, voice just slightly louder than he normally hears her speak. “Thank you for your wise counsel,” she continues, eyes softening as she speaks again, “good day Ser, may your rest be peaceful.”

His throat feels too thick to breathe, but he manages to nod and bow and then meet her gaze, his courage pushing the words out. “Thank you Your Grace,” he murmurs, “I hope your dreams are sweet,” he says lowly, heart thumping when her cheeks pink and her brows rise in surprise. She nods her thanks and he turns away, feeling her gaze at his back like the heat of a lover’s touch as he walks down the hallways of the castle.

The heat remains there long after he’s out of her sight, and when he shuts the doors to his quarters behind him he realizes that his fingers are trembling and he’s half hard in his breeches. He braces himself against the small table near the window and sucks in the frozen air that lingers there, trying to quiet his racing mind, pounding heart, and throbbing cock.

He hasn’t felt this since—flinching, he turns away from the window, the heat from Sansa’s parting gaze still lingering under his skin. He doesn’t want to think of them in the same breath, doesn’t want to even think about comparing them because there is no comparison—

With a frustrated groan he grabs his sword and stalks out of his quarters—perhaps some time in the training grounds will get these insane thoughts out of his head.

As he swings the sword against the guard member who’d volunteered to train with him, he catches sight of crimson fluttering in the wind. He looks up and meets a gaze as blue as the winter sky above them and he thinks—

There is no comparison

“Do you—do you think I should appoint—Lyanna Mormont to my small council?”

Jaime doesn’t pause in his movements, swinging his own training sword up to meet Sansa’s blows. “Why are you asking me?” he asks—he’s no learned man like his brother, but he’s no fool either, and still, he wouldn’t expect her to come to him with such a loaded question.

“You see things—things differently,” Sansa pants out, skirts swirling as they parry and lunge, her movements smooth and practiced, if a little slow from tiredness.

“As a soldier, you mean.”

She shoots him a glare and he lifts his practice sword to meet her next blow, harder than the last.

“As a man—”

lunge, parry, gasp

“who has fought—”

blow to the ribs, wince

“Ah!...fought in war….and court.”

Jaime steps in close and slides his practice sword up under hers, and with a twist of his wrist captures her and pulls her close, her head falling back as he towers over her. He stares down into her face, gaze flicking from her red cheeks to her bitten lips, her eyes dark and wide, and he’s entranced, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against his, the scent of her suddenly filling his nose.

“Lady Mormont is young but has strong experience managing a castle and its people. She fought well in the war of the dead and saved more than twenty men by taking command when their leader fell. She will work to protect the North and will be a strong ally for you—I would choose her,” he tells her, voice steady as he holds her close and stares down into her eyes. “You already know that many in the North resent you for naming me to Lord Commander and Jon as Warden of the North—they will want to see a small council made up of more trustworthy Northerners to outweigh our influence on you.”

Sansa’s mouth purses for a moment before she sighs and nods, and then she’s twisting out of his grasp and knocking his sword aside, a grin of triumph on her face as it knocks nearly out of his hand, steadied only at the last moment by ingrained skill. “Arya is my Spymaster, Sam is my Master of Laws, you are my Lord Commander, and if Lyanna Accepts, she would be Master of Coin.”

Jaime straightens out of his fighting stance and rolls his shoulder, wincing at the pinch there that’s been bothering him for days now. “You think a girl her age would be capable of managing the coin for a nation?” he asks in return. “She’s barely old enough—”

“She was old enough to rally her men to my brothers’ causes, old enough to swing a sword and defend her people, I think she’s old enough to do simple addition and subtraction without sending the North into crippling debt.”

“I could barely read at her age, what guarantee do we have that she’s smart enough to do this?”

Sansa’s brow crumples and he wonders for a moment why, when suddenly his words catch up to him and realizes what he’s shared with her. Turning away, he sets his practice sword on the table and reaches for the pitcher, pouring out a cup for each of them with a hand that trembles, his breathing suddenly unsteady.

“My father was told by my tutors that I was slow, that I couldn’t read, so he sent them away and taught me himself. He made me read for hours, copying the words over onto blank parchment so I would know how to read and write the letters and words on the pages.”

He shrugs and finally meets her gaze as he toys with his cup, rolling it between his fingers, “I learned, but I was slow,” he tells her, mouth twisting into a bitter smile, “I don’t doubt in your belief of Lady Mormont, only in my own ability to advise you wisely when I was and continue to be a slow learner.”

Sansa frowns outright now and shakes her head, “Enough, you should not speak of yourself like this,” she tells him sharply, “you are not stupid, or slow or any such thing. I trust your advice and seek it freely.” She huffs and twirls the practice sword still in her hand before tapping his wrist with it, “Now, pick up your sword and show me how to do that move you did earlier.”

He stares at her for a long moment, something in his chest fluttering at her decisive statements on his intelligence. With a brief shake of his head to clear the thudding of his pulse from it, he picks up his sword and slowly steps into the correct stance, something in him settling into place as her words echo in his head.

Lifting his sword, he nods to her, “Widen your stance,” he orders, nodding his approval when she does so. Their gazes meet and they both soften momentarily, a smile passing between them before he focuses on the task at hand.

“Good, now watch what I do, you step forward like this—”

She’s there early one morning, a darkness in her gaze that gives him pause. She’s quieter too, and when their session ends, she’s subdued in her departure, leaving him looking after her with an ache in his chest.

She’s early the next three days, and each day that passes she looks more haggard than the last, the dark circles under her eyes deepening. When she stumbles and sways, he drops his sword without thought and catches her around the waist, heart thudding painfully as he guides her over to one of the chairs at the table. His fingers tremble as he pours her a cup of water, gaze flickering over her as she breathes unsteadily in the chair, her face pale as a sheet and sheened with a sickly sweat.

He doesn’t pester her with questions, just refills her cup when she empties it and then guides her by the elbow from her chair up to her quarters, ignoring the glances that they get from the servants as they go.

He glances around her chambers, noting the small sitting area by the fire as the perfect place to settle Sansa so she’s both warm and comfortable. He tugs a blanket down around her shoulders, annoyed when it settles awkwardly because of his gold hand and then steps into the hall and waves a servant over, keeping his voice low as he orders her to bring mint tea, creamed wheat with butter and honey, and more logs for the fire.

Jaime hovers by the door for a moment, unsure if he should move closer to Sansa and make some attempt to comfort her or remain a respectable distance away. The whole castle will be whispering about this by noon—he doesn’t really give a damn if they’re talking about him, but if they’re slandering her…the last thing he wants is to make her life harder. She looks painfully alone, and that, it seems, is enough to have his guilt twinging and his feet carrying him forward to sit beside her on the chaise.

“Sansa,” he murmurs softly, reaching across his body to rest his fingers lightly on her forearm, the sleeves of her blouse rolled up so when he wraps his fingers around her arm, he can feel the shiver that runs over her skin. “Is it the nightmares?” he asks quietly, hating the way she flinches and clenches her jaw, her shoulders rising up protectively.

She nods tightly and he swallows hard, squeezing her arm gently in silent companionship.

“The bones—”

Sansa cuts off sharply as the servant he’d spoken to arrives with the requested food, movements quick and efficient before she’s closing the door behind her and leaving them in silence once more. She takes the bowl of creamed wheat from him when he hands it over, her thin elegant fingers twirling her spoon as he settles in beside her with his own bowl, his sweetened with honey and plump dried blueberries.

They eat in silence for a few minutes before she speaks again, voice low and flat. “The bones in the crypt were brought to life by the Night King,” she tells him, and horror rises in him when he realizes what that means. “The bones of my father rose and sought to destroy me,” she says, voice hollow as she sets aside her spoon and looks up at him with exhausted, grief filled eyes. “And now he haunts my dreams and when I wake I can still feel his skeletal fingers around my throat while his eyes burn blue.”

Her fingers sweep over the expanse of her throat and his gaze is drawn there, watching as they linger around her collarbones before slipping away, and when he forces himself to look away and spoons up some of his food, he finds that his throat is almost too dry to swallow it down.

“The children in the courtyard two days ago, their shrieking—” he pauses and shakes his head, knuckles turning white with how hard he’s gripping his spoon. “It sounded like the children of King’s Landing as it burned,” he whispers, the roar of a dragon rushing in his ears as he continues numbly. “I found myself in a dark corner of the grounds sometime later and couldn’t stand the smell of food, couldn’t bear to be touched, and sleep that night was impossible.”

Sansa makes a soft sound beside him and he looks over to see her eyes shut tightly, hand pressed over her mouth as she shakes her head, shoulders shaking as she begins to cry silently.

“Gods, Sansa, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, guilt twisting inside him that he’s made her cry—he’d only been trying to share his own experience so she would know she wasn’t alone, and somehow he’d fucked it up and hurt her. He sets his bowl aside and hesitates before reaching for her, unsure if he should try to offer further comfort. Sansa surprises him by meeting his gesture halfway and seizing his hand, her red rimmed blue eyes meeting his as she laces their fingers together.

“I sometimes think that I should have died years ago and avoided all of this pain,” she tells him, “but death is a rare mercy in this world,” she says hollowly, “I think perhaps that living is more painful than dying.”

Her words feel like a knife between the ribs, seeking out an injury that he’s tried to pretend doesn’t exist, an injury that he can see bleeding from between her ribs too and it’s sick the way it makes him feel less alone, to know she suffers like this too. He hates it, hates the idea of Sansa suffering like this, but to feel seen by someone as—as lovely as her…

He swallows hard and brushes his thumb over the curve of her knuckles, speaking softly as he stares at a spot of ink on her wrist. “After the Mad King, when I saw how people looked at me, how they sneered and scoffed and spread rumors, I sat in the dark and looked out at the kingdom and wondered if it would just be easier if I threw myself from the parapet.”

She looks up at him sharply and he gives her a weak, ugly smile, “How much pain could have been avoided had I done so?” he murmurs, “how much better would the world be without me here fucking it up?”

Sansa makes a protesting sound and sits up straighter, the blanket falling from around her shoulders and when she looks at him, she looks more like a Queen than she ever has with a crown on her head. “Jaime, if you had, we could not have won the war against the Night King or saved as many in Kings Landing as we did with your knowledge of the tunnels under the city. If you had, I would be here alone, and much for the worse.”

He swallows thickly and looks away, cursing the burn in his eyes that hints of tears to come. “Death may be a rare blessing, but a rarer one is a good and happy life,” he whispers, clearing his throat before he looks back up at her and smiles weakly. “I have a good life here, and I have no desire to leave it anytime soon.” I have no desire to leave you he thinks, pulse tripping at the rush that thought sends through him, his chest tightening as though a metal band has been wrapped around it.

Sansa’s face softens, understanding in her gaze like she’s heard the words he hasn’t spoken and he looks away sharply before releasing her hand and rising to his feet, unsure of what to say or do now that he’s standing.

Sansa surprises him by standing too, her jaw firm as she steps up to him and tilts her head to meet his gaze, strands of her fiery hair framing her face from where it’s slipped out of her braid.

“You are my only friend here,” she tells him quietly, “I forbid you to leave.” I command that you stay, that you live, for me she doesn’t say, but he hears it anyway and nods, clearing his throat twice before he’s able to speak.

“Yes Your Grace,” he agrees.

“Sansa,” she corrects, lifting a brow at him.

“Sansa,” he murmurs with an apologetic nod.

She smiles at him then, and he’s no artist, he could never explain it properly, but there is a moment when the bright winter light out the window falls on her face, and he sees her, sees her for not just the Queen he serves, but the woman he meets in a cold library before dawn every day, the woman who makes him smile and gives him a home, who has been in his dreams so often now that he struggles to remember the last real nightmare that he’s had.

The knock at the door sends them jolting apart as the servants enter to begin the work of bathing and dressing the Queen. He slips out in the tide of people coming and going, pausing for only a breath at the door to look back, heart flipping in his chest when he finds that she’s looking over her shoulder at him while a maid plucks the ties of her corset loose, her palm pressed flat to her belly as the material sags and loosens.

Her eyes are wide and blue and beautiful, and then he turns the corner and she’s gone.

Jaime watches from the corner of the room as Sansa twirls around the great hall on the arm of a lesser lord, her smile brilliant, and more than one man in the hall watches her hungrily. Her crimson hair shines brightly against the emerald green of her dress and she laughs loudly at something Jon says when she’s passed off into his arms, her former partner taking the hand of the next woman in the dancing pattern. The feast to celebrate Arya’s return has been going for several hours, and with a few cups of wine in her, Jaime is pleased to see Sansa loosening up and enjoying herself.

“If you stare at her any harder you’ll be forced to wed her to keep her honor intact.”

Jolting, Jaime looks to his elbow where the Spymaster of the Northern Queendom stands, her mouth quirked in a wry line, eyes far too knowing for his comfort. Jaime shakes his head and smiles politely at her, “Just keeping an eye on her; with all of these strangers, any one of them could be a threat,” he tells her quietly—and there is truth in his words, but it’s not the truth and they both know it.

Arya’s smirk widens and Jaime forces himself not to react—the little Spymaster is far more terrifying than Varys ever was. “You should ask her to dance,” Arya says casually, “if you’re going to stare at her, might as well do it up close.”

Jaime smiles at her politely once more and shakes his head, “My duty is to remain on guard,” he replies “you are welcome to twirl around the dance floor though my lady,” he murmurs, enjoying the way her nose wrinkles at the suggestion. Arya is no lady, and they all know it, but he does enjoy teasing her occasionally—but within reason—he has no desire to wake up with something slimy and unpleasant in his bed.

Or worse.

A sharp little elbow finds his ribs and he huffs out a breath of laughter at it and grins down at her, “Gendry is here somewhere,” he tells her, pushing the teasing a little further, “I’m sure he would be delighted to see you.”

At this, Arya’s cheeks go pink and her glare intensifies, “Shut up you gilded twat,” she hisses and Jaime can’t help but laugh, pure delight rippling through him at her annoyance.

“Of course my lady, whatever you say,” he drawls in his most obnoxious courtly air, grinning when she jabs his ribs again and melts away into the shadows. He’s still laughing softly to himself when Sansa appears in front of him, cheeks pink, hair in disarray, and breathing heavily, a bright smile on her face that makes his heart trip over in his chest and his throat go tight.

She’s a vision and he aches with the urge to reach out and touch her, to feel the slide of silk beneath his palm, to see if her skin is as soft as it looks. He swallows hard as she reaches out and wraps her fingers around his wrist, squeezing gently, and he can feel the callouses on her fingers from the wooden practice sword they’ve been using for weeks now.

“Come dance with me,” she urges, and gods, he wants to, he wants to take her in his arms and hold her close, but that way lies madness and ruin. For all he has been given a pardon and a place of honor in her household, he’s still a Lannister and there are far too many who would like to see him dead—this would be as good of an excuse as any for slitting his throat in the night.

He smiles softly at her and shakes his head, “I cannot your Grace, I am on duty and must keep the Queen’s peace,” he reminds her, gaze flicking away from her to scan the room, and already people are noticing them, noticing how closely she’s standing to him.

He looks back to her and sees the way her smile has dimmed and hates that he must be the one to take away her light, but he forces himself to anyway and gently twists his wrist out of her grasp. “I believe Tormund would favor another dance with you,” he murmurs, “he is a man worthy of your attention,” he tells her and then curses himself when her gaze sharpens at his choice of words.

Head tilting slightly, she studies him for a moment before nodding and smiling at him politely, all regal airs—none of the warm familiarity that had been there just moments ago. “Very well Commander, thank you for your continued vigilance. You are, as always, a man of honor,” she murmurs, and for some reason it makes him go hot all over, like he’s some green young lad being complimented by a pretty lady and not a man of nearly 42 years.

“Good evening,” Sansa says softly, and he nods clumsily, tongue tied and blushing as she glides away across the room to where Tormund and a group of Winterfell warriors are drinking and laughing loudly.

He watches as Sansa says something that rouses a huge wave of laughter that sends Tormund rising to his feet, grinning brightly down at her as he tugs her out onto the floor and into a dance that has her laughing and hanging onto his broad shoulders tightly. Something hot rises in his chest and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s jealousy—he shifts uneasily and looks away, cursing himself for caring.

She’s his Queen, not his wife or his lover, he has no right to feel anything but duty and kindness towards her.

By the time the festivities end, it’s nearly dawn and he’s grateful to pass the watch off to his second in command so he can slip away to the freezing walls outside to try and quell this burning hunger inside him for something he can never have.

“I thought you were going to teach me to use a blade.”

“And what if your blade gets knocked away from you? Or is in another room? What will you do then?”

Her frown deepens, her brow furrows, and she uncrosses her arms hesitantly. “Fight back,” she tells him and Jaime nods in agreement but rebuffs her gently with his words.

“And do you know how to do that?”

This time she outright glares at him and he fights down the smile that wants to spread on his face.

“No,” she grits out, resentful that he’s made her admit it.

Jaime does grin this time, “Well then, perhaps I should teach you how to do that,” he suggests lightly, waiting for her response as she continues to glare at him silently.

Finally, she huffs and lifts a hand to point at him accusingly, “You enjoy this far too much,” she says, but he can hear the reluctant humor in her voice and grins wider in response.

“I’m a terrible man, what can I say,” he teases, enjoying the way the last of the annoyance on her face melts away to be replaced with amusement. “Now, same as before, stance just slightly wider than your hips, and fists in the air,” he tells her, nodding his approval when she complies immediately. He steps closer and shows her his own fist, “Like this—if you tuck your thumb under your other fingers you’ll break it the first time you throw a punch,” he tells her, nodding when she changes her hands to mimic his.

“When you do throw a punch you lead with these two knuckles,” he says as he taps the bones of her index and middle finger knuckles. “These two are dominant and will withstand the blow the best, and cause the most damage. You are tall for a woman, so you’ll have an easier time reaching the face of your opponent, and when you do, you want to aim for the eyes, the nose, or the cheek—the jaw is a good target too, but is likely to damage your hands, so stick with the others for now.”

Sansa nods seriously and Jaime feels a flutter of pride—she’s always so intense during their lessons, eager to learn, and treating his words and guidance with an honor he’s not sure he deserves. He’s a fighter, and he used to be a damn good one, but he’s other things too; murderer, traitor, Kingslayer—and it seems to him that these far outweigh whatever honor he might have.

Moving to stand more directly in front of her, he drops his own hand and gestures to his body. “There are a few places on a man’s body you’ll want to aim for to cause the most damage and allow you time to get away and either get your blade or get to safety. The first is the toes—a good stomp of a heel will distract most attackers for long enough that you can get away. The second is—”

Here he pauses, unsure of how to phrase it politely, but then Sansa grins and—

“The balls?” she suggests and Jaime coughs out a laugh, cheeks warm as he nods. Sansa’s cheeks are pink too but her grin is wry, “The word won’t offend me,” she tells him teasingly, “I’ve been around my brothers and soldiers for enough time that hardly anything would.”

Jaime laughs and nods, “Right, well, I-uh, yes, if you can, a good swift kick to the balls will undo most attackers unless they’ve got a steel codpiece on.” His face feels like it’s in flames and he clears his throat, trying to ignore the way her eyes are dancing with amusement and her pretty mouth is twisted in a wry smirk—clearly she’s enjoying his fumbling. “A punch to the gut is next, or the center of the chest—that will knock the air out of them as well. If you can, a blow to the throat will do the same and may very well crush their throat if you put enough force behind it.”

Sansa nods dutifully and Jaime takes a half step back and lifts his hands, the fingers of his flesh one spreading open into a target for her. “Now, use your writing hand when you want to throw a punch, that is your dominant hand and it will always be stronger. When you throw a punch you want to step into it and use the power of your hips to drive forward. This is what will give your punch power.”

Sansa nods again and Jaime grins at her, “Good, now do it,” he encourages, and when she hesitates he lifts a brow, “do you need a written invitation Your Grace?” he teases, laughing when she scowls at him and lunges forward sloppily and attempts to punch his hand. Her blow is weak and he uses his golden hand to knock her back and off balance, “Again,” he orders her, “this time keep your other hand up to protect your face.”

Her shoulders firm and her eyes go steely with determination and something in Jaime’s chest flutters as she squares her jaw and settles back into place across from him. Her next punch is more steady, and the one after that is better too, but it’s the delight in her face when he tells her how well she’s doing that makes his throat go tight with emotion.

When she’s able to solidly knock his hand back with both a jab with her dominant hand and a cross with her other hand she lets out a cry of delight and grins at him, blue eyes sparkling like gems.

Gods, but he adores her.

“What do you think of my proposal to rebuild the port at Ramsgate?” Sansa asks between coughs from across the room, her feet curled up under her on the chaise, a heavy fur blanket across her lap—her only concession to the cold that she’s been increasingly sick with for three days now.

Lyanna Mormont, Samwell Tarley and Jaime are all gathered with her to review the needs of the Queendom, one of which is an increase in shipping and trade with the western nations of the world.

“If we rebuild the port, we could have supplies reach us without ever needing to travel through the Twins,” she tells the council members, “they could be moved up the Broken Branch to Hornwood, ensuring that any blockade of the North would prove futile.”

“You anticipate a blockade from your own brother Your Grace?” Jaime asks jokingly, earning himself a warm grin from her and a shake of her head.

“No, of course not, but there will come a day when neither Bran nor I sit on the thrones of Westeros, and I would like to ensure that my people survive whatever is to come,” she tells him, gaze flicking away from him to Lyanna. “Lady Mormont, do we have the coin to take on a venture such as this?” she asks, waiting politely as Lyanna flips open the heavy ledger that contains all the tallies of monies going in and out of the crown’s bank.

“We do; and we will have no shortage of workers to help with the construction,” Lyanna tells her, “after the wars, men are eager to earn a good living for their families. Perhaps if we offer a small plot of land to any man willing to come and rebuild the port, we can encourage the people to not just come to build, but to stay and create a hub of commerce.”

Sansa smiles brightly at the young woman and nods, “That’s an excellent idea; Sam, do you see any reason we cannot do so within the laws of the land?”

Sam is quick to shake his head, “No Your Grace, it is your land to do with as you please,” he tells her in his tremulous voice.

Sansa nods and smiles, looking pleased that her idea has thus far worked out. A huge yawn cracks her face and Jaime shifts in his chair—this is the third such yawn in as many minutes and they’ve been at this for two hours now. He can see the wilt in her shoulders and the tiredness on her face, but she is stubborn and has already brushed off his attempt to cut their council meeting short so she can rest, much to his chagrin.

“Your Grace, you need to rest,” Lyanna says, cutting to the heart of the matter with sharp precise words, “you can allow us to handle these smaller matters while you rest. If you wish to rule well, you must take care of yourself.”

Sansa sighs and shakes her head, “I appreciate your concern Lady Mormont, but I am more than well enough to continue,” she says before breaking into a coughing fit that wracks her whole body and leaves her pink in the face.

Sighing loudly, Lyanna rises to her feet and gathers the ledger in her arms. “You sound like shit—Lord Commander, make sure she rests,” she orders before sweeping out of the room, Sam a few steps behind her, stammering his apologies until the door shuts behind them and it’s just him and Sansa.

“I like her,” he tells Sansa, grinning at her scowl.

“She’s—”

Sansa doesn’t get a chance to finish the thought because another coughing fit rattles her chest and Jaime frowns, rising to his feet to step out into the hall and send a servant for the Maester.

He fills a goblet with water on his way back to her and presses it into her hand, “Drink,” he tells her, fingers twitching at his side with the urge to press them to her brow to see if she’s feverish.

She does as he says and sips on the water, and by the time the goblet is empty the Maester arrives and shoos Jaime from the room so his examination can be conducted. When he’s finally allowed back into the room, the man is frowning and Jaime’s heart clenches in his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he demands, stepping closer to Sansa as though this is a threat he can protect her from with his sword.

