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Chapter Text

She reaches him and drags him to the ground, easily. He's tall for his age, but slim, lazy and kind of sluggish, not much of a runner. They roll together in the grass with a soft thud and a few grunts, the boy grunting even as he pushes away the curls that blind him.

Blond, green-eyed and clever when he wants to be. The boy has everything, he really can be whatever he wants... and not the asshole he is. That makes Brienne really angry, more, much more than the umpteenth window glass he has broken with such care, or the endearing graffiti he has left with an indelible crimson spray on her porch. 

"Why? Why do you have to be such a... lout?"

He purses his lips in a pout that makes Brienne almost forget it's unfair to hit a smaller person.

"Why? Why me? Why my poor house?" she continues, on the verge of shouting, or perhaps crying.   

"Because you're the only stupid one who never complains to daddy, that's why, freak. And your hovel is the ugliest on the street, even though it's much, much nicer than its idiotic owner," he spits and grins. The boy grins. Perfect white teeth on display just for her. What a privilege.

At twenty-two, Brienne Tarth, more than six feet of manly muscle, freckles, and horse teeth, should know better than to get involved with a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old who is universally known as the evil, deplorable heir of both the Baratheon and Lannister dynasties. Cursing under her breath, she helps the boy to his feet and strides towards the vandal's happy parents' house, green grass stains all over her white shirt and jeans, and the embarrassing blush she always has and can't avoid. The kid, Joffrey, is right about one thing. She was very stupid not to ask for the repayment of all those broken glasses.

Brienne is not rich.

Well, her father is, but she doesn't want to depend on him, and his wealth is nothing compared to the boy's family. His grandfather still lives in a castle, up on the hill. The Rock, they call it, and they say some Lannister stole it from a certain Lord Casterly in the old days.

"Let me," the boy says, doing his best to be annoying. Her arm and hand are soon red with scratches, and she suspects he's trying to make her turn, just to spit in her broad face.

Brienne ignores his insults, but she's panting by the time they reach Joffrey's house, high up on the hill. The golden and black gate is already too opulent, and the garden is so perfect and tidy that she suddenly feels uncomfortable. She's clearly out of place here, but she's been out of place practically everywhere, so...

As she makes her way out, Brienne can't help but feel a little sorry for the lad, but in the end, it's for his own good.

A small group is having a drink in a summer lounge - because it's a real lounge, not just a couple of deckchairs on the lawn. Four men, all very rich and important, judging by the way they look at her. None of them resembles Joffrey.

Finally she spots the boy's father and hurries toward him.

He must have married young, or maybe it's the extreme wealth that makes him look so handsome and young. He smiles at her, the same identical smile as his son, so damned white. She's really lucky today. And horribly sweaty and flustered.

She swallows. Just a few words and she's done. She swallows a second and a third time, then she can explain everything in one go.

The nice, responsible father starts guffawing. Even the boy laughs. The sweat cools down her neck as she notices the four men approaching them - wonderful, the freak has had her show again, and for free.

“What’s so funny, Jaime?”, says the big, massive one. He has a great black beard and he’s tall like Brienne, inch more, inch less. He's ready to laugh, in fact he seems to be laughing on his cups, but it can't be. It's Sunday morning. Perhaps he's ill, the poor man, and that's why his friends look at him with concern. They must just be friends, even though the smallest one is old enough to be the big man's father and has pale blue eyes like his. 

"I don't think it's going to be that hilarious, Robert. Not with Joffrey involved," a bald man replies, his voice so stern that Brienne wonders if he has ever been able to smile in his life.

"Come on, bro. Let me hope, for a while."

"Brother, not bro. Or Stannis. I do like my name."

"You do like to spoil the fun. Always."

"Stannis, Bobby, please. You're in the presence of a lady," the man with the grey eyes and the pale, long face says softly.

One who doesn't like the sun too much, Brienne thinks, feeling ashamed and grateful at the same time. She is the caricature of a lady, but there is no trace of mockery in the man's calm voice. All she wants is to go home, now. The guy can't stop laughing, and maybe that's a good thing, otherwise he might throw more shit at her, and she's had enough ridicule for today. For the week.

"So what made you laugh so much?"

"You won't believe it, Robert," the father of the year sneers. "The wench here is complaining that Joff has broken some of the windows of the old house by the river, the shambling one hidden at the bottom of the avenue."

"The Evenstar's house! You're his daughter, sweetling?" the bearded man asks her.

"I told you it wasn't amusing," adds the bald one.

The other two look down at their feet. That's nice of them, because now she feels really ugly, all blotchy and frowning. Wench. Sweetling. No end to humiliation today.

I am Selwyn Tarth's daughter, yes. With your permission, sers," she replies, a little too stiffly. She's done, she'd like to be done with the Baratheon-Lannister heir or whoever forever.

Unfortunately, the Baratheon-Lannister heir thinks otherwise. "Oh, no, no, no. The dumb giantess has mistaken Nuncle Jaime for Father! And that's amusing, isn't it, Nuncle Stan?"

"Uncle Stannis, please, Joffrey. And no, I don't find it amusing. Not at all."

The last civil words. Then - the pandemonium.

Brienne has no time to think. She doesn't want to. It's all so gross, so filthy, so sad.

She snatches the lighter from the boy's fingers before he can even try... whatever it is his mad mind is urging him to do - and runs back home, holding Joffrey's trembling hand in hers, the Sevens only knows why.

"If you promise not to set my house on fire, you can stay, for the night or until things seem a little less chaotic, okay?"

The boy nods, his face more menacing than the red roaring lion staring at Brienne from her veranda. She really does feel incurably stupid, but there he is, blond, green-eyed - and lost.

"You can have the guest room, downstairs," she hears herself mutter, and curses herself, but only in her mind. Joff has already heard too many bad words... and things, for one day. "Now, watch your step when you enter, the stairs need repair, and help me arrange something for lunch, please."

The jerk lifts his middle finger in the air. The glorious banner of their newborn sodality. The strangest sodality ever.

