Chapter Text
BRIENNE
Resume in hand, shiny shoes with kitten heels, and boyish blonde hair swept to the side with well intentioned classy pearl clips, Brienne was ready for her interview.
Was it the best use of her degree in children’s psychology and an unpaid but highly coveted internship at Aemon Targaryen Memorial Hospital working under the prodigious Dr. Samwell Tarly?
Well, to be perfectly honest, not really. There were certainly several underprivileged kids, youth shelter homes and charitable hospitals who could use her help but she needed the money, now more than ever.
And nothing even came close to the salary offered by one Mr. Jaime Lannister for essentially babysitting his one and only nephew.
From what Brienne had gathered, the child, who's custody befell his bachelor Godfather and uncle two years ago, still struggled to adjust in his new life. He had trouble in school, academic and otherwise, no friends to speak of and a new but alarming fascination with all things flammable.
That was said to be what triggered his uncle to seek professional help, the actual incident still very much under wraps, inviting suspicion.
The requirements specified in the advertisement were fairly long, all of which she fulfilled brilliantly, except for, arguably, the most important one: experience.
Brienne had worked under Samwell and absorbed as much as she could from the gifted individual, but apart from organising and participating in youth culture events and mental health awareness camps, she had never per se taken care of any child.
Although, one could argue that wasn’t strictly true. Bri had always been a sort of backup parent to Galladon, but she chose not to dwell on that presently. It wouldn't do to go weeping into such an important interview.
She waited outside Mr. Jaime’s cabin in the spacious reception and went through all the anticipated questions in her mind. She had practised them satisfactorily enough, in her opinion, and supposed she didn’t give away anything that would render her an unsuitable candidate.
A small bell tinged in the silent lobby and the furious typing of the pointy nailed and pointy shoe-d receptionist stilled. “Ms. Tarth, Mr. Lannister will see you now.”
Breathing deeply, Brienne stood up and adjusted her navy pinstripe blazer, and pale blue shirt. “Thank you,” she said, to clear her throat, no doubt sluggish from disuse.
The excessively tall, blurred glass door opened into a giant cabin that seemed more cable car than a stokebroker’s workplace. Wide open space with floor to ceiling windows, and a solitary desk, an island in a sea.
Behind said desk, was a revolving brown leather chair turned away, its occupant clearly busy attending a phone call furiously.
“--you’re not listening to me,” the voice argued, exasperated. “I am at work. I cannot come by to pick him up. –No, no – I did not say that I won't –
I know he's not really sick because I live with him, not you. I know when the kid’s faking, alright? See if he’s done his homework for whichever class is next.
No, no – don’t say that to him! Others take you, just keep your mouth shut.
Put him on... What do you mean he won’t speak to me? Just give him the phone –
Hello, Joffrey –"
A click.
“Son of a bitch,” Jaime Lannister cursed under his breath, the one hand she could see of him, squeezing the cell phone within an inch of its life. “The brat hung up on me,”
Brienne looked around for clues, trying to discern if he even knew she was in the room or not. She cleared her throat lightly. “Good morning, Mr. Lannister.”
The hand startled, the chair swivelled, and a pair of leaf green eyes bore into her own blue ones. The man was in no uncertain terms, breathtaking. Literally.
“I'm Brienne Tarth,” she said, still rooted to the spot by the door.
A part of her mind occupied itself in spite of the all hands on deck situation, with wondering if it was even possible to be this good looking. And where Brienne had been floundering when the Gods were doling out beauty.
“Are you not aware it's rude to eavesdrop, Ms. Tarth?” he said, coolly.
“I'm sorry, sir, that was not my intention. But I should have made myself known immediately. I apologise,” she said, ashamed.
His irritation softened to curiosity as he studied her appearance. Brienne thought it best to let him get it over with. Most people took time to fully comprehend her existence. “I suppose it's more my receptionist’s fault than yours.”
“Actually, sir, I'd say it's yours. You rang the bell after which she let me in.” The words were out before her better senses could reign them in. Brienne felt the heat blooming in her cheeks. One did not simply barge in Jaime Lannister’s office and berate him for their own mess up. Unconsciously, Brienne gulped.
He stared her down some more, then commanded a pause.“Sit.” He rubbed his forehead, looking drawn. “What's that? Hand it over.” He stretched out a hand, and snapped his fingers.
She fumbled with the resume as she tried to hand it over to him, and sat.
“A resume– pssh, I've no use for it,” he tossed it back to her.
Who's rude now , she thought to herself, but kept her mouth shut. When he didn't ask her anything, she began to speak.
“Sir, I have completed my undergraduation in –”
He held up a hand to silence her. “You’re going to be a babysitter. I don't need your fancy degrees that you no doubt studied so hard for. Tell me, do you know how to make manchow soup? And make it the right way?”
Brienne blinked. “I don't have formal training in culinary arts but I make good tomato soup. And I'm a fast learner.”
He tsk-ed. “Have you any formal training in anime?” he mocked.
She shook her head.
“Fan of the horror genre?”
“I’ve read some Stephen King, but more of thriller ones than ghost ones. Misery, and such.”
“Ever been cliffjumping?”
She wondered what all this had to do with her capability as a caretaker. “No, sir, although I've been on sailbo–”
“Travelled to Sothoryos?”
“Sorry, sir. I've never been outside of Westeros.”
He rolled his eyes. Then grew hopeful, as if he were grasping at straws. “Listen to any alternative rock?”
Brienne felt relieved. “Yes, sir!” She said brightly.
Jaime looked almost relieved. At least until she followed up with, “I'm a huge fan of the Arctic Monkeys.”
