Work Text:
Tyrion Lannister’s hands were full, but he managed somehow not to drop the take-out and the package he was holding while unlocking the door to his brother’s fourth-floor loft. The corridor had been steamy, but he was struck with a wall of blessed climate-controlled cool air the moment the door opened.
His older brother, Jaime, was sitting on a chair, staring out the enormous picture window just behind and to the right of the couch. The setting sun lit up the entire open loft, tipping Jaime’s blond hair with gold and making the bright yellow fiberglass wrappings of the cast on his right forearm seem nearly fluorescent. Jaime turned to look over his shoulder, his lightly bearded jaw stiff with irritation. “You said you were going to be here an hour ago,” he grumbled.
“That was before I got in line at the Pentoshi place,” Tyrion said. He put the parcels down on the coffee table and shook out his sticky shirt in an attempt to get the sweat to air-dry. “Everyone wants take-out tonight. It’s too hot to cook and besides, they’re all watching the finale of Westeros Has Talent.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember you being a huge fan of Pentoshi food.”
Jaime held up his uninjured hand and wiggled it. “It’s finger food. Apparently using a fork with your left hand is one of the few skills I’ve yet to acquire.”
Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Well, you owe me after making me wait in line so long,” he said, handing Jaime the Styrofoam box.
Jaime took it, wincing as he shifted his right leg, which was propped up on the ottoman in an air cast. “You owe me, little brother. After all, I was injured at your office and chose not to sue. It’s your fault for having a table in such a dangerous place.”
“My fault? I’m not the one who decided to grab the fake sword from Podrick’s costume and show off my nonexistent fencing skills,” Tyrion replied.
“I can fence!” Jaime insisted. “And I played football and tennis. A sword isn’t that much different from a tennis racquet.”
“You took one semester of Braavosi fencing in college,” Tyrion countered. “Although if I ever need someone to defend me against an unsuspecting coffee table, I’ll be sure to call on you. I can’t fight a battle without my big brother to protect me.”
Jaime shook his head in annoyance and changed the subject. “Did you get the binoculars?”
“Here,” Tyrion said, handing him the other package. “Have you started bird-watching?” He clambered up onto the sofa. It wasn’t designed with dwarves like him in mind, but a couple of throw pillows went a long way toward making it more comfortable.
“In a manner of speaking,” Jaime said, dropping the package in his lap and turning to peer out the window. He leaned forward. “Here she comes. Look.” He pointed out the window, directly behind Tyrion.
Tyrion put his food down with a sigh, turned around and got on his knees to look out the window. He looked at the other two sides of the U-shaped apartment building, then turned his head to look out to the street. “What am I looking at?”
“Down in the courtyard,” Jaime said, pointing at the grassy area that was bordered on three sides by the building and on the fourth by the street.
“Is that—”
“Yep, Father’s girlfriend,” Jaime said. “This is the second Wednesday I’ve watched Olenna Redwyne come through that courtyard.”
“Hm, red wine. That’s what we’re missing,” Tyrion said. He hopped off the couch and walked over to Jaime’s wine cabinet, rummaging as his brother talked.
“She comes here on Wednesdays and Saturdays to visit The Young Lesbians. I’m trying to figure out which one of them is hers — the brunette or the redhead,” Jaime said, sounding far too invested in the comings and goings of their father’s girlfriend.
“Young lesbians? This is starting to sound like the opening to a porn film,” Tyrion said hopefully.
“Sometimes it looks like it. They usually don’t close the drapes,” Jaime responded.
Tyrion turned and raised his eyebrows, wondering if Jaime was showing interest in either, or both, of the young women.
Jaime shrugged. “I don’t actually watch them. Much.”
“Did you concuss yourself as well as spraining your knee and breaking your wrist, or is this some new, weird fetish I didn’t know about?”
“It’s not—”
Tyrion pulled out one wine, then another. Jackpot. “Hey, are you saving this Lyseni red for a special occasion?” he asked.
Jaime was awkwardly using his left hand to saw through the tape on the box of binoculars with a pair of scissors. “Go ahead, open it,” he said distractedly. “I think Father gave it to me.”
A 2005 Lyseni Cabernet Sauvignon! Tyrion didn’t understand why Father gave all the good vintages to Jaime, who didn’t care much if he was drinking the best vintage of the past fifty years or one of Trader Joe’s “Two Dragon Flagons.” The good wines should have come to the true wine connoisseur in the family: himself. But as long as he got to share in his brother’s bounty, Tyrion felt no need to complain. He opened the wine and pulled down two glasses.
“Okay. The day after I was brutally injured—” Jaime began.
“The day after you willfully destroyed my Vargo Hoat coffee table,” Tyrion corrected him, handing Jaime a glass. “Cabernet Sauvignon. Pairs well with Pentoshi and Percocet.”
“Whatever. It’s wine,” Jaime said, taking the glass. “Anyway, the day after your Vargo Hoat tried to amputate my hand, my cable went out. I called Time Warner. The guy on the phone told me it would be a week before he could get a tech out. I told him I’d pay him extra if he could send the tech today.”
“You tried to bribe a Time Warner tech?” Tyrion asked.
