Thank you all for your kind words of encouragement!

I now present your reward for sticking with me and being so supportive!

Bom chicka wa wa. Here there be smut.

(Alsoit'smyfirsteversmutposting. Imalittleselfconscious. Ihopeitsnotawfulandimsorryif itis)

Chapter Five

The best shelter they manage to find before dark is an outcropping of rocks on a small hill. Slabs of grey stone surround them on three sides, and Jaime and Brienne immediately get to work gathering up some fallen trees and other debris in the area to increase their protection on the open side, while Pod starts a fire.

Jaime watches the wench push over a considerably large dead tree, without very much effort at all. He hears the crunching and snapping of its roots being torn from the stony soil, watches it smash to the ground and he smiles. She hasn't even broken a sweat.

That's one hell of a woman.

He walks over to help her carry it back to their camp, as he's done with the previous four trunks they've dragged back to Pod's fire. The first time, she'd given him a hesitant look, a look that plainly said "I'll probably be must faster doing this by myself and maybe you should just start dinner or someth-" but she quickly masked it, smiled and accepted his meager, one-handed help.

With Pod's fire and Brienne's trees and the rocks around them, they almost have four walls to shelter in. Young Payne is yawning as he pulls out bits of dried meat from their saddle bags, so Brienne takes over the task from him as soon as she's satisfied with their defenses.

They eat dinner in companionable silence, all quite tired from the long day's ride, though none more so than Pod.

Good, Jaime thinks. Head off into a deep sleep, lad. I intend to do things to your lady tonight that you have no business knowing about.

Then he laughs, aware that his confidence has gone well past the point of reason.

You're not there yet. Good luck seducing a maid who refuses to even make eye contact with you.

Brienne looks up in puzzlement at his bark of laughter, but Pod's eyes are closing in his head as he stares into the fire and he doesn't even glance in Jaime's direction..

"We'll be at the Lannister camp by midday tomorrow, Pod," he calls across the fire. "You ought to get some sleep. I've no doubt there'll be a number of young squires eager to spar with some new blood. The wench tells me you've got some skill with a blade, and I hear you saved my brother's life on the Blackwater. There's a couple of much too cocksure lads among them who I wouldn't mind seeing knocked down a peg or two."

Pod's sleepy eyes come to life with pride and excitement at Jaime's words and Brienne can't stop a huge smile from coming to her face at his delight. The teeth may be horsey and prominent, but his stomach gives a little clench at the sight of it anyway.

"Yes Ser," Pod says. "That would be- yes. Yes, I'll go lie down now, I think." Then he casts a look at Brienne, "I mean- if you don't need me to help clea-"

"No, Pod," Brienne says kindly. "You go sleep. There's not much to do."

"Thank you S- my lady," he says, and scampers off to his bedroll, practically tripping over his feet in his eagerness.

For once, Brienne readily allows Jaime to catch her eye and they share a smile at Pod's excitement. Together, they rinse off the dinner dishes and pack away some supplies. Then Brienne busies herself with raising their food up towards the branch of tall tree to keep the animals away, and Jaime boils some water for tea.

You're not going to bed yet, wench.

A part of him wishes for some mulled wine, but he chases the thought away right away. He has no intention of taking advantage of her with drink.

Besides, you're more than capable of getting this done without help. The lass wants it even if she doesn't care to admit it.

She finishes storing their food and comes over to where he's filling two mugs with steaming water.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Making tea," he says simply, stirring away with maddening innocence.

"We ought to follow Pod's example and-"

"Sit down and have some tea with me, wench," he says. Her mouth opens in indignation at his command, but he cuts in before she can express her outrage. "Come on now. It's our last night on this little adventure. You're not going to leave up in my loneliness are you?"

She gives a derisive laugh at that.

"Just take the tea. I didn't bring it to a full boil this time. I know you haven't had the best luck with hot-"

She sits down beside him with a huff and snatches the mug out of his hand, glaring at him as he laughs.

"Quiet down," she scolds. "Pod's trying to sleep."

Jaime listens for a moment. Then he scoffs, "That lad? He's already out like a light. Snores like a bear for someone so scrawny. I'll laugh as loud as a please. He can sleep through anything."

Let's hope.

Brienne looks at him in mild disgust before taking a sip of her tea.

Now that he has her here, Jaime really hasn't the vaguest idea how to continue, so he too sips at his tea. They drink in silence for a while, Jaime growing increasingly impatient with himself.

Ease up there, Lannister. Pure lady killer, you are. Tone it down before the wench comes from the sheer intensity of your awkward silence.

After a while, though he can't think of anything charming and winning to say, he cannot bear the silence so he ventures forth a rather pathetic, "The lad seemed pleased at the prospect of some sparring tomorrow."

