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“Lord Hand!”
Tyrion stopped in his tracks and turned around to find Lady Brienne briskly walking towards him. He hoped to the Seven that she would stop at a far enough distance from him so he wouldn’t need to strain his neck looking up while speaking with her.
“Lady Brienne,” he greeted her, observing how she slowed down before stopping at a good few feet away from him. Indeed, the lady knight was an ever considerate one.
“M'lord, do you happen to know where Jai- where your brother is?” she asked, blushing so when Tyrion slightly tilted his head and gave her a small smile. “I- He asked me to spar with him after I finish training with Lady Arya today; but I haven’t seen him since noon. Have you seen him?”
She looked away as soon as she finished speaking, making Tyrion chuckle. The little man had been immensely enjoying the past few moons watching all the tell-tales of the unspoken feelings between his brother and the tall, blonde lady knight before him. Even in the midst of uncertainty of making it alive the following day, he took pleasure in observing the two idiots pining for each other while being ignorant of the fact that the whole world, except the two of them, already knows of what they mean to one another. Even Cersei who had only seen them together once had known.
“I’m not sure, m’lady, but I think I heard Pod mention of Jaime’s plan to show something to the Hound and his squad at the smithy.”
Tyrion did see Jaime earlier that day, strangely energetic – so much livelier than even the day he, Jaime, was pardoned by the Starks and spared by Queen Daenerys. Understandably, he still wasn’t charming any of the Northerners nor the Essosi, what with his reputation and past encounters with the Starks, the Targaryen queen’s father and the Dragon Queen herself; but Tyrion saw how from his Snow-like brooding over Cersei, from overexerting himself with trainings with Lady Brienne and the handful of Lannister soldiers he managed to take with him to Winterfell, Jaime perked up gradually. Especially that morning when he spoke with every single man he bumped into, showing off the old, horribly embroidered tunic he was wearing.
Lady Brienne patched this up for me, Tyrion heard Jaime brag to a not-too-amused Greyworm, his giddy smile barely hidden by his beard. The one-handed idiot parted the front of his furs to reveal a Lannister red scrap of wool stitched hideously with a yellow thread onto his dirty white shirt. You know she never really liked sewing—or any of the lame things most ladies like to do – but she patched up this rip on my tunic.
Not contented with Greyworm's indifference, Jaime left to put his precious tunic on display some more. On his way out, he met Podrick, to whom he repeated his bragging and who later relayed to Tyrion how the blond knight went, “Aha!” and mumbled something about rubbing this victory in that wildling's face, maybe the Hound too.
“Since when did he warm up with the Hound?” Tyrion heard Lady Brienne mumble, more to herself than to him.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Lady Brienne,” Tyrion snorted. “He didn’t go there to get chummy with Sandor’s squad. He was there to display and brag his better-than-new tunic to a certain red-haired wildling I’d rather not name within your earshot. I notice how you shudder at the mere mention of him.”
The lady frowned and fidgeted with the hilt of her Valyrian sword.
“I don’t shudder – Oh, forget it,” she stuttered. “Ser Jaime’s shirt isn’t new, Lord Tyrion. Neither is it better than new. I botched that old tunic when I tried my large, clumsy hand at sewing again. You see, none of the Northern ladies wanted to fix it for him so I had to do it. What is there to brag about? And why would he seek Tormund to do that?”
This time, Tyrion didn’t bother stifling his laughter even as she scowled deeper at him.
“My, you two are such...” he didn’t finish that statement knowing that it would be rude to the lady. “I won’t lie about how horrible that patch looks m’lady. But just in case you didn’t notice, it didn’t matter to my smitten idiot of a brother.”
The lady’s brows furrowed even deeper at the mention of smitten. “Your brother is not smitten over me, m’lord. Your sister...”
“Denying it doesn’t make it any less true, m’lady,” Tyrion groaned, rolling his eyes. “My brother may have spent most of his life wasting his talents and loyalty for our monster of a sister, doing everything she tells him to; but you know very well about her order to get him killed, the inexistent child, the recruitment of the Golden Company. I know he tells you everything. Now, although he can’t admit it to anyone, much less you, you must realize that he has no plans of ever going back to her even if he gets to survive the Long Night.”
Especially now that he’s attached himself to you. Tyrion thought better than to mention another thing the lady would surely contend against.
She was rendered speechless for a while, so he went on.
“I’ll have you know no one’s ever done this... wifely thing for him before. Cersei certainly never had. Never would.”
“B-but servants...” she sputtered.
“Did it for their wages,” he immediately interjected. “No point in arguing, m’lady. Jaime extremely appreciates your work. He’s really proud to own the first ever needlework you liked doing.”
Tyrion knew his smirk wouldn’t make the lady any less uncomfortable, but he couldn’t help feeling at least a little victorious in making her realize that her feelings for Jaime aren’t unrequited.
“Wench!” a loud voice resounded from behind Tyrion.
Both he and Lady Brienne looked towards the far end of the corridor. The happy subject of their conversation strutted like a peacock to where they stood. Tyrion could see how Jaime was only a hair’s breadth away from skipping towards them in sheer delight. Funny how despite having faced and barely survived several fights against the White Walkers, Jaime could still smile that brightly.
Lady Brienne cleared her throat before nervously muttering, “It’s Brienne, Ser Jaime.”
The taller Lannister merely shrugged. “If you’re weary of me calling you wench around Tyrion, don’t be. He knows you’re my wench and I’m your idiot.”
The blush that spread all over the lady’s freckly face was no surprise at all.
“You asked to spar,” she stammered, changing the subject.
Tyrion noted how Jaime’s eyes twinkled at the sight of the lady’s flushed face. He could swear his brother’s face was so close to splitting in half with the big smile he had as he subtly walked to her side, snaked an arm behind her and placed his stump on the small of her back.
“I did!” Jaime exclaimed cheerfully. “I thought I should remind you how to use a sword after your majestic use of a needle to save the honor of my poor shirt.”
“Shut up,” the lady knight murmured. “Majestic. I know I’ve done a poor job; no need to mock me anymore.”
Jaime gasped and dramatically grabbed his chest. “Mock you? Why would I... This is the most beautiful needlework I have ever seen, wench. Not even Lady Sansa’s embroidery can compare to...oof!”
Jaime’s blabbering was cut short by an elbow to his stomach, which made even Tyrion wince.
“Stop it or I won’t spar with you at all.”
Jaime’s expression immediately changed into a less playful, slightly panicked one, apparently afraid of pissing off the lady too much she’d cancel her promised sparring session. He directed her to the courtyard, (thankfully) not forgetting to wink at his brother -- who had gone unnoticed as soon as the two tall blondes started bantering – before leaving.
“Let’s go, wench,” Tyrion heard Jaime cooing as he and Lady Brienne walked farther and farther from the shorter Lannister. “We’ll spar. And we’ll put some more rips and tears on my tunic and trousers. Then, you’ll fix them again for your beloved idiot.”
Tyrion heard Lady Brienne utter a barely audible Lord Hand before being completely dragged outside by his brother.
Oh well. Never mind that the Hand of the Queen practically got ignored.
At least, there’s a more modest chance now for the idiot couple to hasten getting together. Maybe Tyrion wouldn’t need to make any more interference than he had earlier.
Jaime looked emotionally healed now – ready even. And quite confident around his wench.
Apparently, he only needed to be pushed a little further. Or maybe pulled closer... by the ugly patch and its marvelous embroiderer.