Jaime waved his arm around the loft. “It’s all very attractive, but it’s still like a dungeon cell. Too much time here and I’ll begin to smell like overripe cheese. I needed a distraction. The Time Warner customer service representative, Aerys, lost it. He said ‘You think you’re the smartest man there is,’ said I thought I could just throw money around to get what I wanted. Then I said I was a Lannister and my father owned shares in the company. I also reminded him that a Lannister always pays his debts. What kind of a name is ‘Aerys’ for a help desk guy anyway?”
“So how did that go?” Tyrion asked, savoring the wine.
Jaime took a swig out of his glass. “Now, according to Aerys, my apartment is unable to receive cable. According to their records, I’ve never had service and they can’t wire me up. He cut me off. Completely. You’d think I’d stuck a knife in his back or something. He’ll probably try to set the whole complex on fire.”
“Sounds brutal,” Tyrion said sympathetically. “But you’ve been online?”
“I’m borrowing WiFi from one of my neighbors,” Jaime said. “If I figure out who ‘FlorianNJonquil4Eva’ is, I’ll send them a check. At any rate, I was bored, I looked out the window, and I saw Olenna walking across the courtyard. At first I thought she might be going to visit The Wench, or maybe The Three Bears. I knew it couldn’t be The Serial Killer and The Baker Wife. But I kept looking and I saw her in the living room of The Young Lesbians.” He pointed at the second-floor apartment diagonally across the courtyard. There were two very pretty women with long hair in there sitting on a couch. The redhead was knitting, while the brunette was reading what looked like a textbook.
“Are you sure they’re not just roommates?” Tyrion asked.
“Like I said, they don’t close the blinds,” Jaime said with a shrug. “But they stay far apart when Olenna is there. Redhead Lesbian spends the entire time petting her cat — if that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is. I had The Wench pegged for a lesbian at first — I used to call her She-Male – but she’s dating The Knight.” He popped the caps off the binocular lenses and peered through. “It’s the brunette! I’ve never seen her close up. She looks conniving. She’s all smirky. She’s probably part Tyrell. I don’t know if she’s Olenna’s daughter or granddaughter.”
“Give me those,” Tyrion said. It took him a minute to focus the binoculars. “Granddaughter, definitely. It’s not biologically possible for Olenna to have a daughter that young.” He handed the binoculars back. “By the way, Father wants us to come out to dinner with them on Saturday night.”
“I can’t,” Jaime said, gesturing at the air cast on his leg.
“You have crutches,” Tyrion reminded him.
Jaime waved his broken arm. “I can’t wield them one-handed,” he said.
“Perhaps we’ll have dinner here and you can explain to Olenna how you thought she was visiting a serial killer,” Tyrion said.
Jaime, mouth full of flatbread and Pentoshi pesto bean dip, shook his head. “No, Serial Killer was the one I knew she wasn’t visiting,” Jaime said after swallowing. He pointed at a window, across and two floors down from his apartment. “That’s Serial Killer and Baker Wife. He hauls in trash bags and jars of leeches when she’s not home and takes them into that room there. When she is home, she cooks things with prunes and feeds them to him, occasionally literally. Then when he’s done with dinner, he goes into the Murder Room and closes the blinds. She watches cooking shows and bakes. If she can keep him out of the Murder Room, they watch House Hunters or Property Brothers.”
“He’s eating prunes. He might just be sitting in the bathroom all night,” Tyrion suggested.
Jaime shook his head as he used the flatbread to pick up some grilled lamb. “Serial Killer doesn’t pull down the blinds in the bathroom,” he responded. “Or in the bedroom, though I wish he would. They have a very vigorous sex life.” He shuddered before pointing to another window, this one on the third floor at the corner of the building. “The Three Bears have the corner apartment there.”
“Is their porridge just right?” Tyrion asked, munching on a heavily spiced Pentoshi fry.
“I’m sure Uptight Bear is very specific about the kind of porridge he wants Bearded Bear to make. Baby Bear comes over three times a week. Uptight Bear helps her with her homework while Bearded Bear cooks dinner. I think it’s a shared custody situation,” he said. “Uptight Bear goes out to work every day. He’s probably an efficiency expert or cataloguer of some sort. I’m not quite sure what Bearded Bear does, but he seems to move packages in and out at strange times of the day. He’s probably a smuggler. I need to have a closer look to be sure,” Jaime said. He lifted the binoculars in one hand. “These should help,” he said. “In the evenings when Baby Bear isn’t there, they watch Columbo.”
“You think your neighbors won’t notice the strange man with the binoculars spying on them?” Tyrion asked.
“As long as I sit a few feet back from the window, they won’t be able to see me,” Jaime said confidently.
Tyrion shook his head and reached for more wine. Suddenly the air conditioner blowers cut out. The refrigerator in the enormous professional-level kitchen also stopped humming. “Did you piss off the electric company as well?” Tyrion asked.
“No,” Jaime shook his head. “Rolling blackouts — with the heat wave there’s too much demand on the electrical system. Open the window, will you? If it gets too hot we can go out on the fire escape. They seem to roll through here every day. I’d tried reading—” he waved his hand at a gigantic white-covered tome on the floor next to his chair “—but the lights went out. So I watched the neighbors instead. Well, the ones who had lit candles.” He pointed at the apartment on the first floor. “The Wench is always the first one to light her candles when the power goes out.”