She looks at him for a moment before smiling. "Yes, he did, didn't he?" She nods her head and he notices how close they're sitting. Their shoulders are almost touching. "He's been stuck on the road with me for so long- and then after all that happened with...with the'll be good for him to spend some time with boys his own age."

"Yes," Jaime says. "Perhaps I'll challenge the lad to a round myself. He'd probably make a fairer opponent than the executioner cousin of his I've been practicing with," he adds with a note of bitterness.

The wench looks so sympathetic at his words that he almost turns defensive, but then she gives him a sweet smile and says, "I'm sure that would make his day. Truly. What lad hasn't grown up dreaming of the chance to duel with the famed Jaime Lannister?"

By the gods. Are you a bloody 12-year-old boy? Stop blushing.

"Yeah, well," he says stiffly. "I'd like to see what he's made of. After all, I will be sending him off to protect you on this mad quest. I need to know my wench has some good steel at her back."

She looks hard him when he speaks the words 'my wench' and as he gazes at her he can't help staring at the hideous scarring Biter left on her cheek. A wave of anger courses through him.

"I should not have sent you after her," he says, and for once it's him who can't look at her. After a moment of staring at the rocks, seething and guilty, he forces himself to look up again and face the consequences of what his ridiculous quest has done to her. He looks at the rope-burn on her neck and the bite-marks on her cheek, and slowly reaches up his hand, pressing the back of his index finger against it. Her breath catches and she's so frozen it's like she's a carved statue.

"It's...futile, Brienne. There's not a trace of her, anywhere, and after all that's happened to don't have to go out there again. If you seek honor, there are other ways-"

His words jolt her out of her wide-eyed frozenness and she pulls back, outraged, "Jaime, no. I swore an oath. I said I'd find Sansa Stark, and I will. I will not rest until-"

"The woman you swore to is gone, Brienne," he says, and suddenly he's overcome with a terrible fear of her heading out into the warzone on this insane search. "You don't hav-"

"Yes I do," she says, firmly, fire blazing in her eyes. "I didn't swear an oath to that creature back there. I swore it to Catelyn Stark. A good lady. A kind lady, overcome with grief for the sons she left at home to help her eldest boy fight his war. Robb was just a lad too, and she loved him and stood by him, but her heart was torn apart with longing for her other boys in the north and her daughters in the south."

The wench's voice is cracking and there are tears in her eyes.

No, he thinks, his chest constricting. This isn't the direction I wanted this to go. This isn't-

But the wench continues. "She had an incredible strength about her Jaime, even after the loss of her husband, but it began to flicker out when Greyjoy killed her youngest boys. All she wanted was to know her remaining children were safe. Sansa is gentle and loving and she could be anywhere, but I will find her and bring her to safety if it's the last thing I do."

Her jaw is set and stubborn and the tears in her eyes are gone, replaced with fierce resolve. He shakes his head at her, knowing arguing about it is even more futile than her hopes of finding one redheaded maiden in a war-torn kingdom.

"I know. I know. I should have known it was useless to even suggest." He stares at her and all his desire for her comes rushing back as he thinks about how stupidly loyal and brave she is, how steadfast her conviction is, how unbreakable her resolve is.

Fiercely, he puts his hand on hers, gripping it tightly where it rests on the rocky ground beneath them, and leans his head closer to hers, desperately needing to close the gap between their mouths but also needing to tell her how fucking stupid and pigheaded and insane she is.

His voice is gruff and low, full of annoyance and affection as he leans ever closer and says, "You are the most impossibly bloody stubborn wen-"

He stops when she wrenches her hand out of his grip and pulls her head back. He'd been so bloody close.

"Jaime..." she says shakily, eyes wary.

The tension in the air is heavy.

She looks, for an instant, as though she wants to leap from her feet and flee the cave for her life and he curses himself for pushing too far.

Built like a bull and fearless on the battlefield the Maid of Tarth may be, but beneath the armor and the bulk, there's innocence and fragility and she's still very much a young girl. He thinks maybe he should get up now, move off before he crosses yet another line and ruins everything.

Teasing her had been all sorts of fun, but if she's not ready, or she truly doesn't want him, it would be better not to destroy the only meaningful relationship in his miserable bloody life.

They're not far from safe lands now. If the day stays as clear tomorrow as this night is, they should regroup with Jaime's troops by midday tomorrow. After that, it won't be long before they'll part ways once again and she'll be out of his life, perhaps forever.

Why ruin what they have by overstepping boundaries or reading signs that might not even be there, when they could sit in companionable silence around the fire, share a tale or two before turning in for the night?

But then, to his surprise, she brings her hand back down beside his. She doesn't put her whole hand on his, but her long pinky is just about grazing his.

He'd think it accidental, but for the way she's staring down at the place where their fingers touch, fear and longing both painted on her features.

She wants it, he thinks with a rush of relief. She might be half terrified of it, but she wants it.