Joffrey

Chapter Text

"Your coffee sucks, freak."

"You're not allowed to drink coffee under my roof," she explains as calmly as she can, "this is chocolate milk."

"Your chocomilk sucks. Everything you do sucks. Like this bloody house."

"You're welcome, Joffrey."

It's only their first breakfast together and Brienne is already feeling very tired. Her bloody house is still intact, more or less, the smell of smoke and ashes comes from Robert Baratheon's mansion. But it wasn't Joffrey. He was asleep all night, gritting his teeth and kicking the sheets like a good psycho. She pours her chocomilk down the sink, because it's really awful, and yawns, slightly nauseated.

***

Jon is a true friend, maybe the only one she has besides Sam. A bit grumpy, but he has his reasons. Family issues. When he peers out of the kitchen glass door, he looks worried, so Brienne thinks the police have finally come to arrest her for kidnapping a minor. A monster, but still a minor.

She takes a deep breath, just hoping that Thormund doesn't make a scene when the officers handcuff her.

Handcuffs are one of the redhead's obsessions, along with ropes, straps, and, unfortunately, Brienne herself. Why - she doesn't know. She's homely and clumsy, and before she spoke to him she didn't even know the words "bondage" or "pegging", let alone a hundred gadgets you can buy for a walk on the wild side, as Thormund explained to her on their first day together. liking his lips like a creep. Yet he is a great worker, a skilled builder, and a very close friend of Jon's since the year they spent traveling together in the deep north. 
And they're doing a wonderful job, with Brienne's mother's old house, and for a low - very friendly - price. The maximum she can afford.

"Don't make that face, freak, you're even uglier when you're nervous. It's surely the dwarf. He always sends the dwarf to clean up my mess," Joffrey smirks, but he's tense - and the kitchen is full of knives. Perfect.

"Well, it's a very small messenger, really," Jon admits. "But it looks dangerous, like an ice spider."

The kid looks at them triumphantly. "He is. Dangerous and cunning. Tyrion Lannister, graduated at 21, one of the best lawyers in the land. He must be, or Lord Tywin would have gotten rid of him long ago. You're cooked, freak."

"Lord Tywin?"

"My mother's father," Joffrey shrugs. "Everyone calls him that in the family. The Lannister family, I mean. They're not my family, not anymore, and I don't want to be dragged back to the Rock. Lord Tywin will teach me another hard lesson, I don't want to go." His voice is as black as the shirt he wears. It was part of Brienne's collection of Jedi shirts before the boy decided it was prettier with a dozen pretty cuts on the front.

***

Tyrion Lannister has the strangest eyes she has ever seen. One green, one black. Unreadable. Unpredictable. Mildly unsettling, and he knows it.

He speaks, so well, so fluently, and Brienne listens, meekly. The air is sweet and mild, under the porch. Thormund spies on them, just for a few minutes before he goes back to work, so it's not so creepy. The river is singing, and she likes its song. Instinctively, she also likes Joffrey's uncle. But not his question, so she says no, and her cheeks burn. She always feels like a bad girl when she says no, thanks to her governess, Roelle.

"Miss Tarth, Brienne - may I call you Brienne? I'm afraid I've been misunderstood."

"Brienne's fine, Tyrion. No misunderstanding yet. The boy stays." Now his green eye seems to be laughing, the black one seems ready to devour her, or maybe it's just glaring at his bodyguard, a very tanned man who is sneering in a not-very-professional way. "Joffrey is seventeen and has the right to choose for himself," she concludes.

Mr Lannister sighs. "I see my nephew is comfortable here." He nods at the crimson lion painted on the porch wall. "That's Joff's hand, isn't it? Not bad, not bad at all. Still, Brienne, you don't know..."

"I know nothing, you're right," she bites her lower lip. "Nothing except what you've just told me and a few other irrelevant details. I was there when Mr. Robert Baratheon and his wife's twin and lover, Mr. Jaime Lannister, became a single confused beast growling on the grass. From what they were shouting, Joffrey's uncle, Mr. Stannis Baratheon, had been aware of the affair for some time, along with the other family friend, Mr. Jon Arryn of the Eyrie. They even found the proof of the infidelity, with DNA tests".

"They're sure about Myrcella and Tommen, not Joffrey. His test was inconclusive."

"The poor, unlucky Sherlocks," she adds, and the man grimaces a smile, but there's nothing to gloat about. She's outraged, Mr Lannister should be outraged too, not so calm. "You knew."

He raises an eyebrow. "It was obvious, at least to anyone who uses a brain. Robert prefers to use his muscles, or rather he preferred to before Cersei reduced him to a fat drunkard."

Brienne blinks. Perhaps her instincts have gone rotten. She pulls herself up on her oversized feet. "Thank you for your visit, Tyrion. If you'd like to see your nephew..."

"I'd like to explain the situation better to you," Mr Lannister waves his hand, and the bodyguard taps his fingers on the smooth briefcase secured to his wrist by a small chain. Even the tanned man's fingers are tattooed, Brienne notices.

"This time Lord Tywin will have your head, half man, and I'll lose my job, with my new Harley still to pay for," he stops just an inch from Brienne and hands her the case. "Come on, Legs, this is the best work I've ever had, take the money and give us back the lion cub. Please. I'm such a nice, grateful guy, with a nice swimming pool, and I'm so good at rubbing sunscreen on pale maidens with toned thighs."

She gapes at the scum - and the red fury running over him.

***

"Ouch. It hurts," the red fury complains as Brienne begins to clean the cut on his eyebrow.

"I'm glad it hurts. You wrecked my porch."

"I told you there was true wildling blood in me, honey."

"We'll rebuild it, Brienne," Jon breaks in. His eyelid is swollen and already purple. It goes well with the grey of his irises.

"The porch isn't the problem, Jon," she chops her lip, feeling the taste of blood. "Thormund, you can't assault a man like that."

"He called you Legs. No one can call my honeybee..."