“The Queen must rest and take liquids—soup and tea only for the next three days. I will be back with a tea for the fever, and another to help her sleep,” he tells Jaime, gaze flicking between them for a moment before he gives Jaime a shrewd look and continues. “Keep her abed Lord Commander, she is not to move unless it is to a hot bath or the chamber pot. No excess strain for two days at least, understood?”

Jaime’s cheeks are hot at the implication that he has the power to keep Sansa abed, but he nods anyway and clears his throat, “Of course Maester,” he agrees, ignoring the glare Sansa is giving him in the corner of his vision.

The moment the door shuts behind the old man she’s on her feet and glaring directly at him, “I’m fine,” she tells him, arms crossed petulantly over her chest, “I have far too much to do to be abed for three days.”

“Your council is perfectly capable of handling things,” he retorts, “or did you not hear Lady Mormont?” At her continued glare he sighs heavily, “You are no good to anyone dead Your Grace, please, rest,” he murmurs softly, gaze pleading.

She shifts away from him and shakes her head, one hand going to her temple to rub at it, “I’m fine, it’s just a cold,” she insists as she steps over to the council table, reaching for one of the papers left behind by Sam. Her hand wavers and Jaime’s heart turns to ice in his chest as she sways and stumbles, body crumpling, and he’s across the room in a heartbeat to catch her, ignoring her protests as he sweeps her off her feet and carries her back to her sleeping quarters.

Her head lays on his shoulder as he nudges the door open and he can hear the wheeze in her breath, the sound turning his insides to ice. He’s infinitely gentle as he lays her down on her bed, and then kneels to remove her slippers and goes to retrieve the thickest pair of socks he can find and slides them onto her feet. He’s just gotten her tucked under the covers when the Maester returns, and soon after she’s fast asleep after one of his teas, her fiery hair bright against the white of her pillow.

He leaves only long enough to allow her maids to undress her and then returns to find Arya at her side, a helpless look on her usually fierce face. She looks up at him and they step out of the room, standing in the dark hallway together to watch the light from the fireplace playing over Sansa’s face.

“She’s going to be fine,” Arya says, and he’s not sure if she’s trying to reassure him or herself, but gods, he hopes she’s right. He nods and hesitates before laying his hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently—to his surprise she doesn’t shrug it off, just stands there with dark hollows under her eyes before slipping away and leaving him with his heart in his throat.

He stays by her side, and when she begins to thrash and moan with some nightmare he watches helplessly for a moment before speaking softly, hand trembling as he reaches out to touch hers where it’s fisted in the sheets. “Sansa, you’re safe, I promise, you’re safe,” he murmurs, throat thick as she whines in fear and trembles, sweat shining on her brow. “You’re in Winterfell, you’re safe,” he tells her, feeling helpless as she continues to thrash in agitation, “come on Sansa, wake up,” he says pleadingly, “wake up!”

She comes to with a sharp cry and he releases her hand as she shies away, eyes wild and haunted, chest heaving with panicked breathing, the cotton of her nightgown sticking to her chest. She trembles and glances around the room before her gaze lands on him and a broken sound of relief slips from her that makes his chest hurt and arms ache to hold her.

 “Jaime,” she rasps, voice hoarse and weak, and when tears fill her eyes he slips from his chair, unable to hold himself back any longer, to sit on the edge of the bed, hand offered in silent support. She takes it, her grip so tight it makes his bones ache but he doesn’t care—he’d let her hurt him a thousand times over if it brought her relief. “I—I dreamed—” she cuts off with a broken sob, her other hand fluttering up to press to her mouth as tears spill out onto her cheeks.

“Ramsey,” he guesses and she shakes her head no, fingers trembling against her mouth.

“Father,” she gasps out from behind them, “his beheading, and his bones.”

Cursing, he squeezes her hand and holds himself back from gathering her in his arms—no matter how much he might want to, she is still not his to comfort like that. “I’m sorry,” he says, hating how weak the words are, and how little they do for her. “Can I—how can I help?” he asks helplessly, “please, Sansa, tell me what to do.”

She makes a soft noise and shakes her head, “Stay? Please stay,” she begs and he nods immediately, “Of course,” he agrees, “whatever you need of me,” he swears. She trembles and wipes at the tears on her face, more following after them and his heart feels as though it will break apart in his chest.

“Will you…sit beside me?” she asks quietly and he knows he should say no, should remember his sense of propriety, but he’s never cared less about that than now, so he nods and shifts, taking his sword from his hip so he can move to sit beside her. He unsheathes the sword and rests it against his right thigh—he’ll be slower if someone were to attack, but it’s better than nothing, and he’s certainly not going to move now that she’s tucking herself up against his side.

“Better?” he asks softly, looking down at her and where she’s come to rest her head against his chest. She nods and wipes at the tears on her face, her eyes sorrowful and tired, lips trembling in a weak smile up at him that makes him yearn to kiss her so badly it is a physical pain inside him.

“Tell me a story?” she asks, tangling her fingers in his tunic as she shifts and gets comfortable, pressing her body up against his side in what can only be described as the most exquisite torture he’s ever experienced.

“What kind of story?” he asks softly, hand curling around her shoulder and holding her close.

“A happy one, with only joy, a story where everything is good and beautiful and no one is ever hurt,” she whispers, and Jaime has to close his eyes for a moment against the sudden burn of tears in his eyes at the raw pain in her voice. He breathes slowly for a moment before clearing his throat and opening his eyes, fixing his gaze on the flames in the fireplace before flicking away to the flames of her hair resting against his hand.

“Once upon a time…”

When he gives her a real practice sword, the delight on her face makes his heart stutter in his chest and his breath come short, and when she hugs him, he can’t help but turn his head and inhale the scent of her, his hand slipping reluctantly from her back when she pulls away and excitedly moves into the first stance, sword at the ready.

By the time they finish for the morning she’s sweaty and flushed, hair lank around her face where it’s escaped from her braid, but her smile is bright enough to challenge the sun, and she radiates with pride. He walks with her to her quarters, talking quietly about the upcoming tour of the North and the preparations that are underway, and when he leaves her to freshen herself before the day fully begins, he heads for the forge, a plan that’s been in his mind for months now finally ready to be put into action.

When he explains to Gendry what it is he’s imagining, the younger man grins and nods, waving him back into the forge to sketch out a few drafts before they land on one that Jaime approves of, his fingers running over the charcoal gently as he imagines it in her hands. He leaves the forge with a lightness to his steps and a smile on his face that is irrepressible, eager to see Jon for their meeting to discuss supplies and tactics for the long journey ahead of them.

A broken wagon wheel a week into their travels derails the journey of the royal tour and leads them to a village a few hours away with a capable blacksmith who, Jaime is assured by the smarmy village headman, will have them back on the road soon enough. It makes him nervous to have Sansa in this unknown place—it may be her lands and her people, but he doesn’t know them and he’d wager neither does she when it comes down to it.

Once he’s able to shake free of the village leader he walks back to where Sansa is waiting in the carriage and knocks on the door frame, waiting till she’s pulled the curtain back to speak.

“The blacksmith estimated half a day before we’re back on the road,” he tells her quietly, fighting to keep a grin off his face when she sighs, annoyance passing over her face before she puts her polite royal mask back on for her maids and nods. “Would you care for some refreshments?” he asks, and when she sighs and shakes her head he nods politely first to her and then her maids before he steps back and turns to go find something to occupy his time while they wait.

Before he’s taken more than three strides he hears the carriage door open behind him, and when he turns, he finds Sansa emerging, jaw set with determination that elicits a fondly exasperated sigh from him, and when she turns her gaze on him he’s smiling wryly and stepping towards her.

“Your Grace,” he greets her, hand coming to rest on his sword pommel as he falls into step beside her. The villagers passing by drop into deep curtsies and bows and Jaime sighs softly as more people gather, eager to see their Queen. Three members of the Queensguard flank them and Jaime breathes a little easier, even as more and more villagers gather, though none seem to have the courage to approach Sansa—at least that is, until a little girl runs forward and shoves a handful of purple flowers at her and everyone goes tense, waiting to see what will happen.

Jaime watches as Sansa breaks out into a bright, warm smile and kneels, careless of her skirts. She reaches for the flowers and lifts them to her nose, cheeks pink from the cold as she smiles at the little girl and Jaime feels his heart clench in his chest at the pretty picture she makes. “These are lovely, thank you,” Sansa murmurs, “Glory of the Snows were my father’s favorite,” she tells the little girl before taking one of the flowers and tucking it into one of her coppery braids.

The little girl’s face lights with pleasure, “They were me ma’s favorite too,” she tells Sansa, tiny face falling and filling with sadness, “Da and I plant them on her grave so she always has them.”

Jaime is close enough that he can hear Sansa’s breath catch, see the way that her throat works hard for a moment before she gives the little girl a sad smile. “I’m sure they make her very happy,” she replies quietly, “I thank you for sharing them with me. I will treasure this gift,” she assures the little girl with a sweet smile. “What’s your name?”

“Ashara, Your Grace,” the girl tells her, “and me Da is there!” she exclaims, pointing to a man emerging from the forest clad in furs and with a buck slung over his shoulders. Jaime watches as the man studies what’s happening in his village, how his steps are deliberate and steady, pausing only to pass the buck off to a young man that darts forward before he hurries to where Ashara and Sansa are still speaking together.

Ashara’s father bows deeply and Sansa rises to her feet as he straightens up, a warm smile on her face. “You must be Ashara’s father,” she murmurs, “it’s truly a pleasure to meet you,” she says politely, extending her hand for the man to shake—and going by the surprise on his face, Jaime is betting the man was expecting to kiss her knuckles as would be befitting her station, but if there’s one thing he knows about Sansa, it’s that she never does things that are expected of her.

“Your Grace, I am sorry if Ashara was botherin’ you—”

“Hey! I was not!”

A laugh ripples through the gathered villagers and Jaime’s lips quirk at Ashara’s indignant interruption.

Sansa laughs too and lays her hand on Ashara’s shoulder, “Not at all Ser, we were discussing Ashara’s lessons and how she’s learning all about the history of Westeros.”

“I’m gonna be like Lady Arya and go adventurin’ and learn how to kill a man a’fore he even knows it!” Ashara declares to shocked gasps from some of the villagers and fond amusement from others—clearly this is a common announcement and Jaime knows that if said Lady were here she’d take unholy delight in this bloodthirsty little girl.

Ashara’s father flushes, embarrassed and rushes to speak, “Ashara, that language is not suitable before the Queen, apologize!”

“Please, that’s not necessary,” Sansa cuts in, a wry grin on her face, “I’ve heard far worse from my Lady sister, and I can assure you that she would be delighted to hear that she has so inspired you Ashara.” Sansa smiles at father and daughter, “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me a tour of your village? I confess I am not familiar with all the smaller holdings of my kingdom, and it seems a fortuitous turn of events has given me the chance to meet my people.”

At this, Ashara promptly grabs Sansa’s hand and starts towing her forward to the group of assembled villagers, her father following close behind with a mix of exasperation and affection on his face. Jaime and the Guard follow, staying close but not crowding Sansa as she’s introduced to the residents of this tiny village, Ashara’s colorful commentary causing much laughter as they make their way slowly through the village, around the sleeping winter fields, the mill, and then back to the village center.

When Sansa shivers, Ashara promptly pulls her away to her own home where she’s tucked into a chair by the fire and the source of a steady flow of chatter that, if the smile on her face is anything to go by, she’s enjoying deeply. Jaime stands guard behind her, enjoying the reprieve from the cold outside, and when they’re served a bowl of warm stew with a loaf of warm brown bread he murmurs an emphatic word of thanks that Artos, Ashara’s father, nods at.

As they eat, they find out that Ashara and the other village girls aren’t allowed to attend the small school, and so Artos, a former soldier turned huntsman and butcher, has taken it upon himself to teach her. He explains that he’d met his deceased wife during Robert’s Rebellion, her a tutor and he a soldier that had rescued her during the sack of King’s Landing when a mob had nearly trampled her. They’d returned to the North after the war had ended and used his pay to build a home, and for the next ten years had lived a happy life despite thinking themselves unable to have children, and then Ashara had come.

“A blessing to us both,” he says with a smile, though his eyes are sad and Sansa lays a gentle hand on his forearm, her own eyes shadowed by grief that Jaime knows is for her lost family.

The conversation turns eventually to the village school where Ashara’s mother had taught, and how, since her death two years ago, girls haven’t been allowed to attend. Sansa’s frown deepens when Artos explains that the village headman had declared it so, against the explicit wishes of the late Lord Eddard and the law of the North.

When word comes that the wagon wheel has been repaired, Jaime watches as Sansa politely wipes her mouth and thanks the family for their time and food, her smile genuine when she bends down to hug a starstruck Ashara.

The bite of the air is sharp when they emerge into the light of the setting sun and Jaime can see the determination in Sansa’s gaze, the steel set of her shoulders and jaw that spells trouble for the receiver. The headman hurries over to bow to Sansa, his hands reaching out, grasping, but Sansa does not extend her hand for him to bow over, instead, she stares at him icily as she speaks.

“I assume as village headman you are aware of the laws of the North?” she asks, lips thinning when the man nods enthusiastically, babbling about his great intellect for the law, his words cutting off when Sansa pins him with a sharp look. “Then I also assume that you are aware that it is the law of the North that all children be educated. Boys and girls both,” she says pointedly, and Jaime takes great pleasure in watching the obsequious look curdle on the man’s face.

“I—of course Your Grace, but these village girls, begging your pardon, they aren’t like a Lady of your status, they’re—what reason do they have to learn when all they’ll be is wife and mother?”

Jaime chokes on a laugh, the sound coming out as a cough instead, and he watches with no small amount of amusement as Sansa takes a step forward, her height allowing her to tower over the smaller man, his face draining of color rapidly.

“What reason?” Sansa demands, “the only reason you have to worry about is that it is law as laid down by my father, and upheld by me, your Queen. It is not your place to reason why, only to do as the law commands.”

The headman stares at her, mouth gaping open in shock and Sansa lifts a brow that jolts him into speech. “I-of course, Your Grace, my most sincere apologies! It will be as you say!”

Sansa nods and turns away, turning back after just a few steps to pin the man with a severe look. “I will be sending word to Winterfell about this. A complete review of all villages and towns in the North will be conducted and if I find that this issue persists here upon my return, this village will find itself in need of a new headman.”

She turns away without waiting for a response or reaction, but Jaime lingers for just a moment to savor the stunned look on the headman’s face and the delight of some of the gathered men and women. He turns after Sansa and follows her to her carriage, amusement curling through him when he hears her muttering angrily under her breath, her shoulders stiff as she climbs inside and settles under the thick furs her maids lay over her lap.

“The only thing men like that are good for is using their word as fertilizer,” Jaime tells her through the open window, pleasure rippling through him when she snorts and throws him a wry grin.

“Very well done Your Grace,” he murmurs quietly, fondness in his voice, bowing and looking up at her through his lashes, heart lurching in his chest when she smiles softly at him in return. He nods to her and then backs away, striding quickly over to his horse and mounting up as the royal tour procession begins moving, carrying them onwards through the dusk and onto their next destination.

As they pass through the village Sansa keeps the curtains of the carriage open and waves to the cheering people, none so loud as Ashara, on her father’s shoulders with Glory of the Snows braided into her hair, just like the Queen. She’s the kind of Queen they’ll write songs about, he thinks—and he hopes that in one of them they’ll include the way she looks smiling at an eager little girl, with lavender flowers braided into her crimson braids and pink flushed on her cheeks.

She’s the kind of Queen that people can love—even damaged and brokenhearted people like him.

Jaime’s heart is in his throat as his horse canters through the woods, hot on the heels of Sansa’s mare, her wild laughter ringing through the air, taunting him and urging him to press his horse harder, eager to catch her. They’ve been on the road for weeks now on the royal tour and they’ve only completed the first third of the journey—something that’s slowly driven Sansa from her regal demeanor and the stuffy confines of her carriage, and onto a horse, her heavy skirts left behind for breeches that drive him out of his mind with how closely they sit to her skin.

They’re about a day past the Dreadfort on their way to Hornwood and the port at Ramsgate, and with the horrible memories that the Dreadfort had roused in Sansa, he’d thought that he would never see her smile again. Now though, she’s all fire and light and laughter, her shout of delight loud as her horse jumps a small frozen creek and heads for the half crumbled tower in the distance they’d agreed upon as their endpoint in this race.

He’s going to lose and he doesn’t give a whit—not when she’s this happy, not when she smiles at him like that when he pulls his horse up beside hers and bows awkwardly in his saddle, conceding the win to her easily. He grins back at her and dismounts, watching from the corner of his eye as she does too, her breeches pulling tight around her legs and—he forces himself to look away, to swallow down the arousal burning inside him.

He follows her into the crumbling tower and up to the top where the ceiling has broken away, leaving them high above the ground with a view out to the forest, the castle of Hornwood in the distance. She breathes in deeply and Jaime watches her from where he’s leaned against the half crumbled wall, enjoying the small little smile on her lips and the warmth in her eyes as she looks out at the world around them.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmurs.

“Yes, it is,” he agrees, gaze not leaving her face.

He watches her for another moment before standing straight and approaching her, “Sansa,” he murmurs, catching her attention before he pulls his gift to her from its sheath and holding it out to her. It’s a finely crafted dagger of Valeryian steel, made from the metal of the sword his father had forged for him out of Ice—the majority of the metal remaining from his sword now forged into one that will fit her hand. It waits for her at home, ready to be used whenever she finds need of it.

Her eyes widen at the sight of the dagger and flick to his face, “What is this?” she asks and he smiles faintly and offers it to her, passing it from his fingers to hers, the drag of skin against skin making him shiver.

“This is yours,” he tells her quietly. “It is forged from the remnants of Ice, but it is yours to name, yours to wield. It is a weapon fit for the Queen in the North.”

She inhales sharply, fingers tightening around the hilt, and looks up at him, gaze wide and searching. “Jaime,” she breathes out, expression shifting and then suddenly she’s in his space and kissing him and he’s so stunned he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, and he hears the metallic clank of the dagger being dropped and then her fingers are in his hair, tugging, and he melts, moaning and sinking into her kiss.

Jaime wraps his good hand around her waist and pulls her closer, shuddering when she moans and kisses him harder, the force of it pushing him back against the low retaining wall and allowing one of her thighs to slip between his.

Jaime shifts and leans back further against the wall as he tugs her closer, lips never leaving hers as her slim hips shift under his touch and her body settles down onto his thigh. Sansa breathes out a little moan and her hips shift, a cautious little roll that he soon realizes is her testing out her pleasure—she’s pressing her cunt down into his thigh and so he shifts and presses back, giving her firm muscle to grind against if she wishes.

Sansa makes a shocked little sound and he pulls back, kisses her jaw and looks over her face, heat shivering through him when he sees the uncertain pleasure on her face—it hits him then, that this is likely the first time she’s ever experienced pleasure with a man—and it churns his gut to think of all she’s experienced, all the ways she’s been hurt. He kisses along her jaw gently and listens to her breathy gasps, her hips rolling again, still slow and uncertain so he skims his hand up her back and then down again before settling on her hip.

“Does it feel good?” he whispers, lips brushing the skin under her ear and she gasps and nods, silky strands of fiery hair brushing his face as he kisses her there harder, just a hint of teeth—he can’t mark her as he desires, she is still the Queen. He grips her hip harder, hand fumbling to pull the hem of her blouse from her breeches, his thumb slipping between the gap of her corset and breeches, seeking out bare skin, both of them making a low sound when he finds it.

“It’s—it’s—” Sansa stutters over her words and gasps softly—he’s kissing over the regal column of her throat now, tasting the skin he’s yearned to have under his lips for…gods, so long now.

Jaime hums in agreement to her aborted thought and skims his lips further down her throat towards the sharp line of her collarbones, “Do you want more?” he asks quietly, no hint of coercion in his voice. He’ll give her whatever she wants, whether that’s more, or a total stop to what they’re doing because she deserves to be treated with respect, with honor and adoration.

Sansa makes a curious sound and when he pulls away to look up at her, she’s blushed a pretty pink, lips swollen from his kisses and there’s an innocent curiosity on her face that once again reminds him that despite ruling a nation, she’s young and inexperienced, and likely a little nervous. “What—more?” she whispers, biting at her lip, bright blue eyes blazing with arousal.

Smiling softly he leans in to kiss her, humming in pleasure as she sinks into it and furrows her fingers through his hair, her lean body pressing more firmly into his. He nips at her lower lip before pulling away, dizzy at the way she moans and chases after his mouth, but he turns his head and plants his lips on her jaw again.

“More—” he murmurs, firming his grip on her hip, “let me show you?” he offers and waits till she makes a soft sound of agreement before he guides her hips into a gentle roll, pushing his thigh up as she grinds down. She lets out a soft breathy sound of shock and he kisses her throat again, “Does it feel good?” he asks again and she nods, hands shifting from his hair to his shoulders, her grip tight on his tunic—and he wishes for a moment that it was gone so her hands would be upon his skin, her nails sinking in to leave a mark he could admire later.

“It’s—I—” Sansa stumbles over her words and makes a shocked little whimpering sound that makes his cock throb in his breeches and his throat go bone dry with desire. He nods, because he understands, and kisses down her throat and over her collarbones, pushing aside the fabric of her blouse to get to the swell of her breasts that peek out from her corset, her gasp of pleasure and the firm grind of her cunt against his thigh making his head spin.

She finds her own rhythm then, clutching his shoulders and gasping, her moans of pleasure filling the air as he spreads kisses everywhere he can reach. He aches to undress her, to spread her out and get his fill of her, taste her cunt, leave marks on her thighs, feel the clutch of her hands on his back as he worships every inch of her body. She gasps his name and Jaime’s cock throbs, his groan joining her sounds of pleasure as she grinds down harder onto his thigh.

“Just like that,” he gasps out against her throat, his own breathing ragged with desire, cock aching painfully, demanding attention, but he pushes it aside because this isn’t about him or his pleasure.

“Jaime,” she whimpers and he groans in response, head spinning with how sweet she sounds, her breathing unsteady and her moans loud and gasping with each steady roll of her hips. Her fingers tighten in his hair, dragging his head up so she can kiss him, nails scraping against his scalp pleasantly while their lips slide against each other messily. Fuck he’s so hard, throbbing in his breeches and leaking, completely overwhelmed with the smell of her; salt on her skin, pine in her hair, and the musky tang from her cunt that leaves his mouth watering for a taste.

“Gods, Sansa,” he moans, feeling a shudder run over her as she whines and grinds her cunt down harder onto his thigh, her cries of pleasure going sharper, and he realizes that she must be getting close to her peak. Desperate to feel it, he slides his hand from her hip back to her ass and grabs on firmly, groaning when she moans louder in response and grinds down harder on his thigh. “Come darling,” he pants out, shifting his own hips forward to give her more room to lean into him as she takes the encouragement and chases her pleasure. “Let me see you come.”

“Jaime,” she whines, breasts heaving under her corset and he groans in response, licks the sweat from her throat before dragging his teeth over her skin, her cry of pleasure in response making his cock throb painfully in his breeches. He feels it when her hips begin to stutter, her rhythm losing its pace and firms his grip on her ass to keep her going, her shout of pleasure and the way she loses control breathtakingly beautiful.

Her head falls back, hair falling down her back like a waterfall of fire, breasts pushed to straining against the confines of her corset and blouse, the heat of her cunt pulsing against his thigh as she comes.

Jaime watches her, enraptured as she moans and breathes raggedly, body shuddering under his hand, the heat of her cunt against his thigh making him swallow thickly with the desire to bury himself inside her and feel her clench around him. She melts against him, pressing her forehead to his as he slides his hand up her back and holds her close, her ragged breathing fanning hotly over his face. She rests against him for only a moment before she shifts to kiss his brow, his temple, cheek, jaw and then up to his mouth for a sweet, soul searing kiss that makes him moan and cling to her.