He leans his head closer to hers and rests his golden hand on her thigh. He moves slowly and deliberately, giving her every opportunity to shove him away, pausing a good few inches from her mouth but leaving no doubts about his intentions to close the distance between their lips.

Her mouth falls slightly ajar and her hungry eyes sparkle in the firelight.

"Jaime..." she starts again, and her hand is clenching and unclenching somewhere near her chest. There's both hesitation and desire in her expression and he hopes to the gods that the sensible wench chooses to go against her nature for once. If she turns him away, if she refuses him, he knows the blow will sting much more than he'd like.

"Tell me, wench," he says huskily, green eyes intensely boring into hers. "Tell me you don't want it," he says, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes.

She shudders slightly, and starts to turn away.

He catches her chin as she turns from him, forcing her to look back into his eyes so he can read her expression, stroking a finger along the line of her strong jaw.

She trembles beneath his touch and her eyes are swimming with confused emotion.

There's hesitation there but an undeniable flicker of excitement and he's going to push her because he wants this and he knows she does too.

"Tell me you don't want it. Say the words, wench, if they're true." His voice is low and throaty as he speaks right into her ear, his thumb moving tracing the line of her bottom lip.

"I...I..." she stutters, not resisting as he tilts her face back to face his.

"Say you don't want it, Brienne," he demands again, moving his lips away from her ear and back towards her wide mouth, still maintaining distance, but closer than he's yet been.

"I..." she begins again, and he feels her shaky breath against his own mouth. He's close now, unbearably close and she still hasn't brought herself to send him packing.

Deciding the wench has had more than ample opportunity to put a stop to things, he brings his mouth down upon hers, seamlessly moving his hand to the back of her head, tangling it in the straggly blonde hair and bringing them fully together.

His kiss is hard, and as soon as their lips meet, he realizes how badly he's needed it.

He wants to show some semblance of restraint until she gives him a reaction, but her lips are slightly chapped from the wind and without much thought his tongue flicks out against her bottom lip, running gently across it, silently asking her to open up for him.

The wench's mouth does fall open, but he suspects it may be more out of surprise than any desire for his tongue to start exploring the inside of her mouth.

Her hands still have not come up, either to push him away in outrage or to do any of the pleasurble things hands can do while mouths are occupied.

Come on, wench. React. Kiss me, or slap me, or knock my teeth in.

Do something.

He lays a few more soft, urgent kisses upon her lips, willing her to tell him what it is she's feeling, what it is she wants.

After three, then four, gentle applications of pressure, chaste kisses that are clearly yearning for more, he starts to pull away, ready to face her reaction.

She still hasn't done anything to indicate mutual desire other than not punching him, and he's momentarily afraid he has well and truly made a mess of what may be the best friendship an unworthy wretch like him could ever hope to have.

He loosens the hold on her tangled hair, running his hand across the back of her head, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks as he imagines the look of shock and betrayal he'll see on her face when he dares to look her in the eye.

But then her large hand comes up and seizes the front of his tunic, balling into a fist around the crimson fabric, pulling him so close that only her fist separates their chests. They're so close he can feel one of her breasts brushing up against him, and given the flatness of her muscular chest, that's saying something.

He dares himself to look into her eyes and in them he sees desire so blatant it floors him a little.

He has little time for surprise though, because a moment later her lips are crashing against his, eager and soft. Her left hand still tightly clutches at his tunic, but her right comes up to the side of his face, and she strokes his blonde stubble, a quiet moan escaping her lips as she pushes against his.

The sensuality of such a sound from the unlikeliest of wenches ignites a fire inside him. His hand flies to her waist and he holds her there, keeping her steady as he intensifies the kiss.

This time, when her mouth falls open, she gasps out his name and he knows it's not mere surprise driving it. His tongue darts forward, gliding hungrily between her lips, which are now warm and wet. He runs it over her prominent teeth and then past them, and soon her tongue is flicking past her lips and tentatively brushing against his.

Gods, wench, he thinks, letting out a groan as she sucks softly at his bottom lip. You certainly came around quickly.

The whole thing is a bit clumsy and they take some time to find their rhythm, but it's utterly wonderful, in its way.

Sometimes they don't tilt their heads at the right angle, or they'll pull away to catch their breath and bump noses on the way back to each other's ravenous mouths, but in spite of it all, it is real and right and if it wasn't for the growing heat in his breeches, he'd be content to do this and only this for the rest of the night.

To his surprise, as he's sliding his tongue along her teeth, wondering whether it's time to reach for a breast, if she'd deem it too indecent for him to feel her teats through her raggedy tunic, she releases her hold on the front of his shirt and slides it down his hard stomach and then around to his back, slipping under the fabric and pulling him closer to her.

