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Chapter Text

A plain woman without a penny to her name is a spinster in the making.

So said Septa Roelle, often and within Brienne’s hearing.

“No matter how high she was born,” she would add with a pointed look as if to ward off any argument on the subject.

Not that Brienne would dare doubt the validity of such a universal truth. After all, she owned a looking glass and had a pair of working eyes. Even if she had been deluded enough to ever believe the reflection in the glass was anything but homely, she was intelligent enough to wrinkle out the looks most people bestowed upon her was not the desired expressions for which a lady aspired.

It was not that Brienne Tarth was plain. She was also just too large all over, too odd, too wrong. Hard where a woman should be soft, flat where they should be round, her body was broad of shoulders and hips but with no bosom to speak of to give it a woman’s shape. She was taller than any woman had a right to be, towering over most men and even some small saplings, but she was not willowy or graceful. She was quick on her feet, fast and sure-footed for her weight and height, but it mattered little; no one had ever asked her to dance, nor would they.

Even if Brienne slumped her shoulders and fasted for a year, she would never be considered anything but truly unfortunate-looking. While her eyes were the same bright blue as her father’s, her hair was like straw, dry and pale yellow, which hung limply about a broad, freckled face. And if she smiled, she revealed an overbite filled with crooked, albeit thankfully healthy, teeth.

The only person who did not look at her with that odd mixture of pity and disgust was her father, Mister Selwyn Tarth, a kind and noble man with a generous but simple nature who was often cheated by his servants. The Tarths had lived at Evenfall Hall for as long as the manor had stood. Tarth was a proud name, albeit a poor one, which had come upon hard times in recent years.

To hear Septa Roelle tell it, Evenfall had once been a place of great merriment when Brienne’s brother and heir of Evenfall, Galloden, had still been alive. Energetic and strong, the young heir had helped his parents weather the deaths of their first two daughters, Arianne and Alysanne, both perishing while still in the cradle. The Tarths had tried once more, hoping for a son, a worthy playmate for Galloden, but the Gods were cruel. They heard their prayers, but instead of a son, they gave them a mockery of a daughter, one who was too large and too loud.

Though Mrs. Tarth had died when she was three, Brienne’s earliest memory was not of her mother’s funeral but of Galloden’s. On the eve of his eighth birthday, he had gone swimming in the great lake and gone too far. He had drowned, leaving Brienne the only surviving child of a widower. Her father had never remarried. He claimed he was too poor to tempt any lady of respectable birth, and so he settled in amongst his books and his tinkerings and let the world pass him by.

Brienne did not have that same luxury. The local septa took up the reins of raising the child. According to the other servants, Roelle had moved in without so much of a by your leave. One day the guest bedroom above the kitchens was empty, the next it was not. Colonel Goodwin often told Brienne the story of the day her father had finally looked up from his newspaper to find Septa Roelle sitting at the table, buttering Brienne’s bread. According to the Colonel, her father had simply watched them for a moment before going right back to reading.

Two and ten years later, nothing much had changed. The dining hall was the same, as were the plates and cups. All ornate and well taken care of, but older and much out of style. The same could be said of the table and the people around it. Outside, the spring day was bright, and blossoms were starting to bud on the trees, but there was a lingering chill that threatened winter had not yet had its say with them. Brienne was late in coming down the stairs to breakfast, having struggled to no end with her hair and wishing, not for the first time or the last, that she could cut it all off entirely.

Instead, she had left it in a loose braid that fell across the left side of her face, hiding the bruise that was quickly forming. “Morning, Father,” Brienne murmured, pressing a dutiful kiss to his smooth, wrinkled cheek. He mumbled back a reply as he flicked the pages to the next section but did not look up.

Lumbering to the other side of the table, Brienne carefully lowered herself into the wicker chair, grimacing as the worn and ancient chair groaned as it struggled to hold her heft. Before she so much as thought of reaching for a roll to break her fast, Brienne turned to her right, careful not to turn too far and reveal the reason she was late. She bowed her head. “Septa Roelle,” she greeted. “Good morrow.”

Narrow-faced but broad of hip, Septa Roelle had the permanently pursed lips of the constantly disgruntled. “You’re late,” she reprimanded, spearing a sausage with her fork before depositing it unceremoniously on her plate. “I cannot account for how that could be. The maids mentioned you were gone from your rooms by the first light this morning. Not out visiting Colonel Goodwin, were you?”

Reaching for the milk, Brienne had to choke back a groan of pain as her muscles, weary and sore from her morning training, nearly buckled under the weight of the silver pitcher. “At this hour?” Brienne replied as she added a splash of fresh milk to her tea. “It would hardly be proper for me to call upon an unmarried gentleman before breakfast, Septa.”

Roelle sniffed, not fooled for an instant, but thankfully, she let it go. For now.

Brienne sent a quick prayer of thanks to the gods, even as a bolt of pain came coursing down her spine. Colonel Goodwin had caught her neatly on the back with a well-placed punch. It would have bruised nicely on its own, but in her damned thrice dress, she had been caught off balance. She had gone staggering into the fence. She had ended up taking the entire section of whitewashed wood down with her to the ground.

Her muslin dress had been torn beyond ruin, and every bone in her body hurt, but nothing smarted so much as her pride. It should have been an easy jab to dodge, but her left foot had gotten caught in her hem. No matter how many times she begged the Colonel to allow her to wear men’s garb while sparring, he refused. “Worse enough, I agreed to teach you,” he said when they had first started training,” even with your father’s blessing. But your Septa would have my head if you were caught in trousers.”

Retired from the army, Colonel Goodwin had been passing through the country ten years ago when he had met Selwyn Tarth by chance in town. He had come to the manor for a meal, spotted Brienne at play in the distance, and barked,” That’s a strapping lad! A natural-born pugilist if I ever saw one!” When he got close enough to realize the lad was, in fact, a lass, the Colonel had not blustered or apologized, stammered or blushed. “My mistake,” he said to Tarth with a shake of his knotted hair, still black in those days though already streaked with silver. “But I stand by it.”

When the two men had gone inside the study to chat, Brienne had gone straight to the library to look up the word ‘pugilist’. She was soon standing in her father’s study before the two men brandishing The Art of Boxing and demanding to learn the sport. She had been seven and had never asked him for a thing in her entire life before that moment, as she and her father were both well aware. And so, Colonel Goodwin, needing a place to stay and a roof over his head, had moved into the gardener’s quarters at the edge of the manor property, where he tended to the grounds in between boxing lessons with the daughter of the household.

If her father thought she would grow bored or grow out of it, he was mistaken. Her natural reflexes, shape, and size were all well suited to the sport and having found something that felt right for the first time in her life, Brienne dedicated herself to the sport entirely. She would have trained morning, noon, and night, but Colonel Goodwin had insisted upon a more regimented schedule that balanced training with strength building and exercises to build stamina. Brienne had always loved being outdoors and adopted long walks down to the shore as her daily routine. Once upon the secluded shores, she would pick up boulders and hurl them down into the sea below until her shoulders ached and her arms were exhausted.

But the sport was not just physical nor innate. She had to be able to keep her wits, even when a well-placed punch to the face knocked her clear of her senses. She had to size up her opponent, know their size, shape, and speed, and know how best to use it against them.

She was mentally going through the steps of the match she had just lost, trying to pinpoint when the colonel had gotten the better of her when Septa Roelle cleared her throat. “I received word that Morne Manor has been re-opened at long last.”

There was no sign from behind the newspaper that Selwyn Tarth had heard, much less cared.

“From what I have gathered, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock have decided to purchase it as a country seat for their youngest son. Despite his rumored shortcomings, he is a single man of great fortune, five or six thousand a year.”

When there was still no answer, Septa Roelle cleared her throat imperiously. She did this twice more until the left-hand ledge of the paper lowered to reveal the bright blue, water-shot eyes of Selwyn Tarth as he peered over the print at her. “Are you quite well, Septa?” he frowned. “You ought to see a maester about that cough.”

“Mister Tarth,” Roelle said tartly. “Did you hear any of the information which I just imparted to you?”

Caught out, the master of the manor lowered his paper with a sigh. “Something about a gentleman newly arrived?”

“Yes, and you must go and call upon him at once.”

“Must?” he said warily.

Neither of them so much as looked at Brienne, who was rather wishing she had been knocked unconscious in the garden this morning. Her face was flushed, and her skin was tight as she realized exactly what was happening.

No matter how many times men laughed, excused themselves, or just flat out ran in the other direction, Septa Roelle had never given up hope she would one day find her charge a husband. She had not even been swayed after Ronald Connington had mockingly labeled her charge Brienne the Beauty, and the nickname had spread all over the Stormlands. It would be one thing if the septa’s dedication was kindly meant, but Brienne doubted Roelle’s obsession with the subject was borne out of any love or affection. It was more of some sort of twisted, proud duty to ensure her charge settled down as a proper lady instead of becoming a sideshow act.

“Indeed,” Septa Roelle confirmed. “You recall the Baratheons are throwing a ball at Storm’s End within a fortnight and Brienne will hardly be the only young woman in attendance in need of a husband. We must make his acquaintance before the assembly, or it will be impossible for him to call upon Brienne beforehand. Consider your daughter’s future, sir.”

Once again, no one bothered to ask her what she wanted, so Brienne opted to study the wood grain in the table. After a moment, she could feel her father’s eyes flicker over to her. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, all too aware of what he saw, what this Lannister would see, what they all saw. A freak in women’s clothing. An oddity. A beast.

“My, that is a very lovely bruise on your cheek, Brienne.” Brienne looked up guiltily, but her father was smiling at her in that proud way he always did. “I do hope Mr. Lannister is fond of the color purple.”

Warmed by the reminder of his unusual but unconditional love and acceptance, Brienne offered her father a watery smile, loving him for loving her, scars and all.

“We will hardly know what this Mr. Lannister will or will not like,” Septa Roelle sniffed, ruining the moment entirely. “Not until you call upon him, Mister Tarth.”

Selwyn settled back into his chair. “As it happens,” he remarked, steepling his fingers. “I had the pleasure of calling upon Mr. Tyrion Lannister yesterday afternoon.”

Caught off guard, Septa Roelle forgot herself entirely and clapped her hands together. “Mister Tarth!” she exclaimed in her excitement. “What wondrous news!”

Brienne glanced between her septa, who looked relieved, and her father, who now looked immensely uncomfortable, and realized she was missing one crucial piece of information. With her looks and her dowry, she could never hope to win a man of great fortune, much less a handsome or distinguished one…Her father did not look at her but rather stood abruptly. Brienne watched him go, torn between running after him and running down to the shore and hiding until this Lannister had left the Stormlands entirely. Brienne had never wished she had spent more time listening to gossip than she did in this instance. Who was this wealthy Tyrion Lannister, and what was it to her?

“Well,” Septa Roelle said as she, too, rose from the table. “There’s much to be done. No telling when he will return your father’s visit. I’ll speak with the cook to determine when we shall invite him to dinner. Oh, and Brienne?”

Brienne tilted her bruised face up to the woman who was the closest thing she had ever had to a mother. “Yes, Septa Roelle?”

