Chapter Text
The seat of Bronzegate had been bought, which brought plenty of grumbling to Storm’s End. Enough money, and the ear of the Prince Regent, being enough to undo entail these days was bad enough—but the problem was the purchaser.
Lord Steffon Baratheon could be heard proclaiming to everyone from his wife to the nearest scullery maid that Tywin Lannister would soon find to his peril not all things were for sale. But Bronzegate, Storm’s End nearest neighbor by land, had very surely been for sale, and would shortly be the home of Tywin Lannister’s second, and notably shorter, son.
Brienne of Tarth, Storm’s End nearest neighbor by sea, had spent the better part of eight years installed in the Baratheon household as the young companion to its Lady. Admiral Tarth was more away than not, as long as war raged in the Summer Sea, and nothing was more precious to his daughter than the few months spent at home in Evenfall during his leave. Only one person came close: the youngest son of House Baratheon, closest to her own age, was her particular friend. Aside from her greying pony in the stables, Renly Baratheon was, perhaps, her only friend.
When he’d been away at school, life would be bland and dutiful; but he was back, with no plans beyond Storm’s End, and the days were fruit-sweet, with time for dancing and riding, and if more hours than not were spent listening to Renly complain, about his parents or his brothers or the school friends he missed and might be long in seeing again, it had to be granted that Renly’s voice was more than pleasant even then, and that he never failed to find humor, even in his long-winded woes.
Brienne kept her woes to herself, though she did have them. Storm’s End was no Evenfall Hall, the home she missed almost as much as her father and saw exactly as rarely. She did not have a living brother to complain about, as Renly did his; Galladon Tarth had drowned and long ago become more memory than boy. Her schooling had occurred entirely between two households, so she had no school friends to speak of or miss. She had, well… Renly. But Renly was a fine enough substitute for the rest. He was also her greatest woe:
Quietly, she loved him, with no hope of return. But what did that matter, when she could be near him, when hers was the listening ear he turned to? Best of all, he’d helped her keep up her fencing lessons, since he’d first arranged for her instructor from Tarth to follow her from Storm’s End, after finding her crying over missing it when she was a girl and he not much older. If he didn’t always attend the lessons himself, it only told her more that he’d done that for her, and not for his own training at all—though their fencing lessons certainly gave him a long-standing excuse to give his lord father, when he’d prefer to be elsewhere.
Brienne had little to do with the other Baratheon brothers. They’d been away, for most of her youth, first at school in the Eyrie, while Renly attended the less-renowned academy at Highgarden, and then simply away. Stannis had followed the classic path of a second son and taken an officer’s commission. As a navy man himself, he brought a message from her father on his visits, always much more curt in Stannis’ mouth than it would sound in Admiral Tarth’s, and had risen to a respectably captaincy.
Robert, though… Brienne considered Robert Baratheon something of a romantic tragedy. He had always been a rogue, but a cheerful one, treating her as more of an amusement than Renly. If he remembered Brienne was about, he’d ruffle her hair, compare their height, treat her like a boy—he was loud enough that his comments of what he thought of her face and form tended to carry, but it was no worse than Brienne heard whispered and he didn’t feign thinking any differently to her face.
He’d roared laughing over hearing about her two attempts to sneak off, dressed as a boy, to follow her father to sea, during her early visits. And he’d told her outright once, with words that had stayed searingly with her, “Gods be damned, girl, if it weren’t for your sex, you’d be shaping up to be a perfect man, and had you more shape to go with your spirit, quite a woman—” and when his mother hushed him, horrified by his words to their young guest, Robert had concluded with, “I tell you this, my wife will love you, Miss-of-Tarth”—Robert never did remember her name—“likely my wife will love you more than me!”
But that was exactly the trouble: Robert’s wife-to-be had, indeed, found someone she loved more than him, far more, by all tellings but Robert’s own. Lyanna Stark had wound up entangled in scandal with the Crown Prince, and the Crown Prince was hardly a person even the Baratheon heir could challenge to a duel. Robert, and the girl’s brothers, had petitioned the Council, but the Council of the Seven Kingdoms had declined to even wrist-slap Rhaegar Targaryen… who, off key testimony on his father’s madness, had in short order ascended to Prince Regent, buried his wife—the Crown Princess proved dutiful even in the too-perfect timing of her death—and married the Stark girl. Robert had been paid, reportedly with gold right from Casterly Rock’s mines, more than double Lyanna Stark’s dowry… for his pains.