“The one you thought was a lesbian?” Tyrion asked.
Jaime nodded. “She’s at least six feet tall,” Jaime said. “She’s butch. But on Stranger’s Eve her costume was a medieval serving wench dress, not that she could fill out the bust of it. Her boyfriend dressed as a knight.” He wiped up the last of the bean dip with some flatbread. “I think they would have looked better if they’d swapped costumes.” He pointed at The Young Lesbians’ apartment. “Redhead Lesbian dressed as the Night Queen and Brunette Lesbian went—”
“Enough!” Tyrion said. “So instead of binge-watching television you’ve been binge watching your neighbors?”
“What else was I supposed to do when the power was out?” Jaime said. “You know how I get when I’m bored. What else do you expect me to do? Stand quietly for hours and listen to The Stag fucking all night?”
“The Stag?” Tyrion asked.
“Never seen him. Never want to. Sometimes he’ll have three or four girls down there with him,” Jaime said distastefully. “I’d rather watch them,” he waved his hands toward the windows, “than listen to that,” he said, pointing at the floor.
“Perhaps instead of asking me for binoculars,” Tyrion said, picking at the last of his lamb, “you should have asked me to get you a battery-powered lantern and a set of earplugs.”
***
Thank the Seven for elevators, Jaime thought to himself as he went down to the lobby to get his mail. The crutches were impossible but he could hobble the few yards to and from the elevator in his air cast. He limped his way over to his mail box and tried to work the key left-handed. The lock was tetchy at the best of times, but with his left hand it was almost unmanageable. He wiggled the key to no avail, then slammed his cast against the mailboxes in frustration. That turned out to be a mistake; for a moment everything went white with pain.
Suddenly he felt a strong, cool hand covering his own. “Here,” an unfamiliar low female voice said. He looked up to see The Wench, and was startled by her astonishing sapphire-blue eyes. Just as she’d done once before, she unlocked his mailbox, then efficiently pulled out the envelopes, magazines and a box from Amazon, all the while blushing blotchy red. She handed them to him, making sure he had them securely before letting go. She locked his mailbox, put the keys in his left hand and walked down the hall without saying another word.
Back in his apartment, he and the scissors wrestled one-handed with the Amazon box until it gave up the goods. Just as he got it open, Jaime’s mobile phone rang, playing a tinny, digitized version of “The Bear and the Maiden Fair.” He put down the scissors in order to pick up the phone. “You sent me a get-well gift?” he asked instead of any of the traditional greetings.
“Have you opened it yet?” Tyrion responded.
“I would have had it open if you hadn’t interrupted me,” Jaime said. He pulled out the first item by the handle on the top. “A battery powered lantern,” he said. It was suspiciously light. “Are you going to come by to put in the batteries?”
Tyrion sighed. “I’d send Pod over to do it, but he’s still scared of you after the whole incident with the sword.”
“You know that on the rare occasions he can complete a full sentence he calls me Mister Lannister Ser? Makes me feel like Father.”
“Pod is a good kid. He’s just intimidated by your famous name.”
Jaime nodded until he realized Tyrion wouldn’t be able to hear him over the phone. “As he should be.” He continued rummaging in the bubble wrap and brown packing paper. He pulled out a teddy bear and tossed it on the couch, not deigning even to mention it. There was a book in the bottom of the box. Jaime pulled it out. “The Citadel Guide to the Backyard Birds of the Crownlands?” he asked.
“Yes. Dog-ear it and put it on your coffee table. Then you’ll have an excuse if one of your neighbors catches you spying on them,” Tyrion said.
“It’s hardly spying—” Jaime looked out the window. “Looks like it’s roller derby night. Smirky Lesbian and Derby Girl are walking out now,” he said.
“Who?” Tyrion asked.
“Smirky Lesbian is the brunette. Derby Girl is the redhead. Once I got the binoculars I could read the logo on her ‘Crownlands Cuties’ hoodie,” he said. “I don’t think things are going well with them. I saw Smirky flirting with Uptight Bear’s Gay Brother the other day, and Derby was chatting with Serial Killer in the courtyard.”
“When you bought your ‘penthouse’ loft – and being as it’s only on the fourth floor that very much stretches the term – you said a major selling point was that it had a private elevator so you’d never have to meet your neighbors,” Tyrion said.
“And you said I should get to know them,” Jaime argued, pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear so he could peer through his binoculars again. “And now I am.”
“Getting to know someone generally implies conversation of some sort,” Tyrion said.
“There’s been conversation,” Jaime said. “The Wench talked to me today at the mailboxes.”
“What did she say?” Tyrion asked.
“’Here,’” Jaime said.
“Where?” Tyrion asked.
“At the mailboxes,” Jaime replied.
“Then why did you say ‘Here’?”
“I didn’t. The Wench did. That’s what she said to me, ‘Here.’”
“Oh. And then?” Tyrion asked.