He slumped back defeated. “Everyone's a huge fan of the Arctic Monkeys.
Look, I just need someone the kid might like. Because it's not me or the ten other babysitter's I've had to fire, or anyone else in this world so far.”
Brienne shared a sympathetic look. Behind all his snapping, she could tell – from the shoulders heavy with worry, the lines etched on his forehead, the picked skin around his nails – he wasn't an insensitive man.
“I mean, I've tried, but he just– oh, who am I kidding. He hates me –”
just then his phone rang. He wedged it between his shoulder and ear and snapped for her resume again. He spoke on the call as he scanned the page with all her life's achievements as if it were a chore to be done for the sake of doing.
“Yes, yes. Send the file over, I'll take care of it, since you imbeciles can't manage to –” he put the call on hold and turned to Brienne.
“Ah, what the hell,” he said, returning her resume. “He'll probably hate you too. You can start now.”
“You mean I've gotten the job?” She could scarcely believe her ears.
“Yes, you've got the job.” He looked at her as if she were a bit thick.
“Th-thank you sir, I won't let –”
“Don't thank me yet,” he said to her, telling the person on the phone to hold. He scribbled an address on a post it note and gave it to her. “First order of business, pick up my nephew from his school. Get him lunch and stay with him until I come back from work. He's not to be left alone, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.” Brienne’s hands clammed up. She wanted to say thank you for the huge opportunity and sort out the technicalities.
Out of nowhere, he snatched her resume back. “On second thought, I'll be keeping it. In case you turn out to be a kidnapper, I'd like to know where to send a fruit basket to.”
His joke rubbed her the wrong way. Who spoke in such a manner about their own nephew?! “Sir, we have to discuss timings and payment –”
“You're still here? Gods, woman, leave. If you manage to keep the kid from burning the house down before I get back, we can discuss the timing and the payment .” He waved her away and buried himself in a large file, barking into the phone.
St. Baelor's Higher Secondary School proved to be exactly the sort of intimidating that Brienne had been long suffering from.
The olden red brick architecture, characteristic of King's Landing, massive lawns with pruned lemon trees lining the footpath upto the main building with a big clock for a face.
She found herself feeling exceedingly lost as she curved around several identical beige corridors trying to find the Principal’s office where her new charge was said to be arraigned.
“Excuse me miss, may I help you?” A clear voice called.
She turned towards the sound to see a red headed student in khakis and a grey shirt at the other end of the hallway.
“Yes, please,” she said, relieved. “I'm looking for Principal Mormont’s office. If you could guide me to it.”
“Oh, that's in a different building,” he said. “This is the humanities section. You'll find the office in the administrative section. Next building to the left.”
Brienne thanked him and continued her quest to find the office in the now empty labyrinth that was the private school.
It had been seven minutes on the watch, when she ran into the same boy again. He smiled at her kindly, blue eyes sparkling though much darker than her own.
She gave him a sorry smile of her own.
“I'll walk you there,” he offered and Brienne gladly accepted.
“Thank you.”
“It's no biggie. What brings you to Baelor's? You don't really look like a parent,” he asked, then seemed to only just realise what he said. “Unless you had kids very young. Which is alright. Your choice, you know. I mean, of course you know, I don't mean to imply that you don't know–”
“It's alright,” Brienne laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Sorry,” he winced, smiling. “I don't know, sometimes I just babble on. I'm a little nervous today, to be honest.”
Most people just wanted to talk, Samwell had told her. More than that, they just want someone to be there. “What about?”
“It's nothing, just weird school stuff,” the boy shook his head, seemingly embarrassed.
“Feel free to tell me,” she said. “I'd love to hear about this weird school stuff.”
He looked at her, as if to gauge if she was actually happy to listen. “I'm helping organise this event for my mother's charity, and I'm supposed to pitch it officially to Principal Mormont tomorrow. I'm just… little all over the place. It's a huge responsibility.”
“Oh, wow,” Brienne said, genuinely impressed, as they entered a different (and identical) building. “What is the event?”
“Excuse me,” a lady called, “Miss, may I help you?”
“We're here,” the boy smiled. “Good luck with the Principal. I heard he's in a mood,” he winked and left.
“Thank you. Good luck with your event,” Brienne called, already missing the friendly kid in the chill of the administrative building.
“I'm Ms. Brienne Tarth,” she said to her second receptionist of the day, a plump and particular woman, who scrutinised her head to heel. “Mr. Lannister must have called ahead to give you my details. I'm here to take–”
The woman narrowed her eyes and bellowed, “Joffrey Baratheon! Hallway, now.”
The boy who appeared at the doorway was tall and slender with a mop of shaggy hair, at least four different shades of blue, falling over both of his eyes. He wore jeans that were just as distressed as Brienne, and a black t-shirt with a bike riding skeleton on it.
He leaned lazily on the door edge, tapping the ground with his obscenely expensive sneakers, and scoffed as he took a look at Brienne.
She offered a polite smile, trying to not let his obvious distrust of her cow her any further.
“Hello,” she said brightly. “I'm Brienne.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waved her away in a manner very reminiscent of his uncle, and trudged past her, school bag dragging on the floor.
The receptionist's mouth curled in distaste. “Pick up your bag properly, Joffrey.”
“It's after 3. School's over I'm a free man now, Lollys,” he laughed and disappeared down the steps, bag slamming against each step with a little bounce.
She fumed. “It's Ms. Stokeworth to you,” she called but the only response was a flash of a white hand waving it away.
“It's you who's on probation now, Ms. Tarth,” Lollys turned to Brienne with a sympathetic smile. “Good luck.”