Robert Baratheon had descended into dissolution in the ten years since. He was off drinking, gambling, and, with that payment long since spent, rapidly blowing his family’s fortune in whorehouses, and every indication was one vice or the other would off him, soon enough.
In recent years, ‘what will we do when Robert dies’ had become a common element of Renly’s conversation. It never failed to make Brienne squirm; the latest conversation was no different, except that she had a brand-new direction to divert the topic.
“Have you met Mr. Lannister yet?” she asked Renly, when his musings turned far too morbid for their morning ride.
“Mr. Lannister?” Renly repeated, slowing his horse. “Ah. You mean Mr. Tyrion Lannister.”
“The Imp, not the Kingslayer,” Brienne said, for she knew both only by reputation, and that made Renly flash a bright, stomach-dropping smile, “only one of them is newly our neighbor.”
“Oh, not for long,” Renly said lazily, “like the pride they think themselves—or golden vermin, if you ask Robert, or Stannis, for that matter, one of the few points they’ll agree on—” He caught himself and continued, before he went off on the usual tangent. “Where one appears, the others tend to be trailing behind.”
More sharply, he added, “Lord Lannister doesn’t shit a single gold dragon without intent, and if his buying Bronzegate isn’t entirely to do with Storm’s End, I’ll…” Renly paused, reaching for a figure of speech both adequate to his emotion and polite enough to use in front of Brienne, and wound up simply spurring his horse back up to their usual pace.
Brienne considered Renly's belief slightly vain—the Baratheons might be important, but surely a lord could acquire property, in the Stormlands or not, for a second son without factoring them into it—but for all that she was highborn, too, Renly knew more of courtly circles than she did. As usual, she took his word for it.
He had the right of it. Mr. Tyrion Lannister had not finished his move, nor had they even had sight of him from Storm’s End, before his brother and sister arrived to join him at Bronzegate. The Lannister twins swept into the neighboring area with all the brightness of twin suns in summer, looking the part. Their dazzle was all the talk of Storm’s End, even more so than their reputation.
Miss Cersei Lannister’s reputation was not so harsh: the greatest beauty in the kingdoms, the whispers went, kept very pointedly unmarried with the Crown Prince’s wife so sickly so long, and then, just as poor Elia Martell conveniently left the world right as the Prince took the Regency… a girl even younger and more beautiful chosen in her place. It had looked, for a long time, Lyanna Stark would go the way of Rhaegar’s first wife—all of sixteen and so nearly dead in childbed, saved only by the care of all the Citadels’ finest Maesters. So sick, for so long after… But Lyanna Targaryen, in the flower of health again, remained queen, of the flowers and otherwise, and Cersei Lannister remained unwed. If Brienne hadn’t thought it so horrible, the Lannisters hovering like hopeful harpies awaiting a young woman’s death, twice, she’d have found that romantically sad, too.
Mr. Jaime Lannister was another issue altogether: the King had been Mad, and the Prince Regent was sensible, and no one was sorry for the Regency, but it was also a fact that it had been done by deceit. Whether he lied for his father or lied for his Prince, Jaime Lannister’s testimony had put the King aside. Never mind that everyone knew he was lying, under oath, he’d given the Council what they needed. Even loyalists didn’t fault him for it… to his face. The whispers around the realm faulted him plenty.
Brienne saw them approaching from a distance, the beautiful sister on the arm of her equally-beautiful brother, while his other hand twirled a ridiculous-looking walking stick. Her curiosity was overridden by dismay. Renly, for all his pronounced dislike of the Lannisters, always surrounded himself by lovely company. Though she tried to have as little vanity as possible, knowing herself to be quite unlovely, she would suffer in contrast… and be grouped by all, no doubt, with the third of their party. Riding while his siblings walked, for an entrance in style, Mr. Tyrion Lannister managed to descend with sprightliness from a saddle that looked specially designed.
Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana greeted the Lannisters warmly enough. Miss Lannister was gracious; Mr. Tyrion charming, quoting something about the Storm Queens of old while kissing Lady Cassanda’s hand… Mr. Lannister was stiff, as he eyed Lord Steffon, and shook his hand; he had a smarmy expression while he greeted Renly, with a mutter too low for Brienne to catch but which set Renly’s jaw clenching.
“And which relative must this be?” Mr. Tyrion asked politely, when he spied Brienne. Her height made it impossible to disappear into the background on first acquaintance; it was a trick she managed over time, until most visitors came to see her as furniture. Mr. Tyrion Lannister, born a dwarf, seemed wise to her tricks immediately. “Great height, I see, never fails to run in House Baratheon.”
“Miss Tarth, actually,” Renly said, and Brienne shot him a grateful look as he jumped in—
“Your betrothed?” Mr. Lannister drawled, all feigned politeness as he aimed the end of his walking stick pointedly at Renly. Everyone froze, and Brienne hated the man, immediately. She wanted to snap the ostentatious lion head right off his walking stick.
“N-no,” she said, hastening to clarify before she had to hear Renly object. “Lord and Lady Baratheon are kind enough to host me while my father is at sea. Admiral Tarth… of Tarth.”
Mr. Lannister paused a second. “I haven’t heard of him,” he said, as if he’d heard of everyone, and his brother rushed to talk over him.
“I suspect your father, being an Admiral, is often at sea?” Mr. Tyrion asked, giving her an escape. Aside from a cheekiness, Brienne saw nothing impish about him.
“More often than not, the past eight years,” she said, and Miss Lannister, suddenly, swooped.
“In this household of boys!” she said, linking her arm with Brienne’s, to Brienne’s utter shock. “I am sure you bring Lady Cassana great comfort indeed, but with no companions of your own age, these years, is a lonely lot for a young lady. I would know. Though, both of my brothers have so far failed to provide me with a good sister. Captain Stannis Baratheon, at least, is married?”
“Stannis was widowed, recently, though his wife kept her own household,” Brienne said, baffled. Cersei Lannister was a decade her senior, though she didn’t look it, not so much a companion of her own age, but she seemed eager, suddenly, to gossip like girls, to take Brienne on a turn about the room. Brienne felt the contrast of their sizes acutely—Miss Lannister was not a short woman, but Brienne felt herself drafted into the part of a gentleman, escorting her about, and despite how she might be better built for that part… it was never one she had longed to play.
“Are you out in society, Miss Tarth?” Miss Lannister asked her. “For I have not seen you at King’s Landing—I think we would recall.”
Brienne was unsure if that was the royal we or if Miss Lannister meant herself and her brothers, or one brother in particular, the one who seemed as much Miss Lannister’s accessory walking up as the walking stick was his own.
“I am out, but not in,” was Brienne’s answer, which Miss Lannister awarded her as very clever, indeed, though it wasn’t in the least, and Brienne was not sure whether to believe the other woman's warm laugh or her narrowed eyes. The horrible thing about circling about the room, while it did truly allow for confidence in conversation and a chance to stretch the legs, was it put you on parade for everyone else; Lord Steffon Baratheon certainly kept watching Miss Lannister’s swishing skirts, and Mr. Lannister, every muscle tensed, watched their every rotation.
It was with great relief, despite Miss Lannister’s pronounced reluctance to go, that she and Brienne must be great friends during their stay of at least a month, that as kindred spirits they must see each other nearly every day, Brienne watched the Lannisters depart. Renly whisked her off to the kitchen, as soon as he could.
“What did she ask you?” Renly said, after, grabbing Brienne’s arms with some urgency. She flushed, to be held by him, but also shook him off; he’d grabbed her quite tightly.
Brienne did not think he’d be interested in Cersei’s accounts of her dressmakers’ latest efforts. Nor was she the fool Miss Lannister clearly thought her: she’d caught the drift of their conversation… at least after the second careful questions.
“Robert’s movements,” Brienne said, and Renly sucked in a breath, more of confirmation than surprise. “Robert’s health. Your parents’ health, too. And the timing of Stannis’ leave. I think…”
“The Lannisters mean to take Storm’s End, by one of my fool brothers or the other,” Renly said grimly. His brothers often called him a fool; he seemed to relish returning the favor.