“She handed me my mail and walked away,” Jaime said. “She’s covered in freckles. Well. I assume she’s covered in freckles. She doesn’t walk around naked.” He tried not to let his disappointment show in his voice. “It’s not like I can ask her to drop trou and show me.”
He could hear Tyrion sigh on the other end of the line. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty because you have all the social skills of an albino mole rat,” he said.
“I am pretty. Hang on,” Jaime said, moving to the edge of his seat. “There’s something going on down in The Wench’s apartment. The Asshole is over.”
“The Asshole?” Tyrion asked.
“The Knight,” Jaime explained. He lifted his head so he could get a better view through the binoculars, letting his mobile slip to the floor. He heard Tyrion squawk. “Hang on,” he called out, watching.
He’d originally nicknamed the guy The Knight because of his Stranger’s Eve costume, but after watching him have dinner at The Wench’s place a couple of times, Jaime had renamed him The Asshole. There was something about the guy’s face when he talked to The Wench, about the way he could just see the confidence drain out of her over the course of a meal with The Asshole, that made Jaime just hate the guy. He especially hated it when The Asshole started putting his hands all over his Wench, although she hadn’t let him get very far. Yet. He was sure she could do a lot better than The Asshole.
On the other hand, The Wench seemed to work out her frustrations over The Asshole by doing intense P90X workouts in her living room, which suited Jaime just fine. Most of the time she exercised in her sports bra and tight workout pants. Her abs were incredible and remarkably freckly. Jaime would cheerfully kill someone in order to get triceps like hers. He’d already ordered the P90X kit so he could start working out when his casts came off. He’d also written down her entire routine, so he could copy it later. Not that he would ever let her know that.
Jaime was sure he’d get to watch another furious workout tonight, because things with The Asshole were not going well. Now The Asshole was trying to feel his Wench up. She was clearly not pleased about it and tried to push his hand off. The Asshole’s face turned ugly. Jaime didn’t know what The Asshole said next, but The Wench had one hell of a right hook.
“Yes!” he cheered, despite himself, as he watched The Asshole shout something that was clearly a relationship-ender to her as he held his jaw. The Wench moved to hit him again but he fled out the door.
He put down the binoculars and picked up the phone. “I have no idea what he said, but it’s over. She threw him out. Finally,” he announced gleefully.
“I haven’t heard you sound that happy about a breakup since Buffy dumped Angel,” Tyrion said. “Are you going to swoop down and ask her out?”
Jaime snorted. “These people are my entertainment. They are sheep. I am a lion. I don’t get involved,” he said, pinning the phone against his shoulder again so he could look through his binoculars at her. He expected her to already be walking into her bedroom to change into her workout clothes. Instead she was leaning against the door, her face in her hands. Jaime went silent.
“Did our call just drop?” Tyrion asked.
“No,” Jaime mumbled into the phone, suddenly feeling as dejected as The Wench had looked at the end of every date. “She’s crying.”
After a moment, Tyrion cleared his throat. “Look, Jaime, I know you said you weren’t getting involved—”
“It’s like a soap opera. Dark Shadows without all the supernatural crap,” Jaime said, more sharply than he intended. “Besides, it’s Friday night. The Bears don’t have Baby Bear, so they’re going to watch Columbo or The Avengers and then wind up slow dancing to Moonlight Serenade later. That always cheers me up. It’s fine.” He hung up without saying goodbye.
That was when the lights went out again. He opened his window to keep his loft from getting too stuffy and considered trying to haul himself onto the fire escape. He saw battery lanterns going on and candles being lit in other apartments, but The Wench’s apartment stayed dark. He sat watching her darkened windows until he drifted off to sleep.
***
Jaime had finally figured out how to jimmy the key in his mailbox with his left hand. A good thing, as he hadn’t seen The Wench at the mailboxes in several days.
He knew she was still alive; every night he watched her make dinner and turn on the TV. One afternoon he’d been looking down at the courtyard, watching her walk across. She glanced up and saw him. He gave a cheery wave. Even without his binoculars, he could see her face go red from four stories away. She’d ducked and hurried into the building, and he’d chuckled to himself, scratching the full beard that had grown in since he’d broken his shaving arm. He’d enjoyed that blush.
Once again he’d hobbled out of the elevator and to his mailbox. Nothing interesting except for Men’s Health, with the blond guy who played the immortal cop on that cancelled show on the cover. What was that show? John Lannisport. He was locking the box just as Serial Killer walked through, talking on his phone.
“I would not require you to be there at the time of death,” Serial Killer said. “But some people do find it allows them to achieve emotional closure.” He paused. “Yes, of course, I will take care of the body in any way you wish,” he said. He glanced at Jaime with clear, creepy eyes that were almost transparent, and then walked down the hall.
Then The Asshole came into the lobby, sporting a notable bruise on his left cheek. He was carrying a cardboard box with a few things in it. He caught Jaime looking at it. “The Maiden Not-So-Fair left a box outside her apartment with a couple of things she’d borrowed,” he said. Jaime could see a few books and a DVD set in the box. The Asshole shook his head. “Ugly women are usually such great lays. They’re so fucking grateful, right? But her! Fuck, she thinks too much of herself. She’s got shoulders like Gregor Clegane. But he’s less hairy than that freak—”
Jaime backhanded The Asshole across the mouth with his bright yellow cast. The look on the guy’s face as he fell backwards onto the ground made up for the pain shooting through his broken wrist. “You’re talking about a lady,” Jaime said sounding for all the world like his father. “Call her by her name,” he commanded.