"I'm not your honeybee, Thormund. Be still now," it comes out sharper than she intended, and she regrets it immediately.

"I like it when you give me orders," the impossible builder says with an unwelcome spark in his gaze. She'd like to punch him, but he's had enough punches already. That Bronn was a real pro, she had to fight to get Thor and Jon out of his claws, and Brienne has a black belt in judo. "What about..."

"The answer is no."

"Let me at least finish the proposal, honeybee."

"The answer is still no." She just wants to end this discussion, put something barely edible on the table for the boy, and sink into her soft, very soft mattress for a nap.

"Brie, what Thor means is that we'll stay here at night. In case that jailbird comes back."

"No, no, no. Mr Blackwater won't be back, and he's already beaten you, both of you," she replies. A gang of convicts is less daunting than the prospect of Thormund being free in her house while she sleeps.

"It won't happen again, honeybee. Not with Umber by our side. They don't call him the Greatjon for the size of his..."

"Enough, Thor," Jon cuts in. "Please, Brienne, it will help us save some money. Umber needs a roof too, and he's one of the best carpenters I know." He has that look. Dereck Zoolander has the Blue Steel, and Jon Snow has the Black Crow. He does seem like a mourning bird, a little too grown up, or grown up too soon. But it works - on Brienne, anyway.

"The guesthouse... is shabby, dirty, and the shower in the bathroom doesn't work, but it's yours if you want it," she surrenders, and it's not so bad knowing Jon is so close. Joffrey is... a mystery. All she knows is that the boy likes fire and that he loathes her cooking, but she loathes her cooking too. "Thanks, boys," she whispers, and Jon smiles. He's only twenty, but he looks older because he rarely smiles, and when he does, Brienne's heart fills with warmth.

"Oh, honeybee, I'm so eager to live here. Is it true you're still a maiden?"

Swallowing hard, Brienne trusts the first aid kit in Jon's hands and flees for the door, heading for the garden. At least Joffrey isn't around to mock her splotchy skin.

"But I like your virginity, honeybee!" she hears before slamming the glass door behind her.

Judging by the stunned expression on his brazenly handsome face, even Mr Lannister heard Thormund's last words.

"Th-this is private property," she stammers, blushing even more. She dislikes it, every part of it. The flush. The situation. The man staring at her.

"Then you should put up a warning sign, like a good, industrious honeybee." He's not grinning, and his eyes are a deeper green. Otherwise, he's an older version of Joffrey - only Joffrey's not half as attractive, he's only a teenager, and somehow Brienne's pretty sure he'll never be as handsome, with that astonishing, irritating perfection. The man raises his hands, and even his fingers are long and elegant, like a pianist's, while hers are thick and calloused. She hates Jaime Lannister. "I only want to see the boy, wench."

Wench. She detests him.

"I'm not a boy and I don't want to see you, Daddy," Joffrey yells from the studio upstairs, and then it starts to rain. Warm, unmistakable rain on the intruder's golden hair and, with a few drops, on the pale straw she tries to comb in a passable manner every fucking day of her wretched life.

It's only 11:40.

Jon

Chapter Text

Brienne 'Legs' Tarth. Twenty-two. Skilled with numbers. Current occupation: lending her clothes to the most gorgeous man in all of Westeros.

She wonders how many followers she can get if she tweets it. A billion, if she includes a link with some pictures of the man in question under the only working shower in the whole house.

Too bad she's not taking pictures, too bad she's not even on Twitter, too bad she's waiting her turn to shower smelling like a sewer, too bad he's just the most despicable man ever. Involved in some gruesome scandal when he was a teenager - Brienne has googled out, refusing to read more than a few titles. Fathering two or three children with his own sister is enough to put Mr Jaime Lannister at the top of her list of undesirable people.    

"Where's Joff?" he asks as soon as he comes out, his hair darker now that it's wet but still shimmering.

"Gone for a ride." On Brienne's mountain bike. She hopes to see it again. She hopes to see the boy again - maybe. Brienne is 100% sure she wants the bike back, about the boy, um. It's not 100%. 

"When Joff gets back, would you ask him if he could call me? This is my number. Please."

Please is such a nice word, but it sounds foreign on his lips. Brienne nods anyway, glancing at her mother's portrait. She was beautiful, with eyes the colour of the sea, and gentle, in Galladon's recollections. She has no memories of her own of her mother, and only a few of Galladon, but one of them is tied to this room, her room, and she's angry that it's here - it's stupid, childish, unworthy, and yet Brienne regrets having allowed it to use the bathroom between her room and Gal's. 

He must have sensed something, because he leaves without a word, leaving only steam and a few drops of water on the mosaic floor.

***

The Greatjon is taller and bigger than Brienne, and arrives with a fridge already full of bottles of ale. "For the workers," he says. He carries it into the guesthouse with no apparent effort, humming a terrible song about an unfortunate bear.

The Smalljon is twenty-four, recently divorced, almost as tall as his father, the Greatjon, but more talkative - and he's also a fantastic plumber. He manages to fix the shower in the bathroom next to Joffrey's room in the afternoon. Of course, it's only a temporary arrangement; every pipe in her house has to be checked and eventually dismantled and reassembled, but the bearded man is an enthusiast for the old tiles and promises to preserve them - and the cost seems reasonable since he's going to be living there.

Brienne is so excited about the tiles that she burns the roast. No one complains, except a girl with dark, clumpy hair.

"Hey, this sucks," the girl says, and Brienne can't help but dart her eyes around the dining room to see if Joffrey is there, recording the bovine expression she has when she's confused with his golden I-Phone.

"Arya." It's Jon's voice, kind but firm. Of course, this Arya is too small and scrawny to be one of the Umbers, and she's got Jon's eyes. One of his half-sisters, surely. He's mentioned them, more than once, and always fondly, but he doesn't like to talk about his family - his father's family - and he's chosen his mother's surname. Brienne knows that, and she also knows that he's a good man. The rest is irrelevant.

