Jaime/Margaery, "well, let’s do this instead." (Feel free to throw Sansa in but only if you'd like!)
His father forced this marriage upon him several moons ago, staring stone-faced from the front row of the Sept of Baelor as Jaime mumbled meaningless words that, by some unfathomable power, made Margaery Tyrell his wife.
To her credit, the girl hardly seemed thrilled with the match, either- she and her father angled for a royal marriage, to make little Tommen a nine-year-old bridegroom.
But what Tywin Lannister wants, Tywin Lannister gets. And so he now finds himself saddled with a pretty “maiden” bride he doesn’t want, still cloistered in King’s Landing and wholly unsure of what to do with himself now.
You aren’t Cersei, his mind shrieked on their wedding night, when Margaery reclined on his bed with a calm, impassive expression, her legs lazily splayed open. He’d been unable to perform, in spite of Margaery’s efforts (with her hand, with her mouth…maiden, indeed. Lies upon lies…).
They’ve been wed for quite some time, and he still has yet to bed his bride. And, given his own choice, he’d leave her a “maid” until the end of time.
But he’s wholly unprepared for the sight that awaits him when he shoves his bedchamber door open on one chilly evening, after drinking far too much wine and enduring a spiteful rejection from Cersei, who glowered at his golden hand as though it were a poisonous viper when he attempted to stroke her beneath the feast table…
…when he returns to his chambers, he sees his youthful, innocent wife completely naked, lying on her stomach upon his bed, her face cushioned between the white thighs of his goodsister, sweet little Sansa Stark.
(His oath to Catelyn Stark still plagues him, echoing in his ears at every available moment…and although he loves his brother and knows that Tyrion means his bride no harm, their marriage occurred under such duress that he can’t help but feel that he’s already failed his promise…)
Sansa arches her back as Margaery continues her impressively-thorough exploration of the other girl’s cunt, a soft moan of pleasure escaping her lips.
When Sansa notices him in the doorway, she jettisons backwards, her shoulders making a harsh collision with the headboard. She’s as naked as Margaery, but she tries to conceal herself, tugging at bedlinens and crossing her arms over her chest-
-only to be thwarted by Margaery, who refuses to adjust her positioning in order to give her companion more access to modesty.
“I thought it worth a try,” Jaime’s wife tells him as she rocks her groin against Sansa’s slim leg, sighing ecstatically when something makes contact-
“I’ve noticed how you look at her,” Margaery continues, her clever fingers dancing upwards to play with the bundle of nerves above Sansa’s cunt.
(He obviously hasn’t divulged anything of his oath to the girl who shares his bed against both their wills…but, now that he thinks of it, he does spend time observing Sansa whenever possible. And….yes. She’s well worth observation.)
He still can’t think of a single phrase appropriate for such a strange occasion…but he hears Margaery tell Sansa not to “mind him at all…this is good for him.” And then, she returns to her oral ministrations, and Sansa (hesitantly, self-consciously) climaxes against her mouth, all long white lines and abundant spills of red-
Jaime feels himself hardening for the first time in his wife’s presence, and given his estrangement from Cersei and the peculiar circumstances of this encounter….
He steps to the side of the bed, and even as she continues to lap between Sansa’s thighs, urging her to a second climax, she uses her spare hand to loosen his breeches and languidly stroke his cock.
After she’s sent Sansa into yet another fit of quivering and moaning, she rises up on all fours, her gentle brown eyes gleaming with challenge as she asks:
“We’re both willing. Which of us would you like to fuck first?”
Margaery’s hand works more effectively than he might have expected, and he can feel himself pulsing within her grasp…
…but the red hair, the blue eyes, the buxom figure…the broken promises…the desire to find closeness, however possible…
The choice is laughably simple.