The Septa’s stubby fingers grazed tenderly over Brienne’s upturned face, lingering lightly upon the bruise that would soon cover the lower half of her jaw. “No boxing until after the ball.”

Chapter Text

On the day of the assembly, Morne Manor was busier than it had been in over a decade. The carriages had finally arrived from Casterly Rock just yesterday with all the trappings and furnishings that befitted the scion of the lion.

Not that Tyrion had wanted any of the crimson or gold hangings. All Tyrion had cared about was the bottles of brandy from the Rock. And the wine from the arbor. Though, to be fair, he had also expressed considerable annoyance over the lack of port.

Thankfully, all had arrived with the rest of his things, not that Tyrion was around to notice. His new steward had things well in order, though he was an odd, rough sort of man. Tyrion had picked him up somewhere along the mountain roads. Gruff and sly, Bronn Blackwater had seemed an odd choice for a steward to Jaime’s eye, but Tyrion enjoyed the man, and so far, he had proved proficient.

Overall, Tyrion was delighted with the ancient place and its idiosyncrasies. He had already found two hidden passages and a carving he was convinced dated back to the Andals.

For his part, Jaime was ready to flee back to Casterly Rock. From what he had seen thus far, the Stormlands were a destitute, rocky wasteland. Morne Manor itself had been nearly in ruins when Tyrion had decided to purchase the estate. The youngest son of Tywin Lannister had read about it in some book somewhere and decided on a whim to make it his new home. Though why anyone would want to live in the Stormlands instead of the Riverlands, Jaime couldn’t have said.

“It’s ghastly here,” Cersei echoed, even though he had not uttered a word. His cousin stood beside him at the head of the staircase, watching the servants scuttle this way, spilling from the doorway like black ants. With a sigh, Cersei turned away from the organized chaos unfolding below. “Take a stroll with me,” she purred, more a demand than a request. Before he could answer, she took him by the arm and began to stroll up the hallway, letting her head rest upon his bicep.

He tensed ever so slightly, eyes cutting around them as they walked. In a town this size, someone would always be watching, if only out of boredom rather than malice. Another reason he could not wait for Tyrion to grow bored with this little game and return to the Rock.

He did not disentangle himself from Cersei, but he could not quite relax either. Born on the same day, the firstborn children of the Lannister twin brothers, Cersei and Jaime, were as close as any siblings. They had grown up together, but lately, Cersei had been hinting at something new…at taking their relationship from cousins to something more intimate…to an understanding.

She was a beautiful woman, smart and intelligent, and he cared for her, yes, but something held him back. He could not say what it was other than an innate certainty that her interest was less for his love and more for a desire to be known as Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock instead of simply Ms. Lannister.

As they turned down the west wing hallway, a door creaked open just as they passed, revealing the empty library. “There you are, Jaime,” Tyrion declared. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Cersei gave a sweet, short laugh. “Well. Small wonder you couldn’t find him in the library. Your brother was seeing to the preparation of the house, something the master of the house should be overseeing. Not tucked away in some musty old library. For such an intelligent fellow, you tend to be terribly short-sighted, Tyrion. ”

Not missing her emphasis, Tyrion gave their cousin a grin. “I’m surprised you can even see me from that high horse of yours, cuz.”

Cersei’s green eyes, so like Jaime’s, flashed in rage. “Have a care how you speak to me, sir. I need only stand in my stocking feet to look down upon you.”

“No fine feat, considering most children can as well,” Tyrion agreed. “Which is why I have need of my brother here. I cannot reach one of the shelves, and my ladder has not yet arrived.”

Knowing they could go on for hours, Jaime disentangled himself from Cersei. “Now, now, children. Manners.”

Cersei knew Jaime well enough to pick up that he was in no mood for their diatribes today. She smoothed her face back into a courteous smile. “You’re quite right, Jaime, dear. Besides, I should go see that these country maids have managed to iron my gown without ruining it.”

Without so much as a glance at Tyrion, she pressed a kiss to Jaime’s cheek before departing. Jaime lingered just long enough to admire the way her hips swayed in the scarlet silk gown she had custom-designed from Bravos. Empire-waisted, she had explained when she had first shown it to him. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it did fit her tall, willowy figure admirably-

Tyrion chuckled under his breath. “Our dear cousin is rather out of her element in the Stormlands, isn’t she?” He looked up at Jaime knowingly. “I must say, it did rather surprise me when our sweet cousin voluntarily chose to accompany us to my new estate.”

“As I told you, once I’ve seen you settled, I will accompany Cersei to King’s Landing for the winter,” he reminded Tyrion.

“Right, right,” Tyrion muttered as he waddled back into the library. Jaime followed after him, feeling already ill at ease in the massive room. Every surface was covered in books. Their father had been happy to get rid of his black sheep of a son, happy enough to send a majority of the Rock’s library with him to the Stormlands without an argument.

“Where were you this morning?” Jaime inquired as he followed Tyrion towards the back of the library. “I had hoped to take a ride down to the shore before the weather turned.”

Tyrion screwed up his face. “I have no interest in riding down to any body of water.” He patted his short, squat legs with a leer. “I’m not made for swimming. I’d sink like a stone.” Jaime ignored this. Tyrion always used his stature as an excuse to avoid anything more strenuous than going down to the kitchen cellars. “Besides, I called on Selwyn Tarth at Evenfall Hall.”

Jaime was not familiar with the names. “For what purpose?”

Tyrion climbed up into the chair specially designed for him. “In all honesty? I had hoped to catch a sight of his daughter.”

Jaime groaned. “Tyrion-”

“The Beauty of Tarth,” Tyrion continued, pointing to a blue book on the top leftmost shelf. “Fetch that for me, would you?”

Jaime did as he was asked. “Lives of the Nine Septons?” he read quizzically. “Feeling rather pious lately, dear brother?”

Tyrion harrumphed. “Not on your life. I was looking for the Jade Compendium. I could have sworn it was that same color. Perhaps over here…”

Tyrion hopped back down and headed across the back wall of windows towards the far corner. Jaime trailed after him. “This beauty,” Jamie said, knowing his brother well enough to know where this was going. “Does she….”

“Know I’m a dwarf?” Tyrion said with a leer over his shoulder. “I haven’t the foggiest. If it hasn’t gotten out by now, I suppose she and the rest of the Stormlands will learn of it tonight at the assembly.” He paused, looking this way and that. “Where could it have gotten?”

Jaime knelt and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Tyrion, I know this whole business has been…strenuous.”

“Oh, the part about un-inheriting me unless I give up my claim to Castlery Rock and settle down with a respectable wife on the other side of Westeros?” Tyrion was smiling, but his eyes were hard. “Or the part where my dear brother informed my father of my plans to elope to Gretna Green with a crofter’s daughter?” He brushed Jaime’s hand off his shoulder. “Forget the book. I should follow Cersei’s lead and prepare for the assembly. I want to make an impression, after all.”

“Tyrion-” Jaime began, but it was too late. His brother had already turned the corner and disappeared down another stack of shelves, leaving Jamie Lannister alone in the library with only his good intentions.

–

Tyrion Lannister was a dwarf.

The entire assembly was abuzz about this development. It was the most shocking piece of gossip in over a century, and no one was immune to its salacious nature. People reporting back also admitted to finding the gentleman gifted with an easy, unaffected manner paired with a sharp wit that was delightfully well-wielded.

Attention soon also shifted to his companions: a brother and cousin. Beautiful in the classic way that was so en vogue at the moment, the pair looked so alike they could have been twins, from the way their green eyes narrowed in disdain to the way their full lips curled up in amused derision.

Half the ladies were already in love with the gentleman before they even learned that he had ten thousand pounds a year. After that, there was a great burst of fuss and fluttering before it became clear that though rich and handsome, his manners left much to be desired. Jaime Lannister was curt in conversation, rude in his responses, and refused to dance despite the numerous ladies sitting along the wall. He was quickly declared to be the most disagreeable man anyone had ever met.

On the other hand, Tyrion Lannister, despite his stature, had already made the acquaintance of nearly every person in attendance. Every corner soon buzzed about his latest quip or joke, if not remarking on the cold beauty of his companions.

In all the excitement, Brienne’s usual tormentors did not notice or care that she was even in attendance. She had been left mercifully alone for the entire evening, having selected a spot along the back wall upon her arrival, but as more guests arrived, her haven was soon overrun.

Heading out of the gathering crush before she garnered any unwanted attention, Brienne was in the process of trying to make herself as small as humanly possible (which did not work any better than it ever had or would for someone over six feet tall) when she nearly stepped on the gentleman of the hour.

“My apologies, my lord,” Brienne hurried to amend, dropping into a rough courtesy. “I didn’t see you- I mean-”

The dwarf threw his head back up at her and then, to her disbelief, laughed. “No, I don’t think you could from all the way up there,” he agreed. One black eye and one green sparkled up at her. Tyrion Lannister was almost half her size, with a face almost as unfortunate as her own, but it was plain to see he was at ease with himself, as confident in his skin as any man.

Before Brienne could muddle things further, her father materialized at their sides, handing Brienne a glass of punch. “Ah, Mister Lannister, I see you’ve met my daughter. Brienne, this is Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Morne Manor.”

“This is your daughter?” Tyrion said, clearly taken aback. Uncertain of what to say or do, Brienne offered him another courtesy. He recovered quickly, a smile back on his odd face. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Ms. Brienne,” Tyrion said, offering her a small bow. “I am afraid I’ve promised this dance and the next and the next.”

“I thank you, but I do not dance good sir,” Brienne said hastily as the music started to summon the dancers back to their places.

“Sad tidings. We would be quite a pair,” he said with a cheerful wink that was not at all mockery. It was more like an inside joke, and Brienne found herself relaxing despite herself, something she never did at balls. “Till we meet again, Miss Tarth.”

As her father spied one of his old business partners and moved to speak with him, Brienne retired to the edge of the hall. There were a few other ladies lingering against the wall, but none of them spared her a glance. Everyone knew Brienne Tarth, and no one was worried they may be slighted for a dance in her favor.

With her height, Brienne was able to see everything on the dance floor with ease despite the occasional plumage in a lady’s hairstyle. She remained there, watching the events of the evening unfold and hoping her father would grow tired soon and they could leave. Septa Roelle would be waiting to hear all about the evening, and Brienne wanted to have plenty to tell her. She would just leave out the part where she had stood in a corner the whole evening.

Unintentionally, Brienne’s gaze was drawn to the pair of lions on the far side of the room. It was hard to miss such a splendid pair. Tyrion’s older brother, Jaime Lannister, was indeed a handsome man, but his face seemed to be permanently contorted into a sour glower. He stood with his arms crossed and did not speak to a single person with the exception of his brother and the stunningly beautiful woman at his side.

Cersei Lannister, a cousin on their father’s side, was by all reports an accomplished woman. She, too, was tall but still at least two heads shorter than her cousin. She had the same blonde hair as the Lannister brothers, but hers was pinned in curled ringlets, tightly coiled and shining as if it was actual gold in the lamplight. Her dress was of the latest fashion, only seen thus far in magazines from town, and outshone all the drab, simple cotton dresses the rest of the ladies wore.