“Jaime,” she whispers against his mouth, lips curling up into a smile as he pulls her fully down onto his lap, his own breathing unsteady still, cock hard against her ass, but he wants nothing more than this—to hold her close and know that he’s brought her such blazing pleasure that it’s put pink in her cheeks and stars in her eyes. Her slim fingers brace on each side of his face, tilting his head back so he’s looking up at her and he feels raw, exposed under the intense look in her eyes, the gentle stroke of her thumbs against his cheekbones making something in his chest quiver.

“You have given me a greater gift than any blade or crown,” she tells him softly, thumb sliding down to swipe over his lips and he shudders under her touch. She smiles warmly and leans in to kiss him, gentle and soft and that, more than anything, makes him feel as weak as jelly. “You have given me pleasure in the safety of your embrace, have treasured me as a woman and I—” she hesitates for a moment before kissing him again, harder this time.

She doesn’t finish her thought but Jaime hardly minds because she sits in his lap and plays with his hair, his forehead resting against her breastbone as the breeze blows, the silence around them comfortable. He runs his hand up and down her spine until she shivers at the coolness that’s starting to come on the breeze and he looks up and around until he spots storm clouds in the distance. Nudging gently at her side, he tilts his head towards the distant storm, “We should head back,” he murmurs, but when she nods and goes to move he makes a sound of protest and pulls her in for another kiss.

She laughs against his mouth and nudges her nose against his, “You said we should go,” she reminds him and Jaime fights not to pout—he’s a grown man and not a boy—but he wishes they could stay here forever, just the two of them, losing themselves in the pleasure of each other. “Come now,” she encourages with a soft laugh, grabbing his hand off her waist to tug him to his feet, and he takes advantage of his height and strength to sweep her close for a blazing kiss she melts into.

The first cold drops of icy rain splat against the skin of his neck and he curses, pushing her away gently, urging her down the stairs, grinning as she shrieks when the sky opens up above them and pelts them with rain as they swing into the saddle and head back to camp. They’re both soaked to the skin by the time they hand the reins of their horses off and he hurries to get her into her tent, stopping short of peeling her out of clothes though he aches to.

He backs away as the servants begin tugging at her clothes, and her eyes follow him, bright with amusement and heated longing that reminds him of the lingering need in his own body. He goes back to his own tent and strips, laughing at his cock and the way it’s risen despite shivers running over his body. He feels no guilt as he takes himself in hand, biting his lip to keep back a groan as he remembers the way she had moaned and writhed atop him, and all too soon he’s spilling onto the snowy ground beneath him.

He laughs weakly, satisfaction pulsing through his body as he slumps down onto his cot, eyes falling closed as a grin overtakes his face and weariness fills him. He wraps himself in heavy furs and falls asleep quickly, the foreign sensation of happiness warm in the center of his chest.

They’ve been at the Twins for three days now and Jaime can see the tension in Sansa’s shoulders wind tighter with every hour that passes here in the place where her family was murdered. They haven’t had more than a passing handful of time alone together since he made her come, and it’s driving him mad not to be able to touch her, to comfort her. They haven’t even been able to train because every waking moment of the stay here at the Twins has been planned out, with barely any time for Sansa to rest let alone train.

Finally though, the dinner feast begins to draw to a close and Sansa thanks Lord Edmure for a wonderful meal before she makes her way from the table, Jaime her shadow as they walk through the halls. When she indicates for him to follow her into her quarters he obeys, face blank and neutral while her maids scurry into place—held back from their nightly ministrations by a gentle hand from Sansa.

“The Lord Commander and I have business, I’ll send for you when he leaves,” she murmurs and both women nod, bobbing a curtsy before they depart, the sound of the door shutting behind them loud. It rings into the silence between them for a long moment and then she’s running into his embrace and twining her arms around his neck, her kiss desperate and hard.

He’s just as desperate as she is and kisses back firmly, gold hand sliding around her waist as his fingers tangle in her hair and tilt her head so he can kiss her more deeply. She lets out a sigh of pleasure and cups his face, her fingers cool against his skin and he aches to feel them elsewhere on his body.

Their kisses soften eventually and he wraps his good hand around her hip, pulling her with him over to the chaise as he continues to kiss her, until they’re collapsing down onto it and she’s in his lap. Her skirts billow and tangle, sending her into a laughing fit that he finds himself joining as they work together to untangle her. By the end of it he’s maneuvered her so she’s sitting across his lap and kissing him slow and sweet, her fingers once again gently cupping his face, like she thinks he’s something precious to be treasured.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers against his mouth, “They all watch me every moment and expect so much of me and all I want is to be with you.”

The words are laced with so much yearning it makes his heart ache because he wants that too—he wants to be greedy and selfish and hide her away from everyone so it’s just them, just her like this, in his arms and happy. Jaime presses his brow to hers and nods, “I’ve missed you too,” he admits, “looking at you from across the hall has been unendurable,” he whispers as he drags his lips over her jaw and listens to her soft gasp.

Sansa makes a quiet noise and kisses him again, “You have me now,” she whispers, “it will have to be enough until we can find time again.” Jaime hums in agreement and runs a gentle hand over her fiery hair, kissing her again and again till he can feel her slowing, her body growing lax with exhaustion. He shifts her gently until her head lays on his shoulder and he can curl his gold hand around her waist, the flesh one beneath her knees curling her into him, holding her close as she relaxes further.

His lips press to her brow and she lifts a hand to curl around the nape of his neck, holding him there gently. He breathes her in, a smile curling his lips at the familiar scent of northern pine that always seems to cling to her skin and hair—a scent that he’s been missing, so he breathes deeply and presses another kiss to her brow. “When we return to the tour we can train again,” he tells her, “but you should continue your practices until then if you can.”

She hums softly in agreement, fingers tightening against his neck, “I have been keeping up with it in the mornings, but it is hard to find the time or privacy,” she admits, “my maids are loyal, but anyone can be bribed, and I do not wish to give my enemies more information than is necessary. I do not want them knowing my skill with a blade till it’s at their throat.”

Jaime smirks and presses his lips to her hair, proud of her viciousness—she’s a kind and well liked Queen, but her cold pragmatism and hard earned wisdom make her a force to be reckoned with, and he knows that when the time comes and her blade is at her enemy’s throat, she’ll triumph easily.

“Wolf Queen, your teeth are showing,” he teases gently, smiling when she tilts her head back to bare her teeth at him before she breaks out into laughter, and gods, he loves her so much.

He kisses her then, slow and sweet, and they stay like that till it’s approaching too late of an hour for propriety, even between a Queen and her Lord Commander. He helps her to her feet and holds her against him, fingers curling around her waist as they kiss, enjoying the sensation of her long dexterous fingers brushing through his hair. He nudges her nose with his and smiles down at her, drinking in the sight of her pink cheeks and her brilliant crystalline blue eyes before he steps back and puts an appropriate amount of distance between them and opens the door to her chambers.

“Thank you for your wise counsel, Lord Commander,” she says loudly enough that the guards outside her room will be able to hear them. “Sleep well,” she murmurs and Jaime aches to step forward and kiss her goodnight, to smell her pine scented hair once more before he’s forced to leave.

“You are most welcome Your Grace, I hope you too rest well. If you need anything, your guards are but a call away,” he replies, offering a sweeping bow and a parting smile before he turns away and pulls the door shut behind him.

He nods to the guards stationed outside her chambers and then makes his way down the corridor to his own less luxurious chambers.

Once he’s stripped down to his smallclothes and ensconced in his bed he touches his fingers to his lips, feeling her linger there. Closing his eyes, he inhales the scent of lavender on his sheets and wishes it was pine.

The last night at the Twins sees a feast to rival those in King's Landing, with fine foods and wine, dancing, and so much frivolity that the very roof of the great hall seems to vibrate with the energy contained within. Jaime has watched intently as Sansa is swept across the dance floor with lord after lord, jealousy flaring in his belly that he cannot do the same without fear of starting rumors. He could give two shits about his own reputation, but he will not be part of anything that would weaken Sansa’s rule or the love that the Northerners have for her, so he resigns himself to a night of watching from the shadows.

When the night is nearing the dawn, Sansa finally gives her hosts her thanks for the feast and then nods to him, indicating her desire to leave and be escorted to her rooms. He peels away from the wall and follows her through the corridors, aware of the departure of several other nobles from the feast behind them. Now that the Queen has departed, the festivities will cool and most will head for their beds, or the beds of their lovers.

As they turn the corner, Jaime hears footsteps behind them and tilts his chin to look surreptitiously over his shoulder, trying to see if it’s a servant or perhaps a drunken lord making his way back to his rooms, but the shadows are deep and he can only see the hint of movement before someone is lunging forward and crying “Death to the Lannisters!”

He whirls and reaches back to seek out Sansa, pushing her away from the danger, but he hears her cry his name behind him and when he looks over his shoulder he sees another figure emerging from the shadows and advancing on her with a blade. Cursing, he draws his sword and parries the blow from his attacker, trying to glance over his shoulder to see if Sansa is hurt, but he cannot take his gaze away from the man in front of him for too long or risk his own demise.

The man at his front is clearly a mercenary, and well versed in the blade and Jaime knows after just a few moments that this may be the end of him. He’s stronger than he was before and is still a force to be reckoned with, but he’s no longer the swordsman of his youth.

Jaime parries and thrusts, sweat beading on his brow as he shifts enough that he can see Sansa, and a thrill of pride runs through him when he sees her with her dagger in her hand, her jaw hard and her eyes icy as she uses it to keep the other man at bay. His opponent takes the opportunity of Jaime’s distraction and lunges forward, the tip of his sword biting into the meat of Jaime’s upper arm, the hot rush of blood and the bitter tang of pain that follows making him curse loudly.

Sensing victory, the man rushes Jaime and he hears Sansa cry out his name, the scuffle behind him ending with a gasp of pain and then a gurgling sound that tells him blood has been spilled. He has no idea if it’s the man or Sansa until she lunges forward, brandishing her dagger at the man, her long arms just barely allowing her to parry the thrust meant to take off Jaime’s head. She steps between them and glares at the man, teeth bared like a feral wolf and he goes hot all over with pride and wanting, stunned by her bravery and so godsdamned grateful that he’d run into her all those months ago in the library and taught her how to wield a blade.

“Guard! Guard!” Jaime shouts as he and Sansa circle the attacker, keeping him from slipping away into the shadows and escaping, and finally, the man’s face begins to crumple with fear and the knowledge that there will be no escape from this. Guards barrel around the corner moments later and shoulder past him and Sansa, disarming the man easily before he’s wrestled to the ground at Sansa’s feet. She glares down at him, her hair in disarray and cheeks flushed with exertion, blood flecked across her pale skin and coating the blade of the dagger that she still holds tightly in her grip.

“Take him to the dungeons and find out who ordered this attack,” she says coldly, watching as the man is dragged to his feet.

“Lannister whore!” the man shouts and Jaime sees how Sansa’s shoulders go rigid with rage, her jaw flexing and her grip on her blade shifts, like she’s thinking of going after him and slitting his throat too.

The chaos has drawn onlookers from their beds, the lights from lanterns revealing the body in the corridor, his blood sprayed on the walls and spreading out from underneath his corpse. Low gasps and murmurs fill the air and Sansa swallows for a moment before turning to Jaime and casting a worried gaze over him, noting the tear in his tunic and the blood staining his arm, and he in turn notes the wound across her collarbone and shoulder, the fabric of her dress torn and soaked in blood.

Rage fills him at the sight of it and he takes a half step forward, thinking to reach for her but she turns away and seeks out Lord Edmure, who has joined the fray in a silk dressing robe and a dumbfounded expression.

“My Lord, I apologize for this violence in your halls, but these men set upon me and the Lord Commander with the intent to kill. I would ask that you have this man’s body taken to your maester for inspection—his compatriot is in the dungeon being questioned by my men, and in the morning we will know the whole story. Please have bandages and poultices for wounds sent to my chambers, the Lord Commander and I both require attention.”

She doesn’t even wait for the lord to nod his agreement before she turns away and nods at Jaime, dagger still in hand as they leave the body and the crowd behind and head to her chambers, the remaining guards in a tight circle around them. When the door to her chambers shuts behind them there are four guards in the hallway and two inside, but she doesn’t seem to care because the moment the door is shut she’s at his side and grabbing his arm to get a closer look at the wound.

“It’s nothing,” he tells her quietly, “I have suffered far worse Your Grace,” he reminds her, lifting his gold hand with a wry smirk that she doesn’t return, her face lined with worry as she pushes the torn fabric of his tunic apart to better see the wound in the candlelight. There’s a knock at the door and then the voice of a guard calling out that it is a Septa with the supplies the Queen had asked for.

The woman who bustles into the room is plump and matronly with a no nonsense look that reminds Jaime of his old Septa, Morda, and in mere moments she’s ordering the Queen into a chair to examine her wounds.

He turns away out of propriety when the Septa has Sansa remove her gown so her wounds can be more easily treated, but the moment Sansa is wrapped in her dressing gown and is calling his name, he’s turned back around to her, relief coursing through him when he’s able to lay eyes on her once more.

Sansa waves a hand at the other chair, “Sit Lord Commander, and let Septa Jayne see to your wounds,” she orders, her tone brooking no response but compliance.

He does as he’s commanded and sits, removing his tunic at the bidding of the Septa, and sits still as she cleans and bandages the wound, her hands sure and steady and before he knows it she’s departing, leaving behind a basket of bandages and jars of paste that will keep their wounds clean and reduce scarring. Sansa stands by the fire, staring into its depths with sightless eyes and Jaime aches to be near her, but the guards are still in the room and he knows there’s no way to get rid of them, not after the Queen has been attacked and injured.

“Who do you think sent them?” she asks, voice hollow and quiet and he cannot—he cannot stay away from her when she sounds like that, guards be damned. He rises to his feet and tugs on his tunic if only for the vague sense of propriety it will give their situation and goes to her side, her body blocking the guards’ view of his hand as it reaches out to brush against hers.

He can see the blood of her attacker is still on her hands and face and he aches to wipe it away, remove the evidence of what she’s had to do because of him.

“The better question might be who didn’t send them,” he says frankly, “my family has played the leading role in the near total destruction of Westeros, I doubt there are many who wouldn’t like to see me dead.” He hesitates for a moment before going to the basin by her bed and pouring water out into it, the small cloth for wiping hands and face soaking when he dips it in. He wrings it out and carries it over to her where she’s still standing by the fire, staring into its depths.

“Your Grace,” he murmurs softly, nudging her hand again, nodding encouragingly when she stares at the offered cloth blankly. She takes it after a moment and begins scrubbing the blood from her hands, her fingers trembling slightly and he worries that shock is finally setting in. When she nearly drops it he takes it from her gently and cups her elbow, “Come Your Grace, sit,” he encourages, guiding her into the chair by the fire before crossing the room and retrieving the basin.

He kneels at her feet and rinses out the blood from the cloth, wets it again and then takes her hand into his golden one, holding it in place as he carefully scrubs the blood from her skin. He repeats the process on her other hand, glancing up at her occasionally to find her staring down at him, lips pressed firmly together and eyes shining with unshed tears.

He rinses the cloth another time and then leans up, hesitating for a moment, his gaze flickering to the guards. His actions have skirted the lines of propriety, but if he cleans her face, it will be well past the bounds of what is allowed. Jaime thinks about offering her the cloth to do it herself, but when she pulls her hair back from her face, seemingly giving him a clearer view of her skin and unspoken permission to proceed, he sets that idea aside and leans in.

He’s as gentle as he can be, fingers clumsy at first before he steadies himself with a series of slow breaths. “Almost done,” he assures her, smiling faintly and only jolting a little when her hands capture his golden one and cling to it as he continues wiping her face clean.

When her skin is finally free of blood he drops the cloth into the basin at her feet and leans back, but leaves his golden hand in her lap, her hands still clinging to it tightly. “You should get some rest,” he tells her gently, voice quiet to try and give them some modicum of privacy.

She nods but doesn’t move, thumb sweeping over the curve of his golden knuckles as she stares at the fire. He should pull away, take his hand back and put space between them, should leave and not let this go any further in front of the guards, but he doesn’t because her wellbeing will always come first to him, and it’s clear as day that she needs him right now. So he kneels at her feet and lets her hold his hand until her eyes begin to droop and then he quietly urges her to rest again.

“Stay,” she murmurs, both a plea and an order and he nods immediately, damning the consequences or the gossip that will come from this. He guides her to her feet and over to the dressing screen that shields her bed from the rest of the room, turning away to face the guards, silently ordering them to turn away as well while she removes her dressing gown and slips beneath the covers of her bed. When he hears the rustling of the bedcovers cease he turns back around and takes the seat she had occupied by the fire, sword across his lap as the fire burns low and dawn begins to appear in the distant sky outside the windows.

In the morning he’s sure that neither of them have slept well—there are dark circles beneath her eyes and a bruise has risen on her cheek that sends cold fury through him and has him aching to reach out and caress it, offer some form of comfort. Breakfast is brought to them along with the report from the dungeons that the man they’d captured had refused to tell if he had acted alone or if he was paid to kill Jaime, and Sansa’s already cold expression goes as icy as the Northern mountains.

“Tell Lord Edmure I want the prisoner brought to the courtyard immediately,” she orders the dungeon master, “Lord Commander, with me,” she says as she rises to her feet and Jaime follows her from the room, the contingent of guards around them tight as they sweep through the castle and out to the courtyard.

Lord Edmure and his men wait there, and when Sansa sweeps into the courtyard each man there bows deeply, though Jaime can see that Edmure looks like he’s bitten a lemon. The man has always thought highly of himself from what Sansa has told him, and it seems that bowing to his niece sits poorly with the Lord.

The prisoner is brought in, thrashing and cursing, and when he’s forced to his knees at Sansa’s feet he spits at her, grinning when the men gathered draw their swords and step closer. Sansa waylays them with a raised hand, her gaze steady on the man at her feet, her jaw firm and eyes icy as she studies him.

“I will give you this one opportunity to tell me why you attacked the Lord Commander and if it was at the direction of another, to name them and earn yourself a life behind bars. If you do not, you will lose your head.”

The man laughs and sneers at her, “No Lannister whore will tell me what to do,” he snarls, “you’re no Queen of mine.”

The assembled men rumble with anger and shift in place, but none move forward, kept at bay by Sansa’s authority. She stares at the man silently and then nods, “Very well. Lord Commander, your sword please,” she says without looking over to him, hand extended and for a moment he doesn’t understand, doesn’t realize what she’s asking of him.

“Your Grace,” he says hesitantly, even as he draws his sword from his sheath. “I will do this for you,” he tells her, falling silent when her icy blue eyes blaze at him coldly, her jaw firm with anger.

“She who passes judgment should swing the sword,” she replies, and he’d heard it once before from Jon, so he knows that these are the words of her father in her mouth, this is Northern pride at its finest, so he hands over his sword silently into her waiting hand. She closes her hand around it and lifts it easily, all of her training coming out as she adjusts her feet and turns her gaze back to the man at her feet.

“You think you can take my head?” the man scoffs, laughing in defiance. “You’re a weak Southron bitch.”

Sansa looks up at two guardsmen and nods, “Hold him,” she orders and they move to do as she bids, one man gripping the prisoner’s hair and holding him so his neck is exposed, the other holding the man’s bound arms to keep him from thrashing.

Jaime watches as Sansa adjusts her grip to a two handed hold like they’d practiced just a few weeks earlier, her stance perfect as she inhales and then speaks. “I, Sansa, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Northern Kingdom, and Protector of the Realm sentence you to death for the crimes of treason, attempted murder of the Lord Commander, and attempted regicide. Do you have any final words?”

“Rot in hell Lannister whore!” the man snarls, the glob of spit he sends her way falling short, but sending a ripple of anger through those gathered round.

Her face is like ice, implacable and unreadable and Jaime inhales sharply as she nods and swings the sword into the air, watching as it hovers for a moment before singing through the air and slicing through the man’s neck with a wet meaty sound. He can see the surprise ripple through the courtyard when the man’s head falls free, his body slumping to the ground when the guardsman releases it, the assembled lords murmuring as Sansa hands Jaime his blade back, blood dripping from the end of it, and he sees a small droplet land on her slipper, staining the fabric.

Sansa looks to each man, holding their gaze before finally resting on Edmure. “I do not hold you responsible for this man’s crimes Uncle, and I pray that you bear witness to the justice meted out here today and spread word to all on your lands and beyond that the Queen in the North will swing the sword on any who dare commit violence against her people.” She waits for their silent, stunned nods before nodding sharply in reply and turning on her heel, striding away faster than Jaime has time to react to, leaving him standing with a headless body and a bloody sword.

They leave the next morning and Jaime doesn’t see Sansa at all the first day they’re back on the road because she’s ensconced herself in her carriage, and when they finally stop at Seagard three days later, she’s quickly ushered into the castle, where guest rights are honored, and then she’s shuttled off to her rooms by a contingent of guards and maids, leaving him to oversee the rest of the retinue as they unpack and make themselves comfortable.

Lord Mallister is a battle hardened man who eyes Jaime warily at first but loses his edge when Jaime asks to be shown the grounds of the castle and the security measures in place to protect the Queen. They’re patrolling the walls, looking off into the distance at the misty shapes of the Iron Islands when Lord Mallister speaks. “We’ve heard word of what transpired at the Twins,” he says plainly, “and that the Queen was the one to swing the sword and deliver the blow.”

Jaime nods in agreement and looks at the man out of the corner of his eye, wondering what he’ll say next and if it will be a veiled insult to Sansa and her abilities as Queen.

“Good, it’s been too long since the North had a Queen like her, it’s time we remembered our strength.”

Jaime’s brows dart for his forehead and this time he turns to look at the man face on, “I confess, that’s not what I expected you to say,” he says, and maybe it’s a little too honest, but Lord Mallister strikes him as the type of man who appreciates bald honesty.

The Lord smirks and nods, “I don’t have much use for pretty words that dance around the truth,” he says, “Your people and hers tore Westeros apart and then that Dragon Queen almost destroyed what was left. She’s survived what her King brother could not; she’s fierce like her mother and wise like her father with a pragmatism and wit that neither of them possessed. Our people will gladly bend the knee to a Queen like that.”

And with that, Lord Mallister turns away and leads him on to the next section of the castle walls, his blunt words resonating through Jaime, reminding him that Sansa has endured more than men twice her age and come out the other side, somehow still whole. After their tour of the castle’s defenses Lord Mallister leaves him to see to the preparations for their tour to continue by ship out to the Iron Islands before it turns Northward again and takes them to Deepwood Motte and Bear Island.

Jaime meets with the guards and assigns shifts, checks in on the maids, stable boys and all the other members of their retinue before finally making his way to the part of the castle where Sansa’s rooms are. The guards there nod to him and he knocks at the door, smiling politely at the maid who cracks the door open, her expression expectant.

“Lord Commander for the Queen,” he says quietly, waiting nervously while she shuts the door and presumably goes to announce his presence to the Queen. He’s beginning to think Sansa will turn him away when the door opens again and the maid steps back to allow him entry before she slips out and closes the door behind her.

He doesn’t see Sansa right away, and so he steps deeper into the rooms, peering around until he finally spots her out on the balcony, lap covered in a thick blanket to cut the bitter chill blowing off the bay. She doesn’t look up at him until he’s standing beside her rocking chair, and when she does he can see the exhaustion in her face and the grief in her eyes that makes his whole chest ache and sends him to his knees by her side.

“Sansa,” he breathes out, reaching up to cup her face and breathing a sigh of relief when she leans into it and closes her eyes, her own hand reaching up to wrap around his wrist and hang on. He leans in and presses their foreheads together, inhaling the scent of pine on her hair as it brushes against his cheek.

Jaime caresses her cheek with his thumb and swallows hard before speaking as quietly as possible. “I’m here Sansa, you are not alone, I have you,” he promises, hand sliding up from her cheek to furrow into her hair, cupping the back of her head to pull her tighter against him.

“My father—” she cuts off after a moment, voice cracking and breathing going ragged for a moment before she continues. “My father used to say that to lead was to know pain, but I didn’t know…I didn’t know,” she trails off, shaking her head where it’s pressed against his. “It wasn’t like Ramsey,” she says tiredly, “it wasn’t like that at all.”

