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When Cersei becomes cross, a little twitch forms just under her left eye. It is small, subtle, nothing that would be noticed by casual observers- but Jaime’s observations of her have never, ever been casual. Outwardly, she seems in high spirits tonight, tossing her golden curls and laughing brightly at some dull tale from a mousy little lord, who clearly cannot believe his good fortune.
She scarcely bothers to look at her brother at all, but when she does, her emerald eyes narrow just a fraction. He knows why she’s annoyed; he’d gotten carried away during their tryst the night before, crying out with enough volume to arouse the concern of Cersei’s lady-in-waiting. He’d had to scramble to hide under the bed before the woman entered, and Cersei had whipped up some flimsy excuse about a nightmare. But when the intruder left and Jaime tried to continue, Cersei pushed him away and ordered him out, claiming that his lack of control had quite spoiled her desire.
He knows that she’ll forgive him eventually- she always does- but she’s been less than receptive to today’s overtures thus far. She makes a point of flirting outrageously with the men on either side of her, and Jaime feels a twinge in his cock as she leans forward to whisper something to one of them, her cleavage perfectly contoured by the candlelight.
He reaches to his right to take his wine goblet in hand, granting a perfunctory glance to the girl who shares his plate tonight. Ned Stark’s eldest daughter tears at the raisin-studded bread with delicate fingers, placing each bite in her mouth and keeping her lips firmly shut as she chews. When she notices Jaime’s eyes on her, a pink blush stains her cheeks, and she looks back at him through lowered lashes.
She’s an uncannily pretty thing, long-limbed and lithe, with flaming hair carefully braided into coils at the crown of her head. He likes the look of redheads, the contrast of bright hair against white skin, and Sansa Stark’s rosy lips and wide blue eyes set the picture off to perfection.
He gives her a rakish smile, teeth blinding and golden hair falling carelessly over his brow. When he passes the wine glass to her, he takes care to brush his fingers over hers; she’s quivering, and he grins even wider.
Cersei’s glare becomes sharper, but when he only lifts his brows at her, she places her hand on the upper arm of the lord at her right and giggles like an insipid girl. Well, if that’s what we’re playing...
Jaime leans into Sansa, lips treacherously close to the perfect shell of her ear. “Perhaps you’ve had your fill of the wine, my lady. You’re rather flushed.”
The pink in her cheeks shifts to fuchsia. “Oh! I...I didn’t realize...”
She nudges the goblet back in his direction, but he stills her hand. A glance over her head to Ned Stark sitting several seats down, fully engrossed in conversation with the King. At Sansa’s other side, Tommen’s head nods forward toward his chest; he’ll be asleep in a matter of moments. Only Cersei watches them, and as this is for her benefit, anyway...
He closes the tiny space between them until his mouth brushes her ear in earnest. He purrs: “No need to be embarrassed. It’s quite becoming.”
Her sweet rosebud lips twitch in a sheepish smile, and Gods, the redness in her face- he’d seen her that red earlier in the day, when Cersei dispatched him to locate the Crown Prince. A casual jaunt through the grounds revealed Joffrey and his intended hiding beneath the low branches of a willow. Joffrey had a wine flagon in one hand, but the other roamed over Sansa’s budding shape, even as she darted her eyes about, back pressed to the tree trunk. Jaime watched his nephew- that’s always how he thinks of Joffrey- kiss the girl with an overly-eager mouth, obviously trying to plunge his tongue past her lips, even as her tiny hands braced against his shoulders in a weak attempt to keep him at bay. And that face, that red, red face...
He’d found it vaguely disturbing, and he had just begun to consider interrupting when the Hound appeared to usher Joffrey off to the Great Hall. The prince shouted at his sworn shield, berating him for his rudeness, but Sansa seemed thoroughly relieved.
Yes, it was somewhat unpleasant to watch Joff’s clumsy hands pawing at this pretty girl, but it was harmless in the end. And honestly, so much of what Joff does galls Jaime-he really cannot not take the time to be properly disgusted by all of it.
Besides, his clandestine view of the encounter may prove a perfect opportunity. Emerald eyes glitter with mischief, and he slides his chair closer to hers, his muscled thigh pressed against her slim one.
“Becoming, indeed. But not quite so bright as the blush you gave Joff in the woods.”
She stiffens. He’s close enough to her that he can feel the shifting of her skirts as she reaches down to ball them in her hands.
Her whisper- “Please, ser...don’t tell my father.”
Jaime nearly laughs at that; aye, it would be amusing, to watch that honorable icicle fume. But as he observes the desperation in Sansa’s blue eyes, feels the warmth of her thigh against his, watches Cersei twitch and glower across the table- this is more amusing by far.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sweet lady.” He coats his voice in honey, and he can see her responding- when he chooses, he can play the part of the chivalrous knight as well as anyone. But of course, that calls for nothing more than pretty words and chaste touches, and he could certainly stand to have more fun than that.
He reaches across the table for the wine carafe. As he refills the goblet, he murmurs: “You seemed rather frightened. Has no one ever tried to kiss you or touch you before?”
“Ser!” she breathes, an indignant huff. But when he lifts the goblet to her lips, she accepts, mouth stained with Dornish red.