The handsome pair had already danced once, and soon Cersei Lannister danced with three other men. All the while, Jaime Lannister did not move from his spot.

Despite being the early days of autumn, the day had been unseasonably humid, and the evening continued to be so. Brienne soon grew too warm in her vantage spot and was obliged to move towards the back wall, where the doors were opened to let the night air circulate into the hall.

She took a seat on the benches lining the wall and let her eyes fall shut as she listened to the last song fade away. When the song changed, she opened her eyes to find she could no longer see the dancers. A few couples had retired to the edge of the dancefloor to catch their breath. Amongst them was Tyrion Lannister, who his brother soon joined.

“Come, Jaime,” Tyrion wheedled. “You looked wretched standing there twiddling your thumbs. I’ve seen you dance at the Rock. These dances are not so different.”

His brother scoffed. “I prefer to be acquainted with my dancing partner. And the only lady in my acquaintance present has been engaged for the majority of the evening.”

“There are plenty of pretty girls,” Tyrion protested. “And if none of them turn your fancy, I just met the most wonderful specimen of woman. The Beauty of Tarth. You must let me introduce you.”

For some reason, hearing Tyrion Lannister utter that moniker stung. Brienne stood, intending to find refuge in the music room for the remainder of the evening, but she miscalculated.

At the sudden movement behind him, Jaime Lannister half turned and caught sight of her just as Tyrion announced, “She can’t be hard to spot, she’s taller than you are! ”

Brienne hastily averted her gaze. She could feel Jaime Lannister consider her for a moment before he turned his back on her. “I am in no humor at present to give consequence to slighted young ladies, tolerable or no.” The apothecary’s daughter appeared, requesting a dance from Tyrion, who happily obliged her. As the pair hurried to join the reel, Jaime Lannister walked away as well, leaving Brienne to sink back down to the bench.

Thankfully, the evening passed quickly after that encounter. When she and her father returned to Evenfall Hall, Septa Roelle was still up with The Seven-Pointed Star. She put it aside and stood hastily. “Well?”

Selwyn Tarth hid a yawn behind his hand. “Apologies, my dear septa,” he murmured through another yawn. “I’m quite done for. If you’ll excuse me-”

Brienne found herself quite alone with Septa Roelle, who was inspecting her closely. They had hidden the bruise under powder and rouge and done Brienne’s hair up as best they could, but it had fallen with the humidity and was currently hanging lackluster around her face. Thankfully, her gown had been spared the usual “accidental” punch spill this time. It was rather damp under the arms and would need a good laundering but was otherwise still presentable.

Brienne was also quite exhausted, but she knew she would have no peace until she recounted the entire tale from start to finish. Lowering herself to the chaise, she kicked off her slippers, which had pinched her feet mercilessly and caused her to mince for the last hour or so.

“How did you find Mr. Tyrion Lannister?” Roelle prompted.

“Short,” Brienne answered honestly. “But overall well, well-mannered, if not prone to being a bit libel with his consummation of brandy.”

Roelle frowned at this. “Did you dance with him?”

Brienne flushed. “I did not have the honor, Septa, no.”

“And what of his brother?” Septa Roelle continued, though she made no attempt to hide her disappointment. “I’ve heard he is quite handsome and is to have ten thousand pounds a year-”

“He has an understanding with his cousin, a Miss Cersei Lannister,” Brienne lied. Well, she did not know it was a lie. It could very well be true. And if it weren’t, Septa Roelle would hear about it, no doubt.

“Hmm, well, I cannot say I had expected any different,” Septa Roelle said as she settled back into her seat. “I simply thought perhaps…”

A dwarf would be desperate enough to marry a giant. It would have been rather funny if Brienne had not been the butt of the joke.

Chapter Text

Brienne woke, still in the previous evening’s ill humor. She had forgotten to close the shade and thus was rudely awakened despite seemingly only just falling asleep. She lay there for a moment, knowing Septa Roelle would not begrudge her a lie-in after her evening at the assembly. For a second, she was tempted to do just that. Lie there, stewing in the memories of Tyrion Lannister’s voice, bordering on admiration but landing in disbelief, and green eyes, dabbling in disbelief but ending, as they always did, in revulsion.

Instead, Brienne rolled out of bed and laced on her boots. She donned an old threadbare gown before she quietly made her way down the stairs. Faint snores emanated from Septa Roelle’s room, even though the kitchen staff were already awake and seeing breakfast. The scully maid was too busy poking worriedly at the unrising loaf of bread in the oven, so Brienne grabbed an apple from the basket before anyone could see and slipped outside. Mr. Tarth may pay their wages, but Septa Roelle ran the staff with an iron grip, if any of them saw Brienne up this early, they’d have fetched the matron at once.

Despite the lingering humidity, the early spring air was frigid this morning. It felt refreshing and by the time Brienne had made her way to her gate, she was wide awake and eager to start her day. Taking another large, satisfactory bite of her apple, Brienne meandered down the path to the Colonel’s yard. Having foregone a bonnet, she tipped her face to the cloudless sky to enjoy the warmth against her skin.

“Dinna expect to see you this morn.”

Inhaling deeply, Brienne lowered her gaze to where the Colonel stood at his gate. “Morning,” she greeted before finishing the apple with another large crunch. Juice ran down her fingers, and she was tempted to lick her fingers clean, but she didn’t dare. Colonel Brandon was a lot of things, but he was also still a man. One more interested in other men, whether for the love of boxing or another kind of pleasure, Brienne couldn’t say. Nor did she care.

Forging the pleasures of the apple, Brienne lowered her hand to her side, discreetly wiping her fingers against her skirt. It was ruined anyway; being slightly sticky and smelling of apples was hardly the worst thing to befall it. “You’re finally fixing it?” she nodded to the gate, one creaky hinge slightly off-kilter and causing the entire panel to sag into the dirt of the path.

“Thought I’d have the time.” The Colonel spat into the bushes as he leaned against the fence post he was repairing. “What with you having had the ball or what not.”

“The assembly,” Brienne corrected.

“Word is the new master of Morne Manor is the runt of the litter. Any truth to that?”

Brienne recalled the mismatched eyes crinkled up at her in solidarity, a queer sort of understanding between two outsiders. “He seems like a good man,” was all she said.

The Colonel snorted. “You're a great deal too kind to people in general, lass. You never speak a cruel word of anyone, including those who deserve it.”

Brienne’s grip tightened around the apple core until juice squeezed between her knuckles to drop to the dirt beneath her boots. “Up for a bit of sport this morning?” Brienne proposed.

“Most ladies would be talking my ear off about the new lord and his company,” the Colonel observed as he swung the gate open to permit her entry.

Brienne tossed the apple core aside. “And what would I have to say about the new tenants? Lord Tyrion is shorter than most, this is true- but he possesses no shortage of wit. He danced nearly every dance and conversed with all that approached him.”

“Beggars cannae be choosers,” the Colonel grunted as he dropped into a ready position.

Brienne followed suit. “He was a deal more pleasurable than his brother or their cousin.”

“Heir to the Rock dinnae have to be pleasurable. A dwarf bastard does.”

“He’s not-”

“Fists up!’ The Colonel had taken a swing at her, and she stumbled to the left to avoid the jab.

“I wasn’t ready!” she protested in disbelief.

“Stop your chattering then,” he advised, feinting back before issuing a clean uppercut. Brienne blocked it, and he danced away, giving her a precious moment to compose herself. “Always be ready. Distractions are just that, distractions.”

They fell into a familiar pattern. The Colonel was older, slower, but precise. He waited for her to drop her guard before dancing close. Brienne circled slowly, keeping her fists up. She was careful to keep her feet light, knees bent, elbows close as she watched her opponent.

The next time he came at her, she was ready. She feinted to the left, and when he followed, she sidestepped neatly. He floated past her, already turning on his heel, but she pressed the advantage. She had him against the fence with three quick punches. He raised his elbows, took the hits, and returned them in equal force.

He was a tall man, maybe as tall as Jaime Lannister, but he had been brawnier in his youth, where the young lion was lean. Now, the Colonel’s brawn had withered away to a hollow chest, leathery ligaments, and a weathered face. Still, they both had that same easy grace of a soldier in their movements and in the way they looked at her, sizing her up not as a woman but as an opponent.

The Colonel lashed out, and Brienne, caught in her recollection of the handsome stranger, barely raised an elbow to block him. His punch landed on her chin. She staggered backward, and instinct took over. She pitched forward to offset her momentum, throwing out her left hand wildly to prevent the Colonel from pressing his advantage, but he was already lowering his arms.

“Ah,” he groaned, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand. “You here or somewhere else this mornin’, lass? I havene got such an easy hit since you were sprouting ringlets.”

Brienne straightened, internally cursing herself for three times a fool. “Here,” she proclaimed before dropping into a fighter’s stance. Boxing was her respite, her haven. Here, everything else faded away to the dance. She was no longer too big, too tall, too strong- here, she was no lady, no one’s daughter, just a boxer.

A damn good one too.

Brienne released a flurry of jabs and punches, ducking once, twice, three times before landing an uppercut before spinning away. The Colonel did not follow, taking the time to set back up before she came towards him again. This time, she danced around him in a circle, just out of reach. Her skirt flapped about her ankles, but she paid it no mind. It was nothing to her. Here, she was not the Beauty, the maid of Tarth, or an unfortunate wench. Here, she was Brienne.

As the sparring practice continued back at Morne Manor, the trio of Lannisters were just arriving home. Jaime and Cersei stumbled off to sleep, but Tyrion, still slightly drunk on brandy and good times, made his way to the breakfast room.

The staff had already laid out the morning meal, noticeably less than most mornings but perfectly suited for his needs. There was toast and porridge, a rather large pot of coffee, which he ignored, and boiled eggs. He helped himself to a bit of everything, humming some country tune he had just learned that evening. His legs were cramping terribly, but overall, he was in such a fantastic mood he could barely be bothered to care.

He was free. Free to do whatever he liked, such as throw the plate to the floor, demand more brandy, or fall asleep in his porridge. Here, clear on the other side of Westeros, his father’s shadow was not quite as long. Tyrion had six thousand pounds to his name, an estate of his own, and was quite satisfied with the arrangement as it stood.

Unbidden, he thought of Tysha and how well she would like it here, but the thought sucked all the joy out of the morning. Tyrion crashed back to earth, all too aware of what he was, what others must have thought of him. He grew somber as he stared out the window across his new garden, where the trees were starting to bud and dew glistened on every blade of grass. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day, yet his mood darkened.

Tysha was a sore spot, much like an abscessed tooth. He ought to leave it alone, but he found he could not. How did one forget their first love? Their only love?

A whore, Tyrion corrected with a shake of his head. He ought to have known, he thought as he looked down at his stubby fingers where they clutched the knife and fork. Ah, but it was a sweet lie while it lasted.

Humming the same tune from earlier, he hopped down and made his way towards his bed. He was growing aware of the alcohol leaving his system and the dregs of exhaustion growing too pronounced to ignore much longer. At the top of the stairs, he stopped to look about his manor.