“Miss Lannister is very beautiful,” Brienne said hesitantly—to her immense surprise and delight, Renly rolled his eyes in dismissal—“but neither Robert nor Stannis seem quite likely to marry for—”
“I rather think she’s enough a cat in heat to capture either of them,” Renly said, between his teeth.
“Stannis?” Brienne said, doubtfully.
“Stannis is weak enough to what that woman is strong in,” Renly said.
“But not you,” Brienne said warmly, and Renly, picking up a peach from the kitchen fruit bushel, turned it around in his hand, saying, “Hmm, well, third son and all, she’s not after me,” but didn’t disagree.
“Renly,” Brienne said, “what was it Mr. Lannister said that bothered you so?” At his blank expression, she added, “When they arrived,” and only then realized his expression was deliberate, not confusion.
Airily, between bites of his peach, Renly said, “Oh, he simply sent regards, from a school friend I haven’t heard from in a while.”
Brienne thought a moment. “From Loras Tyrell?”
Renly choked on his peach. When he recovered, he gasped, “How—how did you—"
“He’s the only one you ever really talk about,” Brienne said, hovering, longing to rub Renly’s back, as he kept coughing, but not wishing to overstep.
“I suppose he is.” Renly finally smiled, wanly. “I haven’t seen him since I graduated from Highgarden.”
“You could always invite him for a visit,” Brienne suggested, though she had very vehemently not enjoyed herself, on previous occasions Renly’s school friends had visited.
“Not, I think, so long as the Lannisters reside in Bronzegate.” Renly sounded ominous. “I do, at least, have you, to go into battle with me.”
It was the stuff of Brienne’s dreams, hearing that from Renly. It was, however, in the worst circumstances. “This… is not the sort of battle I’m suited for.”
Renly pointed a peach-sticky finger at her. “You can distract Lannister.”
Brienne looked away. “Tyrion Lannister was pleasant enough, but—"
“No, the Kingslayer,” Renly said, and then began laughing. He tapped under her chin. “Close your mouth; it’s not so unlikely."
“It isn’t?” Brienne said, dazed. If Renly thought a man who looked like that, might pay any mind to her, what must he really think—
“He’s a renowned fencer, you goose, you must know that of him! He’ll be itching for an opponent, away from his clubs. Not to say he’d deign to come over to fight you, but if I ask him over—he’ll drub me, certainly—”
“You’re an above average fencer,” Brienne protested.
Renly laughed, again. He looked at her, as if sizing her up. “You’re taller than him, by a touch, and much heavier.” He missed Brienne’s flinch, focused on his plotting. “That might give you an advantage; he won’t expect you to be fast, too. You might be able to take him, my old girl.”
Brienne had never been able to decide if she liked when Renly called her that or not. It was the same chummy sort of expression he used with his school friend. She just wished it wasn’t… quite that nickname.
“Let’s put them on the back foot, from the beginning,” Renly said, and when he held out his hand to clasp… of course, Brienne took it.
Bronzegate was a half-day’s ride away, and Storm’s End enormous; a proper visit, between great houses, must therefore include a week’s comfortable stay, with the favor then returned. In centuries past the Houses made war with each other, with even hospitality at times betrayed. In the modern age… barring the occasional scandal, they killed each other with kindnesses. Renly promptly obtained his father’s approval and sent a formal invitation the next day. The Lannisters returned, with bags, within three nights; Brienne was only surprised they took that long.
The Lannisters ordered themselves carefully when they joined the table at dinner. Renly had arranged the seating, but Miss Lannister took the seat intended for Mr. Lannister beside Lord Steffon, leaving Mr. Jaime Lannister to flatter Lady Cassana.
Mr. Tyrion sat between Renly and Brienne, toasting them both and keeping up enough conversation for the whole table—as well as taking in enough wine, without slipping into drunkenness, Brienne began wondering if he was pouring it somewhere or simply able to outdrink Robert Baratheon.
Brienne made it through dinner without needing to say much, only refusing, again and again, as Tyrion and Renly by habit went to refill her cup each time they refreshed their own. Miss Lannister made one comment about her quiet, but Brienne let a shrug serve as her response—the Lannisters seemed to find that amusing enough—and finished her meal.
