Chapter Text
A Meeting At Highgarden
Part 2
Brienne of Tarth must be cross with him, as she does not appear at breakfast and Margaery gives him several frowns. After some time, Olenna sends a servant to fetch her only to be told that Brienne isn’t in her room. Apparently, she’s managed to slip out in the early hours. Impressive.
Margaery says, “She likes to walk in the early morning.” She makes eye contact with Jaime and adds, “She’s sure to be in the orchard. We’ll find her together, my Lord.”
Margaery has a servant put a basket together with bread, jam, and strawberries. As they approach the orchard, Margaery suddenly shoves the basket into his arms and says, “I’m very interested in the creek over the hill, you go to the orchard without me,” and strides away without waiting for a reply.
He doesn’t find Brienne of Tarth until she allows him to, her voice floating down from the trees. “May I help you, Lord Jaime?” she asks politely but with a distinctly sullen tone.
“What in hells are you doing up there?”
“Nothing.”
“You could fall.”
She scoffs and says, “I never fall.” He hears a heavy rustling in the tree in front of him and she appears above him, making her way down with practiced skill. How Lady Olenna must love that. She’s even wearing britches under her plain dress, and her hair is a tangled tumble around her flushed and spotted face. There’s even a smudge of dirt on her chin.
“By the gods, my Lady, you must have snuck out even before the maids got up,” he laughs. “You know, I’ve been calling you ‘my Lady’, but I think I might just as well call you ‘wench’,” he says, gesturing to her chin.
Brienne flushes more deeply as she quickly rubs at her face with the sleeve of her dress. She glares and begins to speak before apparently thinking better of it. She straightens up and tilts her chin, again saying, “May I help you, Ser Jaime?”
“Your foster sister said you’d be out here.”
“I don’t see why that means you should come here. You did not seem to feel any eagerness to be in my vicinity last night,” she says dryly, her morning walk seeming to have eased the sting of rejection.
“It was a very long day. One early night does not mean you’ll never capture my heart, or whatever dramatic thought you might have in your head.”
“I have no illusions of capturing your heart,” she snaps.
“Wench, have you ever heard the word obstinate ? As I said before, the match is made. We will be married. So we should part on this occasion as friends, as the next time we see each other may very well be our wedding day.”
“Friends?” She looks fairly baffled by the concept, though he’s not sure which aspect is strangest to her: a friend, or a husband as a friend. Her teeth overtake her lip for a moment while she gives the idea some thought. “I...I would be very pleased by that, Ser.”
“Good. Let us shake on it then, Brienne of Tarth.”
They shake hands. Jaime notes that they have calluses in the same place from weilding a sword. He’ll have to find out how she manages to get so much practice in if it’s been forbidden by Lady Olenna. He turns her hand over and kisses the back, chuckling when she quickly draws it back with a frown.
“Now,” Jaime says, offering his arm. “Margaery said you like adventures. What adventures are there to be had at Highgarden?”
Brienne hesitates, saying, “There are lots of things to do at Highgarden, only...I should go back and change into something more proper. I have perfectly nice gowns.”
“But you don’t care for gowns.”
“Not especially.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s a bit more difficult to have an adventure in a skirt.”
“Yes, that’s a fair point, any good adventure will probably have a bit of running. Climbing. Maybe even kicking. Who made your pants?”
“I did,” she says proudly, then falters and adds, “Please don’t look too closely at them. My stitches are...purely practical.”
“Well, it sounds like we can’t have a proper adventure if you change into a skirt, so you’d better stay as you are.” That seems to please her a great deal.
He shows her Margaery’s picnic and they set off for a good place to settle. Brienne claims to know every inch of Highgarden and indeed leads them to a lovely place overlooking a field of Highgarden’s famous roses, although she mentions that roses are far from her favorite flower, but at least they’re not red. Jaime asks why, but she says, with a remote look, that she’d rather not discuss it.
Over bread and jam, Jaime asks if she’s had her first blood yet. She flushes, but calmly replies that she has not, and she knows it seems a bit late, but very sourly adds that she’s been examined, quite thoroughly, and there’s no reason to believe it won’t come in it’s own time. Her mother died from complications in childbirth, but they say she has a strong frame and good hips and she will, she says with a slight twist of her lips, bear him many sons.