"Well. Arya told the truth," the cook confesses, and the girl laughs, and Jon brushes her brown hair, and the Umbers start singing a terrible song about a serial killer dressed as a rat, and Thormund orders hamburgers on an app with a few clicks. Brienne insists on paying, she has to, room and board is on her shoulders, a pact is a pact, and the redhead comes to terms with it. He's kind in his own way, he burps loudly and still calls her Honeybee, but at least he never mentions his favourite toy at the table.

Perhaps it's because of the girl. Brienne isn't so certain. Arya can't be more than thirteen, but she looks smart, certainly smarter than the giantess was when she was the same age. After dinner she wants to follow her brother outside, and that's sweet, but the guesthouse is really too dusty and crowded. It takes a while, but eventually Arya accepts the bunk bed in the small room upstairs.

When the skinny girl climbs up to the top bunk in one of Jon's striped pyjamas, too big and baggy, Brienne smiles, her hand covering her crooked teeth. She smiles a little less when Arya asks if she can paint the walls all black and decorate them with some nice drawings of swords, daggers, maces and so on.  

"We'll see. Good night, Arya."

"Good night, Brie."

The next morning she has to have a little talk with Jon. Meanwhile she clears the table - everything but Joffrey's plate.

***

He comes back at 2 pm. Whole, it seems.

Brienne has her fingers on the phone, ready to call the City Watch, for so long she's got pins and needles in her hand, but it's all right. The boy is home. She stares at her bike. It's electric blue and shocking pink now. Not so bad, suggests a cheeky imp in her head. She definitely needs her bed.

The lad grimaces when he follows her in and sees the hamburger, salad and slice of strawberry cake on the linen tablecloth.

"Spare me your junk, freak, my belly's already full," he boasts, then sneaks the pie, and she pretends not to have seen it.

"Good night, Joffrey."

"Go bugger yourself, you dumb. Don't you dare stare at me while I'm abed tonight."

Dumb is a bit better than freak, and, however, the crumbs on the sheets will avenge me. Brienne's lips curve into a smile. She waits, and steals just a quick glance at the boy, who snores softly like a child, before climbing the stairs.

"Joffrey's in his bed. Seems quiet," she texts, then ignores the sudden buzzing of her phone and sinks her head into the pillow.

The girl, Arya, snores much louder than Joffrey. Adenoids? I have to tell Jon, Brienne thinks - or already dreams.

Chapter Text

"It's complicated, Brie. Arya's a bit complicated too," Jon says, grimacing. The coffee's to blame, she suspects - or at least she hopes it is. Arya's mother is the lovely stepmother who managed to dispatch a sixteen-year-old Jon to the Haunted Forest. Alone, on foot, hitchhiking. "I'm sorry she woke everyone at dawn."

An hour before dawn, to be precise. It was still dark, and "the moon was high and full". That's why Arya felt the need to do some acrobatics on the roof and owl at the sky - or so the girl told her, beaming, before responding to Joffrey's insults with a very precise kick. Brienne doubts the boy will one day be able to have children as a result of Arya's precision, but perhaps that's for the best. 

"I need to talk to her parents, you know, Jon," she replies, sighing. "I need a lawyer too. A good one."

"I have a cousin of sorts. She's very good and motivated. You'll like her, Brie, and you'll like the way I arrange Arya's room, I promise."

***

"It's complicated, Miss Tarth."

A bird sings beautifully hidden between the branches of the old oak. Brienne looks for the small, bright head of a golden-crowned sparrow, but sees only a mockingbird. Appropriate.

She turns back to Mr Eddard Stark and feels like a complete idiot. It's obvious: the same grey eyes. She should have recognised him at the Baratheon mansion. Even the face is long and sullen, like Jon's - and Arya's, too. There are lines on his forehead and the man seems truly uncomfortable as he walks slowly under the trees. "Arya... I fear we were too hard on her, but her sister Sansa was inconsolable about her hair, her beautiful auburn hair. With Jon... Arya was always happy, with Jon. I wonder if she can stay, a few days, a week, no more."

"She can."

"May I reimburse...?"

"No, thank you, Mr Stark," Brienne interrupts, hesitating. She shouldn't ask, and maybe he doesn't even know. Yet. "Sorry. One thing. I was wondering if you heard about the fire at the Baratheons'..."

The man looks her straight in the eye. "It really was an accident, Brienne. The children were at the Rock, fortunately. The maids had fled. Cersei was acting crazy and smoking, Bobby was drunk, smashing bottles of Wildfire and other spirits against the furniture... They were both, well, distracted, and by the time a neighbour called the fire brigade it was too late to save the house," he pauses. "As for the boy, I'm glad he's here. I just hope he doesn't collide with Arya. Not too hard, at least."

She hopes the same. Hope is for free, isn't it?

The kind man shares a quick glance with his biological son before leaving.  Brienne has never missed her father so much, and even Bellegere, the exotic beauty he brought back to Tarth from his last travels in Bravos, doesn't look so bad after all. She just wants her father's money, but not all of it, and only for a while. She's always been kind to Brienne, and she knows Selwyn Tarth will never remarry or disinherit his blood, even if his blood is a strange girl with a tendency to get herself into trouble.

Brienne hurries to her old car. She has no time to brood, now she has many guests for lunch and dinner. The two Umbers count as four mouths, or ten if it's ale.

***

Brienne's shopping trolley is full, her wallet empty. Even her credit card is gone. The cashier looks at her freckles, drowning in embarrassment, and she'd like to be swallowed by the earth.

"Trouble, miss?" A brown-haired man of about twenty-five smiles at her, an honest smile in a plain face.

"She's got no money and we're all waiting," an old man in the queue behind her complains, coughing. Brienne has seen him before, somewhere.

In Mrs Stokeworth's garden, she realises with horror.

Mrs Stokeworth is a kindly old woman who often holds gossip and tea parties to find a suitable match for her younger daughter - Brienne's exploit will soon be served along with pies and cream cakes.