Red and gold hung everywhere, all orchestrated by Jaime in some misguided guise to remind Tyrion he was a Lannister. Poor, dim Jaime had never understood their father did not think of Tyrion as anything more than a cruel jape, a millstone about his neck.

“Well, father,” Tyrion drawled. “I would have been happy with a cottage in the woods with a whore for the rest of my days, but I suppose I’ll make a go of playing the lord’s son.”

He had not expected Jaime to come with him. He had barely spoken to his brother since Tysha but Jaime had been there at his departure and throughout the journey east. And just as he had always been, Tyrion was somehow comforted by his presence.

After all, the two had been close as far back as Tyrion’s earliest memories. In spite of all their great oppositions, Tyrion loved his brother even though they could not be more different in temperament or life experience. Tyrion had learned at an early age to charm with wit and quip, but Jaime had always been loved for his beauty and brawn and had never developed any charm. He was blunt and bold, and people permitted it because he was heir to Westeros’s richest estate.

And yet here he was, with Tyrion, attending dances and setting up manors, all things Jaime Lannister hated.

On the way back from the assembly, Tyrion had pressed Jaime for his thoughts on the Stormland assembly, eager to hear what his brother had to say. “Very pleasant people, these Stormlanders,” Tyrion had declared. Sure, people had whispered and pointed but they had done that in the Westerlands as well. “And the girls- as pretty as any girl in Lannisport,” he needled, watching Jaime’s face closely.

Jaime just lifted an eyebrow and went back to watching the horizon roll past as Cersei dozed beside him. He had spent the evening in abject boredom, having found the company dull and vapid. The girls had not been any prettier than any he had seen before, the country fashion far out of style and the dances clumsy at best. The talk had been of weather and crops, same town gossip, and that of the militia coming to town by summer. He had been bored within the first hour of their arrival.

Though, there had perhaps been one note of interest, that huge hulk of a woman, the one his brother had called the Beauty of Tarth. He had been taken aback when he had first laid eyes on her. Her strange, homely face had been so open he could read every thought crossing her mind- but then he had seen her arms- capped in ridiculous sleeves and adorned in white gloves- the lace only served to accentuate the tendons in her arms, the curve of the muscle, the only curves she possessed judging by the way her gown fell in a shapeless sack.

Jaime would have taken odds the horrible excuse for a dress hid a waist as thick as a tree trunk. And by the time he had remembered himself, she had been flushed as red as a Lannister flag, every inch of flushed skin covered in freckled skin that spoke of too many days in the sun. She had somehow managed to disappear into the crowd before he could get another look at her. Surprising considering her broad shoulders and the fact she had towered over even him.

Brienne the Beauty. Whoever had given her name had been in his cups—there was truly nothing beautiful about that poor creature. Brienne the Brute, Brienne the Bear—he amused himself with the various nicknames, her name rolling around in his mind like wine in a cup—each new alliteration causing him to grin: Brienne the Barbarian, Brienne the Beast, Brienne, Brienne, Brienne.

As he fell into his bed, Jaime stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Despite his exhaustion, whenever he closed his eyes, he could only see a pair of rather remarkable sapphire eyes.

Chapter Text

The Stormlands were, like most of the families who had settled there, rather unremarkable. The rocky region lay nestled between the more wealthy Crownlands to the north and the more fertile Reach to the west. Most ever bothered to cross the mountain range that separated the regions, and to the south was nothing but the Dornish desert, as inhospitable as its people from what Septa Roelle had taught her.

It was a rugged land, as large and sprawling, pitted and scarred as she was. It would never be considered beautiful, but it was what it was. One either learned to love it or they hated it, and Brienne had adopted the same practice in her own life.

Many a day, Brienne went riding. Usually, to train, but other days, just as an excuse to stretch her legs and clear her mind. But today, fresh from a wash after her morning bout with the Colonel, Brienne set out on the path towards the closet manor home, Storm’s End, to pay a call upon her most intimate of friends—her only friend to speak plainly.

Storm’s End was perched upon Durran’s Point, the southernmost stop of the King’s Road. Here, the elder of King Robert’s younger brothers had made his home nearly a decade ago now. Brienne had been too young to attend, but her father had told her stories of the great retinue that had arrived with Stannis Baratheon and his young wife and how all of the Stormlands had celebrated for seven days straight before King Robert had returned north to his iron throne.

If the people of the Stormlands had hoped for a lively royal in their midst, they were sadly disappointed. Stannis Baratheon lacked the love of pomp and party that his two brothers had inherited, preferring the solemn and dreary coasts of Storm’s End to the other manors he may have claimed for his own as the King’s brother and heir.

As they arrived at the manor’s gates, Septa Roelle turned her nose up. “Oh, Lady Selyse is at home,” she remarked in the same tone she pointed out mice droppings. Septa Roelle liked few people but she actively disliked even fewer, but somehow Lady Selyse Baratheon had never risen high in the Septa’s mind.

The Bartheons only had one daughter, an intelligent, sweet young debutant of fifteen who, though Brienne’s junior, was more mature than any of the other ladies in the region. She was also, like Brienne, no stranger to cruelty for the sake of her appearance. As tall and thin as both her parents, Shireen had the Baratheon bold blue eyes and the equally strong, jutting jaw which may have made her handsome if not partnered with her mother’s large ears and aquiline nose.

Fate had taken a hand in Shireen’s appearance as well. While still in the cradle, Shireen had been afflicted with grayscale. While she had recovered, she had been left with gray and black mottled scars all across her left cheek and down to her neck. The more superstitious families avoided the Baratheons, believing the disease lay dormant in the skin and could be reawoken with a single sneeze. Folly, according to all the maesters but still even the more opportunistic fortune hunters steered clear of the young Lady Baratheon. Septa Roelle had also been conflicted. On the one hand, her charge rubbing elbows with royalty, and on the other, a disease so deadly that its mere name was considered dangerous.

Thankfully, royal blood, diseased or not, won out in the end, and the two unfortunates became fast friends. Shireen liked the loyal and true Brienne Tarth, finding her refreshing and more intelligent than any of the other ladies her mother tried to foster upon her, while Brienne liked the quiet solitude of Shireen’s company. Shireen never stared or ogled or winced and, on numerous occasions, put herself pointedly between Brienne and her tormentors at assemblies so no one would jokingly ask Brienne the Beauty for a dance.

Shireen had been in attendance at the assembly though her mother had kept her occupied with both Lannister brothers. “Brienne tells me you were the first to dance with Mr. Lannister,” Septa Roelle praised Shireen as they all sat down in the sitting room over a cup of tea.

Lady Baratheon beamed at the accomplishment, but Shireen was quick to deflect any praise. “Yes, but he danced with nearly every lady present. Though, he did ask after you, Brienne.”

Septa Roelle perked up at this. “Oh?”

“Yes, but it was later in the evening, and poor Mr. Tarth had already called for the chaise. Mr. Lannister did seem rather disappointed.”

“My departure, if truly noticed, was nothing but a slight inconvenience, if that.” Brienne insisted lest Septa Roelle get the wrong idea.

“Oh, but he was most sincere,” Shireen protested. “He mentioned you had spoken for a moment and while he was rudely whisked away, he had great hopes of the two of you finishing the conversation before the night came to an end.”

“I dare say he’ll have to get used to disappointment,” Brienne murmured into her cup.

Shireen heard it and gave her a knowing smile, but Septa Roelle had already moved on to the next eligible bachelor. “Is there any truth to this rumor that the elder Lannister is set to marry the cousin that was in attendance?”

“It was obvious to even that blind old bat Whent,” Lady Baratheon confirmed. “Ms. Lannister did deign to dance with some of the local gentlemen but never more than once. As for the Lion of Lannister, he was most disagreeable. I was in his company for nearly the entire evening, and he barely uttered a word. Most unfortunate. Good breeding does not always result in good manners.”

Brienne could only imagine what Jaime Lannister had thought of Selyse Baratheon shadowing his every move. His unpleasant mood became less of a mystery.

“The youngest Mr. Lannister told me his brother is not much for conversation among strangers but is a remarkably agreeable fellow among his intimate acquaintances,” Shireen contributed.

“Simply making excuses for his family,” her mother replied. “It was clear to the whole assembly that he is a sinfully prideful man. Comely or not, I’ll be happy to see the back of him.”

“I do not see why he should not be proud. He is the most handsome man I have ever seen, and his family is reported to have more wealth than even Uncle Robert’s treasury. If our roles were reversed, I would surely be proud, wouldn’t you, mother?”

Selyse Baratheon bristled at the suggestion. “I certainly would not. I am not so vain as that, child!”

“Vanity is something different entirely,” Septa Roelle corrected. “A person may be proud without being vain. Pride is our opinion of oneself; vanity is what we would have others think.”

The two older women soon fell into debate on the subject, with Septa Roelle taking the high ground of her faith and Lady Baratheon that of her education. Shireen scooted closer under the guise of rearranging her skirts. “All this talk of pride and vanity, but you never said, what did you think of Mr. Tyrion Lannister, my dear Brienne?”

Ensuring Septa Roelle was caught up in the debate, she confessed, “I found him to be an odd sort of fellow.”

“How so?”

Brienne shared what she had overheard, speaking low so as not to be overheard. By the end, Shireen was clearly amused. “He ought not to have said those things,” she conceded, though it was unclear if she was speaking of the younger or elder Lannister.

“It was not gentleman-like,” Brienne conceded,” but neither of them were wrong.”

Shireen lay her hand upon Brienne’s to administer a gentle squeeze. “You are too kind to others and much too hard on yourself,” she admonished.

“Careful, lest you make me too vain of my so-called good nature,” Brienne teased.

“Never. I can only attempt to make you proud of it,” Shireen rallied back.

“Girls? What are you two whispering about?” Septa Roelle demanded. They quickly echoed platitudes about the weather and the rest of the visit was spent discussing the health of Lady Whent.

Chapter Text

Two days after the assembly, the Lannisters paid a visit to Storm’s End. Their visit was quickly returned, and from there, Lady Baratheon was pleased to circulate throughout the Stormlands that further acquaintance with Miss Baratheon was pursued by Miss Lannister.

“The young ladies are increasingly fond of each other. Why, the Lannisters have dined with us twice now in a fortnight and are due to visit again this very evening!”

Though initially a bit taken aback by this development, Shireen was pleased to become the dear friend of such an accomplished woman as Cersei Lannister.

Brienne perceived things rather differently.

The Tarths had been invited to each of the dinners to better fill out the party, and while it was true Cersei Lannister did actively seek out Shireen’s company, Miss Lannister’s overall manner and tone were always vastly superior towards everyone, often bordering on arrogance. Her manners were always excellent but Brienne did not miss the double entendres of her words, often directed at the lack of culture and beauty of the Stormlands and its inhabitants.

After careful consideration, Brienne rather suspected Miss Lannister’s attention was less due to the enjoyment of their company and more about Baratheon’s connection to the Iron Throne. She refrained from voicing these suspicions as she did not want to dampen her younger friend’s happiness.

Occupied in observing Shireen’s growing relationship with Miss Lannister, Brienne did not realize she herself was the object of growing interest to one of the party members.