The next morning, on Renly’s invitation, Mr. Lannister walked into Storm’s End fencing yard on, with his sister on one arm and his brother, eyebrows raised, following after.
“What’s with the wench?” Mr. Lannister said, as immediately as he took in his surroundings, and Miss Lannister hissed, “Jaime!”
“I’m afraid my brother doesn’t know the meaning of the word decorum,” Mr. Tyrion said, smoothly.
Mr. Lannister, visibly annoyed, said, “In fact, your brother does, but decorum’s been fairly defenestrated when ladies are wearing breeches.” He jabbed his walking stick in Brienne’s direction, or, more specifically, at said tight, white breeches.
“Forgive my brother,” Miss Lannister said—Brienne could not recall the last time she’d heard so many people going around reminding everyone of their relationship, ‘brother’ this, ‘sister’ that; the Baratheons certainly didn’t bother—“He’s used to King’s Landing fashions, and few can pull off breeches so boldly.”
“I wear them to fence,” Brienne said, looking down. She felt exposed, where she normally felt comfortable, in her practice gear. “Skirts are—not the easiest course, for practice, when not required.”
The Lannisters were quiet for a moment.
“It’s rare to find a woman fencer,” Mr. Lannister said, unreadable, and Miss Lannister hastened to add, “Not so very rare, as all that, but then you, Miss Tarth, have some rare advantages!”
Mr. Tyrion Lannister came to sit next to Brienne. His eyebrows remained arched.
“Yes?” Brienne said, at last, uncomfortably.
“Very interesting,” Mr. Tyrion Lannister said, casting his voice low, the more so as Miss Lannister came to sit beside them, “that we’ve come to see a friendly bout between my brother and the young Mr. Renly, and find you equally dressed for sport.”
Brienne muttered something about helping him warm up, eyes focused on her lap.
“You prefer to poke your target, don’t you, Renly?” Mr. Lannister called, as he inspected their rack of blades. “I prefer sabre, of course, but to make it fair, shall we have at it with the foil, or the epée?”
Renly, for some reason, was purpling, emotions struck by a direct hit Brienne had somehow missed. Miss Lannister was coughing into her hand, and even Mr. Tyrion smirking—
“Renly trains with the epée,” Brienne called, her voice louder than she meant, and she looked down again as Mr. Lannister’s head sharply jerked up.
“And what do you train with?” Mr. Lannister said. She ignored him, letting Renly answer for him; the two men seemed to be bickering as they chose their blades, and Brienne was very afraid she heard the word ‘wench’ thrown in there again.
“It always comes down to swords, with men,” Miss Lannister said to Brienne, rather confidentially. “Men never understand how little we care about them fussing about their swords all the time—"
“I do quite like swords, though,” Brienne said, and Miss Lannister’s mouth twitched again, while Mr. Tyrion’s face was practically covered by both hands. “Sincerely,” Brienne added.
“I find it hard to believe you spent so much of your childhood in the same household as the Baratheons,” Miss Lannister said, “when you are so charming. How old are you again, darling?”
“Eighteen,” Brienne said, to her hands, and so she only heard the slight waver in Miss Lannister’s voice, as Miss Lannister repeated "eighteen", more faintly.
At the first sound of a blade in motion, Brienne’s head darted up.
Mr. Lannister’s hand was devilishly quick; he was inside Renly’s guard within a split-second of start, poking him right in the chest.
“I wasn’t ready,” Renly insisted, and Mr. Lannister did not protest.
He was even faster through his guard, with the same move, their second start. Renly truly was a more than adequate fencer, not top-tier in his Highgarden class and not so diligent in his practice, but as natural an athlete as he was in riding. He looked a beginner, against Mr. Lannister, and Brienne, finding herself sitting very straight, had to remind herself to close her mouth.
“He’s very handsome, isn’t he,” Miss Lannister said, her mouth curved.
“Renly?” Brienne said, reflexively. “Through his helmet?”
“Oh, certainly,” Mr. Tyrion interjected, casting a look at Miss Lannister. “The measure of a man can be found when he is losing, and badly; I see no reason that shouldn’t be true for his attractiveness, as well.”
“He’s only lost one—” But even as Brienne went to object, Jaime Lannister sidestepped Renly’s lunge, pivoting and tapping him with the blade in the back; Renly, mostly by his own momentum, landed face-down on the grass.