The Asshole would have matching bruises on both sides of his face tomorrow and hopefully a few loose teeth. He looked up at Jaime in shock. “Shit, man, are you fucking her?” Before Jaime could make another move, The Asshole grabbed his box and bolted out the door.
Jaime watched him leave and then flopped back against the wall, clutching at his cast with his left hand. The pain subsided only a little. He fumbled in his pocket for his mobile and called Tyrion. “Hey, I think I need to go back to Qyburn about my wrist,” Jaime said.
***
“What’s your Time Warner login?” Jaime asked as soon as Tyrion answered his phone.
Tyrion gave him the username and password. “Why this sudden interest in TV?” he asked.
“Oh, The Wench and I have been watching things after dinner at night. We watched Battlestar Galactica for a couple of nights but that got too dark. Then we watched Firefly. But tonight we’re watching Outlander. She likes things with swordfights. Every once in a while, we watch The Lord of the Rings trilogy. You have Starz, right?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m glad to hear that you’re leaving your Howard Hughes phase behind you and rejoining society,” Tyrion said. “So does she come up there?”
“No, no,” Jaime said distractedly. “She makes dinner and then she turns on the TV. I can see what she’s watching so I put it on the laptop and watch with her.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “So tell me,” Tyrion said, “have you hit the part in your white book about Mad King Aerys? Because right now you’re giving him a run for his money.”
“She makes the most disgusting food when she has a bad day,” Jaime went on. “Tonight it was hash browns, eggs and toast. The other day it was some sort of fruit salsa over chicken. I have no idea how she can eat so many carbs and maintain a body like that.”
“Look, Jaime—”
“Hang on a second,” Jaime said. “She’s paused the show. I think there’s someone at the door. It had better not be The Asshole.”
“You should be glad ‘The Asshole’ didn’t press assault charges,” Tyrion said.
Jaime ignored him. “It’s Smirky Lesbian! They’re talking. Smirky Lesbian is flashing her cleavage. Don’t even try it, she doesn’t want you, Smirky.” Jaime paused. “I’m trying to figure out what they’re saying. Do you know anything about lip-reading?”
“You can call the local university library for all your lip-reading informational needs,” Tyrion suggested. “I regret ever buying you binoculars and I am not bugging their apartments for you, no matter how nicely you ask.” Tyrion paused. “You realize you’re making Cersei look like the normal one?”
“And Derby Girl doesn’t know a thing,” Jaime continued. “She’s at her own door right now. Baker Wife is bringing her a plate of — it looks like lemon cakes. Derby Girl seems very excited. I wonder if Baker Wife would have brought those by if she knew how Derby Girl and Serial Killer have been chatting in the courtyard lately?” He considered Tyrion’s suggestion. “Do you really think I can call up the library and have them answer questions for me?”
“Probably.”
“Even if I’m not a student?” Jaime asked. “Maybe I should lie and tell them I’m a student.”
“You should be fine as long as you don’t tell them you’re a Lannister,” Tyrion muttered.
“Excellent. I’m going to start calling them. It’s a library. They can’t cut off my internet access.”
“You’re also making Cersei look like the refreshingly non-paranoid one,” Tyrion noted.
“I don’t think anyone’s out to get me,” Jaime protested. “I just wonder if someone as seemingly nice as Baker Wife is with Serial Killer for a particular reason. If I were Derby Girl I’d feed a lemon cake to my cat and see if it dropped dead before I ate one.” He trained his binoculars back on the first floor apartment and laughed. “Oh, The Wench has made it very clear that she’s not interested,” Jaime said, putting down the binoculars and picking up his wine glass. “Smirky went in for a kiss and The Wench stepped backwards, almost tripping over her own feet trying to get away. I’m amazed Smirky didn’t fall over. For such an ugly woman, The Wench certainly has a lot of people obsessed with her.”
“You don’t say?” said Tyrion wearily.
The Wench handed Smirky a Ziploc baggie of sugar and shut the door behind her firmly. Then the lights went out again. Jaime put down the phone and fumbled for the battery-powered lantern that Tyrion had given him, setting it on the brick windowsill. He picked up his glass of wine and looked back down at The Wench’s apartment. She had just lit a single candle. She glanced up through her window at Jaime’s loft. Even from four stories away, he could see her incredible blue eyes. He gave a wave with his injured right arm, then lifted his glass in a mock toast.
To his surprise, she gave a little wave back. Then she ducked her head shyly and dove back into the kitchen.
Jaime picked up his phone with a sigh. “Power’s out again,” he said. “Oh, looks like The Bears were prepared. Uptight Bear is shining a flashlight on his whiteboard. It looks like he’s teaching Baby Bear about run-on sentences and comma splices. They’ll probably diagram sentences later.”
Jaime heard a thunk from the other end of the line. “What was that?” he asked.