Jaime nods and scrubs his fingers against her scalp, “No it wasn’t,” he agrees, “but it had to be done.” Sansa sighs heavily at that but nods minutely and leans over more, shifting to rest her forehead against his shoulder.

Jaime keeps his hand in her hair and continues rubbing her scalp while she breathes against him, until she eventually shifts back and resettles herself into the chair. She tugs at his wrist and Jaime goes along easily, letting her pull him into the other rocking chair beside hers before she slides out of her chair and into his lap.

Jaime wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her tighter against him, tucking his nose into the crook of her neck so he can inhale the scent of pine, of her. They sit in silence together, watching ships come in and out of the harbor, the bustle of the city below muffled by distance and it reminds him of King’s Landing for a moment, but then he inhales and smells pine and snow and it’s nothing at all like King’s Landing or the life he had there.

Sansa has dinner brought to her rooms and they eat together, sitting on the balcony until it’s too cold to endure, and then by the fire, Sansa reads messages from the lords and ladies already visited on their tour while Jaime watches her, content with this quiet evening after the chaos of the last few days. When one of the maids comes with dessert, he notices the way the woman looks them over—they’re seated on the chaise together and Sansa has her feet in his lap, and it’s inappropriate but Sansa seems not to care at all.

Sansa smiles at the sight of lemon cakes and lets out an obscene sound at the first bite and all of a sudden Jaime is desperately glad that the maid is gone and there’s no one around to see the way he stares at her mouth as she licks the crumbs from her lip. When she spies the way he’s staring, her mouth curls up into a playful little smile that makes his blood go hot in his veins and has him leaning forward slightly to watch as she swipes a little of the creamy lemon filling onto her thumb before she offers it to him, her smile teasing.

He leans forward and grabs her wrist, sucking her thumb into his mouth, a thrill running through him at the way she gasps softly and her pupils go wide. He nips at the pad of her thumb before releasing it, gaze steady on hers as he leans back a little and smirks at her, wondering what she’d taste like if he was able to spread her thighs and put his mouth on her cunt.

“Jaime,” she breathes out, like maybe she’s thinking the same thing as he is and Jaime inhales deeply before he leans back and gives her a steady look, assessing before he speaks.

“If you want me you have me Sansa, but by morning they’ll know,” he warns her, “they’ll know before then—the maid saw us sitting together in a way no Queen and Lord Commander should, and what happened at the Twins will likely happen again once people find out.” He stares at her intently, “Do not think for a moment that I don’t want you,” he murmurs fiercely, “you are all I think about, you consume my every waking thought, and my only desire is to protect you, to see you happy.”

He swallows hard and continues, “If you don’t want the pain and the heartache that will come with this, I will not judge you for that, I will love you no matter what, because you are everything I have ever wanted.”

His heart thunders in his ears as he looks at her, breathing unsteadily as she stares back at him wild eyed, her dessert long forgotten in the face of his confession of love. He waits, as surely as their attacker had, for judgment to befall him, and he prays that her gods find his heart to be a worthy sacrifice to their anointed Queen.

Sansa swallows hard and carefully sets the plate of lemon bars aside before gathering her skirts and rising to her feet, standing over him for a long moment before she lifts them higher and her creamy thighs are exposed as she sinks into his lap and winds her arms around his shoulders. “Fuck what other people think,” she says fiercely, “and if anyone comes for us again I will cut them down where they stand for trying to touch what is mine.”

Jaime goes hot all over at that and tightens the grip he has on her waist, breathing unsteadily as she cups his face with both hands and leans in to kiss him, hard and deep and demanding in a way that makes his head spin and his cock throb.

“I want this,” she whispers against his mouth, “I want you, and I will not let what other people think take away the only joy I’ve found.” She twines her fingers into his hair and tugs, her gaze determined as she stares down at him, “I don’t care who knows,” she tells him and Jaime surges up to kiss her desperately, the hot burn of unshed tears in his eyes as she caresses his hair and kisses him back.

“What do you want?” he asks her, mouth slipping against her jaw, “tell me and I will give it to you,” he promises. Sansa shifts in his lap and he pulls back to look up at her, heart clenching when he sees the hesitance on her face, and once again he’s reminded of her innocence—she’s never had a lover, only brutal men with hard hands and vicious desires, so she has no idea of what good there can be in two people lying together. “Do you want me to touch you?” he asks, enjoying the pink flush that rises on her cheeks at his softly spoken question.

She bites her lip and trails her hand down from his hair, fingers caressing his throat before they dip into the collar of his tunic and slide against what little skin she can get at, her gaze following the trail her fingers have taken. “I want…I want this off,” she murmurs, fingers plucking at the ties to his tunic, “I want to touch you,” she whispers, the flush on her face deepening.

Jaime nods and leans up for a kiss, “Do you want to take it off for me?” he asks, dropping a kiss on her jaw as she thinks for a moment, pleasure running through him when she nods and reaches for the ties with fingers that only tremble a little. He sinks back into the chaise and watches as she undoes the ties of his tunic, skin singing as her hands push the fabric wide open, sliding it off his shoulders, and when he sits up for her to allow for room to remove it entirely she smiles at him and leans in for a kiss that steals his breath.

The tunic gets set aside on the chaise and then her hands are on his chest, her brilliant blue eyes sparkling with fascination as she touches him, hands exploring the bones of his clavicle and shoulder before sliding down to the strong muscle of his chest. She looks up at him intently when she brushes her fingers over his nipples and he gasps softly in response, the surprise in her eyes drawing a light laugh from him that makes her flush.

“It feels good,” he tells her, voice a little unsteady from pleasure, want singing through his veins and making him feel dizzy and breathless from just a few innocent touches. Sansa brushes her thumbs over them again, a little more firmly this time and Jaime exhales heavily, a soft groan in his throat as the stimulation sends a hot little jolt to his cock.

She does it a few more times, lips red and slick from how she’s biting at them and Jaime lets his head fall back against the chaise, watching her through heavy lids as her hands slide further down, over his ribs, before splaying out over his stomach.

He’s softer there now, age taking its toll on his body, but he’s still firm muscle under the softness and when she runs her nails over his skin his stomach flexes, hips jolting up a little to seek out more of the touch. His cock is hard in his breeches, and every exploratory touch just makes him ache more, pleasure filling him up like warm sticky honey, his body heavy with it so all he wants is to sit here and revel in it.

He skims his hand up from her hip, over her back and then back down again, “What else do you want?” he asks as her hands slide back up his chest to his shoulders. Sansa leans in and kisses him, fiery strands of her hair falling around their faces like a curtain and Jaime loses himself in it, in her, until finally she pulls back and they’re both breathing unsteadily.

 “Tell me how to please you,” he murmurs against her mouth and she makes a low noise and shifts in his lap, the hot core of her pressing down into his cock.

He gasps softly and rocks back up into her, their breaths coming ragged and hot against each other’s mouths as they set a slow, steady pace. “I want…I want to, to come again,” Sansa says against his mouth, her lips sliding against his in a hot kiss that’s barely a kiss, her words sending a shiver of heated pleasure down his spine. “I want—” she swallows hard and he can tell she finds saying the words difficult, “I want you to take me to bed and touch me,” she gasps and Jaime nods, kissing her messily as he tightens his grip on her hip and grinds up into her in response.

It takes several more minutes before they’re able to slow and extricate themselves from each other and when they do, Sansa takes his hand and leads him to her bed, shutting the bedchamber door behind them. She tugs him close and looks up at him through long dark lashes, her nerves apparent as she swallows and then takes his hand to the fastenings of her dress.

“Undress me? Please?” she whispers and he nods enthusiastically, closing what little space remains between them to kiss her while his fingers work between them to pull the first tie open. He kisses her deeply, golden hand slung around her hips holding her close as he takes his time, letting his mouth slide from hers to trail down her sleek, pale throat while he undoes the ties holding her gown shut.

When it hangs open he pulls back from where he’d been kissing the hollow of her throat and pushes it from her shoulders, the heavy material falling to the floor, leaving her in her corset and chemise.

She’s blushing and her hands twitch at her sides like she’s tempted to cover herself so he slips his hand to her waist and squeezes gently, smiling when she looks up at him nervously. “We don’t have to do anything else,” he tells her quietly, “If you’re not ready, you need only tell me and this can end here for tonight.”

Sansa’s shoulders shift back and her jaw tightens, a look of defiance on her face that sends a rush of fondness through him and brings a warm smile to his lips. “No, I want this,” she tells him firmly, “I want you.” Jaime surges forward in response and kisses her, pleased with her breathy gasp against his mouth when he nips at her lip and sucks it between his teeth before letting it go.

His fingers go back to the stays of her corset as he kisses her, drawing more gasps from her as he uses his teeth once again to tease her bottom lip. “Do you want this off too?” he asks, tugging at the top of the corset, and when she nods fervently he kisses her hard, fingers setting to work as quickly as he knows how. He fills his hand with her ribs when the corset is tossed aside, the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of the chemise making him ache to push it aside too and finally feel her skin under his touch.

Stepping back slightly, he looks her over, cock throbbing at the sight of her backlit by the fire, hair aglow in the light and skin as pale as the snows outside. The fabric of her chemise is so thin that he can see the curves of her hips, the pink tips of her nipples, and the dark thatch of hair at her cunt, the sight of it leaving him dizzy with want.

“Gods above,” he breathes out reverently, “you’re stunning Sansa,” he murmurs, lifting his gaze from her body to her flushed pink face, her shyness evident in the way she ducks her head and curls her shoulders in, hands fisting in the fabric of her chemise.

He steps closer and curls his hand around her jaw, drawing her face back up so he can meet her eye, a soft, tender smile on his mouth as he speaks. “You are,” he murmurs, “I have never seen anything so lovely as you and I would spend every moment I could bringing you pleasure if you wanted it.”

“Jaime,” Sansa breathes out, eyes wide, breast rising and falling quickly under the fabric of her chemise.

“Tell me what you want,” he urges softly, thumb sweeping over her cheek gently.

Sansa bites her lip, nervousness shadowing her brilliant blue eyes and Jaime feels his heart clench—she has incredible power as the Queen, can command armies and armadas, but in this, she is just a girl—a girl from whom too much has been taken and all he wants is to give her everything she’s long deserved.

“I want…I want you to sit on my bed,” she tells him and he nods immediately and does her bidding, settling himself back against the mound of pillows and looking up at her as she stands by the bed hesitantly for a moment before climbing onto it. She settles in the vee of his legs, but to his surprise, she settles against him, back to his chest, and lets her head fall back against his shoulder.

He presses his lips to her temple, “Comfortable my love?” he asks softly, smiling when she nods and reaches for his flesh hand. She spreads his hand out and presses her palm to his, studying the difference in size for a moment before she starts toying with his fingers—he can feel her thinking, preparing herself for whatever it is she wants to say, so he remains quiet, waiting till she’s ready.

“I have little experience, you know that,” she starts and he hums in agreement and kisses her temple again. “But I have asked several maids who I trust and even a whore or two what can happen and they told me—” she pauses and he sees the flush on her cheeks deepen, “—many things. But I-I would like it if you used your hand to touch me, to-to be inside me,” she says, voice dropping to near a whisper at the end.

“Of course,” he agrees readily, “whatever you want.”

Sansa shifts then and half turns in his arm to face him, her jaw set firmly. “Not just whatever I want,” she replies tartly, but it’s softened by her gentle hand on his cheek. “What you want matters too. You can and should tell me no if you do not want something,” she tells him resolutely, peering at him intently like she’s studying to make sure her message has been received.

He nods without a word because emotion is strangling his throat, so instead of speaking his heart he kisses her as gently and lovingly as he knows how, hoping that his gratitude and love can be felt in the press of his lips against hers.

She kisses him back for some time before pulling away, breathless and flushed a pretty pink. He gently turns her back around and then brushes her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck, smiling at her soft gasp before he continues along the sleek line of her throat and down her shoulder, soft biting kisses trailing across her skin as he slides his flesh hand from her belly to her hip.

Jaime is careful not to mark her, though he hopes someday he will be able to leave remnants of himself on her pale skin. He switches to the other side of her lovely throat and slides his hand back up to brush against her breast, listening to her hitching breath at the touch before he cups it, fills his hand with her warm flesh and squeezes gently, rubbing his thumb across her nipple and savoring the surprised gasp of pleasure it elicits from her.

“Is that good Sansa?” he whispers in her ear, “do you like that my love?”

She nods and gasps when he does it again in response, a throaty little moan falling from her lips that sends a hot rush of desire through him. His cock twitches in his breeches and he rolls her nipple between two fingers, groaning at her whimper and the way she writhes against him, her thighs rubbing together—a sure sign that her cunt is aching and probably slick with want. He switches to the other breast and lavishes it with attention too, going back and forth between the two as Sansa writhes and moans, her breathy gasps of his name and the way her nails bite into the skin of his forearm around her waist making his cock grow slick in his breeches.

“That’s it my love,” he whispers in her ear as he switches back to her right breast, “does it feel good Sansa?” he asks, nipping at her jaw. She nods and arches into his touch, another whimper coming from her throat as he rolls her nipple and pinches it a little harder than he had before. “Tell me,” he urges, “tell me how it feels.”

She shakes her head and bites her bottom lip, but then when he rolls and pinches her nipple again she cries out softly and her hips jolt up, seeking friction for her cunt and she answers him in a breathless rush of words. “It—it feels—it is incredible—Jaime!—it aches and-and, gods Jaime, please don’t stop.”

Groaning, he places a biting kiss to her throat and shakes his head, switching to the other breast as he speaks. “I won’t my love, I won’t,” he promises. He continues touching her, but a few moments later she pulls his hand away and uses her own fumbling fingers to undo the buttons on her chemise before pushing the fabric open, exposing her breasts. Jaime groans softly at the sight of her and when she takes his hand and cups it around one he squeezes gently and feels heat pulse through him at her answering moan.

“I want to feel you against me,” she tells him and he turns her face to his with his golden hand, his kiss messy and desperate, but she answers it with force and he devours her as he begins toying with her nipple again. She moans against his mouth and he groans in response, every breathy gasp of his name against his mouth making the heat under his skin grow, the ball of it in his pelvis throbbing as she writhes against him. Her cries grow louder and more insistent and he realizes that she is growing closer to her peak, stunned arousal bolting through him, his fingers growing more insistent against her flesh, a fierce determination growing inside him to make her come just from this.

Sansa clings to his forearm around her waist and presses her face against his throat, her hips rolling up with each pluck and twist of her nipples. “Jaime, gods, Jaime—I-it is—Jaime!” she cries out, shudders running over her body as she comes, her whimpers of his name and the way she clings to him making his head spin and his cock throb. He gentles his touch and presses kisses to her sweaty temple, praise falling from his lips like honey.

“You were glorious my love, I have never seen anything as beautiful as that,” he whispers, kissing down her cheek until he finds her mouth with his. She kisses him back, breathless and trembling, and he touches her gently, kisses her with adoration in his mouth, and when her trembles stop he pulls back a little to give her air and space to collect her thoughts. “Do you want more?” he asks eventually, “tell me what you need.”

Sansa sighs and stretches in his arms, a smile curling up her pretty mouth—a mouth he has kissed and bitten till it’s red and shiny and swollen. “I want to feel your fingers elsewhere,” she tells him, giving him a shy smile when she tilts her head to meet his gaze. “I…when we were in the tower it felt…so good…and I want to know what it feels like with your fingers,” she says, toying with them once more.

Jaime nods eagerly, “Do you want me to touch you through your chemise?” he asks, because he will not assume anything with her—he wants her to feel in control and safe with him, because this is more than he deserves and he will not do anything to ruin it or harm her.

She shakes her and the flush on her cheeks deepens but she doesn’t look away from him. “I want to feel your touch,” she whispers and Jaime groans softly and kisses her, insistent and hungry, groaning when she slides her hand into his hair and tugs, keeping him against her mouth until eventually she lets go and they’re both breathing hard. Jaime feels dizzy with how much he wants her, how heady it is to have her in his arms moaning his name, her skin hot with desire under his hands.

Sansa jolts a little when he slides his hand under the hem of her chemise and he pauses with his hand on her knee and kisses Sansa’s shoulder, “Alright?” he asks softly, waiting for her nod before he slides his hand further up her thigh.

The soft hitch in her breath as he slides his palm wide across her thigh makes her chest heave in the firelight, the red glow of it on her skin making him ache to put his mouth all over the soft swells of her breasts. The closer his hand gets to her cunt the more rapid her breathing grows and he pauses with his hand at her hip, his lips pressing to the skin behind her ear, “Sansa, love, we don’t have to do this,” he murmurs.

She shivers a little in his arms and then slides her hand beneath her chemise, covers his hand with hers, slips her fingers between his, and for a moment they sit just like that and he waits breathlessly to see what she’ll do. He kisses her shoulder and she sighs his name softly before guiding his hand between her legs, both of them gasping when his fingers slide through the slick, sticky heat of her cunt.

Sansa gasps his name and Jaime groans, teeth closing on her shoulder as he does it again, heat pulsing through him when she squirms and moans, her nails digging into the flesh of his wrist as he strokes over her cunt, spreading the sticky slick over her crimson curls.

“Does that feel good darling?” he murmurs, lips pressing to the hot skin of her neck, his gaze stuck on where his fingers are moving the fabric of her chemise as he strokes her cunt.

Sansa whimpers and gasps out his name, and Jaime’s cock throbs in response where it’s pressed up against her ass, and when he slides his fingers over her clitoris and she cries out, he has to screw his eyes shut and focus on not coming in his breeches like an untouched boy. Sansa’s body shudders and Jaime does it again, keeping his touch steady as he strokes in circles and kisses along her throat and shoulder.

It only takes him a few moments to see that she’s biting her lip and muffling her whimpers and he can’t stand that, can’t stand to not hear her, so he bites gently at her jaw and slips a finger down to tease at her opening.

 “Come on love, let me hear you,” he pleads, “let me hear you Sansa.” She whimpers softly and he touches her gently, circling his finger around her opening, feeling the way she pulses at the touch, “Let me hear you,” he begs, lips sliding against the sweat sheened column of her throat, “I need to know you feel good.”

“Jaime,” she moans, louder than she has before and a rush of pleasure ripples through him. “Gods, Jaime, don’t stop,” she pleads and it sets him afire, makes his blood burn like Wildfire, and he gives her more, rubs her clit, smears the sticky slickness that pulses out of her and strokes it over her cunt, again and again as she moans and clings to him, gasping his name loudly. “Jaime,” she pleads, “I-I want—t-touch me?” she gasps out, “inside me, please Jaime!”

Jaime groans and hides his face in her shoulder and laughs hoarsely, “Gods Sansa, you’ll kill me,” he says, smiling against her skin as she laughs too and he—he never thought it could be like this, he never thought that he could laugh during sex or feel so light and free. “I could hurt you,” he warns her softly, nuzzling his nose into her sweat damp hair, “you’re—you haven’t done this before and I could hurt you,” he says, “and I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sansa turns in his arms and smiles at him, the radiant, secret one that she only shows to him and his heart clenches in his chest with how much he loves her. She cups his face gently and leans in, pressing her brow to his, her eyes steady on his as she speaks.

“You have already been more gentle with me than any man ever has. You are tender and sweet and I know that there is sometimes pain with love, but I trust you not to keep hurting me, to listen if I say stop.” She smiles and kisses him gently and Jaime’s heart breaks in his chest. “So touch me Jaime,” she murmurs, “love me.”

He nods and kisses her fervently, so desperately in love with her that he feels like he might shatter apart with it, so he holds her tighter and kisses her, kisses her until they’re both breathing raggedly and he’s aching with need. Sansa pushes at his hand between her legs and he takes the hint and gently curls his forefinger inside her, swallowing down her gasp as he covers her mouth with his. She shudders against him and he pulls away just enough to murmur against her mouth, “Good?” and when she nods he smiles softly and kisses her again, sliding his finger out of her and then pushing it back in.

He goes slow, probably slower than he needs to with how wet she is, but he’s determined to bring her only pleasure, so he takes his time and when her nails bite into his wrist and she demands another finger he laughs raggedly and kisses her desperately, body hot and aching with arousal at how much she wants this.

He listens though, and slides his middle finger in, groaning when she gasps and arches into his hand, her cunt pulsing around his fingers. Jaime kisses her languidly, slick heat surrounding his fingers as he pushes them in and out, seeking out that spot that he knows will make her—

Sansa cries out and jolts in his arms, her eyes wide when he breaks away to look down at her, groaning at the sight of her pretty pink nipples heaving in the air, her mouth slick and red from his teeth. “Jaime!” she gasps out as he focuses on that spot, the heel of his hand grinding into her sticky wet cunt, the slick sound of his fingers inside her making his cock ache and leak inside his breeches. She clings to him, whimpering, with both hands wrapped around his wrist—not trying to stop him, no, simply holding on as he fucks her with his fingers, relentless and slow.

Her thighs spasm and her cries grow louder and she says his name like a plea to the gods and he has to close his eyes for a moment, dizzy with arousal and love. “Jaime—gods, Jaime!” she moans, whole body trembling as he continues to rub at that spot within her while she grinds her clitoris into the heel of his hand, her breathing loud and ragged as snow falls outside the castle.

Her cunt pulses around his fingers, growing steadily wetter, the slick of her coating his fingers and palm, the rich salty scent of it making him groan and ache to bury his face between her thighs and drown himself in her. Instead he tucks his face against the curve of her neck and kisses her there, sliding his lips up in a hot trail to the thin skin behind her ear before he starts whispering.

“Does it feel good my love? To have me inside you?”

Sansa pants and moans, nodding weakly, her fingers spasming around his wrist. “Gods Jaime….don’t…don’t stop,” she begs and he groans, nipping at her ear delicately.

“As if I could deny you anything,” he tells her with a rough laugh, “you could have me on my knees eating out this delicious cunt in front of the whole court and I’d say thank you for this blessing Your Grace.”

Sansa gasps at that, at the audacity of it he thinks, and her cunt clenches around his fingers, her whine high and sharp as she rocks against his hand desperately. “No,” she says fiercely, “this—is not for them,” she pants out, “this is—ah!—just, gods, just us.” She loses her train of thought when Jaime teases a third finger at her entrance and she nods frantically, one hand flying up from his wrist to his hair, tangling and tugging as he eases his other finger inside her, knowing that the stretch could sting.

“Does it hurt, beloved?” he murmurs, feeling the way that her cunt is clenching and spasming. The fingers in his hair clench and Sansa shudders and moans, shaking her head, hips canting up so her cunt grinds into his palm—an answer all of its own, but her moan of Jaime, more, is another too. He curls his fingers against that spot and fucks them in and out of her slowly, eliciting a broken sob from Sansa that makes his head spin and his balls go tight, the urge to spill leaving him breathless and dizzy.

With all the squirming and writhing, Sansa’s chemise has shifted up up up, exposing her cunt to the air and Jaime can see the pale skin of her thighs, the kiss of fire between them, and the way that his large hand cups her.

“Gods, look at you,” he groans, nipping at the skin behind her ear gently, just to hear her gasp and feel her shiver, “stunning,” he breathes out as he fucks his fingers into her with a wet slick sound that makes his balls throb. Sansa’s breathing grows even more ragged, her moans loud and desperate now and Jaime thinks for a moment that someone has probably heard them by now, but he cares fuck all about that—all that matters now is making Sansa come.

Jaime picks up the pace of his fingers and presses more insistently with the heel of his hand against her mound, panting in her ear as she writhes and cries out his name, thighs trembling around his hand as he pushes her higher and higher towards that peak. “Come now love, let me see you come,” he murmurs in her ear and Sansa shudders, feet sliding around in the sheets as she grinds against his hand, whimpering loudly as her cunt spasms, the slick wet sounds of his fingers inside her growing louder the longer this goes on.