He got up, panting through his mask; he was not managing to laugh about it, though he did try to force one. Renly always took Brienne beating him easily enough; it bothered him to lose to Jaime Lannister. Already, he was glancing to the chair Brienne sat in to the side.
“Do you need a moment?” Mr. Lannister said, politely.
“Again, Kingslayer,” Renly growled, sounding rather like Robert for a moment.
“I would be remiss,” Mr. Lannister pointed out, between parries, step forward, step back, one-two, “if I didn’t point out” –worrisomely good footwork, his feet were nearly as quick as his wrist—“the king happens to be very—much—alive.”
“Good as dead,” Renly panted, “and the realm knows it.” His footwork was increasingly sloppy. Miss Lannister was saying something, but Brienne couldn’t quite give her the attention.
Renly was leaving far too much an opening by his groin; Lannister could have hit him there, but he seemed to following sabre rules, where strikes beneath the waist did not count; Brienne doubted he was simply being a gentleman. Three times, he could have struck and did not, he waited and pressed the point of his blade to Renly’s padded neck.
Renly, despite losing the point, jabbed Jaime Lannister in the shoulder and did not apologize, before throwing down his blade. Brienne barely restrained calling his name, in scold; she wasn’t his sister or his anything and had no place doing so.
“I am sorry I cannot offer you better opposition,” Renly said, “myself.”
“Yourself?” Lannister repeated. He glanced to their watchers and laughed. “You cannot mean the—woman. Miss Tarth, that is. My sister would make you a better opponent.”
Brienne turned to his twin, surprisingly brightened at the prospect. “Do you fence?”
“As a child, I was quite as good as my brother at swinging a stick,” Miss Lannister said, staring more at her brother than Brienne. Her expression was hard. “I cannot say I’ve picked up a blade since.”
“Miss Tarth has practiced every day she’s spent at Storm’s End,” Renly swore, staring down Lannister. “She is far my superior.”
“And you suspect my sister would not be?” Lannister said, at once friendly and dangerous, still parrying as he posed the blade like his walking stick.
“Jaime,” Miss Lannister hissed.
“You’ve watched my brother fight, Miss Tarth,” Mr. Tyrion said, raising his voice. “Do you think yourself his match?”
“I train with the sabre,” she said. “I understand that’s his blade, as well.”
“Speak up,” Lannister said, finally taking off his helmet. His chin-length hair did not look sweaty. “Yes, or no, Miss Tarth?”
“The sabre, Jaime,” Tyrion called.
Miss Lannister’s hand suddenly curled over Brienne’s own, tight.
“I know you might think yourself a match for the men,” Miss Lannister said. “You are of a size with them. My brother is of course a gentleman, but not in this, Miss Tarth. There is not a form of fighting he does not take too seriously, and he is not practiced in gentling his style against a woman. So early in our stay, I would not care to see you or your pride injured.”
“I—” Brienne did not know quite what to say. “Thank you for your concern,” she said, trying, as gently as possible, to disentangle herself from Cersei Lannister. “I promise I do not have false confidence in my abilities.”
Renly paused to mutter in her ear, as he handed her own helmet over. “Beat his ass, Brienne,” he said, which was not appropriate at all.
“Are you quite sure?” Lannister said, as she took up a pose opposite him.
“Va nē,” she said, the classic High Valyrian words of warning before a bout.
She can see his smile through the wire; it is no kinder than his voice.
“Ives,” he said back, the shortened form of let’s go, and then he was slashing forward.
He meant to end it early; she could feel his surprise, the blade an extension of his body, when she slashed back in time to counter and pressed him back. They were circling each other within moments; she kept her eyes half on his feet, half on his hands. Attack was easier, and Lannister had chosen attack; that put her on defense, but she could match his speed, almost, and her arm was longer than his, longer than he expected—counter, riposte, parry, she sidestepped his flying lunge, barely, his blade whistled by her ear, and—her slash found purchase in his shoulder.
Lannister stepped back, to reset, and took off his mask. Brienne felt immediate disappointment, at him ending it this soon, but he gestured for her to take off hers as well, with a lift of his blade.
“You’re good enough, we don’t need those,” he said briskly. “Va nē, then.”