“Me, banging my head against my desk,” Tyrion said. “Next Saturday you’re coming out to dinner with myself, Father and Olenna.”
“I can barely hobble,” Jaime protested.
“I’ll bring a wheelchair,” Tyrion said. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think spending time with Father and Olenna Redwyne will be an improvement to your social life.”
***
Around noon on Saturday, Jaime was poking around Amazon looking for DVDs he could send anonymously to The Wench so they could watch them together. She needed cheering up. The Bob Hope/Bing Crosby Road movies, maybe? No, not enough swordfighting. Maybe she’d like the old TV show The Avengers; Mrs. Peel was pretty good with a sword. But he didn’t know The Wench’s name — he wasn’t even sure what her apartment number was. He didn’t think the Westeros Postal Service would deliver to “the tall blonde at Kingsgate Condominiums.”
He looked out the window to see the postal truck parked outside the door. Maybe if he asked very nicely, he could get her name out of the bird-like postal carrier with unnaturally dark hair. Maybe he could at least look over The Raven’s shoulder and make an educated guess. He levered himself off the couch and hobbled his way to the elevator.
By the time he got to the ground floor, the mail had been delivered and The Raven was fluttering out the door. But there were two people standing by the mailboxes — The Wench and Uptight Bear. And Uptight Bear, clad in running shoes, jogging shorts, and a sweaty T-shirt that said “Grammar Saves Lives,” seemed righteously enraged.
“Every sign at the entrances to this apartment complex has said ‘Watch your’e step’ — not y-o-u-r, the proper spelling, but y-o-u-r-apostrophe-e — for months. Not only is it poor grammar, but even if it were correct, the apostrophe is in the wrong place. And the color makes them illegible. People could trip while attempting to parse the proper meaning. This is the legacy of the shoddy leadership of the previous president of the condominium board, and it must be corrected.” Jaime had heard of people grinding their teeth, but he’d never actually heard someone grinding his teeth until now.
The Wench was cornered. She was clutching a wooden ruler in her hand and using it to try to maintain distance from Uptight Bear. He saw her slide to her left, looking for an escape. “I agree that it’s the right thing to do. I voted for it last—”
“There was no quorum at that meeting,” Uptight Bear said. “There has been no quorum for the past several meetings. We cannot take action unless proper procedure is followed, and that requires a quorum pursuant to Robert’s Rules of Order.”
“Yes, I agree. The signs need replaced. That’s why I was measuring—”
“And we also must determine how to distribute the cost of having these signs printed a second time,” Uptight Bear said, taking another step forward. The Wench took another step back, brandishing the ruler in front of her. If he pins her against the wall…
Recklessly, Jaime decided to jump in and save her. “How much will it take to get these signs reprinted?” he asked. Uptight Bear turned at the sound of his voice. “I’ll pay for them. Paint them gold, sapphire, whatever you want.” He gestured at his leg. “As you can see, I have a personal interest in public safety.”
“You’ve never been to a board meeting,” Uptight Bear said accusatorily, eyes narrowing as he looked at Jaime.
“I’m new,” he said, watching as The Wench made her escape down the hall. “And I haven’t been able to get around much.”
Uptight Bear looked at Jaime’s air cast. “Yes, I can see that the stairs to the ping-pong room would present a problem.”
Jaime hadn’t realized they had a ping-pong room. He opened his mouth when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Bearded Bear came into the lobby. “I’ve been wondering when you’d be back from your run, love. The fish and onions will get cold if you don’t come up.”
Behind Bearded Bear, Jaime just caught a glimpse of The Wench. She half-smiled and gave him a little wave. He didn’t have a chance to wave back before she darted out the front door and away from The Bears.
“Well,” Uptight Bear said to Jaime. “It is good to meet someone who is committed to the community. But the debt should be paid by the person who made the error. We will need to have a vote on that as well. I will ensure the next board meeting will be in a location you can attend.” He looked at the two uncomfortable couches in the lobby across from the mailboxes. “Here, perhaps.”
“Come on,” said Bearded Bear. “Lunch is getting cold.”
Jaime turned to his mailbox and wrested the mail out of it. Nothing but bills and an issue of Entertainment Weekly with a profile of that stunning, blonde actress rumored to be playing a rogue Storm Trooper in the next Star Wars movie. Maybe tonight after Outlander, The Wench would put on the Star Wars marathon—
Wait, it wouldn’t matter, he realized as he got in the elevator. Tonight was dinner with Father and Olenna Redwyne. Perhaps if he tripped over one of the “Watch Your’e Step” stairs, he could break his other leg and get out of it.
***
The dinner had not gone well, Tyrion thought. First Jaime had tried to cut his own meat — a total failure. Then when Tyrion had asked after Olenna’s grandchildren, she’d talked about how she expected the granddaughter who was in the MBA program at Crownlands to marry well and give her great-grandchildren, and Jaime had snorted derisively and tried to start a discussion about artificial insemination. Father had thinned his lips in disapproval. Then Jaime had reflexively tried to pick up a glass of Volanti Malbec with his right hand, knocking it over and right into Olenna’s lap. Tyrion hadn’t been able to resist making a joke about how at least the wine paired well with her name. Now Father had banished them both until at least the Winter's Seven, and Cersei was exulting in her new position as the favored child.