Jaime Lannister had been taken aback to find Brienne Tarth in the dinner company at Storm’s End, but Cersei had later explained Miss Tarth was the only friend of the young girl, as no other families in the area would dine with the Baratheons for fear of catching grayscale over soup. After Jaime’s brief sight of Miss Tarth at the assembly, the sheer absurdity of her had hung in his mind, as a particular oddity is wont to do.

Truly unfortunate was a kind way to describe the lady, and yet, the more Jaime looked, the more he found himself unable to look away. He spent most of the first night trying to best determine the exact shade of her eyes and finally determined they were the same blue as a crystalline lake in the mountains. In his morbid curiosity, he learned in that evening alone, without speaking a word to her, that she was not fond of partridge and had a tendency to grow flustered if addressed directly in conversation but was not unintelligible when she composed herself to reply.

Upon the ride home, Cersei had been particularly vicious on the subject of Miss Tarth. Judging his cousin had not missed his particular attention on said lady throughout the evening, Jaime made it clear to himself and his companions that Brienne Tarth was the most unfortunate creature that had ever walked this earth. Satisfied, Cersei proceeded to sharpen her claws on how intolerable she found the elder Lady Baratheon.

Jaime resolved that to be the end of the matter until Cersei invited the two ladies to join them for dinner later that same week. Everyone had one redeemable quality, and Miss Tarth’s just happened to be those remarkable eyes, so of course, when she smiled or laughed, they lent a slight charm to her otherwise homely face.

Except as soon as he acknowledged that truth, he then began to notice her lips were rather full and often quirked upwards in pleasant reverie when she was not caught out or being forced to endure whatever ordeal was taking place at the moment. And while all her gowns were years out of fashion and only served to further make her look altogether too broad and heavy for anyone to consider pleasing, she had an uncanny sort of grace when she walked, a lightness that belied her stature.

Brienne remained perfectly unaware of this development, as Lord Lannister had yet to speak a single word to her directly. It was not until a large party was assembled at Storm’s End did Brienne notice his eye upon her.

“Whatever have you done to Mr. Lannister?” Shireen asked after Brienne pointed it out to her.

“Nothing in the slightest!”

“Well, we shall find out shortly, as he is coming this way,” Shireen announced. Before Brienne could escape, Shireen called out for him to join them. “I was just entreating Brienne to speak to Lady Whent about hosting a ball at Harrenhal.”

“And I was refuting the need for another dance so soon after our last.”

Lord Lannister raised a sardonic brow. “It is my experience that all ladies are keen for any and all opportunities in which to dance.”

“Your experience is limited to ladies of beauty and grace,” Brienne replied before she could think better of her words. “Those ladies who are not gifted with such accouterments find dances to be a dreadfully different business.”

Behind them, a member of the party had opened up the instrument and began to play. Shireen brightened as Beric Dondarian led Cersei out for an impromptu dance. Struck by this idea, several others in attendance began to join them, including Tyrion and one of the youngest Penrose girls.

Shireen brightened in a way that boded ill for Brienne. “Shall we put your sentiment to the test, Brienne? Surely Lord Lannister would not mind partnering with you for one song?”

“You twist my words to sound bitter,” Brienne said, drawing away from them.

Jaime stepped forward and offered her his hand. “I would be most willing if you are, Ms. Tarth.”

She did not so much as regard his outstretched hand. “Thank you for the thought, but there is no need, I assure you. Excuse me, I believe I see my father looking for me.”

And just as neat as that, she was gone as the first song came to a close. Cersei appeared at his side with her dance partner on her heels. “Mr. Dondarian had high hopes to continue dancing,” Cersei said pointedly to Shireen, “but I am quite spent and could not oblige him.”

It was quickly decided that Shireen would be an ideal partner in her stead and they departed to join in for the next song. Jaime paid either of them little mind as he watched Brienne move around the edge of the room. Her declination of his offer had intrigued him and he was watching to see what she would do in the case of another offer.

“Jaime! Have you heard a word I’ve been saying to you?” He turned to find his cousin frowning up at him. “Do I interrupt your reverie?”

“Not at all. I was just musing on why a lady of little prospects would turn down an opportunity to dance.”

Cersei’s eyes went wide. “And which lady would be so foolish as to turn down a dance with a lion of Casterly Rock?”

“Miss Brienne Tarth.”

To his surprise, Cersei began to laugh. “Miss Brienne Tarth!” she echoed. “Why, Jaime, dear. Of course, she declined. The gentlemen of the region have long asked her to dance and then purposefully ridiculed her by leaving her waiting on the floor. She no doubt thought you meant to do the same.”

His brow furrowed at this news. “Why in the Warrior’s name would I do that? What purpose does such behavior serve?”

“A lark is a lark,” Cersei said dismissively. “The question is, why would you ask Miss Tarth at all? You despise dancing.”

Her tone was prying, and he was in no mood for his cousin’s acerbity. “This is true. Perhaps I have yet to meet the right partner.”

Chapter Text

At the end of their first month in the Stormlands, a letter appeared from King’s Landing. Bronn, no doubt curious, brought it to the breakfast table, where he might be able to linger and ascertain its contents. A savvy move that Tyrion could applaud if it were not for the fact Cersei and Jaime could not help but notice the royal seal.

At its appearance, Cersei fell uncharacteristically silent. Though at the rate she was straining her neck, she’d be out of commission for the upcoming week’s assemblies. His dear brother pretended he had gone blind, deaf, and dumb, but Jaime was not leaving either, showcasing his interest in the missive. Tyrion would have preferred to retire to read it in peace; he already guessed at its contents, but there was nothing to be done other than to face the music. Cracking the seal, Tyrion’s suspicions were confirmed within the first few words, and the following ones compounded his headache.

Outside, the evening clouds had not departed, and the trees were whispering to each other in the breeze. A storm was imminent, not one of the gentle spring rains that had come and gone in their few weeks here, but a proper tempest, the true namesake of the region. Judging the entire thing to be more trouble than it was worth, Tyrion tossed the letter away. It landed on top of the porridge and, under the weight of the royal seal, began to sink. Cersei shot her cousin a filthy look before ordering one of the footmen to fish it out for her. Receiving it with the utmost care, Cersei devoured the soggy paper’s contents. A smile bloomed across her face until her smile was the only bright spot in the breakfast parlor.

When Cersei finally deigned to lower the letter, a footman rushed forward to offer her a serviette. “But this is wonderful,” Cersei said, seemingly unaware she was daintily wiping her hands on the footman’s jacket and not the offered napkin. To think, the king—here of all places!”

Jaime stirred to life. “What fortuitous reason do we have to thank for such an honor?”

Tyrion rubbed his forehead, running his stubby fingers across the odd ridges of his skull, letting the familiar sensation soothe his threatening headache. “He claims to visit Lord Stannis, but no doubt he has heard father’s succeeded in running me off finally.”

Jaime did not argue. Everyone knew there was little love lost between King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, and Tywin Lannister. The vaults of King’s Landing were rumored to have long since run dry, but perhaps with a son of Casterly Rock at his side…

Cersei stood, pressing her skirt down, her eyes staring past both her cousins, fixated on something far in the distance that only she could see. “I’ll have to send word home at once. I barely brought anything suitable for court-”

“Were you not still planning to depart within the next fortnight?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Cersei snapped, this time directing her glare at Jaime. “The King is coming to Storm’s End, and he will, of course, call here.” Her eyes darted to Tyrion. “You’ll need a lady to lead the house, plan the ball-”

“Ball?”

“Host His Highness, and well he mentions his Kingsguard will be attending. No mention of any courtiers, but of course, the usual toadies will be in attendance- “

“Cersei, if you would like to play lady of the hall, by all means, my home is at your disposal, but do me the very great courtesy of not looking like the cat who caught the canary. It’s very disconcerting.”

“Only you would have the king send him a personal letter and look as if the world was coming to an end.” Tyrion did not think his brother looked any happier about this development, but Cersei seemed determined to ignore Jaime. “If you will excuse me-” and with that, she swanned out of the breakfast parlor, looking all the world as if she already had a crown upon her brow.

“She’ll be insufferable,” Tyrion lamented. “Robert’s no tactician, but he’s not going to ignore a lioness laying down on her back for him-”

“Tyrion,” Jaime hissed. “Have a care for how you talk about our cousin.”

“You should be glad she’s not eyeing your neck for the noose at the moment,” Tyrion continued, tearing into the pastry to find it still warm and steaming. The manor might be considerably smaller than the Rock, but he quite enjoyed the new proximity to his kitchens, even if his belt protested. “Perhaps Robert's visit will allow you more time to pursue your interests without hindrance?”

Jaime’s eyes darkened in displeasure. “There is nothing of interest in this desolate corner of Westeros. I am only here because of you.”

“Interesting,” Tyrion continued, “I, for one, have thought you rather intrigued by our resident beauty.”

Tyrion had not seen it at first. He had been so taken with the odd Miss Tarth, finding her to be one of the truly most unfortunate people he had ever seen besides himself, that he had almost missed the way his brother’s eyes tracked her around the room, how Jaime moved after her when she passed by as if caught in her wake and drawn after her despite himself. He was not sure if his brother was even aware of his interest, if not for the odd way his lips quirked whenever Miss Tarth was mentioned.

“You are referring to which renowned Stormland beauty, Tyrion? Miss Tarth or Miss Baratheon?”

Tyrion chuckled. “Cersei has had your ear again, I fear. Miss Baratheon is not yet eight and ten. Her brush with death has added to her character, but I am not one for unaged wine.”

Jaime considered him across the table. ”And Miss Tarth?”

Tyrion grinned. “You know I am a great lover of beauty.”

His brother’s lips thinned, face darkening into a pensive glower until he looked just like their father. “Surely you of all people would think to look past appearances-”

“Have you?”

Jaime’s eyes shuttered, and he looked pointedly away to the storm gathering outside. “I have barely spoken a word to the party in question.”

“On the contrary, I believe you’ve spoken more to her than anyone else in the Stormlands.”

“If I happen to stand by the only other person who has less desire to speak than myself-”

“Happen? Jaime, you followed her around the length of the ballroom last week.”

Jaime shot up from his seat. “I should make haste if I want to get a ride in before the storm-”

“Jaime-” But his brother was already gone, leaving him alone with the great feast. Tyrion looked over at the footman nearest to the table, his cravat still smeared with oatmeal. “Do we have any blackberry jam?”

Chapter Text

It wasn’t Nettie’s fault, Brienne reminded herself.

The morning had dawned bright, but growing up in the Stormlands, Brienne knew when a storm was imminent. Hoping to get one last ride at least before she was sequestered inside with Sepeta Roelle and her father for a week, Brienne had snuck away, liberating Evenfall’s last remaining mare, an old but sweet chestnut roan but had apparently grown rather uneasy with storms in her old age.

They had enjoyed a ride along the cliffs before the storm had started to build around them on the journey home. The old mare had been successfully tempted to the shelter of a large oak tree before the rain had started but shied away whenever Brienne tried to remount.

“Come now,” Brienne reasoned. “It’s just a bit of rain.”