“Jaime!” Sansa cries out, voice a broken sob and he doubles down on the pressure he’s applying to that spot inside her, shifting his golden hand to press down on her pelvis and the reaction is immediate; Sansa shouts and spasms, her moan turning into loud cries of pleasure as Jaime doggedly keeps his fingers thrusting against that spot as she grinds against his hand, sobbing his name.

Her nails claw at his wrist while the hand in his hair pulls so tightly it sends shocks of pain over his scalp that shudder down his spine and have his cock twitching and balls aching with the urge to come. He keeps going, taking her through her peak as she cries out, gasping and writhing at the sensations; “J-Jaime, I’m going to—I—” Sansa whines, confusion on her face and a rush of heat passes over Jaime when he realizes what she’s feeling.

“It’s alright love, let go,” he soothes, “it is just pleasure, let go now,” he croons, and when he pushes down with his gold hand more firmly, Sansa goes rigid against him, shock on her face as her cunt pulses and squirts. She’s silent for but a moment before she’s trembling all over and sobbing as he works her through it, the slick messy wetness smearing on her thighs and the sheets beneath them. When long minutes later she finally lets out a broken pleading sound and pushes at his hand, Jaime stills his fingers and keeps them tucked inside her, both of them breathing loud and ragged.

Jaime drops his forehead to her shoulder and exhales unevenly, his whole body taut and overheated, his balls throbbing and his cock so thick that it hurts. Sansa shifts against him and presses up against his cock and he can’t bite back the groan that the friction elicits, nipping at her shoulder gently in retaliation. “You—you didn’t come,” Sansa pants out, half turning in his arms and he’s forced to sit up and face her, desire pulsing through him at the sight of her pink face and her disheveled hair.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, “This was about you, and making you feel good,” he tells her—but apparently that’s the wrong thing to say because she frowns and shifts, gasping as his fingers slide out of her in a wet rush, but she keeps moving, turning and crawling into his lap, and though her limbs are shaky, she manages it.

“I want you to feel good too,” she says, her strong, lithe fingers cupping his jaw so he can’t look away from her bright eyes. She laughs softly and shivers, “Jaime, you have—I have never felt like that before in all my life, and if I can give you anything near half as good, I want to,” she assures him, eyes softening as she continues, “I want you,” she murmurs softly before leaning in to kiss him sweetly and Jaime feels as though his heart will crack apart in his chest at how gentle she is. “Tell me how to make you feel good,” she whispers against his mouth and he groans, heat pulsing up his spine at the words, at the idea of her hands on him or—gods be good—her mouth someday.

Taking a shaky breath, he nods and kisses her again, gathering his admittedly scattered wits before he nudges her hip gently, urging her back a bit so he can start to pluck the laces of his breeches open.

Her hands stop him and he chances a look up at her through his lashes, affection warming his chest when she smiles shyly at him and starts undoing them herself.

Jaime lets her, watching her face as she pushes aside the fabric and his cock is finally able to push free, a soft gasp falling from his lips at the touch of the cool air on his taut and overheated skin.

Sansa’s eyes widen and he bites his lip to keep from laughing—he’s thick and uncut and he’s sure it’s an intimidating sight to a woman who hasn’t ever willingly taken a cock or laid her hands on one before. The humor inside him dies a little and Jaime considers pushing her away and telling her not to worry about it, but before he can, one of her fingers trails up the underside of his cock and his head falls back against the headboard with a loud thunk, dizzying pleasure rushing through him as his cock twitches at even that little bit of stimulation.

“Tell me how to make you feel good,” Sansa murmurs again and he forces his eyes open to find her looking at him intently, as intently as she did when he was teaching her swordplay and a rush of affection fills him and has him leaning up to kiss her once more.

“Like this,” he murmurs, taking his fingers that are still sticky wet from her cunt and wraps them around hers, before closing both their hands around his cock and groaning at the touch. He sets a quick pace, grip tight, and grunts at the first few strokes; “Gods,” he curses, “I’d—I’d go slower, normally,” he pants, “but you—you drive me to desperation beloved.” Sansa makes a soft sound at that, shyness creeping onto her face and Jaime arches his neck in invitation, smiling when she takes it and leans in to kiss him.

After a few moments Jaime takes his hand away, setting it to her thigh and sliding it up to the crook of her hip to pet at the damp skin there, the scent of her cunt filling his nose. He contemplates it for a moment and then takes his hand away before bringing it to his mouth so he can lick the remaining slick of her cunt from his fingers.

Sansa gasps and stares down at him, cheeks a bright red and this time Jaime does laugh softly before leaning up to capture her mouth and give her a taste. She makes a sound against his mouth but doesn’t pull away and he keeps kissing her, groaning as she strokes him and swipes her thumb over the head of his cock.

“Next time I’m going to eat that pretty cunt of yours until you’re screaming,” he murmurs, nipping at her lower lip and enjoying the shaky gasp it elicits from her.

“You—You’d want that?” Sansa whispers against his mouth, her hand steady on his cock.

“Gods, Sansa, I’d live and die between your thighs,” he tells her honestly, groaning when her hand tightens around his cock in response to his baldly honest words. She kisses him hard for that, and Jaime answers it with heat of his own, hand flexing where he’s laid it on her hip, and he rolls his hips up, fucking his cock into her tight grip.

He kisses her messily until he can’t breath and finally pulls away to pant raggedly, moaning softly as heat builds in his belly and his balls draw tight against his body.

He’d spoken truly—it doesn’t take more than a half dozen more strokes before he’s spilling over her fingers and shuddering out a moan of her name, his body twitching as she continues to stroke him through it, her grip perfectly tight and strong like he’d showed her. When it becomes too much he covers her hand with his and pulls it away, smiling weakly up at her before she leans in and kisses him sweetly.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t longer,” she murmurs, “was it—good?” she asks hesitantly and Jaime kisses her again, more firmly this time.

“It was perfect Sansa love,” he assures her, smiling against her mouth before kissing her gently, both of them sinking into it for quite some time before he realizes that the come on his belly is growing tacky and her hand must be a mess. He pulls away from her and gently nudges at her hip, “Let me up,” he requests, dropping a kiss to her shoulder as they slip apart and he rolls to his feet.

The basin by the bed is empty, so he pours out water from the pitcher and soaks a cloth in it before turning to the bed to wipe Sansa’s hands and thighs clean, his touch gentle when he runs the cloth over her still sensitive cunt. She gasps and blushes at his attentions, earning her a fond smile and a soft kiss from him before he goes and resoaks the cloth, wringing it out with one hand as best he can before he uses it on himself.

Ablutions complete, Jaime begins to wonder if he should tie up the laces of his breeches and bid her good night, but that feels ugly and wrong, like this is just some fuck, and so he steps closer to the bed and runs his fingers gently through Sansa’s disheveled and slightly tangled hair, affection filling him so deeply it makes his chest quake.

Sansa stares up at him, eyes bright and considering, and then reaches out to the waistband of his breeches and tugs him a step closer, tugs them down his hips, and then down further till he’s naked before her.

She slides back on the bed, tugging at her chemise, and then she’s naked too, blushing prettily but meeting his gaze boldly as she slides beneath the sheets and gives him an expectant look. He goes willingly and tucks the sheets around his hips before he pulls her close and kisses her, satisfaction sinking deep down into his bones at the slide of her silky soft skin, warm and flushed against his.

They end up on their sides staring at each other as the night deepens and the fire crackles, talking quietly about his mother teaching him the piano and her sorrow at the loss of her direwolf Lady, about his trouble with reading and her loathing of prune cakes—until finally she falls asleep in his arms, her gentle snores bringing a smile to his lips as his own tired eyes slide shut and he too joins her in slumber.

Sansa twirls away from him, grinning as she ducks his blow, her own sword landing on his ribs in a none too gentle tap that makes him grin in return. They dance around each other on the deck of the ship, frigid winds and icy water misting them both, and he knows after this her maids will ferry her away and get her clean and warm and tucked into so many layers she’ll look like a plump little cake.

For now though, they trade blows—some with swords, and others with fists or feet—while the crew watch and place bets on the winner. They’ve been at sea for three days now, with the Iron Islands looming ever closer on the horizon, and each morning he and Sansa have put on a show for the crew. He’d intended to train with her in her quarters, but there hadn't been adequate space to swing a blade, so they’d moved to the deck and found themselves with an audience.

In a flurry of movement the sword in Sansa’s hand goes flying and he steps close, pressing the dull edge of his own blade to her throat. She grins at him, more a baring of teeth and he feels something sharp prick through his breeches, and when he chances a glance down, he laughs at the sight of her Valyrian steel dagger against the artery in his groin.

“Very good beloved,” he murmurs just loudly enough for her to hear, and then, “a draw!” he announces much more loudly and for the benefit of the crew. There’s cheers and groans alike and Sansa smirks at him, tapping the flat of her blade against his thigh playfully before she steps back and politely nods and smiles at the crew.

One of the crew members retrieves her practice sword and hands it over, stammering and blushing when she smiles sweetly and thanks him. Jaime smirks at the besotted look on the man’s face and follows her down the stairs to the lower deck where they’re out of the howling winds and sea spray.

When the cabin door shuts behind them Jaime spares a glance around to ensure there aren’t any maids lingering before he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls in for a kiss that tastes like salt. Sansa tosses her practice sword aside without looking, both of them heedless of the clang, more focused on touching each other for as long as they can before—

“Your Grace? It’s Aisha, my lady. We should get you out of those soaked clothes and into something warm and dry.”

Jaime chuckles against Sansa’s lips at her disgruntled huff and kisses her one last time before stepping back and picking up the practice sword so that when Aisha enters the cabin he’s across the room, studying the approaching islands through the windows.

“Lord Commander,” Aisha murmurs politely, but he spies the mischief in her eyes and he can’t help the smirk that crosses his face in reply. After Aisha found them in bed the morning after he and Sansa had been together in Seagard, Jaime had expected that all of Westeros would know their business, but instead they found themselves with an ally and the occasional hour alone.

They’ve been discreet since boarding the ship, and while Jaime would like to linger, Aisha is right—Sansa needs to change out of her cold wet gown and be warmed. They’ll reach the Iron Islands in a few hours and then spend two weeks shoring up the Northern alliance, and as neither Sansa nor Yara have heirs to offer in betrothal, their bond will be through trade and treaty alike.

Jaime nods politely at Aisha and bows deeply to Sansa, lips curled into a playful smile as he murmurs, “Well fought Your Grace, you’ll have me beaten in no time.”

Lifting a finely arched brow, Sansa’s lips curl into a smirk, “Of that I have no doubt Lord Commander,” she replies with a knowing look that makes heat bloom in his belly.

Jaime laughs and bows again before leaving, weaving down the hall to his own quarters where he quickly shucks his wet clothes and trades them for dryer, warmer layers. He makes the rounds to check on the Queensguard and household staff before heading to the galley for a bowl of hot porridge that settles a ball of warmth inside him for when he heads back up to the main deck to check their approach to the islands.

Despite winter being fully set in, the weather has held thus far, with no heavy storms delaying their arrival. He worries that once they settle in though, that they may wind up trapped—and for all Yara is their supposed ally, things change on a knife’s edge and the last thing he wants is for Sansa to be put in danger.

The islands loom closer and the crew prepares them for arrival, the household staff bustling about below deck, preparing trunks and bags and everything else that comes with the royal progress tour.

Sansa is bundled up tightly, eyes sparkling at him when they land on the beach, but her expression quickly shutters when she sees Yara waiting for them, the icy wind whipping the short strands of her hair over her severe face. Jaime stays two steps behind Sansa as she strides forward, shoulders set with determination that he sees mirrored in Yara’s strong jaw.

The two women stare at each other for a moment before Sansa lets out a broken little sound and surges forward to embrace Yara, the wind too strong for Jaime to hear her words. Yara’s eyes are filled with grief though, so Jaime thinks maybe it has something to do with Theon, and for a long moment the women cling to each other before Sansa pulls back and says something that has Yara laughing and nodding.

After that they’re welcomed to the castle and shown to their chambers; Jaime doesn’t settle in though, he starts poking around the dark and drafty corners of the castle and familiarizes himself with all the spots that an enterprising assassin could lurk if they were looking to kill he or Sansa.

When he does finally make it back to his rooms he finds that the household staff have already unpacked his belongings and a steaming bath of water is waiting by the fire, the sight of it so appealing that he can’t restrain a little groan.

He’s halfway undressed, breeches unlaced and loose on his hips when Sansa steps out from his bedchamber, startling him into stumbling back a step, his shock deepening when he sees that she’s only in a dressing gown and slippers. “Sansa?” he murmurs questioningly, “what are you—someone will see,” he says, stepping towards her, gaze darting around to try and figure out where she’s come from. “How did you get in here?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“There’s secret passageways between the chambers,” she tells him, long fingers plucking at the ribbons holding her robe closed, toying with them and drawing his attention there, “Aisha is standing guard in the passageway and her men Aros and Flynn are in the hallway on guard and will keep everyone away for a few hours,” she tells him with a playful smile, hips swaying as she steps closer and Jaime isn’t sure what’s making his head spin more—the allure of a few uninterrupted hours with Sansa or—

“Aisha has men?” he asks as he steps towards Sansa, a smile curling up his lips as she grins and nods, meeting him halfway, her hands leaving the ties of her gown to slide around his waist. “Lucky woman,” he murmurs, head bent so his lips are nearly brushing hers, and then they’re pressing together, Sansa’s long fingers twining through his hair and holding him close, a low sound echoing from her throat as he wraps his gold hand around her waist and pulls her tight against him.

“I don’t know, I think I’m the lucky one,” Sansa says against his lips before her hands skim down his sides and slide under the waist of his breeches, her gaze bright and piercing as she stares up at him while she pushes the fabric down, and when she sinks down to her knees and helps him take his feet out, Jaime’s breath catches in his chest, emotion making his throat go thick at the way she’s looking up at him.

“Sansa,” he whispers, voice hoarse and low as he offers her his hand and pulls her up against him, releasing her hand in favor of cupping her cheek, heart aching at the way she smiles at him and leans into it.

“Undress me Jaime,” she orders, petal pink lips breathing out the words in a whisper that sends a shiver over his naked skin. He obeys immediately, fingers trembling a little as he undoes the ties to her gown, breathing growing shallow as the fabric parts and the curves of her body are revealed.

Jaime pushes aside the fabric, flesh hand curving around her waist, savoring the silk of her skin against the coarseness of his palm, both of them exhaling unevenly. He watches his hand slide over her stomach, fingers spread wide, and swallows thickly, for a moment imagining her belly swollen with a baby, his baby—their baby.

“Jaime,” she murmurs, hand falling over his, and his gaze flies up to her, heart thundering in his chest at the knowing look in her eyes. She squeezes his hand lightly and then guides it up to cup her breast, a soft sigh falling from her lips as his fingers tighten reflexively around the gentle swell of it.

Sansa flexes her shoulders and the material of her gown falls, pooling in her elbows and exposing her to the light of the fire, the pink peaks of her nipples making him ache to have two good hands to caress her with.

He swipes a thumb over one of them and savors the way she exhales sharply, does it again and again, watching as her lips part and her chest rises faster, her gaze steady on him as he touches her. He’s surprised when she pushes his hand aside, shaking the fabric of her dressing gown off her arms so that she’s entirely bare, and then she’s pressing against him, nudging him back towards the tub.

“Come,” she murmurs, dropping a kiss to his jaw before she steps around him and climbs into the tub, her long legs glowing in the light of the fire, his gaze traveling hungrily up them to the thatch of fiery curls between her thighs, his cock aching and thickening where it hangs heavily between his legs.

“Jaime,” she says softly, holding out a dripping hand to him that he takes willingly, allowing himself to be tugged over to the tub, and when she doesn’t move to make room for him behind her, he lifts a brow and then climbs in, intending to sit facing her against the other side of the tub, but she tugs on his hand and shakes her head, spreading her thighs with a pointed look that makes him swallow thickly and move to sit as he’s been directed.

It feels odd to settle his weight back against her, but Sansa just hums in pleasure and slides her arms around his stomach, her chin hooking over his shoulder before she presses a kiss to his skin, and the sweet gesture makes his heart clench in his chest, leaving him unsteady and breathing unevenly.

“What’s this about?” he asks, forcing his voice to be light.

“I want to care for you,” she says softly, palms spreading out over his chest and stomach while her lips move against his skin, sending a pleasant shiver over his whole body. “You have been on guard this whole trip, protecting me, ensuring the safety of my household, and I want to show you how deeply you are valued,” she murmurs.

“I’m honored Your Grace,” he replies teasingly, hissing when she pinches his earlobe in retaliation.

“Jaime,” she murmurs warningly, “say thank you and shut up.”

Jaime snorts a huff of laughter but shifts in her arms so he can meet her gaze, seriousness overtaking his expression as he speaks. “Thank you Sansa,” he says before leaning in and capturing her mouth in a tender kiss that she deepens, her warm wet palm coming up to cradle his face, holding him there as it goes on and on.

When they finally pull apart his breathing is a little unsteady and her cheeks are pink, the sight of her so enticing it makes his stomach flutter with how much he loves her.

He turns back around when she nudges him and then stiffens when she reaches for the golden hand, stomach churning at the idea of her seeing the stump of his arm. Despite everything, he’s made sure that she hasn’t seen it, the memory of Cersei’s disgust seared into his memory, and when Sansa’s fingers skate over his skin, loosening the leather brace on his arm, he has to swallow and close his eyes, force himself to be still and not flee.

Lips brush his shoulder and then press again more firmly to the muscle there, traveling up to his throat and then back down as Sansa undoes the ties and bindings that keep the hand attached to his body. His skin throbs at the touch and when the hand is finally removed the cool press of air against his skin makes him shudder, the sensitivity of it heightened after months of travel and near constant wear of the hand.

The maesters have told him to let it breathe each night, but during this journey he hasn’t had the luxury of allowing himself to be weak, not when he has to be ready at a moment’s notice to travel or defend Sansa.

Sansa’s hands are gentle as they trace the marks the brace leaves on his skin but Jaime can’t bite back the sharp exhale, and he feels her still, but doesn’t look away from where he’s pinned his gaze to the flames in the hearth. He can barely tolerate being touched there, let alone seeing it happen.

“Does it hurt?” Sansa breathes out against his shoulder and he shrugs, swallowing hard against the rush of emotion that makes his throat painfully tight.

“Sensitive,” he manages to get out, slamming his eyes shut when he hears how wrecked his voice sounds, the urge to flee growing stronger. There’s a profound hunger inside him, an aching to let Sansa continue to touch where no one else has, but alongside it an unease is filling him—no one has been tender like this with him since his mother was still alive and it shakes him to his core.

“Should I stop?” Sansa asks and this is it, this is the moment he could nod and escape the intensity of this touch, push everything he’s feeling back into the bottle inside him and then bury it deep, but instead he finds himself desperately shaking his head no, his voice cracking when he whispers “Please don’t,” and clings so tightly to the side of the tub with his good hand that the metal bites into his skin even through the protection of the bath sheets.

Sansa brushes her lips against the curve of his shoulder and makes a soft agreeable sort of sound before she gently cups the remains of his arm in one hand and pours water over it with the other.

The heat of it makes him gasp and shudder, and he trembles as she pours more water over it, her fingers gentle as she wipes his skin down a few times before carefully lowering his arm into the steaming water. Jaime shudders and swallows down a moan at the sensation—it’s been far too long since he’s soaked his arm and allowed the ache that seems to live inside it constantly be soothed.

“Breathe,” Sansa murmurs against his shoulder and he exhales shakily, suddenly realizing that he’s been bottling it up inside of him, that his lungs hurt a little inside the cage of his ribs, and when he inhales again, it aches in the best way.

Jaime finally opens his eyes, gathering his courage before he turns his gaze to where Sansa’s touching him, hands gentle but self assured as she massages the flesh of his ruined arm. It aches and throbs and his breathing goes shaky and thin, but when she asks again if she should stop he shakes his head, unable to speak around the knot of emotion in his throat.

Tears burn in his eyes as Sansa continues to touch him, each breath shuddering out of him, and he’s intimately aware of the way her breath puffs against his shoulder, of the way her lips skim over the skin up and down the arch of his neck and shoulder, and it’s all deeply overwhelming in a way that makes him want to crawl out of his skin or maybe beg Sansa to crack him open and touch him everywhere he’s so deeply broken.

He closes his eyes in shame when tears finally fall down his cheeks, breath hitching when Sansa whispers his name, arms winding around him, holding him tight as she presses her mouth to his jaw and says his name again, like a prayer, like a benediction, her hand spread out over where his heart beats unsteadily in his chest.

He leans into the wet hand cradling the side of his face and reaches up to his chest with his good hand to cover hers, pressing it more firmly into his skin as she kisses along his jaw and then up his cheek to where it’s wet from his tears and his shame deepens that she’ll know, that she’ll see how ruined, how unworthy of her he is.

Sansa holds him tightly, and he feels like maybe she’s pressing his ruined edges back together into something not quite whole, but better than before. Eventually when his breathing slows and steadies, Sansa shifts, reaching for a clay pot of something beside the tub that when she removes the lid smells like lemons and lavender and clears his senses of the fog that crying always brings. He watches as she scoops out a thick paste and rubs it between her hands before she starts massaging it into his shoulders, down his chest and over both arms, the scrape of it making his senses sing pleasantly.

She takes her time, makes him lean forward and prop his legs up, gets every nook and cranny—even over his cock (and the scrape of the paste on such delicate skin makes him shudder and moan in surprise) and into the cleft of his ass.

He’s vaguely surprised that she feels so confident in touching him like this, but then, it’s not inherently sexual, more tender and caretaking, and he thinks that the months of sharing secrets about their nightmares and violent pasts has stripped away some of the hesitancies that a noble young woman of Sansa’s standing might feel to be touching a man like this.

Regardless, when he’s scrubbed clean, Sansa washes his hair, nails scraping over his scalp as she massages it, her hands strong and firm. By the time she’s done and he’s cleaner than he’s ever been, the water has cooled considerably and he’s half asleep, reclining back against her, his face pressed against the smooth column of her throat so he can inhale the scent of lemon and lavender that’s on them both.

He’s only allowed to stay like that for a few more minutes before Sansa urges him out of the tub, and then he’s more awake, watching the wet gleam of her naked skin in the light of the fire.

He lets her dry him off before she rubs an oil into his skin that also smells like lemons and lavender and when she goes to tend to herself, he steals the bath sheet from her and gives her a firm look when she tries to protest him taking care of her in return.

His hand lingers far more than hers did on his body, but he smirks at her when she lifts a brow, leaning in so he can brush his lips against her jaw as he slides the bath sheet over the curve of her breast.

“Only have the one hand my love, I have to go slow,” he tells her, smiling into her skin as he kisses the sharp plane of her cheek. Sansa huffs out a laugh and curls a hand around his elbow, tilting her face so their lips skim together as he drags the cloth down her belly before he decides to cast it aside in favor of some of that oil she had so lovingly massaged into his skin.

He nods his thanks when she takes the jar and pours some out into his palm, their gazes steady on each other as he steps back and starts smearing it into the skin of her chest.

He watches the way her breath catches as he spreads it out and down, palming her breast with his slick hand, his thumb spreading the oil over her pretty pink nipple, and he repeats the gesture again and again when it makes her gasp softly and push into the sensation. He does the same on the other side, watching as her cheeks turn pink and her lips part on soft panting breaths, her gaze steady on him as he continues touching her.

It takes many trips to the oil jar to spread the slickness all over her body, and by the time he’s on his knees working his hand up her thigh, she’s trembling and he can smell the tang of her cunt, luring him in for a taste.

Jaime slides his palm up up up till he’s cupping her cunt, fingers slipping and sliding in the mix of her own slickness and the oil, soaking the crimson curls there and making his aching cock throb with the desire to bury himself inside her. His mouth waters with the need to taste her and he thumbs at her clit, heat pulsing through him at the way it makes her thighs tremble and a breathy gasp of his name fall from her lips.