He has his answer in her lowered eyes and uncomfortable giggle. “It’s a surprise, my lady. Of course, you appear to be a paragon of virtue...but none of those Northern boys coaxed even a little kiss from those pretty lips?”
She bites down on one such lip, and Jaime feels a sudden rush of predatory want, intensified by the venom in Cersei’s beautiful eyes. Were the table less wide, he is sure that he’d have bruises on his ankles by now, but as it is, his sweet sister cannot touch him, will not bring his indiscretions to the table’s attention.
His next words itch at his lips, and he wonders whether he’ll manage to horrify Lady Sansa enough to cause a row. Logic tells him that this would be a most unwise course of action, but the danger thrills him, just as all danger thrills him.
He places his index finger on the silken skirt bunched up against his thigh, moving slowly until he makes contact with her leg. She jolts, hands gripping the edge of the table, but his face remains perfectly still.
“Perhaps it’s for the best. Boys with sticky hands and fumbling touches...that isn’t what you want. You’re waiting for a man, a prince...” He shifts his hand to grip her thigh, fingertips barely hovering over the valley between her legs.
“..or perhaps a knight.”
He slips his hand down and cups her through her dress; she’s hot against his palm, and he grins when her little wolf’s claws dig into the skin of his wrist.
“You musn’t-” A flick of his fingers, and her words die away. Just a heavy exhale and cheeks glowing vermilion.
He lifts the wine glass in his left hand and takes a casual sip as he strokes her. Jaime’s green eyes meet their reflection across the table, and he offers his sister a brilliant smile.
“Sansa.” Cersei’s voice is quiet but commanding, and the Stark girl snaps her chin up, obviously trying to even out her breathing. “Are you quite well, sweetling? You’re red as a pomegranate.”
Ned Stark leans over to look at his daughter, and Jaime’s cock begins to harden in earnest at the wideness of Sansa’s eyes, the panic writ across her lovely face.
But he does not stop. He can’t help but be impressed by the stillness of her tone when she replies:
“It’s nothing, Your Grace. These Dornish spices are just a bit too hot for me.” She gestures to the slices of hen on their plate, and the table laughs merrily before returning to their conversations.
Cersei purses her lips, but says nothing more.
“Good girl,” he whispers in her ear. “Now pull up your skirts.”
“I can’t ,” she asserts, but she releases a little peep when he places more pressure on his fingers.
“You want to. You’re wet as autumn under there, I can tell.”
She still hesitates. His smile becomes nearly savage, revealing all of his sharp, white teeth. “Perhaps I’ll just lift this tablecloth and let everyone see...let them all see how you let me touch you.”
“My father will kill you,” she snarls back. He pushes his fingers into her through the layers of fabric, and her eyes flutter shut.
“I’m more than capable of besting your father, my lady.” Her hips move forward very slightly, bringing him harder against her. He clenches his teeth at the throbbing between his own legs. “Pull them up.”
She obeys with shaking hands, hiking the skirt up over her knees. The deft fingers of his right hand dip into her smallclothes, tracing her clit before sliding up and into her.
His estimation proves correct- she’s slick and warm and...
“Gods, you’ve a tight little cunt.” She keeps her face stubbornly turned down, but the tip of her little pink tongue wets her lower lip. Although he quite enjoys taking her like this before the entire court, he nearly wishes that they were hidden in an alcove somewhere, that he might suck a bright mark onto her white neck and cup her breast in his free hand.
In a sudden flash of inspiration, Jaime lets his knife fall to the ground. When he leans beneath the table to retrieve it, he takes the opportunity to bring his face between her thighs and kiss her through her smallclothes. To his surprise, she reaches down to pull at his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he gives a little grunt of pleasure.
(While he’s under the table, Jaime reaches out and tickles Cersei’s ankle, moving away in just enough time to avoid a sharp kick to the face.)
He sits up straight and tears at the bread still left on the plate, popping a piece in his mouth, letting his fingers linger on his mouth long enough to taste a hint of Sansa’s quim. She stirs beside him, wound and restless...he grins at the thought of making her ask.
“Why so tense, Lady Sansa?” he queries in a light, flippant tone.
Her lips press tightly together, eventually curving down into a frown, but he just waits.
And then finally, a barely-discernible whisper-
“Please.”
His hand vanishes under the table, and he thrusts into her with two fingers, his thumb massaging her clit. He feels her inner muscles contracting, her blush as brilliant as ever-
When she climaxes, she takes a long sip from the goblet, pretending to cough from the sour liquid.
Jaime’s erection strains at his breeches, and he momentarily considers placing her dainty hand on him- but no, that wouldn’t be nearly as tidy. Instead, he leans back in his chair and retrieves the wine glass from Sansa. When he locks eyes with his sister, he raises the goblet and bows his head, a dazzling grin of victory etched upon his perfect face.
There is rage in her eyes, to be sure, but he recognizes the simmering desire beneath. A glance over at Sansa reveals breaths still quickened, face still flushed, and a smile of bemusement and embarrassment and satisfaction on plump lips.
When he goes to Cersei’s chambers later that night, Jaime finds her door barred to him. But he does not fret- she’ll come around, as she always does. And if the want in her expression earlier is any indication, there will be at least two beautiful women in the Red Keep dreaming of Jaime Lannister tonight.
The idea pleases him, and he whistles brightly as he strolls back to the White Sword Tower.