It was not a bit of rain. Already, sheets were coming down, and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

“Miss Tarth?”

As is Brienne had stumbled into a dreamscape, Lord Lannister entered under the oak’s protection on horseback, seemingly unaware of the hurricane happening around them. He was upon a bay stallion who, though dripping wet, seemed as disinterested in the weather as his rider. “Lord Lannister,” Brienne managed, hating the way each syllable shook as her teeth clattered as another shiver overtook her. “Good day, sir.”

“Good day? Has this storm somehow escaped your notice?”

Brienne’s tongue loosened before she could catch it. “Has it escaped yours?”

Lord Lannister did not seem in any worse shape due to the rain; in fact, his hair simply had slicked back in a rather dignified way, and his jacket was molding itself to his shoulders like a -

“Morne Manor is not but a minute down the lane,” he countered as he dismounted. “Evenfall Hall is nearly two miles hence.”

“Bronzegate is just over half a mile,” Brienne countered. “I have everything perfectly under control, I assure you, sir.”

“Yes, I can see that,” the Lord Lannister quipped, but his countenance was anything but humorous. “Might I suggest, in the future, remaining at home when one of your region's famous storms is upon us?”

Lord Jaime Lannister had absolutely no right to scold her, and yet Brienne could not fault the truth of his words. This only served to stroke her ire further. “Nettie is usually quite docile—” she began, but a lightning strike flashed far too close for comfort as an answering clap of thunder cut off her words. Brienne had enough time to ponder the wisdom of withdrawing from the oak posthaste just as Nettie let out a cry of terror, rearing away.

Brienne, half focused on the vision of a very wet, very angry Lord Lannister, nearly let the ancient nag rip her off her own feet but managed to wrestle the wretched beast back down to the ground without too much fuss. “Sir, I-”

She did not get to finish that thought because said lord was ripping the reins away from her, moving closer to calm down the old horse. Brienne quickly backed away from him, all too aware of her sodden, mud-splattered hem and the way her hair was hanging limply on either side of her face. And the fact that there was no other living soul for at least a mile.

The traitorous Nettie calmed under Lord Lannister’s touch as he crooned something soft under his breath. Brienne felt her shoulders relaxing in turn until Lord Lannister noted the saddle.

His eyes cut back to where his bay was patiently waiting just outside the circle of the tree’s branches. “You ride astride,” he stated, eyes flickering down to her dress hem. He did not meet her eyes.

The tattletale flush of humiliation was the only warmth left in Brienne’s body as she held out her hands for Nettie’s reins. “When the occasion calls for it,” Brienne retorted.

"How?" 

The word was nearly strangled.

Propriety was screaming at her, but Brienne wanted to be done with the conversation post-haste. She gestured at the two slits on either side of her gown and the matching dark fabric underneath. "My design," she said, remarkably evenly considering the circumstance. "The dress is split at the seams, allowing me to draw either panel to the side."

She did not dare say the word breeches out loud, so she charged ahead before either of them perished with second hand embarrassment. ”Thank you for your assistance, Lord Lannister. I fear I have taken up enough of your time.” He looked at her as if she had grown another head. Brienne pressed down on the overwhelming panic that was threatening to spill out of her, focusing on the things she could control. This was a boxing ring, she told hereslf, eyes locked on her opponent. Her best move was to put as much distance between them as possible. “I’d bid you a good day, sir, so we might both make it to shelter before the storm worsens.”

He did not move. His eyes were still tracing the lines of Nette’s saddle.

“Lord Lannister, if you would be so kind to hand me the reins?”

His eyes flickered back to her, taking in the darkened day dress and limp bonnet.

“Has the bridge to Bronzegate flooded?”

An excellent question. She had asked herself the very question earlier, which is why she had been planning to ride for Evenfall Hall when they parted.

“The storm is still in its infancy,” Brienne remarked. “It stands to reason the river has not risen yet.”

“But you will not know until you arrive there.”

“I will have to have faith.”

“Faith is a lovely concept, but it will not help you if you find yourself stranded in the storm, Miss Tarth.”

“Not if we stand here arguing about it, no.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Morne Manor is less than five minutes if we cut through the Malloy Estate.” Breinne’s protests fell upon deaf ears as Lord Lannister had already quite made up his mind. “We’ll have to walk a bit until we can find a suitable step up for you.”

Brienne was very pointedly not looking at his bare hands, which were currently flexed in frustration around Nettie’s reins. “There’s no need for that, sir,” she managed, holding her hands out for the reins. She forced herself to focus on them, not the way his fingers curled around the leather. “I’m perfectly capable of mounting on my own.”

The rain continued to fall, and the wind had started up again, but for a moment, there was an absolute stillness between them. The Lord Lannister looked as if he had been shocked into silence, but yet another unladylike admission. There was little doubt in her mind the entire Stormlands would be discussing her impropriety at length in the upcoming weeks. Septa Roelle would most likely march her straight to the Motherhouse and be done with her.

Finally, mutely, Lord Lannister handed her the reins and stepped back, and Brienne was able to breathe again. Turning away from him, she laid a hand upon Nettie’s neck and found the mare as docile as any spring day. Ignoring the eyes upon her back, Brienne clenched her eyes shut and swung her frame up and over Nettie.

“See?” she said, half pride, half relief. “Nothing to it.”

She looked down on instinct. It was a mistake.

Jaime Lannister looked up at her as if the Crone herself had mounted Nettie. His eyes were blown wide in disbelief, and his jaw was clenched so hard, she thought he might crack in half. Brienne winced. Proper ladies did not mount horses in such a manner, she knew, but she had the height to do so without issue, and it was terribly convenient not to need any help.

Lord Lannister was still staring up at her as another bolt of lightning struck, illuminating his upturned face and painting it with white. Despite his grimace, he was still a painfully handsome man. Brienne flushed, finding her tongue too thick in her mouth. When he did not move to remove himself, she found herself asking: “Should we perhaps find you a step?”

Lord Lannister turned on the spot and marched over to the beautiful dark bay, swinging himself up and over its back with such practice grace that Brienne knew her clumsy mount paled in comparison. “This way,” he said, pointedly not looking at her. "Keep close.”

Brienne prided herself as an excellent rider, but she grew self-conscious as she watched Lord Lannister pull his stallion back into an easy trot despite the increasingly terrible weather. Whether he knew Nettie could not go any faster without spooking or he had no faith in Brienne’s riding skills, she could not say.

The storm gods were with them that day, for they had no sooner made it into the manor stables before the winds rose into such a ferocity that it knocked over two attendants and sent the barn doors swinging wide open. The storm crashed upon Morne Manor with its full rage, fully stranding her there without any hope of escape until it ceased.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Brienne managed as Lord Lannister led her to the house proper. Scarlet and gold were everywhere she looked, the wealth of the Lannisters on full display in their countryside manor.

“Any kindness is my brother’s,” Lord Lannister shot back over his shoulder before immediately depositing her with a maid and disappearing up the stairs, leaving her dripping in the foyer.

The maid wrung her hands but was promptly saved by the master of the house’s uproarious laughter. “Look what the cat dragged in!” Mr. Lannister crowed, marching right up to her with that odd lopsided smile of his. “What do we owe this pleasure?”

“I-I-” Brienne sneezed, freezing in horror as the maid recoiled. “Mr. Lannister, my apologies. I-”

“Lord Lannister brought her back from his ride,” the maid supplied, nearly stupified from the impropriety of it all.

“Yes, thank you, Gladys; I gathered that from my brother’s muddy bootprints on the rug.” Mr. Lannister peered up at her and then twisted to look out the nearest window. It was black outside, and the trees lining the drive were nearly bent in half in the gale. “Miss Tarth, you are most welcome in my home until the storm breaks. I’d offer to send a raven to Evenfall, but-”

Brienne’s fingers tightened in her skirts, all feeling her left them ages ago, but she was forcing herself to remain upright. “The storm-” another sneeze escaped her. “It’ll falter in an hour or so, just for a bit. I should be able to make it home-”

Another sneeze ripped through her, and Brienne realized she was quivering with cold despite the warmth of the day. Her host’s face grew serious. “Miss Tarth, I’ll send you home in my chaise, but I fear you may have caught a chill.” He looked to Gladys. “If you would see Miss Tarth to the Blue Suite, I’ll send Cersei along at once.”

“Oh, but-!” Brienne sneezed again, but this time, she felt a shiver so severe that she nearly lost her feet.

“I will have a raven prepared to be sent to Evenfall the moment the storm weakens.” Mr. Lannister smiled, this one softer. "I am looking forward to experiencing one of these famous storms of yours. It would be our honor and a most fortuitous omen to have you as our guest.”

His kindness was staggering after his brother’s behavior. And at that moment, Brienne wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor, but not quite as much as she wanted a warm bed and out of her sodden dress-

As it happened, the choice was made for her. Lord Lannister had no doubt gone straight to his cousin. Cersei Lannister was now descending the staircase, looking as courteous as she could while still openly contemptuous. Brienne had not missed the odd tension between the cousins. There seemed little love and even less respect between the two of them, only buffered by the calm, cool disinterest of Lord Lannister. “Miss Tarth, you poor thing. Why, you look half a corpse.”

Brienne was fairly certain even a fresh corpse would look better than she did at the moment, but the master of the manor stepped between them. “Cersei, if you would see Miss Tarth settled in the Blue Suite, I believe she will be most comfortable there.”

His cousin paused. “Perhaps the Rose Room-”

“Has a draft,” Tyrion interjected. “The Blue Suite, Cersei.”

Ms. Lannister opened her mouth as if to argue, but Mr. Lannister did not balk at the scowl, twisting her beautiful features into a fearsome countenance. He simply smiled up at her as if he was utterly unaware he was barely taller than a child.

“Gladys, prepare some hot water and bring it directly to the Blue Suite.” Cersei. Lannister folded her hands in her skirts with a long, suffering sigh. “Come, come, Miss Tarth. You’re dripping water all over the foyer.”

Chapter Text

As it happened, the storm was short-lived, barely lasting until the following morning. 

Miss Tarth’s accompanying fever however lingered for nearly three days. 

Septa Roelle was summoned from Evenfall. A spiritual sort, she was not blind to Gods’ blessings. Within moments of her arrival, she declared her charge unfit for travel. The apothecary agreed, leaving Morne Manor with two guests for the foreseeable future. 

Tyrion did not mind playing host for Miss Tarth, but the Septa unnerved him terribly.  She had a terrible tendency to be right where he meant to be, and always talking on about the sanctity of marriage, and the many values of a woman to run a household. 

If the Septa had not devoted her life to the Gods, Tyrion might think she was less invested in her ward’s possible ascension to Lady Lannister as she was herself. Just this morning, Tyrion had come out of the study to find her waiting for him to discuss the merits of the Mother’s Mercy. 

“Do cease stopping dead in your tracks,” Cersei snapped as he faltered before the drawing-room doorway. “Do you think she is lurking around every corner?”

“Easy for you to say,” Tyrion grumbled. “The good septa did not accompany you around the garden for nearly three hours quoting scripture.”

“I do not understand why you do not simply call for the carriage and escort her to it bodily.”