The man pulls out his Visa, and before she can protest, the annoyed cashier hands it over, and Hyle is already escorting Brienne and the heavy bags to her car. Because her saviour's name is Hyle Hunt. She likes it, it's a normal name, not pompous like Ja-i-me-Lan-ni-ster, and when the little guy asks her out for coffee in the morning, she ducks her head down and he takes it for an approving nod.

She has a date, and this is crazy. If they don't lock her up for killing Joffrey, of course.

***

Or for killing Joffrey's father, or uncle, or whatever.

He's waiting at the gate, which is too rusty to work well, so she keeps it open. Brienne needs a good blacksmith, and she'll call one when she can afford the expense. The upkeep of the old house is draining the income her mother left her, and she shudders at the thought of her miserable credit card in Joffrey's hand.

What Brienne decidedly doesn't need is Jaime Lannister's piercing gaze, or his smirk.

"Your clothes, wench." She takes her stupid rags and shivers as his fingers brush hers. "I wish I..." he tries to say, but Brienne has already closed the window of her second-hand car. A pink station wagon, with blue lightning bolts flashing here and there - big, hideous and ridiculous like her, which is why it was so cheap.

***

"Don't be so dramatic, freak. I only borrowed a thousand dragons."

A thousand dragons. Brienne hyperventilates and has to sit down.

"I just bought a few cans of spray paint, some jeans and running shoes. Your T-shirts are acceptable, with the right adjustments."

Her entire wardrobe is not worth a thousand dragons, and she has to give Hyle his money back. She has to, despite what the gentleman has told her, almost awkwardly stroking the faint scar on his chin.

Brienne can't help but stare at Joffrey like a ruminant. In fact, now that the boy is so close, the original tank top he's wearing looks so much like Brienne's blouse, the good one she uses on the rare occasions she goes to the university to talk to Professor Aemon. Not that it's really necessary to be formal with Professor Aemon - he's a treasure, and he's also blind - but it's her best blouse. It was her best blouse.

"See how I improved your sad mountain bike?" adds Joffrey, his cat eyes gleaming with malice and something else. Expectation? Wanting her approval? It's an absurd idea, and Brienne's only desire is to reduce Joffrey's grin to a bleeding ruin or throw him in the river.

"Nice work," she says instead, and it's not a lie in the end. "Just ask my permission next time, Joff."

He glows and giggles. "You should also see how I improved a certain Harley." Brienne is only quick with numbers, so it takes her a while to understand. As recognition and panic spread across her face in a hundred shades of pink, red and crimson, the ruthless vandal frowns in annoyance. "That scum had it coming. He called you Legs."

"You call me freak."

"That's different, freak. I can, the others can't. My roof, my rules." She drags him back onto the grass, and the reeds sing in chorus freak, freak, freak.

***

The shower washes away the dirt, but her thoughts are there, to stay.

She's still dripping and staring at the emptiness when Jon calls her downstairs. Her heart jumps in her throat with such force that she wonders if it's possible to die of a heart attack at twenty-two.

***

Jon Snow will probably die at twenty. Very probably. Murdered with a candlestick, in the lounge, where the crazy queen of human cases is so pleasantly busy talking to Arya about the legendary heroine Nymeria that she hardly notices Brienne leaving, tugging Jon with her.

"You promised me a lawyer. A good one," she barks at Jon in the hall, and he looks astonished.

"No, I promised you a good job in Arya's room. And a good, motivated person. Daenerys is a good person."

"The same Daenerys you've been dating for a while now and who left you for a riding instructor?" Brienne rolls her eyes, seeing cobwebs and cracks in the plaster. The house is a mess, her current state of mind even more so. "Good gods, Jon, you said you were going to call a cousin of yours."

"Dany is one, as a matter of fact."

"She's your cousin?" Brienne can't be more bewildered.

"My aunt, Brie. But I didn't know that when we were together," his eyes drop and Brienne feels guilty. She shouldn't have stuck her crooked nose in Jon's wounds. They both sprawl in overstuffed chairs too old to support their weight without making a menacing sound of warning. They're silent, but it's a welcome silence, and it ends when Jon snorts - an amused snort, quite... ironic.

Jon Snow. Being ironic.

She smiles, and can't keep it from becoming a sneer, and can't avoid showing her teeth, because Jon squeezes both her hands, and he begins to huff. Clever little vibrations on her fingers, and only God knows how much she's starved for a touch. Fuck her teeth. Fuck everything. Brienne laughs, and well.

They're still laughing when Daenerys storms in, her eyes replaced by bright lilac flames. She's incredibly beautiful and looks like a roaring dragon - a mini-dragon, actually. She's not much taller than Arya.

"Brienne, my big brave Brienne," Dany says in her musical voice, planting two kisses on Brienne's cheeks. "You're in good hands, Tyrion Lannister is my business now. The Lannisters are a plague on this poor world, starting with the patriarch, Tywin, and that Jaime." Her lovely features twist in disgust as she says the name. "I owe a personal debt to Mr Jaime Lannister."

"Well, he's terrible... still, he's Joffrey's..."

"Of course you wouldn't know, you're so young, Brie." The girl, barely twenty, explains indulgently. At her green age, Dany has already founded five different foundations to defend civil rights and one to preserve the historical site of Valyria, so perhaps it's natural for her to treat Brienne like a starving child. Or an ancient stone wyvern, who knows. The lovely young woman runs a small hand through her platinum hair and smiles. A strange smile. "He killed my father. Oh, don't worry about me, I never met my father, and he was mad, a violent man, even with my mum. So Jaime Lannister probably did everyone a favour when he stabbed him. He was a minor at the time, and he was quickly acquitted, thanks to his father's gold. But it wasn't manslaughter, as they said. It was premeditated murder."