“Or daughters,” she adds. “My apologies in advance.”
After a laugh, Jaime turns serious and says, “Well, know that you’ll likely be called to King’s Landing for the wedding as soon as you do. Then it will be straight on to Casterly Rock, and I don’t know how long you’ll be stuck there.”
She looks into the distance with a frown and says, “Casterly Rock has been my destined home since I was two and ten, hasn’t it?” She sighs and adds, “I just hope the castellan at Evenfall takes care of Tarth well. He says the marble mines are well, thanks to your father’s assistance, and they’re rebuilding Morne but…” She launches into a long and shockingly detailed account of the current state of Tarth’s economy.
“You correspond with the castellan at Evenfall?”
“Of course. I mean, he writes regular reports to my father as well, but I’m sure he’s very busy with his duties in King’s Landing, so it never hurts to have someone else watching over things, even from so far. My septa always said I should worry more about my stitches, but embroidery won’t do us much good in a famine, will it?”
“You’ll do well with Casterly Rock when it needs seeing to.”
“Except for my stitches,” she smiles. “Although my septa--the septa here, I mean, Septa Caspian, not the septa from Tarth--she says there’s no reason to worry if I can embroider because when I’m the wife of a wealthy Lord, I can pay someone else to do all my sewing.”
“Wise woman. What happened to the septa from Tarth?”
“Lady Olenna sent her away.”
“Really? Why?”
“Mm…she said Septa Roelle taught no valuable lessons. She said...that Septa Roelle only taught me to keep my mouth shut and not expect much, and that keeping your mouth shut and not expecting much is the fastest way for a woman to end up with nothing.”
“You’re already marrying the most eligible bachelor is Westeros, what more could you be looking for? Do you have designs on the crown?”
“Heavens, no,” she shudders. “I merely expect to be…” She puffs up with a deep breath. “Listened to.”
“Listened to? So you’ll be a silent wench, but not a silent wife?”
“ No , and my Lord, that way of calling me is entirely unacceptable.”
“I’ll call you like a lady when you stop climbing around in trees and wearing britches, alright? Until then…” She does not readily supply a counter-argument, so he considers the matter decided. “Although I hope you don’t lose your taste for adventure after we’re married. Not many men can say they have adventures with their lady wives.”
“Well, I can certainly swear to always hate dresses.”
Jaime laughs. “But the Highgarden style does suit you, my Lady. Ah, I mean, my wench ,” he says, leaning toward her with a grin. When Brienne flushes again, an alarming shade of red, he can see it spread, because her gown, though plain, still has the signature deep neckline and short sleeves of a Highgarden design. It also shows her arms, which are inappropriately and nicely muscled from swordplay.
He continues, “The blushes are getting more intense. Do you have a blood condition, mayhaps?” She gives him a look that, from another lady, he might assume would precede a cold comment or perhaps even a slap, but he thinks for a moment that the mad wench might actually punch him. “I’m only teasing, wench!”
Coolly, she says, “I don’t enjoy your sense of humor, my Lord, nor do I enjoy false compliments. They leave a much worse taste in my mouth than the truth.”
“I will not pay you compliments I feel to be false. I truly think it looks well on you. We should insist on this style for your wedding dress. I’m not so sure about tight sleeves.”
“It’ll look terrible,” she says, with the surety of someone who has given it a great deal of thought. “But I can hardly refuse to wear the style of the capitol in the capitol.”
“Just glower at anyone who shakes their head, the way you do at me sometimes. They’ll be too terrified to speak.”
“Ha! You never cease speaking. My Lord.”
“Well, anyway, you’re leaving your home for this wedding, it should at least be pleasing to you.”
“I have no desire for a grand wedding, but a Lannister wedding could be no less, could it, my Lord?”
“Jaime. Call me Jaime.”
“Alright, and you can call me Brienne.”
“Nice try, wench.” She clearly considers throwing her biscuit at his head. “And no, it couldn’t be anything less than grand. Try to practice not blushing. It won’t look good in red.”
“If it were possible to control, I would gladly do so. Jaime .” She stands and begins to repack the basket.
“I’m only teasing, Brienne ,” Jaime complains, getting up and taking the basket from her against her protests.