“Baelor be Blessed- I am not going to remove a woman of faith from my property, Cersei,” Tyrion hissed, too frayed to find the rapier of his wit. “Besides, Miss Tarth is still not recovered.”

Cersei’s mood soured further at the mere mention of his guest. “She is lucky she did not get herself killed,” Cersei said, not for the first or last time. His cousin had little kind words to speak of anyone but she had taken a particular offense to Miss Tarth which was only growing in its intensity with each passing day.  “Riding a paltry mare into a storm- why, you have more sense.”

“If the fever takes her away, you really must speak at her wake,” Tyrion said, cutting her off from the oft-repeated diatribe. The apothecary had returned to Morne Manor to check on his patient after dinner but had not yet descended; Tyrion could only assume no news was good news. 

Cersei glowered as they settled at the card table, but let the matter rest. His brother settled across from her and picked up the cards to deal. Jaime had been uncharacteristically quiet since the apothecary’s arrival, and while Tyrion had a strong suspicion why that was the case, he also was not tempted to inspire one of Cersei’s famed snits. With one last glance at the drawing room’s open door,  Tyrion joined them. 

A quarter of an hour later, after winning the last three games, there was still no news. Jaime had missed three of the last tricks and was no doubt going to burn a hole straight through the table at this rate. Tyrion called for his steward.  “Has there been any news from the Blue Suite?”

Bronn shrugged. “The apothecary considers Miss Tarth well enough to make the journey home without risk within the week. The crone has them all in prayer to thank the Stranger for His mercy.”

“Then, they’ll be gone soon. Thank the Maiden,” Cersei replied, throwing her cards down. “I am tired of hearing the incessant praying coming from those rooms.”

“As I recall the last time you had a sniffle, you took to your bed for a month and insisted your father call for the Grand Maester himself,” Tyrion reminded his cousin.  

“I am not as hale as Brienne Tarth,” Cersei snapped back. “Besides, how do we know she is even ill-”

“Cersei,” Jaime warned, not taking his eyes from the cards. “If you can hear a woman quietly praying, you could not miss the coughing fits.”

Miss Tarth had been lost in a fever delirium for the first evening and had kept the entire floor awake with her hoarse shouts and groans. Cersei had complained mightily about her lack of sleep, but Tyrion could not help but notice Cersei did not have the same bags under her eye as his brother. At least the moans had subsided after the first evening, now they would never know there was a guest among them if not for-

“Steward? Steward, there you are- I have been calling-” Tyrion stepped back as Septa Roelle entered the room. The woman was a fearsome creature, a gaunt face and a step so light she almost seemed to appear from the shadows. “Brienne is awake and her appetite is returned. Might I trouble the kitchens for some bread and jam?”

“Excellent news! Bronn, have the cook prepare a partridge,” Tyrion instructed. 

“Honestly Tyrion,” Cersei tsked. “She’ll hardly be able to keep to digest such a rich offering after days without.” She turned to Bronn, a sneer appearing on her face at the sight of him. There was little love between the two of them, another key reason Tyrion kept Bronn on despite his lack of formal experience. “Bone broth soup and toast,” she instructed. 

“White soup,” Jaime directed. “It is what our mother used to feed us when we were ill.”

Cersei eyed him. "What an excellent memory, Jaime. Yes, white soup will be the best thing for our dear guest."

Septa Roelle was satisfied with the wisdom of that suggestion and Bronn took his leave to the kitchens. He did not look nearly as pleased as Cersei about the whole matter. Understandable of course. Tyrion had promised him an easy assignment, out in the country with only a bachelor to worry about and now the job had turned into Bronn being at the back and call of Tyrion’s growing number of guests. Tyrion would have to give him some kind of raise, perhaps a new horse. After all, he liked Bronn. His steward treated Tyrion the same as he treated everyone else: with disinterest and bareilly veiled scorn. 

“I am glad to hear Miss Tarth’s appetite has returned,” Tyrion said, gesturing for the septa to sit upon the sofa. Septa Roelle accepted with relish, perching upon the cushions and taking the opportunity to look fully about the room. Cersei and Jaime returned to cards, both doing their best to ignore the interloper. “Is she feeling more herself?”

“Brienne sends her apologies for her burdensome behavior,” the crone assured him, shaking her head as if her charge had purposefully nearly perished just to remain under his roof. “Honestly, I cannot tell what the child was thinking riding out in the rain, but Baelor in his Blessing sent her here. We can only be thankful for his mercy.”

Tyrion rather thought it had been Jaime who had brought her home, but who was he to correct a woman of faith. “We are happy to have her. She is my first true guest since my taking of Morne Manor.”

“If her appetite holds till morning, I shall send for the chaise,” Septa Roelle assured him. 

“Nonsense,” Tyrion replied. “Let her get her strength back. We have plenty of room here at Morne Manor, and I would pracitice being host to a recuperating guest rather than a bedridden one.”

The older woman could not contain her delight. “Oh, Lord Lannister, how mangimous you are. I shall of course write to her father to let him know of her recovery, and will personally go retrieve some more clothing and accouterments for Brienne and myself.”

Thanking him proufsely, Septa Roelle departed back to the Blue Suite to await Bronn and the promised soup. She had barely closed the door behind her when his cousin rounded on him. “Are you mad? You were nearly rid of them. How will you explain their presence when the King arrives?!”

“Firstly, Robert is not due for a month, and it is hardly in his nature to be thoughtful enough to arrive when he claims he will, so he shall either turn up tomorrow unannounced or three years from hence. And as for my guest,  Brienne Tarth has been bedridden for days, subject to that,” he indicated toward the departed creature, ”as her only company. If I send her home, I condemn her to more of the same. At least here she has your acerbic wit to distract her from incessant prayers.”

Cersei continued to protest at his mercurial decisions, but Tyrion turned his attention to Jaime. The furrow that had been between his brother’s brow since the storm had disappeared at last and Tyrion noticed there was no protests coming from him. “What say you, Jaime?” Tyrion prodded. 

“You amuse yourself,” Jaime replied. “Do not do your guest the disservice of claiming your offer is for her benefit. Her warden is set upon matchmaking, and your extension of hospitality only serves as encouragement. You would have done better to send her home and let her recuperate in the peace of her own home.”

Every word of it was true, which meant Jaime was paying attention. 

Interesting. 

Even Cersei seemed to note it. “If it will hasten their departure, I shall call upon her myself,” she decided, standing and smoothing her skirts. “Surely the bat will not begrudge me entrance into her ward’s company.”

“I am sure you will find her delighted to receive you,” Tyrion said with confidence. Septa Roelle had made it clear she thought Cersei Lannister was the epitome of a true lady, and had not been shy letting everyone know it. If his cousin ever uttered the word friend in relation to her charge, Septa Roelle would personally crown Cersei as queen of love and beauty. “Perhaps bring some books up. I am sure Miss Tarth tires of staring at the walls.”

Cersei, surprisingly, did as bid, leaving the two brothers alone. 

For a long while, there was silence and Tyrion almost thought that was the end of things, when Jaime lay down his cards. “Why?” 

Tyrion weighed his words. “Miss Tarth is an unique kind of woman. I find her fascinating and intriguing.”

“You intend to court her?” It was a question. A rarity from his usual direct brother who often told others what they thought and felt before they themselves knew it: a rather annoying habit he had picked up from their father. 

Tyrion shook his head. “I meant what I told Father. I have no interest in marriage for the sake of marriage.”

“And yet a maiden is under your roof-”

“Recovering and chaperoned.”

“And you say you find her fascinating.”

“I am allowed to enjoy people without wanting to marry them, Jaime.” Tyrion hopped down from his seat. “Besides, you have been entertaining the woman who clearly intends to be the next Lady Lannister-”

“Our cousin is under my protection-”

“Father’s words do not suit you, Jaime.”

His brother fell silent. Tyrion would have regretted his words if he was not tired of his brother’s blindness. “I merely do no like the idea of someone….someone being alone because they are different. I cannot offer Miss Tarth anything but friendship, but I can offer her that.”

“Do not assume Brienne Tarth is of the same mold as you,” Jaime warned. “She is not in need of protection.”

“Is she not?” Tyrion shot back. “As I recall, you were the one who demanded the apothecary leave his bed in the middle of the night-”

“She had not ceased coughing since her arrival-”

“Jaime,” Tyrion grew somber. “You are the first born son, the golden lion, the heir apparent. You may be prickly and brutish, boastful and self-serving because you are handsome, and rich, and one of the most talented man who has ever stepped foot into a boxing ring- but you cannot begin to understand what it means to be different. Not like I can. Not like Brienne can.”

Jaime did not move, the fire flickering behind him casting his shadow to loom upon the wall. “Did Tysha understand?” 

Tyrion tensed. They did not discuss Tysha. He was not sure if their relationship could handle it. 

Jaime turned his head, fixing him his green gaze. “Did she see you as I see you? Someone who could be one of the greatest men to ever walk in this world if not for his determination to hide his insecurties behind wit and wine?”

Tyrion knew his brother too well to take the bait. Flattery was not one of their Father's tricks, but shame was. “She saw me for me-” Tyrion managed, but the words were too hard. He was no longer in Morne Manor, but in an inn in the Westerlands, and Tysha was laying upon her stomach, gazing up at him and giggling- A farce, all of it. “Well, so she claimed. She was an excellent actress.”

Jaime turned away. “You are a clever man, Tyrion, but even you can miss the forest for the trees.“

"I am not the blind one," Tyrion replied as the wine burned hot in his cheeks, but Jaime had already taken his leave. "Father would be proud, dear brother," Tyrion called after him. "You are truly growing into the perfect son for him: Blind, deaf, and dumb."

"Dumb, perhaps," Bronn said, joining Tyrion with a bowl of the requested soup in his hands. "Not blind though."

"No," Tyrion agreed with a sigh. "Just short-sighted."

Chapter Text

Morne Manor’s Blue Suite was stunning, with intricately designed tiled mosaics along the wall and white stenciled archways that clearly hailed from Dorne. In truth, they were far more lavish rooms than any Brienne had ever seen the likes of. She blushed to think of Tyrion Lannister’s insistence on her having them. They were intended for the mistress of the house, as Septa Roelle had not hesitated to point out to her, often and loudly. Brienne would have rather Nettie throw her over the cliffs rather than lay for another moment in it.

Thankfully, the apothecary had deemed Brienne strong enough to make the journey downstairs to break her fast. This development came with its headaches including Septa Roelle hovering at her elbow even though Brienne’s strength had not abandoned her to the point she needed help down the stairs. Besides feeling rather dizzy from standing after so many days immobile, Brienne felt nearly herself again.

Until Tyrion Lannister came into the breakfast room. At the sight of her sitting at the table, his green and black eyes brightened as a delighted smile twisted his whole face into one of charming welcome. “Well, this is a wonderful surprise to start the morning. It is a pleasure to see you, Miss Tarth.”.

“Mister Lannister,” Brienne greeted. “I must give you my utmost thanks-”

“None is needed,” he said, plopping down at the head of the table. “I am just happy to see you well. Oh, Septa, I had the chef bake another loaf of the sourdough you so enjoyed. If I had known Miss Tarth was joining us, I would have had them make apple fritters.” The mismatched eyes crinkled as if they shared some great joke. “I have been told you are quite fond of them.”