I let a murderer into my bedroom, Brienne thinks, her vision blurring, but she manages a faint goodbye as Dany leaves. It is only when the door is closed that Brienne notices the boy and girl left behind by the Queen of Saviours and remembers some words Daenerys said about orphans and solidarity. She recalls that she agreed to make a donation to the orphans, but not to host them in person. Then the girl smiles a sad, knowing smile, and the words "Wait, Dany, you're forgetting a couple of kids here" die on Brienne's lips.

***

The girl has a sweet name, Missandei, and she is indeed sweet as sugar. She's the same age as Arya and is happy to share a room with her. She's a pacifist, though, and would rather have butterflies on the walls than Arya's swords or skulls.

The boy refuses to give his name. He's fifteen, more or less, and a bit paunchy. Fat is the word Joffrey uses, but only once. Then the Greatjon growls at the golden-haired idiot, the orphaned boy bakes two wonderful hot pies for dinner, and Arya calls him Hot Pie. Joffrey likes the name Hot Pie. Even Hot Pie seems pleased with it. The rest of the dinner goes off without a hitch, and even Jon is humming Umbers songs - as the Umbers never give up a song as a pause between beers. She can relax.

"Honeybee, if you want to have lots of children, I volunteer to help you make them soon," Thormund offers, and Brienne almost chokes on her second slice of pie.

It's a lovely evening, though. The repairs are progressing quickly, the Smalljon has found some tiles identical to the originals to replace the ones he had to break in the main bathroom upstairs to lay new pipes - and Hyle has bidden her good night with a text.

Good night Miss, he has written, followed by a lily. Not a rose.

Good night, little princess, her father has written, instead, followed by the meme of a smiling whale. Selwyn Tarth is not too good with Whatsapp, and neither his daughter is so accomplished, since she doesn’t know how deleting all the messages from a certain person, without opening them. And Brienne doesn’t want to open them, nor to eliminate the man's number from her mobile. He’s Joffrey's kin, she may need to call him.

The only idea is sickening.

Chapter Text

Joffrey’s vengeance resembles a cry of war. It’s a cry, and it’s war.

She leaps down the stairs armed with her fury, crosses the hall where Hot Pie stands (armed with a rolling pin, looking dangerously like Proust's petite madeleine), twists to freeze Arya (armed with a stick identical to one leg of the Tiffany tea table), and then she's there.

On the battlefield.

The enemy hits Brienne with the force of a million decibels. She reaches for the stereo, and finally, Joffrey's room is quiet. It's 5 am, and there's an incredibly vivid painting above the Chippendale bed. The bed itself has been sprayed with paint, and the vandal is glistening in gold. She'll never know which of her poor T-shirts was sacrificed on the altar of music and barbaric art.  

“Immigrant song by Qarl the Maid is a classic, freak”, he declares, bright-eyed. The pink on his cheeks is as lovely as a girl’s blush.

“I prefer Tristifer’s version”, Brienne argues. Her head is spinning. It’s the smell. Dark ale and paint.

He puts up a face. Pouty lips preparing themselves to tease her. “You should team up with Qarl. Maids should band together, shouldn’t they?”

Thud. Thud. Thud. The music beats. No, the stereo is off, it’s Brienne’s heart, kicking like a donkey in her chest. She’s upset, and she’s suffocating - too angry to waste a glare on Joffrey, too slow to get to the window in time.

Thud.

***

The Tiffany tea table and her dignity are the only casualties, in the end.

Brienne is fine, now, no matter what Jon and Jon and Jon are babbling about. She has gained a nice bruise on her cheekbone and her left arm because the freak had necessarily to faint against the wooden footboard, and not on the soft Myrish carpet. That’s all.

Now she just wants only to go upstairs – all by myself, thanks Thormund, I don't need any assistance - and sleep, or wear something decorous at least. She shifts on the couch, painfully aware that short pants and small velvet pillows are a scant shield for her too-long thighs.

Someone has handed her a smoothie. It’s green. It’s fantastic. Hot Pie is a blessing, a pleasant scent is replacing Joffrey’s venoms in all the house.

The Smalljon convinces his father and Jon that she can get up - he seems particularly well prepared for concussions, thanks to his second wife, a true Mormont of Bear Island who didn't appreciate his fling with the Dornish street artist who became his third wife, and soon third ex. 

A few pancakes and Brienne is feeling reasonably better, really better. Joffrey's not at the table with the others, but she doesn't miss him that much.

With her jeans on and the phone with Hyle's good morning in the back pocket, the tall but perhaps not so ugly girl is ready for the pawnshop.

***

“You can’t drive, freak. You’ll kill the both of us”, Joff grumbles.

“As it pleases Your Grace. Now drive.”

Joffrey is appalled. “I’ll never drive that …that wagon… And not to go to a pawn shop. We might meet some …poor.”

He’s not simply appalled, he’s terrified. Every single curl of him is alarmed.

“The poor won’t bite you. They’ve got enough troubles on their own, don’t need to take the mange from you.”

He takes the key of the car.

***

In the shop, Joffrey does his best. To get them killed. 

His tongue is sharp as an arakh, and everyone looks at him - at them - as if they were a horde of horselords. For once, Brienne is genuinely glad to be manly and visibly strong. The blue mark on her face makes her look like a bad, very bad girl - Lady Gaga is nothing compared to her, and she can keep on enjoying the snack some sort of goddess is offering her from the TV screens on the shelves.

Apart from a few comments that will haunt their day, they make it out of the pawnshop unscathed and with enough money.

But they lack the courage. The building is slim and elegant. Exquisite. The sign is gold: Lannisters Corporation. Her head spins again, and Brienne can't blame a toxic paint now. Joffrey seems on the verge of vomiting on the flowerbeds. He doesn't make a sound when she splashes water on his forehead from one of the fountains.

When Mr. Lannister crosses the landscaped square with his bodyguard, it's like a miracle. In a few seconds, they will get free  - and drive home.

"Mr Blackwater!" she shouts. Half the passers-by look at her, including a pair of mismatched eyes and another pair of sly, dark eyes.