She merely says that they should go back and walks ahead of him. After a tense silence, they begin to discuss more neutral matters. She asks if he’s close to his brother.
“Yes, although we haven’t seen each other for some time. We write, but...reading and writing aren’t my favorite activities. They sometimes prove...difficult.”
“How do you mean?”
“The letters sometimes...swim a bit. It gives me pain in my head,” Jaime replies, attempting to sound casual. In truth, his difficulty with letters has felt like a black mark on him since he was a young child.
“That’s unfortunate. You’ll see him in King’s Landing someday when we marry, will you not?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Then it will at least be a good day in some sense.”
“Is marrying me such a troubling prospect, wench?”
“Marrying you --” she splutters a moment before she gathers herself and looks at him with her powerful eyes. “I meant entirely the opposite, my Lord. I know very well that I have little in the way of charms.”
“My opinion of your charms doesn’t matter, firstly. Secondly, I’m more interested in having a wife who interests me than a wife who sews and barely speaks.”
Brienne is then, of course, silent for a good five minutes before she says, speaking to the ground, “Do you know I was betrothed before this, twice? The first died as a child, but the second took one look at me and declared--well--it was very clear that there would be no marriage.”
Jaime stops in the lane and says, “What’s that got to do with me, Brienne?”
Shuffling uncomfortably, she replies, “I...I simply thought...felt..if he felt that way--”
Jaime cuts her off, “I don’t know who this boy is, but never compare me to him.” He puts a hand on her bare wrist and says, “There are no men like me, Brienne. Just me.”
~~~
The rest of Jaime’s visit goes well, and he feels confident by the time he leaves that being married to Brienne of Tarth is not so bad a fate. She may not be fair, but there is a loveliness in the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs. She reminds him of Tyrion sometimes, but mostly she is entirely her own person, full of surprises.
The second evening at dusk, she had entirely broken her facade of being the most serious maid in Westeros when they had chased each other through Highgarden’s famous briar maze. Loras had chided her for acting childish. Jaime had told him--really too harshly for a guest to their host--to mind his own business. Thankfully, Margaery, clever girl that she is, had broken any potential tension by laughing her airy laugh and agreeing with him, slapping her brother’s shoulder.
He had insisted on drawing her since it could be some time before they saw each other again. She had protested greatly but ultimately agreed, and he drew her looking appropriately sullen, laughing to himself the whole time, which she had not appreciated. Still, he had gotten another, slightly less gloomy one as well.
“Just don’t let anyone see or they’ll likely tease you forever about your ugly bride.”
And they fight, of course. By the time he leaves, she’s started challenging him to a duel every time he makes her cross. He can see her potential, and he thinks a bit mournfully that if she weren’t a woman, she’d be a squire on her way to knighthood. She mentions that the Master of Arms at Highgarden won’t train her. Jaime has a talk with him, and makes sure to tell Lady Olenna that it would please her future husband very much if Brienne continued to practice.
On his final day, they linger behind the rest of the party traveling to see him off. She seems more nervous than he’s seen her since his first day, her cheeks stained pink since they said hello at the breakfast table. It would be amusing if he didn’t feel rather reluctant to leave.
He takes her hand and says, “Goodbye, Brienne. Train hard.”
“At what?”
“Everything.” He draws her closer. “I vow to be a good husband to you someday.” She blinks up at him and her gaze makes him catch his breath as it sometimes does. He murmurs, “Have I told you that you have very beautiful eyes?”
Her breath catches similarly and she exhales, “No, you haven’t.”
“Then I’ve been remiss.”
She brings a hand up between them and puts her hand on his chest, giving him a gentle push away. “You are a shameless flatterer, my Lord.”
“I merely tell the truth,” Jaime shrugs, stepping back. “Well, wench, have you got a goodbye kiss for your future husband?” He expects her to blush spectacularly and stammer and huff--it’s a bit charming when she does that.
Instead, she surprises him once more by leaning forward and pressing her plush lips against his own for a brief moment.
Jaime grins and places her hand over his heart, saying, “Ah, a kiss I shall cherish for all my days.”
She narrows her eyes and draws her hand back, replying, “We will fight the next time we meet, Ser Jaime."
The memory makes him laugh at least a dozen times on the long trip back to Crakehall.