Chapter Text
She reaches him and drags him to the ground, easily. He's tall for his age, but slim, lazy and kind of sluggish, not much of a runner. They roll together in the grass with a soft thud and a few grunts, the boy grunting even as he pushes away the curls that blind him.
Blond, green-eyed and clever when he wants to be. The boy has everything, he really can be whatever he wants... and not the asshole he is. That makes Brienne really angry, more, much more than the umpteenth window glass he has broken with such care, or the endearing graffiti he has left with an indelible crimson spray on her porch.
"Why? Why do you have to be such a... lout?"
He purses his lips in a pout that makes Brienne almost forget it's unfair to hit a smaller person.
"Why? Why me? Why my poor house?" she continues, on the verge of shouting, or perhaps crying.
"Because you're the only stupid one who never complains to daddy, that's why, freak. And your hovel is the ugliest on the street, even though it's much, much nicer than its idiotic owner," he spits and grins. The boy grins. Perfect white teeth on display just for her. What a privilege.
At twenty-two, Brienne Tarth, more than six feet of manly muscle, freckles, and horse teeth, should know better than to get involved with a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old who is universally known as the evil, deplorable heir of both the Baratheon and Lannister dynasties. Cursing under her breath, she helps the boy to his feet and strides towards the vandal's happy parents' house, green grass stains all over her white shirt and jeans, and the embarrassing blush she always has and can't avoid. The kid, Joffrey, is right about one thing. She was very stupid not to ask for the repayment of all those broken glasses.
Brienne is not rich.
Well, her father is, but she doesn't want to depend on him, and his wealth is nothing compared to the boy's family. His grandfather still lives in a castle, up on the hill. The Rock, they call it, and they say some Lannister stole it from a certain Lord Casterly in the old days.
"Let me," the boy says, doing his best to be annoying. Her arm and hand are soon red with scratches, and she suspects he's trying to make her turn, just to spit in her broad face.
Brienne ignores his insults, but she's panting by the time they reach Joffrey's house, high up on the hill. The golden and black gate is already too opulent, and the garden is so perfect and tidy that she suddenly feels uncomfortable. She's clearly out of place here, but she's been out of place practically everywhere, so...
As she makes her way out, Brienne can't help but feel a little sorry for the lad, but in the end, it's for his own good.
A small group is having a drink in a summer lounge - because it's a real lounge, not just a couple of deckchairs on the lawn. Four men, all very rich and important, judging by the way they look at her. None of them resembles Joffrey.
Finally she spots the boy's father and hurries toward him.
He must have married young, or maybe it's the extreme wealth that makes him look so handsome and young. He smiles at her, the same identical smile as his son, so damned white. She's really lucky today. And horribly sweaty and flustered.
She swallows. Just a few words and she's done. She swallows a second and a third time, then she can explain everything in one go.
The nice, responsible father starts guffawing. Even the boy laughs. The sweat cools down her neck as she notices the four men approaching them - wonderful, the freak has had her show again, and for free.
“What’s so funny, Jaime?”, says the big, massive one. He has a great black beard and he’s tall like Brienne, inch more, inch less. He's ready to laugh, in fact he seems to be laughing on his cups, but it can't be. It's Sunday morning. Perhaps he's ill, the poor man, and that's why his friends look at him with concern. They must just be friends, even though the smallest one is old enough to be the big man's father and has pale blue eyes like his.
"I don't think it's going to be that hilarious, Robert. Not with Joffrey involved," a bald man replies, his voice so stern that Brienne wonders if he has ever been able to smile in his life.
"Come on, bro. Let me hope, for a while."
"Brother, not bro. Or Stannis. I do like my name."
"You do like to spoil the fun. Always."
"Stannis, Bobby, please. You're in the presence of a lady," the man with the grey eyes and the pale, long face says softly.
One who doesn't like the sun too much, Brienne thinks, feeling ashamed and grateful at the same time. She is the caricature of a lady, but there is no trace of mockery in the man's calm voice. All she wants is to go home, now. The guy can't stop laughing, and maybe that's a good thing, otherwise he might throw more shit at her, and she's had enough ridicule for today. For the week.
"So what made you laugh so much?"
"You won't believe it, Robert," the father of the year sneers. "The wench here is complaining that Joff has broken some of the windows of the old house by the river, the shambling one hidden at the bottom of the avenue."
"The Evenstar's house! You're his daughter, sweetling?" the bearded man asks her.
"I told you it wasn't amusing," adds the bald one.
The other two look down at their feet. That's nice of them, because now she feels really ugly, all blotchy and frowning. Wench. Sweetling. No end to humiliation today.
I am Selwyn Tarth's daughter, yes. With your permission, sers," she replies, a little too stiffly. She's done, she'd like to be done with the Baratheon-Lannister heir or whoever forever.
Unfortunately, the Baratheon-Lannister heir thinks otherwise. "Oh, no, no, no. The dumb giantess has mistaken Nuncle Jaime for Father! And that's amusing, isn't it, Nuncle Stan?"
"Uncle Stannis, please, Joffrey. And no, I don't find it amusing. Not at all."
The last civil words. Then - the pandemonium.
Brienne has no time to think. She doesn't want to. It's all so gross, so filthy, so sad.
She snatches the lighter from the boy's fingers before he can even try... whatever it is his mad mind is urging him to do - and runs back home, holding Joffrey's trembling hand in hers, the Sevens only knows why.
"If you promise not to set my house on fire, you can stay, for the night or until things seem a little less chaotic, okay?"
The boy nods, his face more menacing than the red roaring lion staring at Brienne from her veranda. She really does feel incurably stupid, but there he is, blond, green-eyed - and lost.
"You can have the guest room, downstairs," she hears herself mutter, and curses herself, but only in her mind. Joff has already heard too many bad words... and things, for one day. "Now, watch your step when you enter, the stairs need repair, and help me arrange something for lunch, please."
The jerk lifts his middle finger in the air. The glorious banner of their newborn sodality. The strangest sodality ever.
Joffrey