He can’t help but lean in to press his mouth to those soaked curls in an open mouthed kiss that has her gasping loudly and burying her fingers in his hair. “Jaime!” she whispers hoarsely and he tilts his head back to look up at her, admiring the pink flush that’s extended from her face down to the peaks of her pretty breasts.

“My love,” he answers, shifting so he can press his mouth to her slick mound and still keep his gaze on her face. He sees a flash of insecurity in her brilliant green eyes and understands—he’s told her he wants to do this, but she’s still new to all the ways of love and it’s up to him to guide her and make sure she deeply, thoroughly enjoys everything that they do. “I want to taste you,” he tells her, holding back a smile when she shifts nervously, hands flexing at her sides like she’s thinking about reaching to cover herself. “I don’t have to, but if you’d let me, I’d like to try and pleasure you,” he tells her, palm spread wide over her hip and thumb stroking her pelvis while she bites at her lip and stares down at him, unsure and wide eyed.

He doesn’t push her, just waits for her to decide, comfortable on his knees before her, in this position of worship at her feet. She bites her lip and then nods, hands flexing again at her sides, and Jaime reaches out, snags one and brushes his lips across her knuckles before flipping it and pressing a kiss to her palm, the words he speaks next brushing against her skin.

“You don’t have to do this,” he tells her, “you can have whatever you want, or don’t want for that matter. You just have to say.”

Sansa smiles at that and cups his cheek, “I know Jaime,” she murmurs, fingers stroking over his face for a moment, the tender look in her eyes making his throat feel thick with emotion. She peers down at him for another moment before nodding and swallowing hard, her nerves apparent as she glances around, lip caught between her teeth. “I, where should I—” she trails off and Jaime smiles, leans in to nip at her hip, enjoying the way it sends a little jolt over her body and earns him a warning look that’s somewhat ruined by the way her lips curl up fondly.

“You can stand here if you like, I’m greatly enjoying the view,” he tells her, tilting his head so he can kiss her hip bone, watching as her eyes darken and her chest rises and falls a little quicker than before.

“That seems like a recipe for disaster,” she tells him, but her fingers brush through his hair and Jaime leans into the touch, savoring the sweetness of it, the gentle way her nails scrape along his scalp and send shivers over his skin. “What if I fall?” she says and Jaime wishes he could say then I’d catch you, but with just one good hand, the odds of that are not in his favor, and the last thing he wants is for her to be hurt when he’s trying to pleasure her.

Nodding, he leans in for one last kiss to her hip before he stands, wincing as his knees ache, embarrassment flushing his face when she cups his elbow and helps him—though there’s no judgment in her face when he chances a look at her. She doesn’t tease him about being old, doesn’t mock him for his aches and pains and physical deficits, and once more he’s struck by the world of difference between Sansa and Cersei. He shakes the thoughts out of his head and leans down to kiss her, humming in satisfaction at the way she presses against him eagerly, the heady scent of lemon and lavender mingling with her cunt, reigniting his desire for her once more.

They stumble to his bed and he takes a moment to savor the sight of her spread out amongst the sheets, the way her fiery hair splays out across the pillows and her skin glows in the light of the fire.

He doesn’t waste more time on looking, instead he braces himself over her on the stump of his arm and ignores the discomfort of doing so in favor of running his fingers through her hair as he kisses her, erasing any pain from his senses.

Jaime lowers himself onto her gently, keeping a good portion of his weight levered up so as not to suffocate her as he kisses her, encouraging her to tilt her head back further with a gentle tug on her hair.

He kisses her for awhile longer before slowly trailing down her jaw, over her throat, his journey slowing at her breasts so he can lick and suck at her pink nipples until they’re swollen and reddened from his mouth and she’s moaning, fingers fisted in his hair as her hips writhe.

Jaime pants as he bites her ribs gently, cock throbbing between his legs when she gasps his name and arches into it, so he does it again, and again on the flat of her stomach, careful not to leave lasting marks that would gather far too much attention from her maids. Aisha may be in their corner, but that doesn’t mean the other three that travel with them are, and the last thing Jaime wishes is to create hardship for Sansa because of his love for her.

Abandoning her stomach for her thighs, Jaime teases her, kissing, licking, and biting across their creamy expanses until Sansa is saying his name like a curse and tugging at his hair, her eyes wild when he glances up after a particularly pleading gasp of his name.

Deciding on mercy, he nudges her thighs further apart with his shoulders and wastes no more time on teasing—he licks into her cunt with one long broad stripe that has her crying out, fingers flexing in his hair as she writhes, away and then back towards his mouth, like she’s shocked but demanding more.

He does it again, and then again, hand coming up to spread across her stomach as he focuses his attentions on her cunt and licks into her, tasting the heady tang of her right where she’s slick and hot. He groans and licks with a possessive hunger, spreading her open with his fingers so he can look at her slick pink folds, “Gods Sansa, I could die a happy man drowning in your pretty cunt,” he tells her before leaning in for another taste, dragging his tongue from her sweet little hole up to her clit.

Sansa cries out and writhes down against his mouth, thighs trembling around his head and he rolls his hips down against the mattress, pleasure roaring through his veins at this proof that he’s doing so well at pleasuring her.

He changes tactic, eager to drive her higher, and closes his lips around her clit, sucking on it lightly and letting out a startled laugh when she cries out loudly, hips bucking so intensely he’s shaken free from her skin with a slick wet sound. “Gods Jaime,” she pants, “I didn’t—I didn’t know,” she gasps out, one shaking hand rising to cover her face as her body trembles.

“Should I stop?” he asks teasingly, nipping at her thigh, “you seem overcome.”

Ripping her hand away from her eyes she props herself up on one arm and glares at him, “Don’t you dare,” she orders and Jaime smirks at her before darting in quickly and closing his lips around her clit again, flicking his tongue against it rapidly just to see if she’ll shout like she did before.

This time though he’s treated to the sight of her back bowing off the bed as she lets out a ragged sob, her hand falling to tangle in her hair as her leg curls over his shoulder and her heel presses into his back, wordlessly demanding more.

After that Jaime loses himself in her, licking at her cunt, sucking her clit into his mouth, fingers slip-sliding through the slick leaking from her before sinking into her and curling deep, the moan that falls from her lips broken and wrecked.

He loves her like he’s going to lose her, like this is the first and only time he’ll get to do this because nothing should be taken for granted in this world they live in and he wants her to know, to wake up tomorrow with an achy cunt and slick thighs and know that she is loved, that he wants to touch every part of her, even the parts that she thinks are broken and ruined by the men who have come before him.

He knows distantly that they’re both being loud—that he should probably care more about someone hearing, but he’s greedy for every sound he can wrest from her, pushes his fingers deeper and curls them against that spot inside her that had made her gush last he’d touched her there.

Sansa sobs and writhes against him, voice broken as she pleads mindlessly with him, for what he’s not sure but he doubles down on his efforts and feels it when her cunt spasms, feels her release building, tastes the rush of tangy slick on his lips, a groan rumbling in his chest as he closes his eyes and savors it.

She comes clenching around his fingers and sobbing breathlessly, but he doesn’t stop, just increases the pace of his fingers thrusting inside her, the wet sound of her cunt making his cock throb and ache to be inside her, to feel that incredible heat and pressure around it, to be as close to her as possible.

Sansa is a mess under him—her hair is in tangles and her face is bright red and her breasts heave with each ragged breath and he’s never seen anything so beautiful as this. He tells her so before he licks against her clit again, murmurs filthy praise against wet skin when he needs to pause for a ragged gasp of air and then dives back in for more. He can feel her slick on his face, her thighs, and all over the sheets, but he’s determined to keep going until he makes her come again, makes her soak the bed with her release.

Jaime sucks on her clit and increases the tempo of his fingers fucking into her, careful not to hurt her, but remaining unrelenting as she whines and moans and writhes, her body seemingly unsure if it wants to get away or get more with the way it’s rolling away from him and then down eagerly onto his fingers.

Her cries of his name grow louder and more desperate and he feels her cunt spasming as his lungs start to ache from how deeply he’s buried his face into her cunt, but he doesn’t quit, even when her grip on his hair turns painful.

She cries a word of warning, but it’s strangled and broken and then she’s sobbing loudly and there’s a hot rush over his fingers and chin and Jaime groans deeply, eyes rolling back in his head as she whines and shudders, her whole body trembling almost violently. When he finally pulls back to inhale deeply his head spins and his lungs ache in his chest, but it’s worth it to prop himself up on one shaking arm to stare down at her body and see the way that her cunt is flushed a deep red, her skin shining with slick.

She sobs out his name and lifts a shaking hand out to him in supplication and he goes to her instantly, murmuring her name as she wraps her arms around him and shakes, breathing ragged in his ear from where she’s pressed her face to his throat. Jaime rolls them to the side and pulls her firmly into him, ignoring the deep throbbing ache in his cock at being pressed against her, and simply runs his hand up and down her back as she breathes raggedly and sniffles softly.

“Are you well?” he ventures quietly, “did I hurt you?” he asks, worried at the sound of her soft crying.

She shakes her head and pulls back enough that he can finally see her face, and the tears there make his heart wrench in his chest. “No Jaime, you haven’t hurt me,” she whispers hoarsely, “I—I didn’t know it could be so good,” she tells him with fresh tears in her eyes.

“I didn’t know you could ache so deeply from pleasure, that having hands on my body could be such a good thing,” she says and Jaime feels a shot of pure loathing for Ramsey and Joffrey, aches to have both hands so he can wrap them around their throats and kill them for himself.

Sansa smiles widely and laughs a little, “I feel made anew,” she tells him before leaning in for a searing kiss that he responds to eagerly, rolling their bodies together and groaning when his aching cock presses into her belly. She hums against his mouth and breaks away to breathe raggedly, “You are still hard,” she says, trailing a hand down between them and taking his breath away before she closes it around his cock and strokes him firmly.

“Sansa,” he says with feeling, quickly reduced to pants and gasps, his face tucked tightly against her throat as she strokes him, her softly murmured words of encouragement making his head spin.

“Come for me Jaime,” she whispers and he shudders heavily from head to toe, a strangled cry escaping him and pressing to her skin as intense heat fills his blood and the tension in his belly winds tighter.

“Come now my love,” she says tenderly as she cards her fingers through his sweaty hair and he sobs and comes, hip rolling hard as he fucks into her hand with desperate cries of her name, heart pounding so hard he thinks it’ll burst right out of his chest. His hips stutter in a graceless rhythm and he whines as she keeps stroking him, encouraging more hot splashes of his come to fall on her belly and wrist.

“That’s it Jaime, that’s it darling,” she murmurs and he sobs again, shivering uncontrollably at the painfully tender tone she speaks in, his lungs raw as his breaths heave out of his chest. She pets at his hair and stops stroking him slowly, gently squeezing his limp and aching cock before she releases him, the hand in his hair shifting to cradle the back of his skull as she presses kisses to his brow. He pants raggedly against her and trembles as violently as she had, his own tears silent but no less powerful, and he clings to her tightly, unable to speak.

When he can finally breathe a little more steadily he pulls away so he can kiss her, knowing that his kiss is too desperate but not caring because she kisses him back just as desperately.

They stay like that until a polite knock at the door and a soft call from one of the guards outside alerts them to the approaching dinner hour, and only then do they force themselves apart.

They wash again quickly in the now cool water and Jaime helps settle the fabric of her dressing gown on her shoulders, steals a kiss, and then watches her go back through the hidden passageway, heart so light in his chest that he feels like it may just fly away if it weren’t contained in the cage of his ribs.

Dinner with Yara is an odd affair—Jaime's skin feels heightened after the scrub that Sansa had given him, and with her cheeks pink every time they share a glance, he feels as though their secret is only moment away from being revealed, and Yara has a knowing smirk on her face that makes his heart thump unevenly.

It’s after he’s returning from a visit to the chamber pot, that he pauses outside the inner door upon hearing a scrap of conversation.

“I didn’t think you were capable of it, well done Lady Sansa,” Yara says, voice filled with amusement.

“You musn’t tell anyone,” Sansa replies urgently, “We cannot have this revealed before I am home and behind the walls of Winterfell. I expect some people already know, but thus far no one has spread word of our relationship beyond unproven speculation—though it has brought violence,” she murmurs with a heavy sigh.

“Yes, I heard you swung the sword and took that man’s head.”

“I had no desire to do so, but I have found that there is much I have no desire to do but must, as a ruler.”

“Well, at least you have your lover at your side to ease some of the strain,” Yara says, her voice teasing once more, “my maid in the tunnels said that he was quite...enthusiastic in his duties.”

“Yara!” Sansa exclaims, but she laughs a little too and Jaime wonders if her cheeks are red from embarrassment.

“That’s not the name you’ll be crying out later,” Yara says slyly and at that both of them burst out into raucous laughter that quite frankly surprises him. He wouldn’t have expected Sansa to be so lighthearted about someone finding out their secret, but he’s glad in a way—she has no female friends or confidantes, and it must be a relief to share this with someone near her own age who has experienced much of life.

“You are terrible,” Sansa says, laughter in her voice.

“Mmm well, I rarely get to enjoy teasing anyone like this anymore, I have to find enjoyment where I can.”

“Oh? That burly looking ship’s captain you were speaking to earlier looked like she brings you quite a lot of enjoyment.”

“My Lady, how forward of you,” Yara jokes, both of them laughing again, and Jaime hears their wine goblets settling back onto the table with dull clanks. “You are right though, she does this wonderful thing with her tongue and her fingers, one goes in the cunt and the other—”

Jaime chooses that moment to retreat and then walk loudly toward the dining hall, and by the time he enters the room the conversation has turned, but Sansa’s face is a pretty pink and her eyes are shiny with intoxication, her gaze lingering on him longer than propriety allows as he retakes his seat diagonal from her.

“What were you ladies discussing while I was gone?” he asks, unable to keep the humor out of his voice.

Yara and Sansa exchange a look and the blush on Sansa’s face deepens as they burst out in laughter, both of them reaching for their wine goblets.

There’s more discussion of political alignments and treaties and all the boring details they’ve come here to hash out, but soon enough the conversation turns to more casual topics—Yara shares with them the gossip from the various lands that her people travel to, along with word of Bran in King’s Landing being pressured by the nobles to either find a wife or name an heir.

When the hour grows late and the shadows grow long, they part ways with Yara and walk quietly through the halls together until they split apart and go to their own quarters without a glance back at each other. For all he’d heard Yara’s vocal support of their relationship, Jaime has no desire to feed the gossip that lives in any castle, as surely as rats and mice do.

It’s not long after he’s settled in his rooms with a book and a glass of fine whiskey from the Iron Islands, barefoot and stripped down to his linen shirt by the fire when a tapestry across the room flutters aside to reveal Sansa as she emerges. She pauses and smiles at him warmly and love burns in his chest at the sight of it reflected in her eyes, and he holds out his hand to her in welcome, pleasure overflowing inside him when she hurries over and sinks readily into his lap.

She kisses him as she twines her arms around his shoulders, fingers sinking into his hair and he sighs into it, arm twining around her waist to pull her closer so he can breathe in the scent of lemon and lavender on her skin from their bath earlier. He nudges her nose with his when she pulls back enough to let them both breathe and rubs his hand up and down her back, the warm velvet fabric of her dressing gown under his hand pleasant.

“Hello love,” he murmurs, smiling against her lips as she runs her fingers through his hair, her eyes closed, the look of contentment on her face making his heart clench.

“Hmm hello,” she whispers, lips moving against his. “I missed you,” she says and Jaime chuckles softly.

“Missed me? You just saw me,” he teases lightly, grinning when she opens her eyes to scowl playfully at him.

“Perhaps I should go then,” she says archly, pulling away from him slightly and then laughing when he growls and pulls her in tighter, nipping at her jaw playfully.

Jaime kisses her again, heat filling his veins when she makes a soft sound of pleasure and melts into him for long long minutes before she finally pulls back and rests her head on his shoulder with a tiny sigh. He rubs his hand up and down her back and closes his eyes, sinking into the warmth of her body against his, the cozy crackling of the flames lulling him into a hazy doze.

They stay like that, dozing and warm, until Jaime can feel Sansa softening towards real sleep and he’s forced to decide if he should let her be and enjoy a night with her in his arms, or rouse her and send her back to her quarters.

His selfishness ultimately wins out and he shifts to lay back against the chaise a little more, holding Sansa close as she makes a soft sleepy noise and shifts, tucking her face against his throat and sighing sweetly.

Jaime closes his eyes and listens to the crackle of the fire, fingers rubbing against the velvet of Sansa’s dressing gown over and over as he breathes her scent in, contentment filling him deep down into his bones.

A terrible winter storm blows in three days later, coating the castle in a thick layer of ice, the snow on the island so deep and heavy it’s nearly impossible to move. During the days Sansa spars with he and Yara and makes enormous strides in her skill with both sword and dagger, and when a week passes and the storms show no sign of stopping, Jaime and Sansa forgo any pretense and spend each night together in her quarters, bodies twined together beneath heavy furs and blankets.

They learn how best to pleasure each other, tell each other secrets never spoken before, and spend so many hours talking and laughing that by the time the storms cease, Jaime understands that he is deeply, irrevocably in love with Sansa, and that nothing he’s felt before could ever be called love.

When the storms finally slow and the castle is able to be dug out from the mountains of snow that have fallen, Sansa lures him out for a ride, her laughter at his misery in the deep cold bringing spots of pink to her cheeks.

They ride up to the highest reaches of the island and tie the horses off under a lean-to before walking to the edge of the cliff, the spray of the sea far below them casting a mist up into the air that clings to Sansa’s fiery hair like a net of diamonds. Heedless of the guards waiting back at the lean-to—Aros and Flynn have been their secret keepers for weeks now—Jaime pulls her to him, drinking in her grin before he leans down and kisses her deeply.

“I can’t wait to get back to Winterfell,” he tells her when they break apart, lips red and swollen from kissing.

“Why is that?” Sansa asks, arms sliding around his waist as she tilts her chin up to look at him.

“I’m tired of all the blasted salted cod,” he tells her, grinning at the way it makes her laugh brightly, her nose scrunching in the exact way it always does, the way that makes him want to kiss it just to hear her giggle. He does it, and Sansa giggles, murmuring his name in protest, but she leans up to kiss him anyway and he savors it, relishing in her joy that has been so hard won, astounded as always that he’s played some small part in bringing light to her eyes and laughter to her voice.

Sansa tucks her head under his chin and sighs softly, “I’m ready to go home,” she murmurs, quietly enough that if they weren’t standing so close the winds would tear the words away. “I miss my family,” she tells him, “even Arya and her oddness,” she says with a laugh that makes him grin.

“She’ll be delighted to hear that,” he murmurs in reply and she huffs a laugh, nodding. “I look forward to the hot springs,” he says, nosing past her furs and hair to get to the skin of her throat. “I’d like to get you naked and wet,” he whispers, feeling her shiver against him. He curls his hand around her hip, fingers digging into the layers of velvet and wool to caress her full bottom as he kisses her throat.

Sansa makes a soft noise that could be called a moan if it was louder, her gloved hands fisting in the fabric of his cloak as he mouths at her skin. As Jaime rolls their bodies together there’s an unearthly bellow from overhead that sends a jolt through them both and has Jaime instinctively reaching for his sword and shoving Sansa behind him. Terror grips him, its claws digging in as they watch the last of the world’s dragons fly overhead, its huge wings buffeting them with powerful burst of freezing air.

Aros and Flynn flank them, swords drawn, all of them watching the dragon as it flies away, none of them daring to move until it’s gone over the horizon, lost in the grey storms that have choked the islands for weeks.

When it’s gone, the guards urge them on to their horses and back to the castle, their ride back done at a canter, and when they come to a sloppy halt in the courtyard, Jaime dismounts rapidly and urges Sansa inside, not breathing a sigh of relief until they’re deep in the castle where dragon fire can’t reach them, the memory of Harrenhall firmly pushed from his mind—they are safe here, they must be.

“Aros, Flynn, no one enters without my approval,” Jaime orders before shutting the door to his quarters and locking it behind him. He turns to Sansa and reaches for her, hand trailing over her hair, down her shoulder and arm before she seizes it in both of hers and squeezes tightly, lifting it to her lips, her gaze intent and sharp.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, lips brushing against his knuckles and until that moment, he hadn’t realized, hadn’t known—the terror inside him is not for his wellbeing, but for hers.

“I saw what happened to King’s Landing,” he tells her, voice low and shaky, “I heard the screams of-of children as they burned,” he says raggedly, the scent of burning flesh and ash filling his nose.

Sansa’s eyes are wide and she releases his hand, reaching instead for his face, cupping it gently as she pulls it down to press his forehead against hers.

“I saw that dragon and in a moment I was back there, only this time it was you burning,” he whispers and Sansa makes a low pained noise, turning her face to brush her lips over his cheek and it shatters something inside him, a low, broken sound escaping from him as she holds him close.

“I am safe Jaime, there are no dragons here to burn me, or you. I am safe,” she whispers, blue eyes piercing where they’re looking up at him, full and warm with deep emotion that makes his throat go painfully tight.

“I never thought I would have something to lose again,” he admits, voice rough and barely above a whisper. “I never thought I would know a love like this, where I have so much to lose, and have gained so much. It is—terrifying,” he tells her.

Sansa smiles at him sadly, her thumbs caressing the arches of his cheeks so tenderly it makes his chest hurt. “My love,” and oh how his heart sings to hear those words on her lips, “we may die tomorrow in dragon fire or in fifty years of old age, but we cannot let fear rule our hearts. We have lost too much already, and I for one will not be letting go of you, ever,” she says emphatically.

Jaime grins shakily and exhales unevenly, “My fierce Wolf Queen,” he says fondly, enjoying the way it makes her roll her eyes and laugh before she leans up and kisses him firmly, her hands sliding down his back to pull at his hips, till they’re pressed together and heat is rising in his blood. Sansa cups him through his breeches and his hips jolt forward, a groan on his lips as she kisses his jaw, “Gods, Sansa,” he murmurs, “I need—”

“Me too,” she whispers back, breath hot against his mouth before she’s kissing him again, hands moving insistently at his clothes, stripping him bare between desperate, hungry kisses. His own hand is far less coordinated and is shoved aside by Sansa so she can hastily untie her gown and then the stays of her corset, both of them laughing when her chemise gets caught on her hair before they manage to free it and toss the offending garment aside.

When they’re both naked Sansa twines her arms around his shoulders and steps close, pressing her body against his, her mouth red from kissing and her eyes bright with arousal. “I love you Jaime Lannister, and I will not sacrifice another moment of happiness for what is expected of me. I have a duty to my people, but also to my heart, and I have not suffered as much as I have to ignore it any longer—when we return home I have no interest in hiding my love for you. I want you at my side, now, forever, and I do not care who sees.”

“Forever?” he asks hoarsely, “is that a proposal Your Grace?” he whispers.

Sansa’s lips curl up into a smirk and his heart lurches in his chest at the playful look in her eye. “What do you think Lord Commander? Would you say yes to such a proposal from your Queen?” she asks, and though there’s laughter in her voice and a smile on her face, he can feel the seriousness of her question.

Jaime lifts his hand to cup her cheek, unsurprised to find it’s shaking once more.

“No, not from my Queen, but from my love, my Sansa, yes, I would accept that proposal,” he says hoarsely, hope soaring in him at the fire burning in her eyes.

“Then say yes Jaime, say yes to forever,” Sansa urges and Jaime surges forward to kiss her, desperate and hungry.

“Yes, gods yes Sansa,” he gasps out before kissing her again.

She moans softly against his mouth and Jaime breathes it in, hand sliding around her hip and down to palm the curve of her bottom, pulling her in tighter against him so he can grind his cock into her belly. They migrate to his bed and he laughs against her mouth as she pulls him down with hungry, impatient hands, her arms twining around his neck to keep him close to her.

They grind together without rhythm until Jaime’s hips shift a bit to the left and then his cock is sliding through the slick seam of her cunt and they’re both gasping and grinding into each other desperately.