At least Jaime had finally worked up to the use of a fork, Tyrion thought as he carried the Dornish take-out through the door. “Don’t bother saying I’m late,” Tyrion said. “Westeros’ Next Top Model premieres tonight and half of King’s Landing was getting Dornish take-out because Tyra said it’s good for the skin. Or so I was told by the four women in front of me.” He put down the food and went foraging for wine.
Jaime looked up from the gigantic tome in his lap. “Did you know that Osric Stark was made Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch when he was ten?” he said.
“Yes, please, tell this history minor more,” Tyrion said dryly. “Perhaps next you’ll tell me that Runcel Hightower tried to make the position hereditary? Did you learn all that from annoying an underpaid university librarian? Or have you actually taken to reading now?”
Jaime slammed the book shut.
It looked like they’d gone through all the best wines. With a sigh, Tyrion settled for a mediocre 2009 Arbor Viognier. “You’re not saving any of these for a special occasion, are you?” Tyrion said, hoping there was some hidden trove of good wines he hadn’t yet stumbled upon.
“Why do you always ask that?” Jaime said. “The only reason I’m not drinking it is because I can’t open them myself,” he said, lifting up his cast.
“And after your little bout of violence it will be another six weeks before you can even think about removing the cast,” Tyrion said.
“Totally worth it,” Jaime replied. He pointed out the window. “I think Olenna might get her wish after all. Something’s going on with Derby Girl and Smirky Lesbian. I saw Derby Girl pacing around her apartment on her mobile phone. She looked upset. I wonder if she found out Smirky was cheating on her? Or at least trying to cheat?” Jaime said.
“I thought you said that Derby Girl had been having intense conversations in the courtyard with Serial Killer?” Tyrion said, interested despite himself.
“She ran into him when he was coming back from smuggling a bag full of corpse parts to the dumpster,” Jaime replied.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What makes you so sure it was corpse parts?” Tyrion took a sip of the Viognier. The wine didn’t just need to breathe; it needed mouth-to-mouth.
Jaime didn’t seem to notice the state of the wine and took a healthy swig. “The bag was lumpy. They have a cleaning service in once a week. He could have left it for them and he didn’t. And he waited until Baker Wife was out. Like he always does when he takes things out of the Murder Room.”
“Serial Killer Wife, you mean.”
“She bakes,” Jaime said, putting down his fork and picking up the binoculars. “She was making cupcakes the other night. She seems sweet. She doesn’t deserve to have him cheat on her. Smirky, on the other hand—”
The power went out. Tyrion, used to the routine by now, opened the window. He hoped the sun fell behind the apartment building quickly, or they’d be roasting in ten minutes.
“Well, in the real world—” Tyrion began to say, then stopped as they heard a voice cry out in the courtyard. Jaime started to stand up, but had to readjust his leg; Tyrion turned around on the couch in order to look out the window, squashing the teddy bear with his knee.
“Please!” Derby Girl said as she clutched at Serial Killer’s arm in the courtyard. “Please. I need you.”
“Wow,” Tyrion said, looking wide-eyed out the window. “This is better than The Real Housewives of Gulltown.”
Derby Girl took Serial Killer by the hand and led him into the building. There was an intense look on Serial Killer’s face. As soon as they got into the apartment, they drew the blinds.
Jaime and Tyrion looked at each other.
“Maybe Olenna is going to get her wish,” Tyrion said.
***
Jaime thought it was all but over for Derby Girl and Smirky Lesbian. He’d watched as they had one hell of a fight. First both of them were raging; then Derby went cold and Smirky was pleading. He hadn’t seen either Derby or the cat in the past couple of days and wondered if she’d moved out and taken her cat with her.
If it had been the affair with Serial Killer that had triggered it, well, Baker Wife didn’t seem to know anything. Yesterday the plump woman had baked cupcakes; today there was no trace of them and he’d watched her make a complex many-layered cake while watching Holmes Investigation. The cake was frosted with a design that reminded him of the Flayed Man sigil that had been featured in the history book he’d been reading. Now the cake sat under glass on a cake plate, and Baker Wife had apparently gone out for the evening, probably to a cooking class. He thought about calling the university library to ask about cupcake sigils but decided to wait until tomorrow.
True love, however, still lived in the form of the Bears, though Jaime worried a little about them, too. During the day yesterday, Bearded Bear had gotten a call that had left him looking shocked. He had made another call, and a couple of hours later Uptight Bear had rushed in and they’d quickly stuffed clothes in luggage. He’d spotted them leaving as he went to get the mail—
The mail. That was what he’d forgotten. He carried the battery-powered lantern down, just in case the power went out again, and propped it on top of the mailboxes as he jiggled the key in the lock, finally getting it open. There were a couple of magazines, bills, the usual credit card offers, and a box from Amazon. He wondered what Tyrion had gotten for him this time, and decided to order some Pentoshi takeout for delivery as soon as he got back to his loft and his left hand was free.