"Have you changed your mind, Legs?" The dark eyes scrutinize her and Joffrey. The boy pulls at her, but she's so much stronger than him, and certainly more stubborn.

"Joffrey has something to tell you, Mr Blackwater."

The psycho boy is going to kill her. He must have hidden a teaser, a knife, or a lighter, and she will burn in glory. Brienne's already burning, and not for the sun. The gods have decided that Tyrion Lannister and the crowd are not enough. There are two golden heads in the crowd. Twins.

"Joffrey," she urges the boy, and it sounds like a plea.

"Miss Legs wants me to apologize for the new look of your Honda, Bronn, I don't know why, because even though I have to admit that your moto is certainly better now, I had nothing to do with it, and if I did, it was an accident. Or I was in a trance, like that time in the stadium. Choose."

"Joff!"

"OK. I apologize. I apologize, can't you see, freak?"

"Don't call her freak, Joff. Her name is Brienne." It's the first time Mr Jaime Lannister has said her name. A lump forms in Brienne's throat and she knows she has to go, now, before he or his twin can add something. Something awful.

"This money should cover the damages," Brienne mutters, clumsily placing an envelope in Mr Blackwater's fingers. "Have a good morning."

Too late.

"To call her freak is indeed a cruelty to all poor freaks." Red lipstick and assassin's heels, the woman is gorgeous and glitters with hatred and contempt. "You should have known better than to steal my boy, Brienne dear."

"I'm not a boy, and I'm not your boy! I'll never make the damn DNA test you want, so stop texting me!" Joffrey tears himself free and runs. He can run fast when he wants to.

Concussion or not, Brienne’s also fast, and stamina is her best quality. She lets him go, only to follow him from not so far behind, and they leave behind first the bodyguard, then Mr. Jaime Lannister.

“Too old for us, aren’t they, freak?” He’s panting. He’s serene, now. Cautiously, like two thieves, they come back to the car, pink and blue and stunned.

Us is something unexpected.

***

Unexpected is Hyle's reaction to her bruise. He stiffens and looks at Brienne as if she were something delicate. It's odd, but his words are soft, like the small package he places in her hand. A present, she's not used to presents, and for a moment she's so slow and awkward that she envies the sloth in Zootopia.

It's a headband, blue and practical, useful for keeping her crazy curls out of her eyes when she goes jogging.

"Because you like to jog, don't you?" he asks, and for a moment his brown eyes run down her legs, and Brienne feels strange, electric. "I'd like to go jogging with you."

Brienne is unsure what to answer. She stares at her coffee cup, listening to him. She likes listening to Hyle. A warm voice, a warm smile. He works as a gardener, but he's studying to be a forest ranger. For a few hours, Brienne's world is the forest: it's magical the way he talks about it. There's an energy in Hyle, the same good vibration she feels inside when it comes to her beloved numbers, but no one except Professor Aemon or Sam would listen to her talk about them for more than two minutes at a time.

But when she confesses to Hyle about maths and so on, his eyes light up and a dimple appears on his chin, right next to the faded scar. She wonders if one day she'll kiss that little mark, and blushes so wildly that he laughs, without a hint of mockery in his laugh. He is so different from Connington, and yes, she is looking forward to going jogging with him tomorrow, if it doesn't rain.

***

Brienne hums as she returns home and looks up at the sky. She almost falls into the hole. More of an abyss than a simple hole, a few steps beyond the front gate.

"What about my dwarf trap, freak?" Joffrey speaks, beaming.

"Fix it. Immediately. Where are Meera and Joyen?" The Reed brothers were supposed to be looking after all the children, including Joffrey.

"Am I the babysitter's babysitter? Find them yourself, freak."

***

The house is empty, except for the Umbers, who are too busy tearing down a wall that was not on the demolition schedule to answer Brienne's questions. She finds Hot Pie napping under the oak, next to Missandei, who is reading one of her Versailles-no-bara manga with Joyen when Thormund tries to stop her to announce that he would like to see her in a neutral color and that Jon has gone into town to buy a metalized bodice for the living room, or perhaps it was the other way round - she really is in a haste.

Meera and Arya are missing, and cold sweat runs down Brienne's spine. She needs to calm down, she's too suspicious. Joffrey can't have dug two more big holes in her garden in the short time she's been gone. In fact, Meera and Arya are fine, coming back from the riverbank, muddy and relaxed - it's Missandei who starts to cry when she sees the frogs they've impaled on a rudimentary skewer.

"Fried frogs are delicious," Hot Pie says, yawning and patting the dark girl's shoulders sympathetically, only to make her sob even more.

Even Brienne's mobile phone is sobbing in her bag. Too many unread messages from a known number and a call from an unknown number.  She wasn't waiting for the courier, but it's the courier, and of course, he can enter the compound, being careful of Joff's hole.

"Don't worry, Brienne. No one will fall into that hole, I assure you," Joyen comments, winking at her. "I know it."

"What's that? Another one of your prophecies, Jo? Forgive him, miss, they never come true."

"They do."

"They don't," Joffrey breaks in, coming from his dwarf trap. Someone screams.

The courier.

***

The courier, a father of seven named Davos, is safe and sound. He leaves two parcels, one large and one small, as soon as Brienne signs for them, mute and resigned. Perhaps Davos is right, teenagers are all stormy, but storms pass, and in the meantime, you can choose between drowning or dancing your way to the first good landing.

Even the man who fell into Joffrey's pit is all right, more or less. A little bruised, a little scared. Joffrey looks rather upset, and Brienne suspects he's only upset because his trap has swallowed the wrong dwarf. A holy brother who worships the Smith, not a lawyer.

Brienne offers him a place to stay for the night. It's the least she can do, and perhaps the Smith will bless her poor house, and the works will end, and all her beloved guests will soon find another place to destroy.

Missandei helps Brienne treat the Holy Brother's scratches, and the Holy Brother conducts the most moving frog funeral in the world. Arya and Joffrey have the decency to keep quiet - thanks to the Greatjon. He would make a wonderful monster-sitter, and he has promised to rebuild the wall he and his son mistakingly tore down.