She took off her mask and took up her pose; she could feel the redness in her face and didn’t like to think how she looked. But she didn’t need to think about it, fencing. “Ives,” she said, and then Lannister was on her again, counter, parry—
His slash hit her inner thigh, and she flinched at the pain, though it didn’t break the fabric. Lannister swore, with a nod of apology. His sister called his name from the sides, calling a stop, but he took up the pose again.
Brienne wasn’t thinking of anyone watching, not even Renly and how he wanted her to beat Lannister, only the dance of the blades. Strike after counterstrike after dodge, it was the longest she’d gone without landing a strike—
A sudden new voice startled them both. It sounded like Renly’s laughter, but louder, and underneath it was one equally familiar, insisting this be stopped, at once, what would the girl’s father say—
Brienne’s father had watched her fight many a time. He’d likely say a more decorous version of beat his ass, but she was off balance, aware of the new audience, and while she got her blade up in time to block Lannister’s latest, she swerved much too far, putting her shoulder in his path rather than out of it, a collision that tangled their feet and took them both to the ground. Both kept their blades well away from each other. With focus on that, Lannister wound up far more on top of her than was appropriate.
Stannis and Robert Baratheon, both of them, were pulling them to their feet before Brienne registered anything more than disappointment the fight had ended, so soon.
“I did try to tell you,” Miss Lannister said, swanning up beside them, “you had a new audience.”
Robert Baratheon looked between Lannister and Brienne, and threw back his head again. He was not as handsome as he’d been on his last return; he now looked like a puffier, redder Renly, rather than merely the larger model.
“I’d rather see you box him,” Robert said, sounding as if he was entertaining the idea. “Jaime fucking Lannister. Miss-of-Tarth, you’d beat Kingslayer here into the ground—"
“There are ladies present,” Stannis Baratheon said, flatly.
“How—how are you present?” Brienne said, trying to catch her breath. “Sers?”
“My leave came early; my brother needed passage home,” Stannis said, and Renly met Brienne’s eyes over Stannis’ early-balding head. “We did not expect… guests.”
No cat that got the cream could look so satisfied as Miss Cersei Lannister.
“We’ve met before, at court,” she said, curtsying, in a way that pushed her dipped chest forward. “Do you recall me?" It was not clear which brother she was speaking to; she did not wait for a response. "Miss Cersei Lannister. I’m visiting my brother, dear Tyrion, at Bronzegate, where he has lately taken residence.”
Brienne caught Tyrion mouthing the words ‘Dear Tyrion’, aghast, but no one else seemed to be watching him.
Robert Baratheon certainly was looking at Cersei’s chest, and did not pause in his looking. Stannis glanced, then away, then back again, more askance. Brienne’s attention had been elsewhere, but it was impossible not to notice now: Cersei’s gown was cut on only-just the edge of propriety, which she could skate on given her age, though still a maid and so beautiful. She filled her gown very, very well. Mr. Lannister seemed to be watching her as well, more than the men reacting to her. As if feeling Brienne’s eyes on him, his gaze shifted over. Brienne looked to her shoes. Her thigh stung, where his slash had gone astray.
The Lannisters’ timing was too impeccable, even to the days they’d waited to accept the invitation. They’d known, when Robert and Stannis would be arriving—Miss Lannister’s questions must have been more to ascertain what they knew, in the household, than otherwise.
It seemed the Lannisters had been the ones to catch them on the back foot, after all.
Brienne, conscious of Stannis’ disapproving eye, left at once to change her gear. Mr. Lannister’s voice called after her in the hall.
“Miss Tarth!”
She picked up her hustle.
“Wench!”
At that, she whirled.
“Fair bout,” Lannister said, once he had her attention. He was more out of breath than he’d been after facing Renly. “I would have won.”
“I was winning,” Brienne countered, her outrage rising fast.
“We’ll see,” he said. “Another day?”
Brienne found that difficult to promise and yet, it was impossible to deny she wanted, at once, both to finish the fight and keep it going. “We’ll see,” she said
With any luck, the Lannisters would go back to Bronzegate, before long, and the twins back west, not long after that, and all at Storm’s End would go back as it always was.
‘As it always was’, after all, was the best Brienne ever dared to dream.