And when the wench stops suckling at him and bites down softly on his lower lip, his cock, which had already begun to stir, becomes a good deal harder. Gasping, he pulls back, badly in need of catching his breath.

He sees her brow furrow, her cheeks flush as she gazes at him in confusion. "I'm...I'm sorry," she mutters, removing the hand that had been meandering up the back of his tunic. "Should I not have-?"

"Trust me, wench," he smiles, catching her hand in his. "You should have."

Taking a quick breath, he leans forward and his lips are on her bare neck, kissing the soft, freckled flesh.

A moment later, her hands are back on his body, nails of one hand scraping at the back of his neck while the other clutches somewhere near his lower back, and he finds himself nipping, then biting near her throat, as pleasurable gasps and throaty groans of his name burst from her lips.

He glides his hand from her hip up to one of her breasts, which fits pleasantly in the palm of his hand. Squeezing slowly, he circles his thumb languidly around her teat for a spell before giving it rather hard squeeze too. From the way she squirms and sighs, she's quite alright with the amount of pressure and he pulls at it harder, enjoying the way she quivers against him.

He sucks hard on her collarbone, knowing there'll be marks tomorrow and delighting in the knowledge.

After a while, he pulls back, wanting to return some attention to those large lips of hers, or maybe to nip at her ear. He pauses to give her a sly grin before carrying on and he sees her eyes, filled with lust he'd never expected to see there, staring down at his neck. Her tongue flickers across her lips and he quirks an eyebrow at her.

"Want to return the favor, do you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

She bites her lip shyly. "Can I...should I-?"

"Have at it, you sultry minx," he says, arching his neck and inviting her to have a taste. He wonders if the comment will rile her and almost hopes it will, but she just shakes her head and rolls her eyes, and then she's suckling at the place where his neck meets his shoulder and he can't think about much at all.

After a spell, they've shifted positions so the Maid of Tarth is lying on her back, and he's above her, propped up on an elbow so he's not quite lying on top of her.

On the way down, he'd shoved her onto one of their long-forgotten mugs of tea and she'd hissed as the pool of hot water had spread across the rock and hit her back. He hadn't been able to stop himself from laughing.

"It's just not your day when it comes to tea is it, you clumsy-"

Whack! She slapped him on the arm, indignant but laughing in spite of herself, "That was your fault, you oaf!"

He'd shut her up with a kiss and now he's hard as a rock, trying to maintain a little distance between their bodies, to avoid spilling into his trousers like some squire, but he can't keep his mouth off her.

His tongue continues to acquaint itself with her mouth, and her heavy breathing and soft mewls are making it exceedingly difficult to keep his head straight. Her hands roam over his torso freely, above his shirt and under it, like she can't get enough of the feel of his hard abs and strong arms.

Then, for the first time since they've begun, his hand finds its way down past her waist and to the mound between her legs that he's desperate to get inside. He cups it hard for a moment and then drags his hand up the length of it until he finds the laces of her breeches he tugs impatiently at them.

When she feels his touch on her sex, she gasps and stiffens, pulling her mouth away from his neck and staring up at him, open-mouthed.

Her eyes are wide, but other than that he cannot quite read her expression.

He hadn't given much thought his action at the moment, but realizes how significant the touch must have been to the wench.

It's a little hard for him to comprehend, for he's only ever had Cersei, who would open herself to him quickly and command that he get going, the threat of being caught always nagging at her, making her impatient and demanding.

Patience, Lannister. Patience and sensitivity. They may not be traits you even possess, but you'd better at least do a decent job of faking it, for the maid's sake.

He sits up, a gentle hand resting on her thigh.

"Sit up, Brienne," he says, calmly.

"W-what?" she begins, but he shakes his head, takes her by the wrist and pulls her up so she's sitting too. His hand, without thinking, goes back to her thigh. They'd discarded the golden one minutes ago, when the cold metal had brushed against her exposed waist where her tunic had come untucked and made her jump about a foot in surprise.

"Better get rid of this useless thing," he had muttered, and she'd helped him remove it between desperate kisses.

She looks down at his hand, once again unsure.

He stares her straight in the eye and says, "You must talk to me, wench," he says, quiet and serious, green eyes full of intensity. "Tell me what it is you want. I'll not have it said I did anything you did not ask me to. Whatever happens this night has to be your choice."

Her eyes move up and down between the hand that rests on her leg and his searching green eyes. She bites her lip.

Please, he thinks as his cock twitches painfully against his tight breeches. Decide now, so I can either fuck you blind or throw myself into the stream outside to frighten off this throbbing cock. Or perhaps drown myself.

"Come now, girl," he says gently, doing his best to give a reassuring smile. "The gods know you're no wordsmith, but you'll have to let me know what it is you want."

Her brow knits in concentration and she continues to chew on her lip.