Sansa’s fingers twine through his hair and tug as she kisses him, her long legs sliding over his thighs and tangling them together, her body arching up into his so her peaked nipples brush through the hair on his chest, a soft moan filling her throat at the sensation.

Jaime slides his hand from her hip to her breast, thumb seeking out her nipple so he can brush against the tip of it over and over as he kisses her, listening for the quickening of her breath before he pulls away slightly and shifts to kiss her throat.

He still can’t leave marks there, but Sansa is less circumspect now about others in more hidden places so he slides further down her body and takes her nipple into his mouth, sucks on it hard and uses his teeth on the tip of it, the sting of it making her arch and gasp, her fingers raking through his hair and tugging on it.

Jaime groans at the delicious bite of pain and switches to her other nipple, using his fingers on the one that’s now slick and reddened from his mouth, pinching gently and twisting a little to elicit a soft cry that he’s spent many an hour discovering how loud it can grow to be if the right pressure is applied.

Sansa sighs his name and rolls her hips, seeking friction that he’s happy to give her by shifting so she can grind her cunt into his hip, her slick arousal smearing on his skin and making him shudder with desire.

He lingers on her breasts for a time, enjoying the way her moans and gasps grow louder as he teases them, nipping, sucking, tweaking until she’s writhing under him and pushing his head away, her grip on his jaw strong as she holds him in place to meet her gaze.

She’s flushed pink, hair in beautiful disarray, breathing heavily and Jaime has never seen anything more beautiful.

“I need your mouth on me,” she says and Jaime goes readily, thought not without a kiss first. He shoulders between her thighs after kissing her and doesn’t hesitate, licking her cunt with a deep broad stroke of his tongue, groaning as the taste of her fills his mouth. Sansa lets out the sweetest moan and Jaime presses forward, inhaling the scent of her as he licks her again, driving his tongue between her folds before sucking them into his mouth.

When he pulls back slightly to breathe more deeply he moans at the sight of her fiery curls slick with the mess he’s made of her, and before he’s caught his breath he dives back in, tasting her, chasing her slick down to her entrance.

He pushes deeper and groans when the fingers in his hair tighten and pull, Sansa’s moan loud, her thighs trembling around his head as he licks into her over and over again, his own hip grinding down into the bed, cock throbbing hotly between his legs.

He shifts eventually, up to her clit, mouth closing over it wetly so he can suck at it, groaning deeply when Sansa arches sharply and calls out his name in a warbling little cry.

He flicks his tongue against her in sharp quick movements he knows will build her up rapidly, will bring her to her peak in just a few minutes, and as sure as the sky is blue, within minutes Sansa’s back is bowing as she arches off the bed, thighs twitching around his head as she comes with a raw, broken shout of pleasure.

Jaime eases back and kisses over her hips and thighs until her body softens and stops trembling, the fingers in his hair easing their grip and petting at him gently.

When she slides a hand down to the nape of his neck and pulls at him he goes along without hesitation, groaning when she drags him in for a slow, deep kiss, the taste of her passed from his tongue to hers. She moans long and low, the hand not at the nape of his neck sliding down to cup his ass, squeezing gently and encouraging him to rock down against her.

When his cock slides against her cunt this time it’s so slick he pushes deeper and grinds against her clit with his shaft, the head of his cock nudging at it as he rolls his hips back before pushing forward again.

“Jaime, please, Jaime,” Sansa moans softly, her voice hitching as they grind against each other, her mouth a wet press against his, her hands tight against his skin.

“What,” he whispers back, mouth sliding against hers in a messy impression of a kiss. “What do you need my love?”

“I need you,” she says around a soft whine and a roll of her hips. “Inside me, I want to feel you in me,” she pleads, bright blue eyes wide and desperate and it rocks Jaime to his core, the realization that she wants him—no matter how many times she says it or shows that she wants him, it feels almost impossible to truly believe.

“I want you to be with me, as a husband would, as you will for the rest of our days,” she whispers and Jaime goes hot all over, gut tightening with an almost violent rush of arousal and need.

Surging closer, Jaime kisses her desperately, body hot with aching desire that has his hips twitching and grinding down into her more quickly. Sansa twines her arms around his shoulders and pulls him closer, his slick cock sliding against her belly as they grind together, panting and moaning softly.

Jaime’s hand slips on her thigh as he spreads her legs open a little further, fingers slipping on the slickness between her legs before he tests her cunt with his fingers, groaning against her mouth as she clenches around them. “Gods Sansa,” he whispers, throat going thick, “are you sure?”

Sansa slides a hand into his sweat damp hair and grips it tight, her blue eyes blazing brightly as she looks up at him and nods. “I have never been more sure of anything in my life,” she says intently, “as I am of my love of you.”

He kisses her again for that and nods, “Okay love,” he murmurs, “okay.”

Jaime pulls his fingers out of her and wraps them around his cock, spreading the slick over his skin before he edges closer, the head of his cock sliding through the shiny slick coating her cunt, both of them gasping at the sensation.

He does it a few more times and could very easily get lost in the soft breathy gasps that Sansa lets out each time the head of his cock glides over her clit, but her nails dig into his shoulders and she nudges his ass with her foot, urging him forward with a smirk on her crimson lips.

He pushes into her slowly, breath catching in his throat at the tight clutch of her cunt around the head of his cock, and Sansa’s nails bite harder into his shoulders, her mouth falling open around a soft gasp, a look of wonder filling her eyes as he pushes forward slowly, sheathing himself in her warmth.

“Jaime,” she whines on a breathy gasp, body shifting under his, the sweat on her skin shining in the firelight, the pink peaks of her nipples rising and falling as he stops his hips from moving forward and leans down to kiss her. She moans softly against his mouth and slides her hands over his back, nails raking against his skin before sliding up into his hair, tugging and massaging at it as she kisses him with fervor.

“Is it—are you well my love?” he asks softly, lips brushing against hers, their bodies pressed so close together that he can feel when she hums softly, her body moving in a sinuous wave as she arches into him and her cunt clenches down around him, eliciting a loud moan from both of them. She does it again, and then again, her breathing going ragged, small whimpering moans falling from her mouth as she clenches around him, hips rolling down to push him deeper into her body.

“Jaime,” she moans, hands sliding out of his hair, down his back, before settling on his ass and gripping tightly, pulling at him hungrily as she rolls her hips up, and they both moan as he slides deeper into her in one long smooth movement that sheathes him inside her fully.

“Gods,” he curses, “Sansa.”

Jaime’s hand is slick with sweat and the lingering wetness of Sansa’s cunt as he grips her thigh and pulls it up against his hip, encouraging her to wrap it around his waist before he braces his golden hand beside her head and rolls his hips, pushing deeper inside her.

They both moan and Sansa’s nails bite into his skin as she whimpers underneath him, and Jaime trembles with the urge to go harder, faster, but he leashes that desire tightly and only rolls his hips in small slow thrusts, barely moving inside her, but giving them both the stimulation that they desire.

Ducking his head, he presses open mouthed kisses to her jaw as he rolls his hips, nosing along the fine arch of her throat as she moans and arches up into him, hands clinging tightly to him.

“Jaime, more, please more,” she pants, shuddering underneath him as he pushes deeper into her and then pulls back, till it’s just the head of his cock inside her and she whines in protest, and then with one long smooth thrust he sheathes himself inside her again.

He does it again, and then again, over and over till they build a rhythm and they’re both breathing heavily and clutching at each other, the sight of her pale skin flushed and covered in marks from his mouth making Jaime’s cock twitch inside her, intense heat building in his belly.

Bending his head down he nips at her throat before bending further and closing his lips around one of her nipples, sucking it into his mouth before letting it slide back out, only to capture it with his teeth and tug at it, Sansa’s answering sharp cry of pleasure making him repeat the gesture.

His thrusts are uneven and sloppy but he doesn’t relent in his worship of her breasts, switching between them until Sansa’s cries rise in pitch and her cunt clenches around his cock in waves, leaving him dizzy and breathless.

She finds her peak moments later and Jaime buries his face in her throat as she cries out, her cunt clenching, growing wetter around him, the tight heat of her making his cock twitch and his balls draw up, aching to spill inside her. It’s far too soon for that though, so he mouths down her throat and across her collarbones before pushing himself up so he can look down at her beautiful face and see the pink in cheeks, her eyes half closed with pleasure as she arches under him, moaning softly.

When Jaime pulls out of her still pulsing cunt she moans in protest and tries to wrap her legs around him, tugging at him even as he laughs softly at her pouting face. Ducking down, he drops a kiss to her nose and nudges it with his own, his smile soft and sweet. “Come here love,” he encourages, rolling over to his back and leaning himself against the headboard, his hand sliding over her belly before pulling it away and gesturing for her to come sit in his lap.

She stares at him for a long moment, hesitation in her eyes before she comes, straddling his hips and settling so her wet cunt slides against his hard cock, both of them moaning softly. Jaime rolls his hips up into her, the slick slide of her cunt against him sending shivers over his body, desire building in him once more as Sansa gasps and braces herself on his chest as she grinds down against him.

“Jaime,” she pants out, “please, I need more,” she moans, nails biting into his chest.

“Hold me,” he instructs her, nodding when she reaches for his cock, “that’s it love, go ahead,” he murmurs, groaning softly when she sinks down on his cock, mouth falling open around a soft gasp.

Jaime groans, watching as her cunt takes him in, the tight wet heat of her enveloping him and sending a hot shudder down his spine that has his eyes falling half closed and his hand flying out to close around her hip. When she settles in his lap Jaime slides his hand up her belly, before closing it around her pretty pert breast and thumbing at the nipple, studying the way it makes her shiver and her cunt spasm.

Sansa breathes out his name and shifts her hips, a low moan falling from her lips as she tries the movement again, her hands braced on his chest as she begins to move, her lovely face furrowed with intensity as sensation begins to build. Jaime keeps a hand cupped around her breast, thumbing at the nipple as she begins to ride him, her breathless little moans making his blood pulse hotly in his veins and his cock twitch inside her.

She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—her snow pale skin flushed and shining with sweat, turning her a pale gold against his own darker sun and age burnished skin. She is vibrant and full of life, and he stares at her in wonder, throat thick with emotion as she gasps his name and rakes her nails against his chest as she finds her pleasure.

Her cunt is hot and wet around him, the sound of their coupling filling the room alongside gasps and moans, both of them breathless and desperate—and when Jaime begins to roll his hips up to meet Sansa’s downward thrusts they both cry out in pleasure, hands gripping tight, moans loud and hungry.

Heat fills Jaime, every inch of his body aching with the fire that burns inside him so hotly he feels like it’ll burst out of his skin and set them both ablaze as their coupling grows desperate, bodies moving together in a frantic rhythm, Sansa’s cries of pleasure growing in pitch as Jaime slides his hand down her sweat slick belly and begins rubbing at her clit.

“That’s it love, come for me,” he pants out, shifting to raise his knees behind her back so he has more leverage to thrust up into her harder, his fingers relentless against the slick skin of her cunt, groaning deeply at the way she cries out his name, cunt spasming and clenching at his cock so tightly he sees stars.

“Jaime!” Sansa cries out, head falling back as she rides him harder, nails biting into the skin of his chest as he thrusts up into her just as desperately as she rides him, his answering groan of her name loud and long.

They’re not being careful—if the whole castle doesn’t know what has happened here by morning he’ll be astounded—but some part of him, some greedy, dark, twisted part of him hopes that everyone will hear, will know, know that she’s chosen him for whatever gods-blessed reason, and that he’s brought her to the heights of pleasure when no one else has.

Jaime pants and groans as Sansa’s cunt clenches around him in waves as her peak approaches, her cries closer to sobs, her gasps of his name pleading. He presses harder on her clit as he thrusts up into her, rhythm relentless and intense until she shatters apart above him, her cry so loud her voice breaks, thighs spasming around his hips, her spine melting as she collapses against him.

She moans in his ear as he keeps stroking her clit and thrusting, determined to wring as much pleasure out of her as he can, even as his own release builds in his belly, the scorching hot tension inside him building until he feels like he’ll burn alive. Sansa kisses him messily, moans still pouring from her lips as she trembles against him, tiny whimpers in her throat as he strokes her clit with shaky fingers, his release so close he’s unsteady.

“Jaime,” she breathes out weakly, “come now,” she urges, hips rolling weakly against his thrusts. “Come in me,” she whispers, and Jaime lets out a sound that some might call a whimper as he finally spills, pushing his face into her throat as he continues thrusting, whimpering moans that make him burn with shame falling from his lips as he chases the ecstasy of release inside her hot, tight cunt.

Sansa twines her fingers in his hair, holding his face against the sleek column of her throat as his thrusts slow, his breathing ragged as the ecstatic grip of his release starts to slow and fade. He can smell their sweat, her sweet cunt and his salty come and it makes his blood burn at the primal combination of them—and then her hair falls against his face and he smells pine and his eyes burn with unbidden emotion that his beloved Wolf Queen is his.

Sansa slumps heavily against him and he happily winds his arms around her waist, humming in satisfaction as she rubs her fingers against his scalp, her nose buried in damp hair, lips curled into a smile where they’re pressing against his temple.

She gasps softly when, a few minutes later, his soft cock slips out of her in a warm rush of come that makes his gut twist with desire—he wants to see it, lick it out of her and make her come again on his tongue.

Contemplating it, he hesitates for only a moment before flipping them over and kissing her deeply before sliding down her body and spreading her thighs so he can better see her cunt, the shy Jaime and attempt to close her legs earning her a fond smile and a kiss to her thigh before he settles back between her legs and begins licking her clean, a deep groan falling from his lips.

“Gods,” she cries out, hands furrowing into his hair as she gasps and arches into his mouth.

He doesn’t relent until he’s licked all of his come out of her, tasted her salty sweet slick, and made her come twice more—and only then because she shoves him away with a weak laugh and a gasp of his name.

After, he wets a cloth and wipes the sweat from her skin before tending to himself, smiling softly at the way her eyelids grow heavy as he slides back under the covers beside her. She curls into him instantly, her soft cheek pressing to his chest, the silky strands of her hair under his nose smelling of pine—the scent of which brings a tired smile to his face and a deep sense of home that makes his heart ache.

The sleep that comes after is the best he’s ever had.

Their journey continues on with a month long voyage to Bear Island where Lady Mormont greets them in her usual brusque manner, her gaze sharp as it flickers between Sansa and Jaime, a little too knowing for his liking or comfort. Still, she says nothing and instead takes them on a tour of the castle the grounds, her explanation of the resources the island provides to the nation concise and intelligent in way he can tell Sansa appreciates.

When they retire to a private chamber with Lyanna, she hands over a packet of letters from Sansa’s small council, as well as from King Bran and his small council while Jaime gets a separate letter from Tyrion that he pockets for when he’s alone. They’re served a hearty meal that Sansa barely pays attention to as she reviews the letters and questions Lyanna extensively on how the realm has been in her absence from Winterfell.

They work through another meal until finally Sansa calls an end to their meeting and dismisses Lyanna and Jaime, leaving him at loose ends for a time until he decides to take another walk around the walls and make sure that everything is secure. At least on an island they’d have advanced warning of anyone coming to try and attack Sansa, but it also means that they’re easily cut off from the mainland and unable to escape should attackers establish a blockade.

The wind whips even more bitterly than at the walls of Winterfell, the sea around the island violent and angry as winter deepens. Jaime shudders against the bitter bite of the wind and wraps his cloak around him tighter before heading inside the castle and hurrying to his quarters where he’s pleased to find a roaring fire awaiting him.

Even better is the sight of Sansa, curled in his bed, fiery strands of hair splayed out across the pillow as she sleeps, face peaceful in its rest. He’s rooted to the spot by the sight of her until eventually her eyes flicker open and a warm smile curls her lovely mouth upwards, one of her hands slipping from under the pillow to reach out to him.

“Come, sleep,” she encourages and he goes to her, bends low and kisses her sweetly for a moment before stripping out of his clothes and joining her under the covers, the delicious warmth of her body pressing eagerly to his sending a shiver over his skin.

“Hello my love,” he murmurs against her mouth, both of them smiling into the embrace.

“Hello my darling,” Sansa whispers, fingers brushing against his jaw with a tenderness that makes his throat go thick with emotion. He leans into the touch as it strays into his hair, the gentle rasp of Sansa’s nails against his scalp sending a soft shiver over his spine and making his eyelids grow increasingly heavier.

It’s not long before he’s asleep, and when he wakes in the morning Sansa is still there at his side, fast asleep while snow falls out the window, the bitter chill filtering in from outside tempered by the fire in the hearth. Someone must have come and tended to it, and he’s surprised he didn’t wake, but silently grateful that he didn’t have to be the one to leave the warmth of their bed to manage the flames.

He’s doing better now, with the fire—his dreams are more frequently taken up by the heat of lust, Sansa writhing and moaning under him, rather than the horrors of Kings Landing burning.

Shifting onto his side, he watches her sleep now, intense fondness filling him at the way she snores softly—such an inelegant sound coming from a woman he thinks personifies elegance. Gently, he runs his fingers down her spine and pushes the blankets lower, till the swell of her sweet bottom is just barely exposed and then trails them back up again, studying the way she shivers in her sleep. He toys with the long strands of her hair and brushes what’s fallen into her face out of the way so he can better see her beauty while she sleeps, once again lost in wonderment that someone as good as her could possibly love him.

Eventually she shifts and makes a sleepy sound, eyes blinking open slowly, gaze foggy with slumber as her eyes find him and go soft and happy. When she reaches for him he goes willingly and kisses her soundly, a soft noise of pleasure in his throat at the way she curls into him, her body pressing into him and immediately rousing his desire. It’s not long before he’s rolling on top of Sansa and deepening the kiss, both of them moaning softly as they move against each other with growing need.

Eventually he slips away from Sansa’s luscious mouth and slips beneath the covers with a wink and a chuckle at the way it makes her blush even deeper, her hands following him and fisting in his hair as his mouth finds her sweet cunt. He stays there until he’s made her come twice on his tongue and another with both his mouth and fingers, the sheets under them soaked with her release.

He’s barely above the sheets before Sansa is pushing him over onto his back and straddling him, sinking down onto his cock and enveloping him in the wet heat of her cunt, the tight clutch of it ripping a loud groan from him and making his hips buck up into her.

She moves against him in a fast, desperate pace that he matches with pounding thrusts that have her crying out loudly, neither of them bothering to try and stay quiet with how caught up in each other they are. It doesn’t take long for either of them to reach their peak with how desperately they’re fucking—Jaime's heart is racing in his chest and his whole body practically burns with desire and the desperate need to come, and Sansa seems hardly any better.

When Sansa comes, Jaime’s vision goes white at the way her cunt clenches at him, all of the air leaving his lungs as she continues riding him, her high pitched moans of his name shaky sounding. He clutches at her hip desperately and thrusts a few more times before he too is coming, his release tearing out of him with a shout that makes his throat hoarse and leaves him shuddering as it goes on and on.

They’re both gasping raggedly for air as they slow and then still, bodies pressed together in a hot line, the scent of the sweat and come on both of their skin filling the air.

“Marry me,” Sansa murmurs in his ear and Jaime goes absolutely still, certain that he’s gone mad and is hallucinating that which he yearns for the most, but then Sansa sits up and pushes her hair back from her face and stares intently down at him and says it again.

“Marry me,” she says, “tonight—we’ll go to the Godswood on the island and be joined under the eyes of the Old Gods and be husband and wife.”

Jaime remains still and silent, shock robbing him of his words as he tries to wrap his head around the idea of suddenly getting what he wants.

Sansa smiles softly and leans down again, presses her lips to his and whispers, “Marry me Jaime, marry me and be mine forever.”

With a strangled noise, he tangles his fingers in her hair and kisses her desperately, nodding and gasping out yes over and over again until they’re both laughing softly and kissing each other with a delighted passion that, were he a decade younger would lead to another roll in the sheets.

Instead, they eventually part and clean themselves off with a quick wipe down before Jaime helps Sansa into her gown and then walks her to his door where Aros and Flynn stand guard. Sansa kisses him until he’s breathless and whispers tonight against his lips before slipping away, Aros and Flynn flanking her on her way back to her quarters, leaving Jaime staring after her with a lovestruck smile on his face that he’s completely unashamed of.

The day goes quickly with more time spent reviewing the status of the nation while they’re on tour, meetings with the lords and ladies of Bear Island, meals, and letter writing—until finally dusk is falling and Jaime is slipping out of the castle and riding to the Godswood, excitement building in him with each moment that he’s carried closer to Sansa.

When he breaks through the trees he finds Sansa waiting for him already, accompanied by Aros, Flynn and Aisha—their trio of secret keepers that have enabled them to be with each other as closely as they have, and now will allow them to marry in privacy.

He barely waits for his horse to stop before he’s dismounting and handing off the reins to Aros with a sincere murmurs of thanks. He hurries over to Sansa, drinking in the sight of her in an emerald green gown, her red hair glowing against it and drawing him in like a beacon—she’s in his arms in the next moment, lips pressing to his eagerly and Jaime sinks into it, joy building in his chest now that they’re here together.

Eventually they part, foreheads pressing together as they smile at each other, Jaime’s golden arm around her waist and her hands cupping his face gently, neither of them speaking for a long moment as they savor simply being together.

“Do you know the Northern ways of marriage?” Sansa asks quietly and Jaime nods—he'd spoken to Aisha earlier in the day and learned the words that they’d need to speak, and though he doesn’t have a Lannister cloak to put on her shoulders, he finds that he’s more than happy to leave that tradition out after all that the Lannisters have done to her and the North.

Stepping back, he takes Sansa’s hand in his and leads them to the heart tree, aware that Aros, Flynn and Aisha are standing both guard and witness to what will transpire. “Ready?” he asks her softly, grinning at her eager nod, heart thundering so loudly in his chest that he takes a few deep breaths to steady himself before he starts speaking the words that will bind them together forever.

“Who comes? Who comes before the gods?” he asks, smiling at her and squeezing her hands in his.

“Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, I come to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim me?” she responds confidently, cheeks pink with the way the wind blows gently between the red leaves of the weirwood.

“Me, Jaime of House Lannister, I claim her. Who gives her?”

“I bring myself,” Sansa says with a brilliant smile, “and who brings this man?”

“I bring myself,” Jaime responds, “joyfully and gratefully to marriage with my beloved.”

Sansa’s blush deepens and she squeezes his hands and then guides them down onto their knees before the weirwood to pray in silence for the Old Gods’ blessing on their union.

When they stand again, Jaime nods at Aros and waits until the man has approached with the cloak that Jaime had brought before he turns back to Sansa and takes one of her hands in his.

“You can say no to this,” he assures her before shaking out the cloak and showing her the fabric where the Stark sigil is embroidered, “but I would be honored if you would allow me to wear your cloak,” he tells her. “I am yours, body and soul and would gladly take your name if you would give it to me,” he says, feeling breathless as he holds it out to her, waiting to see if she’ll take it.

Sansa appears stunned, silent and still for a long moment before she nods unevenly and takes the cloak from him with shaking fingers. “Kneel,” she murmurs softly, and Jaime obeys without hesitation—she could give him any order and he knows without reservation that she would not request something that would bring either of them dishonor or dismay.

“Jaime Lannister, I take you under the protection of my house and give you my name. I swear fealty to you and pledge to love and honor you all of our days. I will ask no duty of you that dishonors you, and bid you to do the same. Arise, and be Jaime Stark this day, and every day, until our last.”

His vision blurs as the cloak settles firmly around his shoulders, and when he rises to his feet he can see there are tears on her cheeks as well. They fall into another embrace, clinging to each other as the wind blows and snow swirls around them, the crimson leaves of the weirwood rustling softly like the voices of the Old Gods are speaking their blessing.

Eventually Jaime feels Sansa shiver and forces himself to step back and look at his wife—his wife—struck dumb by the idea that she’s his and he’s hers, now and forever. Grinning broadly, he offers her his hand, “Come wife, let me take you back to the castle and warm you,” he says with a lecherous wink that sends her into peals of laughter.