The box, it turned out, had several DVDs in it. Disturbia with Shia la Boeuf. Body Double, directed by Brian De Palma. The movie’s tag line was “You can’t believe everything you see.” Psycho. Blue Velvet. A movie called The Conversation starring Gene Hackman. “Subtle, Tyrion,” Jaime murmured to himself as he put the DVDs out on the coffee table. Then the buzzer went off at the elevator — finally, dinner.
He scrawled a tip for the driver on the receipt with his left hand, and then swapped the receipt for the bag of Pentoshi take-out. After dropping it on the coffee table, he reached in his wine closet to grab a bottle. He looked over his options. Damn, didn’t he have even one screw-top? There was no way he could open a bottle one-handed.
That was when the lights went out.
“The Stranger take these blackouts,” he cursed, searching for his battery-powered light. Then he remembered. He’d left it on top of the mailbox. The mailbox, four stories below, reachable only by an elevator that had no power or four flights of stairs that he could not manage with his injured leg. Frustrated, he flung the window open. The fire escape sat on the other side, taunting him. He’d already tried to go out there once and it did not end well. He breathed in the night air for a few minutes before letting his eyes wander to The Wench’s apartment. She should be lighting her candles by now, but her windows were dark. Then he heard a rhythmic sound echoing through the metal stairs. He quickly glanced over at Serial Killer’s windows. They remained dark. The Bears and The Young Lesbians were gone. He’d find no help from them.
He grabbed the bag of takeout and found the packet of plasticware inside. A plastic spork wasn’t much of a weapon against an intruder, but it was the best he could do. Then he saw her. The Wench was climbing up the fire escape. The bottom part of the ladder was at least six feet off the ground, but that clearly hadn’t stopped her. Her triceps must have been a sight to see as she pulled herself up. She had a Whole Foods reusable grocery bag over her shoulder and was clambering her way up, the flashlight between her teeth giving her face an eerie glow.
“Looks like you’ve got the only light that still burns,” Jaime called down to her. Quicker than he expected, she was at the window.
First she handed him the bag, then took the flashlight out of her mouth. “I found a battery-powered lantern downstairs at the mailbox. I thought it might be yours,” she said. “It’s in the bag. I thought you might need some help because of your arm.” She waved her flashing light back and forth, the light shifting and shimmering. In the darkness, he couldn’t see it, but he imagined her blushing. She ran the light over the couch, stopping momentarily on the teddy bear before turning to look at him.
He pulled the light out of the bag and turned it on. The blue-tinged glow made The Wench’s eyes seem even brighter, as if that were possible. In this light, she could almost be a beauty, Jaime thought, and for a moment found himself tongue-tied.
Just as she was about to turn to go, he reached out a hand to her. “Leaving so soon?” he asked, searching for a reason to make her stay. “You’re right, I do need help,” he said. He reached out his uninjured hand to her. She stared at him for a moment before taking his hand and climbing in through the window. He felt a thrill of electricity at the touch. “You’re welcome to share my Pentoshi take-out if you’ll open this bottle of wine,” Jaime said, lifting it and gesturing towards the corkscrew. “It’s Dornish. It must be mediocre — my brother hasn’t yet insisted on drinking it.”
“Thanks,” said The Wench as she got her feet under her.
He stared at her for a moment. It felt unreal, having her in his apartment, like having a television character suddenly in his room.
She looked at him, blushed again, and gestured towards the Whole Foods bag. “There are some pink cupcakes in there from Walda. They look a little odd, but they’re tasty.”
“Which one is Walda?” Jaime asked, but he had a feeling he knew.
She pointed across the way. “She’s blonde and plump. She’s married to Dr. Bolton, the veterinarian.”
“Veterinarian?” Jaime asked, surprised.
She opened the bottle with a pop while he grabbed two glasses, glad he had at least two clean pieces of decent stemware. “Yes,” she said. “He just put Margaery and Sansa’s cat to sleep,” The Wench said, pointing to The Young Lesbians’ window. “His hobby is taxidermy. He has a small business preserving people’s dead pets. Apparently some people keep them—”
“Taxidermied?” Jaime joked.
“I don’t know if that’s a word, but yes,” she nodded. “He’s doing a radio interview tonight on the subject. Margaery connected him with a talk radio program. She may be marketing his business as one of her MBA projects.”
“And The Young Lesbians?” Jaime asked.
She tilted her head at him before replying, “Margaery had been afraid to come out to her family, but when Lady Pounce died I guess it made her think about how she wanted to live the rest of her life. She’s taken Sansa to meet her grandmother. Her brother already married a man so I can’t imagine it will be too much of a shock,” she explained. “Although I hear her grandmother’s boyfriend is somewhat terrifying.” She poured the wine and handed him a glass. “And I’m keeping an eye on Stannis and Davos’ apartment for the weekend. Davos just won an eBay Seller of the Year award. He didn’t expect it. They’ve gone out to Oldtown for the weekend for the ceremony.”
“So that leaves us,” Jaime smiled. “What’s your name, Wench?” The word just slipped out.
“My name is Brienne,” she said. “And — you?”
“Jaime,” he said as the lights came on. He couldn’t look away from her eyes. She started to blush. “My name is Jaime.”