The frustration is bloody killing him, and he wants nothing more than to throw her down and shove himself inside her, to run his tongue along her bare breasts and show her that there are vastly more interesting things to do beneath the sheets than kiss mouths and necks.

But he knows how new this is for her and he's going to give her the chance to be sure, even if his cock loathes him for it.

" know that we'll be in the Lannister camp soon," he says slowly, determined that she understands the situation before they go further. "As I've said, you and the lad will be safe there. You'll stay a night of course, or longer if you choose. We'll get some decent food into you and the boy, give you somewhere safe and relatively comfortable to rest your heads.

"But eventually duty and honor will call us once again in separate directions - and we'll answer the call. Because we must," he reaches up his hand to her chin and brushes his thumb across it. "If you want a moment to - to think about whether this is right for you, whether- one or two nights is enough- you are more than welcome to. I'll take no offense, whatever you choose, my lady."

He hates himself for the heat that rises to his cheeks, for how clunky and clumsy his words sound in his ears. He wills his stiff cock to relax, knowing this pause may give the maiden the chance she needs to come to her senses and put an end to this lunacy and he'll get no satisfaction from anyone but himself.

He's staring hard into her eyes, trying his best not to put any pressure on her to choose this- to choose him. He's so focused on her face, that he jumps a bit when he feels movement down there.

Softly, she grasps the laces of his breeches and gives a little tug, loosening them. "I do want it. I want this, Jaime. I want all of it," she says, her voice surprisingly steady, her jaw set and confident.

The grin he breaks into at her earnest words is likely embarrassingly goofy, but he can't bring himself to give a damn. He lowers himself down and begins to kiss her savagely, struggling with the drawstring of her breeches as she deftly unlaces his.

"Might need...a, wench. Pun not intended," he adds dryly as he impatiently pulls at her laces. She lets out a short laugh, then looks guilty and shoots him a sheepish grin before attending to her own trousers.

He doesn't give her long to loosen the string before he's shooing her hand out of the way and reaching for her cunt with his clumsy left hand, sliding beneath her smallclothes without much ceremony. She shudders and groans as he trails his fingers down her thicket of sandy-colored hair and slips past it, pressing a thumb against her nub before slipping two fingers beneath her folds.

He lets out a sharp intake of breath when he finds her wet and warm around his fingertips.

"By the gods," he mutters into her ear, voice full of mischief. "You filthy wench! You're positively drenched."

She reaches up and swats him hard on the upper arm, but the look on her face is both bashful and defiant. He pushes his fingers further inside her, resting his head against her muscular belly and delighting in the way her gasps increase as she stretches to accommodate him, moaning his name just like he's been imagining she would all bloody day.

He's painfully hard as his fingers caress her tight folds and she bucks up against them eagerly. He pumps against her with his unskilled hand for a few moments, but her own hands tugging hard at his hair and her desperate moans of his name are too much.

He needs to start this now or he'll be spent before his cock gets anywhere near her.

She makes a little sound of protest when he pulls his fingers out of her dripping cunt and it makes him laugh.

"Trust me, wench, I'll replace them with something better in a moment. First though, let's see what you've got under that tunic," he says, grinning at her and grabbing the bottom of the wool. To his dismay, her eyes go wide again and her hands go up to clutch at the fabric near her breasts, her previously confident expression faltering.

I thought you said you wanted thi- he starts to think with a wave of exasperation, but then he looks more carefully at her embarrassed features and thinks he understands her hesitation. She'd been quite content to let him explore beneath her breeches, but the idea of having her large torso fully exposed, to be bare and vulnerable before him, must be frightening for the poor wench.

With the slew of coldhearted comments she's listened to all her life, it isn't a great wonder she's self-conscious. How can he convey that hedoesn't care? He doesn't care if they're not the largest, or her waist's not the slimmest or she's got as much muscle on her body as he does. He wants to feel her and see her and kiss her and taste her anyway and he has no doubt that he'll enjoy pressing his lips to every freckle he can find.

He's just not going to let her be shy. It's as simple as that.

"Come on, wench. I want to taste those teats on their own, without this smelly old shirt in the way," he says, and begins an onslaught of eager kisses at the dip of her tunic's collar.

It's cut rather high and she's not got much in the way of cleavage, so he can barely reach the tops of her breasts, but he kisses and licks and nips at what flesh he can find, taking breaks in between to say,

"Really now, lass, you're being awfully cruel, hiding them from me. Downright evil, actually," she gives little laugh of amused disbelief at that, and he feels her chest rising up and down beneath his mouth.

"One might call you a filthy tease, you know." he says and pulls the fabric down as far as it can go, and licks at the top of one of a small breast, squeezing the nipple of the other with his left hand. She's chuckling softly and shaking her head up at him, writhing a little as he kneads her beneath his palm.

"Come now," he purrs. "Let me at them. Be kind."