She takes his hand and allows herself to be led to his horse, and once she’s safely in the saddle he swings himself up behind her and pulls her close, wrapping the edges of her cloak around them both as protection against the winter winds before he nudges the horse into action and points them back to the castle.

They don’t hide their joined hands or laughter, nor the cloak on his shoulders, and in their wake he can hear whispers from the servants, but neither he nor Sansa pause to care, focused only on each other as they return to her quarters and shut the world out. 

They stay on Bear Island for another week, enduring the scowls and scolding from the fierce Lady Lyanna—though they eventually turn to small smiles of approval when Jaime makes his pledge of loyalty again, demonstrating to the Lady that his whole heart lies in the palm of Sansa’s hand.

After that it is a one day journey from Bear Island to Deepwood Motte, where the welcome from the remaining Glovers is muted, far more so than is appropriate for their Queen and Jaime worries that they’ll find themselves at the tip of a sword once more. Sansa is grace and charm personified, but late at night in their chambers she paces restlessly and sends ravens to her King in the South brother.

The ravens find them, a week later on their journey back to Winterfell, caught in a storm in the Wolfswood.

Curled close around her to ward off the bitter winds and snow, Jaime reads Bran’s reply over her shoulder, brow lifting at the measured words of congratulations that have been sent. There is an allusion to things seen in the fire long ago, and a shiver runs over his skin when he recalls those haunting white eyes of the King, of the power that resides in a boy he’d tried so carelessly to kill.

“Bran says he sees nothing in the flames or his dreams that indicate betrayal from the Glovers,” Sansa murmurs. “He says there will be a time of unrest upon our return but that’s hardly a surprise—once word of our union reaches the people and the lords, I fear we will have some hard days ahead.”

Jaime nuzzles into her hair, inhaling the scent of pine and snow and Sansa, heart in his throat as he closes his eyes and asks, “Any regrets?”

He can hear the shuffle of paper and feel Sansa shifting in his arms, not enough to turn around, but perhaps enough for her to see the worry on his face.

“Only that our grain stores may not last through the winter,” she says lightly, fingers tracing over the hand he has spread across her waist. Huffing out a soft laugh, Jaime nudges her hair aside so he can kiss the soft skin of her neck, smiling at the way she tilts her head to give him better access. “I have no regrets husband,” she says softly, settling back into him more firmly, “and until the day I do, we won’t speak of this again.”

Tucking his face into her throat, Jaime nods and holds her tighter, all his arguments and fears washed away by her bone deep certainty. If he is what she wants, then he will stay by her side until the day he dies, or the day she commands him to leave—whichever comes first.

Jaime has a sharp eye on Sansa as they approach Winterfell’s walls—despite the bitter winds, her cheeks are pale and her eyes are glassy, unfocused, in a way that he fears bodes ill. She perks up at the sight of her people gathered inside, a smile gracing her pale lips as she waves, though her movements are small and tired. He shares a concerned look with Lady Lyanna who has traveled from Bear Island with them and urges his horse forward, moving to take a place closer to her side.

Sansa spares him a weak smile before turning her attention back to her people, her energy waning the further they go into the keep, until finally her hands lay still against the pommel of her saddle.

When they close the inner keep gates behind them Jaime dismounts, tossing the reins to a waiting stable boy as he hurries to Sansa’s side, huffing in annoyance when another member of the Queensguard comes between them. By the time he passes around the horse and rider, Sansa is halfway off her horse, and before he can reach her side, collapses into the snow with a weak gasp.

Heart thundering in his chest, he shoves aside another member of the guard, fixated on the stillness of her body, on the splay of her fiery hair against the icy snow, of the bloom of darker red in the snow under her skirts and the stain that’s soaking into the rich woolen fabric.

“Call for the Maester!” he orders as he sweeps her into his arms, body shuddering weakly when he feels how cold and limp she is in his embrace, her breath barely a puff against his throat when her head falls upon his shoulder.

He runs then, runs to her quarters faster than he’s ever run and places her down on her bed, groaning in horror at the smears of her blood on his shirt, on his hands. Gods, he cannot lose her, he cannot.

On his knees at her side, he cups her face with a shaking hand and calls her name as tears blur his vision, heart thundering in his chest as she remains still, so still he can barely see the rise and fall of her chest.

“My Lord Commander, you must move.”

Blinking away tears, he looks up and finds the kind but firm face of the Maester staring down at him.

Shaking his head, Jaime rises to his feet, “No, I will not, she is my—”

“I do not doubt your affection or devotion to our Queen, but the blood is coming from an intimate place—”

“I am her husband,” Jaime cuts in sharply, “I am aware of those places and will not be removed from her side.”

The Maester huffs and frowns, “My Lord, her condition is failing and we are wasting time—either leave and let me do my work or delay longer and we may yet lose her.”

Every instinct within Jaime screams not to go, but the Maester is right—Sansa grows weaker with every moment and needs his healing and Jaime cannot stand here and argue the point any longer. Nodding sharply, he moves aside, gently ushered out into the living quarters by one of the maids before the door shuts firmly in his face and he’s left standing by the cold fireplace, hand covered in Sansa’s blood and no idea if she’ll survive.

“Sansa! Sansa!!”

Jon barrels into the room, followed closely by Arya, both of whom are turned away from the bedroom door, though the maid doing so looks petrified of saying no to Arya, she stands firm in her refusal.

“What is going on?” Jon demands of Jaime, blanching at the sight of Sansa’s blood on his hands. “We heard she collapsed, bleeding, but no one can tell us more—were you attacked on the road?”

Jaime shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the bedroom door to look at his wife’s family. “No, there was no attack, everything was fine. She looked ill as we made our approach today, but she said nothing to me of any troubles. I don’t know...I don’t know,” he trails off weakly, throat tight as his stomach roils with bile.

“I’m going in there,” Arya says, “and I’ll cut down anyone who tries to stop me,” she threatens darkly, glaring at the poor maid.

“No,” Jaime snaps, stepping between her and the door, ignoring the sharp bite of Needle against his throat, waving Jon off with one hand. “Arya, the Maester needs to work, if we want her to live, we must let him work.”

Arya scowls at him for a long moment before whipping her sword away and storming out the room, the sharp clang of the door behind her sending a flinch through him.

He and Jon stand there uselessly until he feels the tackiness of drying blood on his hands and quietly asks the maid to send for a basin of hot water. He retreats to his own quarters and scrubs his hands until they’re raw and red, but clean. His bloodied shirt gets similar treatment, though he’s forced to give up when his shaking fingers let the bar of soap fall one too many times.

When he’s dressed again he returns to Sansa’s quarters and finds Jon there, sitting by a roaring fire, hands clasped tightly together as he stares into the flames, eyes vacant and hollow with fear.

“She used to be such a brat when we were children,” Jon finally says, gaze slipping from the fire down to the floor as he shakes his head fondly, “Bossing me around and putting on airs—I hated her sometimes and I think she hated me too. But then...” he sighs deeply and shakes his head again, “everything changed and we were all we had. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he murmurs and Jaime feels bile rising in his throat.

“Stop speaking as though she is already dead,” he snaps, rising to his feet to pace, unable to remain still any longer.

Jon doesn’t reply and Jaime doesn’t apologize, just continues his steady journey back and forth through the room, the silence beyond the door to Sansa’s bedchambers tortuous.

Eventually the door opens and the maids emerge with basins of bloody water and heaps of stained fabric, but none of them are weeping or grieving and his heart leaps with hope, knees going weak when the Maester emerges and gives them a smile.

“She is well—weak, but well,” he tells them and Jaime catches a hand out onto the back of a chair to hold himself upright.

“What the Seven Hells happened?” Arya demands and Jaime has no idea when she returned, but he too would like to know, and looks at the Maester expectantly.

The man’s face turns inscrutable and he folds his hand together, “That is the Queen’s information to tell,” he demurs, “and she would like to see the Lord Commander first,” he murmurs, ignoring Arya’s sharp cry of protest and Jon’s own indignation.

Jaime doesn’t wait for another moment, just sidesteps the Maester and leaves him to deal with the two other Starks of Winterfell, the door closing heavily behind him.

Sansa is sitting up in bed when he sees her, cheeks still far too pale, but she’s alive and awake and he collapses at her bedside, tears of relief springing to his eyes as he lifts a shaking hand to cup her cheek.

“Sansa, what happened?” he asks in a hoarse whisper, voice cracking with emotion. “You fell.”

With a weak smile Sansa covers his hand with her own and presses it harder into her face for a moment before pulling it away and pulling it down to rest over her belly, her gaze intent and it takes only a moment of consideration before realization strikes like a bolt of lightining.

“A child?” he asks incredulously, “truly?”

Sansa nods and slides her other hand around the nape of his neck, “The Maester thinks I am between three and four months along,” she tells him, “the journey was tiresome to begin with, but for a baby...” she smiles softly, “It strained the child. For now I must rest, but the Maester thinks with hardy meals and sleep I’ll be back on my feet within a fortnight.”

A child—their child—Jaime shakes his head in wonder, fingers shaking as they spread out across her belly gently, his gaze drawn there with a bone deep hunger he doesn’t recognize, has never felt before. Her belly is flat still, perhaps a small curve there, but as she’d said—the road had been hard on them all and it’s no small wonder that her body had begun to struggle under the toll of both a child and tour of the country in Winter.

Gaze darting back up to her face he asks worriedly, “And you—are you well? You look so tired my love,” he murmurs, heart in his throat when she smiles softly and cards her fingers through his hair.

“I am tired,” she agrees with a soft laugh, “I feel as though I could sleep for a fortnight, but the Maester says that once I have more hardy meats and blood in my body I will feel stronger.”

“And...are you pleased—to be with child?” Jaime asks, heart once more thundering in his chest as he waits for her answer—because it is one thing to be married to a Lannister, it is entirely another matter to bear the child of one.

Sansa looks truly surprised by the question and her gaze goes searching and intent for a long moment before understand passes across her beautiful features.

“You mean am I pleased to be carrying your child?” Sansa murmurs and Jaime nods weakly, sick to his stomach as he waits for her response. Sansa smiles sadly and brushes her fingers through his hair once more, “It worries you that I might say no, even after we have wed?”

Jaime looks away, throat tight. “It is one thing to be married to a Lannister, it is entirely another matter to bear the child of one,” he whispers.

“It is a very good thing then, that you are not a Lannister,” she replies softly. She runs her fingers through his hair and hums softly, “It is sooner than I had imagined, I’ll admit, but I feel nothing but joy at the thought of our child Jaime.” She laughs, “Well, perhaps exhaustion too, but that will pass eventually.”

Fingers curl around his jaw and tilt his face up so her gaze can meet his and his heart trips over in his chest at the warm smile on her face. “Are you pleased beloved husband?” she asks lightly and Jaime nods fervently, tears welling in his eyes as he leans up to kiss her firmly, heart lightening at the soft laugh that passes her lips and presses into his.

“I could not have asked for a greater joy,” he replies, pressing his brow to hers.

Sansa closes her eyes and hums, a soft smile on her face. “Good. Because now we must tell my family and the small council,” she says and Jaime comes crashing back to reality. “Can you call Jon and Arya in so we may tell them our joyous news?” she asks and Jaime nods, presses another kiss to her lips before rising to do her bidding.

He moves to stand at Sansa’s shoulder, one of her hands clasped in his own as Jon and Arya enter and close the door behind them, both their faces warring between relief and suspicion at the way Jaime and Sansa touch each other.

“What the Seven Hells Sansa?!” Arya proclaims, “why did you collapse in a pool of blood?”

Sansa huffs out a breath and rolls her eyes, “It was hardly a pool of blood Arya,” she says dryly, “nonetheless, I know you have both been worried. I want to share with you joyous news—Jaime and I were wed before the gods on Bear Island and are expecting our first child. I collapsed because the strains of the road affected the child, but the Maester says the child is strong and I will regain my strength in the fortnight.”

Looking between her gob smacked sister and her stunned brother, she lifts a brow. “Questions?”

There are many, as it turns out, though neither Jon nor Arya seem all that surprised that they’re wedded, and eventually when they run out of questions and Sansa runs out of energy, Jaime gently escorts them out and sends the maid for supper. He ensures that Sansa eats everything and then carefully tucks her into her bed before undressing himself and curling up behind her, his fingers spread out over the gentle swell of her belly as he drifts off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The Small Council takes the news well—Samwell blushes like a virgin and Lyanna is practicality down to the bone, her urging that they begin spreading the word as soon as possible met with agreement from Jaime and Sansa both.

Sansa writes up a message that is straightforward and brief, and Sam takes it to be transcribed by scribes dozens of times over so it can be delivered to every town, city and fastholding in the country.

By the end of the fortnight of her confinement Sansa is like a filly ready to race—her eyes are bright and her limbs tremble with restless energy that Jaime teases her about until she demands he take her out for a walk around the walls of the castle. It’s bitterly cold out and they bicker over the appropriate amount of layers, but eventually they’re out and Jaime can’t help but stare at Sansa’s beauty—cheeks pinked from the wind, eyes bright, generous mouth curled up into a brilliant smile.

Sansa insists on getting back into the business of governing, gathering her council together to discuss grain stores, hunting schedules, and the possibility of greenhouses to plant crops throughout the Winter—there's no telling how long it will last, so it’s imperative they plan how to survive after nearly a decade of war have depleted their men and their food stores.

Sam takes to the task eagerly with the Maester—his enthusiasm amusing Jaime and Sansa both as the Winter progresses and their sources for amusement grow thin, while Sansa’s waist grows thicker with each day that passes. Their only other source of amusement is the growing relationship between Arya and Gendry—the latter of whom moons sadly every time Arya ignores him.

Jaime finds most of his time is spent ensuring that Sansa eats and sleeps enough, though once they’re through the first few months and her sickness wanes, Jaime finds that her passion returns with a fervor that finds him pushed to his knees in shadowy corners in order to bring his beloved wife to her peak. He knows that the servants have seen and heard them more than once and it embarrasses Sansa when he teases her, but it does nothing to stop her from taking what she wants or him from giving it to her.

They spend many hours discussing names for the child, with contributions from Jon and Arya being weighed equally, the options whittled down over time until they finally agree on two names; one each for a boy and a girl.

Joanna Cateyln Stark and Robbard Jaime Stark

Jaime is also pleased to see Jon looking lighter—his excitement for Sansa’s baby has brought a new light to his eyes that Sansa tells him one night she hasn’t seen there in years. He’s seen Jon talking quietly to the woman that Sansa has hired as her personal scribe and he thinks that too has brought new life to a man nearly as ravaged by war and loss as Jaime once was.

Halfway through Sansa’s pregnancy her father’s former advisors and the Maester encourage her to seclude herself as every other Queen would, advice which is met with barely concealed derision from Sansa when the men assemble before her and insist that it is unseemly for a Queen to remain uncloistered when in such a private condition.

“Private my Lord? Women in our land have been bearing and birthing children for thousands of years, whether they are Queen or peasant, their condition is never private, it is borne for all to see,” Sansa replies sharply. “This child is my heir, the next Queen or King to sit this throne and I will not pretend like it, or I, do not exist simply to satisfy your delicate sensibilities.”

Jaime barely hides a smirk at the disgruntlement on the Lord’s faces, though his amusement fades when he sees the ugly looks the men send his way. It strikes him then, that this may have less to do with trying to force Sansa to conform and more to do with the parentage of the child. He doesn’t mention it to Sansa because there’s no use in angering her further or driving another wedge between her and her Lords.

They may have need to call on her bannermen in the future, so he keeps his head down and his thoughts to himself but keeps a watchful eye on the Lords and asks Arya to keep an even more watchful eye on them, a request that’s met with vicious glee that’s only slightly worrisome.

So Sansa remains present, holding meetings with her council, her Lords, and her people. When Artos and Ashara appear to provide a report on the progress of the school in their village, Jaime watches fondly as Sansa holds Ashara in her lap, nodding along to her vibrant storytelling, her affection and happiness clear to anyone who cares to look at her face. Ashara finally meets Arya and as predicted, they become thick as thieves, whispering in corners while Artos looks on with trepidation and Sansa with amusement.

It helps, Jaime thinks, for the people to see her as more than just a distant unaproachable figure--to see her as a woman with love in her heart for her people, with kindness and gentleness for those most vulnerable, but also a steely inner strength that’s matched only by the strength of the sword at her hip. It’s another thing the Lords dislike—her sword and dagger.

It’s unseemly, unladylike—and so many other such grumbles that are quickly silenced when Sansa alludes to her execution of her would be assassins and the way her own father swung the sword just the same.

“I am no soft southron Queen,” she reminds them, “I am the Queen in the North, a Stark of Winterfell, a descendent of the First Men and by rights I carry the sword forged of my father’s steel. I am a wolf my Lords, and if you press, you will feel my teeth.”

Jaime and Jon share a look that day, amusement and pride, and he worships her that night, brings her to her peak over and over again until she’s trembling and weak, half asleep as he bathes her tenderly.

When Tormund and his people travel down they throw a feast at which Jaime can finally dance with Sansa, because now everyone knows that Jaime is hers, and she is his. His tunic is hand embroidered by the Queen herself, black direwolves against a warm ochre background, rich green pines reaching into the sky, the fabric fading into a deep blue that’s dotted with silver stars.

Tormund sweeps Sansa around the dance floor and Jaime looks on fondly, a smile tugging at his lips as she laughs and dances, stunning in a dress that matches his tunic, a declaration in everything but words that they are them, husband and beloved wife, Queen and her Lord love.

Later, when Sansa has given in to her exhaustion and most of the guests have retired to bed, she, Jaime, Tormund and Jon retire to their quarters and share stories of their travels, myths of the wildlings, and other lies that roll easily from the tongue after many goblets of wine. Jaime laughs as Tormund tells a story and massages Sansa’s feet where they rest in his lap, glancing over to where she’s reclining back against the chaise, eyelids heavy even as she smiles and tries to follow along with Tormund’s story.

Eventually it grows quiet and all three men sit quietly together, as only soldiers can, until the silence is broken by Sansa’s soft snore. Tormund snorts softly in amusement and looks to Jaime, “I hope her snoring doesn’t keep you awake at night, one of my women snore like the growl of a bear, and though I loved her, I could not bear it.” Jaime and Jon both laugh, their amusement softening when Sansa makes a sleepy sound and shifts restlessly.

“She could scream and shout in her sleep and I wouldn’t give a shit,” Jaime says honestly, aware of the naked affection in his voice and completely uncaring or unembarrased. Jon makes a disgusted sound and yet the soft caring in his eyes tells Jaime how pleased he is by Jaime’s declaration.

“Well, as long as you’re making her scream and shout while she’s awake,” Tormund leers with a wink that Jaime and Jon both groan at, their laughter just loud enough to rouse Sansa from her sleep. She lets out a sleepy sound of curiosity and Jaime slips out from under her, hushing her softly as he sweeps her into his arms, heart aching tenderly when she nuzzles into his throat and goes limp with sleep once more.

He nods to Jon and Tormund and carries her to their bed, kicking the door shut behind them so he can undress her with gentle hands and tuck her into their sheets, her sleepy protests warming his heart. When he finally has her settled and has pressed up against her back she reaches for his hand and draws it around her waist, pressing it into the round swell of her belly so he can feel the way their child dances and rolls within.

Tucking his face into the nape of her neck, Jaime inhales sleepily and smiles at the familiar scent of pine. He thinks that it might very well be his favorite scent in the whole world, the one that signifies safety and love and family. He’s heard from many a mother and midwife that the scent of a newborn baby is the greatest in the world and he yearns to find out, to see if his child will hold the bite of the North in their skin as Sansa seems to.

He falls asleep easily that night, and there are no nightmares, not for either of them, not for many months now, only deep easy sleep.

Jaime kneels before the throne, heart beating wildly in his chest as he looks up through his lashes as where Sansa sits, resplendent in a shimmering gold dress embroidered with glimmering silver direwolves that fits snugly over her belly, her crown sitting snugly on her brow. Once again his tunic matches her—gold with silver direwolves that howl at a shimmering silver moon over his heart.

Sansa’s face is impassive and regal, but he sees fire in her eyes as she looks out over her assembled Lords and Ladies, all of them brought here today to see the culmination of a long battle between a Queen and her Lords. He knows many of them loath him, and he can hardly blame them, not after what his family has done to Westeros, but he is no longer the man he was—he knows true devotion and true love now, and could not picture himself ever serving anyone other than Sansa.

He knows her goodness, her honor, and he trusts in the vows they made to each other when they wedded, the vows they will renew before their Lords today—she will never ask of him something he cannot give, and he in turn will never do something to dishonor her as his wife or his Queen.

Sansa rises to her feet, steady as a rock and comes to stand before him, the Maester there to hold the crown that’s been fashioned for him, the crown that terrifies him with the weight of its meaning. Sansa’s eyes soften slightly when they come to rest on him, before her jaw tightens and she lifts her sword, Wolf’s Bite, fashioned for her by Jaime and now used to bestow upon him a title that he feels terror and joy alike to accept.

“I, Sansa, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Northern Kingdom, and Protector of the Realm do declare for now and all of time, Lord Jaime as my lawfully wedded husband before the Old Gods and the New, Lord Commander of the Queensguard, and Lord Consort to the Queen.”

Her sword rests heavy on his shoulder and Jaime stares up at her with naked adoration in his eyes, waiting for the rest of what she has to say, the words that will hopefully solidify the Lord’s trust in him, in them.

“Jaime Lannister, I take you under the protection of my house and give you my name. I swear fealty to you and pledge to love and honor you all of our days. I will ask no duty of you that dishonors you, and bid you to do the same,” she says loud and clear, gaze sweeping the room to stare defiantly at each every Lord and Lady gathered there, her mouth twitching with amusment when her gaze lands on Tormund and his glowing grin.

When her gaze falls back to him, Jaime clears his throat and speaks. "I am yours, my Queen," he says. "I will shield your back and give my life for yours, keep your counsel and love your people as my own. I will never forsake or dishonor you, I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Sansa nods solemnly and taps his other shoulder with her sword before sheathing it smoothly at her waist and pride ripples through him at her easy handling of her weapon—she's come so far from the early days of their training that even now, heavy with child she could fend of most attacks until help could arrive or she could flee.

She takes the crown from the Maester and steps forward, hand steady as they lower it onto his brow. “Arise, and be Jaime Stark, Lord Consort, this day, and every day, until our last,” she says, loud and clear for all to hear, joy glowing in her brilliant icy blue eyes.

Jaime rises and rests his hand atop the one she offers, taking his place at her side.

“Hail! The Queen in the North!” he calls loudly, chest vibrating as the Lords and Ladies call back loudly with their hails.

“Hail! The Lord Consort!” Sansa calls, and Jaime shivers when the Lords and Ladies return her call just as loudly as they had before.

The calls continue, hailing them both, and Sansa turns to him, regal demeanor falling away as she smiles brilliantly at him and leans in for a fierce kiss that draws him in, hand falling to the swell of her belly as the shouts of their people fade to ringing in his ears, his focus on her and their child, now and always.

He inhales and the scent of pine and snow fills his nose—the scent of Sansa, of Winterfell, of home.

“Hail, Wolf Queen of my heart, beloved wife, my Sansa,” he murmurs against her mouth, and Sansa huffs out a soft laugh.

“Hail, Lord Consort of my people, beloved husband, my Jaime,” she murmurs back, laying her hand over his where it rests on her belly.

The North sees a Winter that lasts nearly two years, and while supplies grow thin, they are well fed by provisions from Braavos, the Iron Islands, and their own ingenious greenhouses.

The peace with the South lasts for a thousand years, lasts long after Sansa and Jaime have been buried in the crypts of her forefathers, after the deaths of their children and grandchildren, till their names are spoken of in glorious stories and sung in songs around the fire from the South to the furthest reaches of the North.

It is a song of Ice and Fire, of wolf and lion, of a love so deep it defied the enmity between houses and healed a nation.