Brienne flushed and averted her gaze. 

Septa Roelle was convinced Mr. Lannister was on the verge of a proposal, and even his cousin Cersei had hinted at the very thing upon her rare visits. Such a match would no doubt be quite the coup for Brienne- Tyrion Lannister might not be a handsome man, but he was a rich man. And kind. Many far more beautiful and accomplished women than Brienne in the seven kingdoms would not hesitate to tie themselves to Tyrion Lannister. So, why did Brienne’s skin prickle under the weight of his generosity?

Opting to change the subject, Brienne ignored her host and knew her favorite pastry. “Septa Roelle tells me you have been graced with the great honor of hosting his Majesty in a month. You seem to need no further practice; your hosting skills would make the Mother proud.”

“Such flattery, Miss Tarth,” Mister Lannister laughed, “You will turn my head.”

“If I thought you so easy to flatter, I would like you less.”

“Oh, how well you see me already,” he chuckled. “I will have to be wary lest you turn those marvelous eyes on my flaws rather than my virtue.”

Brienne flushed as Septa Roelle visibly brightened. Tyrion Lannister, either ignorant of how his compliment landed or ignoring it, turned to greet his cousin as she arrived. If Cersei was surprised to find Breinne present, she did not show it. “Miss Tath,” Cersei cooed, taking pains to choose the furthest chair from Septa Roelle, putting her nearly at the other end of the table. “How delightful to have you join us.”

Brienne acknowledged her thanks and let Septa Roelle turn the conversation back to the weather and the upcoming ball and assemblies. Miss Lannister mumbled her way through the appropriate answers, platitudes, and praises.

The master of the house had taken refuge in a paper from King’s Landing, slightly yellowed and with the date of one week past. He had rigged a rather interesting seat design, putting him at a child’s height but with full access to the table and his guests. Brienne was caught up in marveling at its design when Mister Lannister flickered one edge of his paper down. Catching her eyes, he thankfully misjudged her interest. “You are familiar with the The Raven , I take it, Miss Tarth?”

“Master Tarth subscribes,” Septa Roelle explained before Brienne could speak. “Lord Bartheron suggested it years ago, and Master Tarth finds them quite informative,” Septa Roelle elaborated.

Her father subscribed to the editorials and sonnets. Brienne usually skimmed the wordy political summaries by Lord Varys or Lord Arryn, knowing Shireen enjoyed discussing them. She preferred the articles about the bouts of the previous week and upcoming sporting events. Although she could never hope to see a match in person, reading about them was enjoyable enough.  

“I much prefer The Chronicle ,” Cersei contributed from across the table. “They have an entire fashion section for the ladies. Brienne, surely you agree?” 

Brienne acknowledged the delights of The Chronicle , but her eye continued to stray back to The Raven . Tyrion did not fail to notice. “Miss Tarth, would you care to peruse the papers yourself? The Raven does not have much in the way of fashion, but perhaps there is something else of intrigue?”

There was. Next to her, Septa Roelle was stiff with warning, but Brienne risked her displeasure. “I was curious…is there anything concerning the upcoming bout between Master Gregor Cleagane and Oberynn Martell?”

“A fan of pugilism,” Mister Lannister remarked. “How unexpected.”

“I am a great fan of the sport,” Breienne acknowledged, ignoring the way Septa Roelle had gone nearly white with fury. If Mister Lannister were indeed interested in courting her, he would find out about her oddities eventually. Better to expose herself now and avoid all this awkwardness. “I find it a great study of sportsmanship and a man’s overall character-”

“How so?”

It was not Mister Lannister who inquired but his brother.

Lord Lannister lowered himself into the chair across from her own. Septa Roelle greeted him, and Brienne followed suit. She had not seen Jaime Lannister since the stables, and she had somehow immediately found herself on the wrong foot again. It was like he had a script of her entire day and showed up when the most humiliating. 

Septa Roelle, in hopes of steering the conversation back to neutral territory, remarked on the weather of the day, but Lord Lannister was not swayed. “You were saying about a man’s character in the ring, Miss Tarth?”

“Oh, forgive us.” Septa Roelle patted Brienne’s arm. “Brienne here is so accustomed to only her father and me for company; we have permitted her to quite run away with her opinions, I fear.”

“Nonsense,” the younger Lannister said. “I would, for one, love to hear your thoughts, Miss Tarth. It is a rare woman who is a study of the sport.”

“Oh, must we? Boxing is such an ugly pastime; male aggression in the masquerade of sport,” Cersei sniffed from her end of the table.

“A horrid recreation,” Septa Roella agreed as she pinched Breinne under the table, a final warning. Brienne could not recall the last time her governess had pinched her, probably sometime in her earlier youth. She would no doubt get quite the lecture later.  “The art of fencing is to be admired and studied, and yet the gentleman of King’s Landing are spending more and more time on this nonsense of brute strength.”

“Fencing was once seen in a similar light,” Mister Lannister interjected. “My brother is trained in both sports and finds them an equal measure of a gentleman.”

“Lord Lannister is the epitome of a gentleman,” Septa Roelle agreed, no doubt hoping that would finish the conversation. “I concede there are some benefits for young men to vent their spleen, but there are far better avenues-”

Perhaps it was after days of solitude, but Brienne found her tongue remained loosened in the defense of her favorite topic. “Boxing is a form of beauty, Septa Roelle. It is an art of defense and strategy. It is about being at one with your mind and body. The participants do not use their weapons to attack simply, such as in fencing, but to protect-” 

Brienne belatedly realized she had raised her fists to demonstrate and was only made aware of the fact by Cersei’s horrified expression. She lowered her hands, but the damage was quite done. 

“You are a trained pugilist?” This came from Lord Lannister.

Brienne felt her tongue shrivel. If she acknowledged her training, the Tarths would be the laughingstock of Westerlands by the evening, and with King Robert arriving within the month-

“I-”

“Passionate as she is, Brienne merely was imitating the style to demonstrate,” Septa Roelle assured them. “My, the weather does promise to be lovely this morning; I am hoping it remains for the weekend picnic.”

“You are a skilled mimic, Miss Tarth,” Lord Lannister remarked, ignoring Septa Roelle entirely. 

If it had been anyone else, Brienne would have thought it a compliment. Lord Lannister’s green eyes were fixed on her, amusement shining there as he toyed with her. Why, he did not even bother to hide the mocking tilt of his mouth. Septa Roelle considered him a gentleman, as she did the others like him, men of stature and good standing who hid their ugliness behind their barbed words. 

“My brother was trained by Ser Arthur Dayne himself as well as Lewyn Martell,” Mister Lannister supplied proudly, seemingly ignorant of the hole Septa Roelle was burning into each of them with every new word. 

Brienne’s gaze shot over to Lord Lannister despite herself. “Truly?” the word slipped out of her, and she did not miss how Lord Lannister’s smile widened at her misstep.

“You are familiar with the masters?” he baited her. 

Well, she might not be able to feign ignorance, so she could at least appear knowledgeable. “Enough to know Lewyn Martell has famously refused to train anyone but the most talented.” His uncle had trained Oberyn Martell, but few others had the privilege. 

Tyrion Lannister sighed. “Oh, well, now you’ve done it. My brother does not shy away from his accolades in the ring.”

Brienne considered the elder Lannister. He had the right build and was quick; she had seen his reaction times firsthand. “You had not mentioned it prior.”

“I was of the understanding it is not permitted in city centers under the Grand Maester’s decree,” Septa Roelle sniffed, making her disdain for the topic at hand plain. 

“Our Lord Father does not much care for laws he did not himself make,” Mister Lannister remarked. Lord Lannister shot a warning look at his brother, which was ignored.  “And fencing?” Mister Lannister inquired. “Have you had training there, Miss Tarth?"

No, but not through lack of trying.

“Women are not taught fencing in Westeros,” Brienne replied dutifully, hoping that might be the end of the focus.

“Nor are they taught boxing, and yet I would place a wager for all the gold in Casterly Rock that Miss Tarth knows the footwork of Martell’s Viper style better than any of assembly dances.”

“You misjudge, Lord Lannister,” Brienne replied evenly. “I am in perfect command of all the dances of Westeros.”

And the Viper footwork. And the Star Stance made famous by Ser Arthur Dayne. However, she much preferred Redwyne’s style of pressure boxing- a mixture of stamina, strength, and speed that few could match.  

“Shame you have not had an opportunity to showcase them,” Cersei remarked, showing her cards rather bluntly in her effort to rejoin the conversation. “I have yet to see you accept a dance. You are rather particular in your choice of partners.”

Heat rose in Brienne’s cheeks, but it was Lord Lannister who came to her defense. “An evening does not need to be spent in a large company to be enjoyable,” Lord Lannister cut in with an attempt to defuse the war of words. “I find the assemblies overwhelmingly dull and have often chosen to pass the time in conversation.”

Lord Lannister hardly deigned to dance with anyone but his cousin and occasionally Shireen despite being in high demand.  “You would perhaps learn a bit from Miss Tarth, Cersei,” Tyrion Lannister added. “There are other ways to enjoy an evening than being twirled around on a dance floor.”

The sickly sweet smile that spread across Cersei Lannister’s face did not bode well for any of them. “You would have me sit with you in the corner, dear cousin? Enjoying an entire cask of wine?”

Septa Roelle stood so rapidly that the plates on the table rattled. “Brienne, I fear you are growing feverish. Come, we should call the apothecary back at once.”

Brienne did not feel it, but she was happy to remove herself from the conversation. “If you feel that’s best, Septa.”

At the other end of the table, Cersei cast her a smug smile. “You are looking rather peaked, my dear Miss Tath. Perhaps another day of rest is in order.”

“Cersei,” Lord Lannister’s voice was soft, but everyone turned to him. “Would you see Miss Tarth back to her room so Septa Roelle may go request one of the stableboys to fetch the apothecary?”

Neither of them was happy with the suggestion, but it was clearly not a request. Brienne got to her feet, all too aware of how she towered over the table and its seated gentlemen. “Mister Lannister. Lord Lannister.”

Jaime Lannister stared up at her, those ridiculous green eyes of his taking in her broad shoulders and reddened face. Brienne allowed herself a moment to stare back at him. He and his cousin were perfectly suited for each other, all sharp lines as if they had been cut out of a painting to walk amongst mere men, while Brienne and Mister Lannister had been some grave joke of the universe, molded clay left in the facsimile of what a human should look like. With such fortune from the Gods, why did he or his dreaded cousin need to take the time to engage with her? She knew exactly what she was in this world and what she was not. She did not need Lord Jaime Lannister to remind her. 

“Shall we?” Cersei drawled, already halfway through the door. 

Brienne let them, her hostess, badger her back up the stairs to the Blue Room. To her surprise, she fell into a deep sleep almost as instantly as she laid her head back down on the pillow. 

She had nearly forgotten the morning’s tensions until the apothecary arrived with the last week’s worth of papers, each opened and folded to the boxing match summaries.