She pushes at his head weakly, and says, "Look, can't we just- Oh"

He bites hard at her nipple through the fabric of her shirt, for he's learned the pressure of his teeth can make her squirm in unexpected ways, and she can't bring herself to continue her protest. He bites again, and sure enough a moment later, she's groaning and digging her nails into his back and grinding her hips up into him as he nips at her tits.

I've almost got her. Just one more push.

He adopts a high falsetto, which sounds not even a bit like her and says "'Oh yes, Jaime. I want it. I want it all. All of it!"

He peeks up at her and is pleased to see that she looks both flabbergasted and horrified. Grinning evilly, he continues,

"Oh, one addendum, though. Don't look at my breasts! You're not allowed access to those, because I'm a cruel, selfish wench who likes to hoard her goods and torment poor old crippled men by refus-"

There's a sharp whack on his ear that makes his head ring, but Brienne is laughing and saying "Alright, alright, just shut up with that stupid voice, you beast."

She shoves him off her and gets on her knees so she can pull her shirt over her head. He recovers from her sharp blow and grins. There might not be much there, but it's enough for him.

He doesn't give her time to feel embarrassment or exposure before he's kneeling too and he's on them like a jackal, lapping rather boorishly at her tender flesh. By the way she presses into his mouth though, she doesn't seem to mind.

After a few moments of enjoying them, he pulls back, raises an eyebrow and says, "Well?"

"Well, what?" Brienne asks, frowning a little suspiciously.

"You've shown me yours, though I certainly had to twist your arm about it. Don't you want to see mine too? It's rather nice, if I do say so myself."

She rolls her eyes again, but then smiles shyly, and grazes a hand over his chest through his shirt. "Yes. I'd like that."

He reaches a hand towards the hem of his shirt and starts to tug up, saying "This'll go faster if you help, wench."

She reaches over eagerly and tugs up hard. She's so enthusiastic she turns reckless, and the shirt gets stuck around his neck, forcing a choking noise out of him. She laughs and mumbles an apology before righting it and sliding it over his head more carefully.

Once she's tossed it aside, she gazes at him, open-mouthed for a moment. Then she reaches forward and runs her surprisingly delicate hands over his chest, rubbing her thumbs across his nipples and pressing tentative kisses to them, her tongue darting out to taste them.

She explores his chest while he explores hers, but he can only enjoy it for a few moments before his aching cock is screaming at him to stick it somewhere warm and tight before something embarrassing happens .

He pulls away from her, and she juts her lip out into a bit of a pout.

"Lie down," he demands. She raises an eyebrow.

"I'm not one of your underling soldiers you can just order around, Lannister," she says, but her tone is playful and when he pushes her shoulders back to make her obey, she lets him.

"I said 'lie down,' you contrary wench,"he repeats, nipping her ear and getting on top of her, somewhat clumsily, supporting himself on the elbow of his bad arm.

He tugs her breeches down past her knees in a swift motion. He's ready to go- he's been ready for longer than he's even realized. But this is it. The point of no return.

He must catch her eye, to get the nod of approval he needs before continuing. He stops moving and looks up at her until she finds his gaze.

"Are you certain, my lady?"

She grabs fiercely for his shoulders and pulls him hard against her and he takes it as a go ahead.

He positions himself at her entrance, pausing for a brief moment to consider what he might have said, the day Catelyn Stark cut his chains at Riverrun, if some great Seer had told him he'd be here one day with this sword-wielding girl from Tarth .

If someone had told him he'd one day be lying in a patch of woods in the middle of nowhere, taking the maidenhead of the surly, giant of a wench who'd been appointed with the task of escorting him to King's Landing, what would he have said?

Not worth pondering.

With all the careful restraint he can muster, he slips inside her. She gasps and goes stiff, and a small flicker of pain crosses her features.

"'Alrigh'?" he chokes out, full of concern yet struggling to even form human words as his prick is overcome with thewet, tight sensation of her warmth around him.

She nods, and reaches up to his face, rubbing the spot beneath his ear tenderly for a moment before pulling him in for a light kiss.

"I'm fine, Jaime," she smiles. "I'm fine."

Relieved, he slowly begins to move against her, willing himself with all he's got to go slowly and delicately.

It takes considerable effort not to thrust at her like some greenboy rutting unskillfully against his first whore, but after a minute he's got a gentle pace worked out and her hands are tangling his hair, tugging hard at his golden locks every time he softly pushes into her, making him groan.

He wishes more than ever he had two good hands- one to hold himself up and the other to trail fingertips lovingly against her bare breasts and down her stomach. Instead, he does his best to keep a pleasing rhythm, sweat beginning to bead at his forehead.

When the thrusts begin to quicken, he realizes it's not him, but her who's behind the change in pace and he can't keep a dopey smile from coming to his face at her enthusiasm. She's pressing up against him with real urgency, arching like a bloody cat in heat and clawing at his back, digging her nails in and almost purring.

It's too much.

He's had naught but his own useless left hand for so long and he doesn't know how long he'll be able to last.

She's so bloody tight. And strong. Cersei had always had a tendency to be...forceful when they lay together, but there's true strength in the hands of the wench now pulls him down into her with such wanton need.

Hands that could very easily cause me bodily-harm if I fail to satisfy, he thinks and laughs at the absurdity of how much that thought turns him on.

Brienne's moans start to increase in volume and frequency and he hopes she's close to reaching her fill because he's quickly approaching the brink.

The sight of the shy maiden he'd once known, who was always ungainly and unsure any time she didn't have a blade in her hand, now writhing beneath him with gusto is far too arousing.

He wants it to last, but he's beginning to doubt he will.

He's bloody tired.

It's painful to admit, even to himself, but he's not as young as he used to be, and holding himself up with one useless hand and meeting the wench's enthusiastic hips requires considerable effort.

Her brow is just starting to glisten with a light layer of sweat, but there are droplets pouring down his forehead and into his eyes, and he has only a bloody useless stump to wipe at them with.

Her breasts, small as they are, are heaving in her pleasure and he longs to touch them.

He looks down at her. Convention would seem to dictate that whilst taking a Lady's maidenhead, the man ought to lie on top, ought to show her how it's done. He ought to take the lead and guide her through the motions.

But conventional is the last word he'd ever use to describe Brienne of Tarth.

A grin crosses his features as a solution for how to switch positions while retaining some dignity comes to him.

"You know, wench," he says, slyly into her ear. "I'm rather surprised you would allow me to stay on top of you so long. Didn't think you had it in you to be so submissive."

He raises his eyebrow devilishly at her. She blinks up at him in puzzlement for a second before the meaning of his challenge dawns on her. A brief look of concern passes over her face and he thinks that she's probably figured out that his taunt is really a sad cry for help from a struggling fool.

But then a wicked grin crosses her features and she nods.

"You're right, kingslayer," she says, reaching for his strong shoulders. "Last time we tussled, I got the better of you. Can't have you getting cocky and forgetting that."

"I think I must remind you, wench, that I was shack-"

"Hush," she says, placing a long finger against his lips.

Then, she takes a better hold of his shoulders and rolls them over without much effort, taking a brief moment to adjust her position before taking his length in her hand and sliding him back inside her. They'd been separated for only a moment, but he's relieved to be back inside her warmth.

She hesitates for a only an instant before she starts to roll her hips down toward him, rocking against him slowly, testing the feel of different movements. After a few minutes, she's practically riding like she's done it all her life and his head is bloody spinning.

He'd been thoroughly enjoying himself before, but the strain of holding himself one-handed had added a slight degree of discomfort to it.

Now, on his back, he can roam his hand wherever he likes, and there is only pleasure. Too much of it, if truth be told. There's no bloody way he can last much longer but he wants too, gods, does he want to.

When miles and miles separate them and the cold northern winds and heavy snows make their way across the land, he wants her to look back on this night and be warmed by it. Warmed by the memory of Jaime Lannister taking her title of Maid of Tarth and shattering her world with glorious climaxes instead.

He does not want her remembering how he spilt his load like some young boy before she had her pleasure, making her wish she'd held out and given it up to someone young and strong and whole instead of to a useless old cripple like him.

Lasting might be easier if she'd stop that moaning. It's downright obscene- wanton, desperate, ecstatic. It's going to send him over the edge.

He runs his hand over her right breast, teasing the nipple and feeling it harden beneath his thumb, watches her arch her neck in pleasure, exposing her neck and continuing to ride him hard.

The confidence he sees when he looks up at her is surprising. He stares up at the once shy maiden who is grinding her hips into his with reckless abandon, and he's overcome with affection and desire.

He intends to reach up, to grab her with both hands and bring her crashing down against him so he can taste her lips again, but as he does he catches sight of his useless stump and stops, glaring furiously at it.

Her eyes had been closed, but when she feels Jaime slow down, she opens them too look at him in puzzlement. He tries to hide it, but he's not quick enough to mask the look of disgust and loathing he's shooting at the empty space where his hand used to be.

Those stunning blue eyes glance at him in confusion for a moment, then soften into pools of concern as she realizes what must be on his mind.

He scowls darkly, prepared to snap at her that he doesn't want her damn pity.

But to his surprise, she gently takes his pathetic stump in both of her hands and presses a gentle kiss onto it, followed by another, firmer but just as gentle. Her lips are soft against the scarred skin and he inhales sharply.

Then she catches his gaze with an expression that says "It's alright. It's alright," although she doesn't say the words, just kisses it once more, loving and tender. The heart pounding in Jaime's hard chest physically aches.

This is it. This is the moment.

He doesn't know what details Brienne will recall when this night replays in her memories, but weeks or months or years from now when the bitter winds of winter have reached the southern kingdoms and the nights are endlessly long and dark, Jaime will remember this.

He will remember the soft feel of those lips pressing against his loathsome stump, the tenderness brimming in those astonishing sapphire eyes and the utter sincerity of her gesture. And he will feel warmth even as the world turns to ice around him.

He's staring. He can't help it.

She smiles at him, a little shyly, and he wants to return it, but he's so overwhelmed with emotion at the kindness of her gesture that he can't do anything but look at that homely face he's come to adore with his whole heart.

The intensity of his gaze must be too much for her, because she lets out a sheepish little laugh and shrugs and goes back to grinding her hips against him in a way that the finest whores of King's Landing ought to envy.

After a few more moments of gazing up at her he groans and lifts to meet her in eager thrusts. He thinks her breath is starting to quicken and he prays she's almost there, because he's closer to the edge than ever.

As much as he wants to explore her strong torso with his fingertips, to knead her freckled breasts and tug at her nipples to make her gasp, he really needs to move things along.

So he slides his hand between the two of them and pushes past the hair of her sex to find the wet flesh beneath it.

The combination of his fingers pushing against her pink flesh and his cock sliding into it is enough. Within moments, she's digging into his shoulders so hard with her nails that he's sure she's drawn blood, and she's bucking against him like a wildcat and moaning his name.

She'd been riding him sitting up, but as she desperately tries to get closer to his left hand, (which doesn't feel nearly so useless anymore) she leans her chest against him and presses her lips into his neck.

She's shuddering against him, and he uses every stroke of his fingers he can think of to ease her along. Finally it comes, a series of waves that have her trembling like a leaf, sweat pouring down her forehead. With a final murmur of "Jaime," she presses her lips against the corner of his mouth and falls still against him.

Just in bloody time, he thinks, because he'd been hovering on the brink for what felt like eons.

Content that her shuddering climax had chased off any possibility of her regretting this night, he thrusts up with just a few final pumps before pulling out of her and spilling his seed across his hand and her stomach.

"Sorry," he mumbles, after his own shuddering subsides, wiping at her belly.

She smiles down at him. "It's alright," she says, and shifts her weight off him, nestling in under the crook of his arm and planting a kiss on his mouth, slow and sweet with a just a little bit of tender tongue.

Then she settles her ear on his chest, just above his heart and says, quietly. "Your heart. It beats so quickly."

"Yes," he says, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair is damp with sweat. "Well you were a tad vigorous, you bloody minx. Are you sureyou haven't done this before?" he jests.

She sits up indignantly and stares down at him, outrage written across her plain features, "Yes! Of course I hav-"

He laughs and puts a hand against her mouth, muffling her words.

"Relax, wench. I know you haven't. I know," he soothes, laughing softly. Then his voice takes on a husky quality as he murmurs, "And I thank you, my lady, for giving me the honor."

She blushes at that, and he enjoys the sight of it creeping across her nude flesh. Not quite meeting his eyes she says, "I would have given it to no one else."

"Come here," he says, and pulls her back down to him, fitting her against his side once more. Her arm drapes across his muscular chest and traces lazy circles around his nipple.

They lie there in silence for a while, Jaime staring up at the stars and running his fingers absentmindedly over her body.

He feels the need for sleep tugging at him, but he tries to fight it off. Brienne is soft and warm and his time with her is rapidly running out. He fights it for as long as he can, trying to savor the feel of her body against his.

He thinks about suggesting they stay here in this little rock formation and say hang it all. Hang duty and honor. Stay here with me until I've tasted every part of you. Stay here with me until the warring world burns down around us.

Jaime thinks of her outrage when he'd tried to dissuade her from pursuing the quest for Sansa earlier and knows it's not worth even trying. No. He doesn't have her much longer and he must enjoy it while it lasts.

After a while, he can no longer resist the pull of sleep.

Just as he starts to drift off, however, he feels her hand fumbling at the breeches he'd pulled up. He lifts his head sleepily and asks, "What are you doing?"

"What do you think?" she says, nipping his neck and slipping a hand inside his trousers, finding his cock.

He has to laugh at her eagerness to go for another round. I think I'm bloody tired. His limp cock starts to spring back to life at her touch. But it would seem my cock has other ideas.

"Alright, wench. If that's what you want. I hope you'll be content to do most of the work. I'm an old man, after all."

"I think that can be arranged," she says, pressing her lips against his. He can feel her hunger for him behind it and has a strong feeling it won't be Pod falling asleep on his horse tomorrow.

A/N: There you have it!

Hope it was in-character and enjoyable!

Please review if you have the time! It really helps to hear your feedback.

One more chapter to go!