By now, though, the ceiling of the dining room is all shored up, so they have dinner outside – pizza! Rised slowly, and baked in the big wood oven Brienne had almost forgotten to have in the back yard, cleaned anew for the occasion. Hot Pie is surely the descendant of some great and generous king of old, no doubt about it.

"Aren't you going to open your package, honeybee?" asks her the descendant of a great ginger bear.

"Oh, that's admirable. So young and already married, fostering lonely children..."

“Not married, Holy Bro, not yet, I’ve still got to steal her, wilding-like,” Tormund adds, and Brienne hopes she's in a hospital bed, having a concussion dream.

"The wildings were fucking barbarians," says a fucking barbarian, very blond and very full of pizza, laughing brazenly as the two Umbers nod eagerly. After the art attack at dawn, the fools running into town, all the digging and covering and fighting, well, Joff should be KO'd. He's not, he's as fresh as a rose, perhaps cheered up by the big package: tons of spray paint and canvas, from 'Uncle Tyrion'.

‘I hope to see you tomorrow at 4 pm”, it’s also in the message, and Jon reads it loud over Brienne’s shoulder.

“The wildings used to call themselves the free folk”, intervenes Jon-the peacemaker-Snow, showing Brienne a WhatsApp in which a certain Breaker of chains says she won’t miss the opportunity to spank Mr. Lannister into a few hours. He shows it with pride.

“Southrons don’t understand a thing about freedom, and how can the Gods be seven and one? Seven, or one. One is enough, and, still, one is one too many”, comments Arya, innocent. Apparently innocent. Innocence does surely not lie in cutting your sister’s braid, no matter if your sister is a little insufferable.

“Ah”, the Holy Brother comments, with a sweet smile.  

There’s the universe in an ah, sometimes. Brienne would like to say something nice and smart, but the metallic shine coming out from her packet distracts her. She can’t understand, it seems like a chainmail shirt, like those you see in the historical reenactments, but it’s shaped for a woman and it has holes, two on the chest and one below… Gods be good. Not in front of a holy brother.

“I hope I had your measurements right, honeybee.”

Chapter Text

It's 7am and it's raining. She fluffs up her pillow, rolls onto her stomach, and sleeps a little more.  If she has to wait to see Hyle again, the world has to wait for her.

Brienne's mood doesn't improve when she finds Joffrey in her bath, making himself at home with the sofa cushions, a red duvet, and her first edition of Monsters and Maidens, signed by Bael the Bard himself before the man mysteriously disappeared on a research trip by the Dreadfort ruins.

“Good morning, freak,” he says and smiles.

A smile that definitely wakes her up, but the house seems okay, no smell of smoke, just coffee and pancakes, and Hot Pie confirms that she is at the top of their list of welcome guests. "Don't tell the northern giants I'm here," he mumbles, "they want me to work."

He makes it sound like torture worthy of the legendary King Maegor. She picks up her precious comic book and sits down on the edge of the tub. "You should be working, Joffrey, to pay for all the damage you have done and to repay the money I gave Bronn."

"I'm a guest, and guests are sacred. You can't force me to do anything, you freak."

"I can't and I won't," Brienne replies, and Joff gives her a satisfied green wink. "Still, there's nothing I can do to save you from the Umbers. You know, they're my guests too, both of them."

He leaves like an indignant cat, and she finally has her bathroom all to herself. Life is made up of small satisfactions.

***

Brienne is sure she left her smartphone downstairs, but where?

"Have you seen my phone, Missandei? Arya?"

They lift their dark-haired heads and shake them. They're adorable together when they're not bickering about the best way to heal the world - Missandei is the "put flowers in your cannons" type, while Arya is harder to define. Not fond of flowers, for certain, and Brienne can understand the skinny girl. Roses are the big girl's nemesis.  

"I like your T-shirt, Brienne," the dark child says in a consoling tone.

Brienne likes her T-shirt too, a memento of a great concert. I was made for loving you" rings in her ears, but the clock tells her it's time to go if she wants the holy brother to catch his train. She's annoyed because she had the stupid idea of asking Hyle to reach her at the mall, but the Crone is wiser than she is, and she doesn't want her to find her mobile and meet Hyle today, period.

She spies the boy at work, under Jon's watch, before getting into the car. Joffrey seems to enjoy it, or maybe he's just happy to finally have a real saw in his claws, who knows?

***

The Smalljon has asked her to buy him some chocolate called "Kisses" as a gift for his first date with a certain Asha or Yara.  When Brienne asks in the mall where these "kisses" are, the pimply shop assistant's eyes widen. Brienne is not new to this kind of reaction, but she can't get used to it. She shifts uncomfortably on her huge feet and already misses the holy brother, he has been so kind to her. He even hugged her before he left. 

But Brienne finally finds the "kisses" - they're a kind of little praline with a big hazelnut on top, and there's a pretty promoter offering a taste, giggling and chiming like a carillon at the man in front of her, magnificently built and with long curls that shine even in the artificial light. 

He turns, all of a sudden, and starts. My bruise must be quite a sight, today, she guesses, but she doesn’t know actually, because she avoids mirrors as long as she can. Not that Mr. Jaime Lannister looks as if he likes spending a lot of time before mirrors, however. His jeans are worn, his T-shirt faded, and yet. He has her same T-shirt, only on him, it’s dangerously close to the perfect T-shirt.

"Hello, wench," he says, his mouth full of chocolate, and she tries to be polite, but the rest of her shopping is a pain.

Mr. Jaime Lannister grabs a lot of chocolates, hiding a smile as she also takes a packet of "kisses", her face burning under his gaze, then it's the cornflakes, the milk, the fruit, and so on. Joffrey's siblings curiously have the same appetite as her beloved guests, it's not like Mr Lannister is taking advantage of the situation to embarrass her. Just a bloody coincidence. His eyes don't leave her, and that's strange, it makes her feel... weird in a way. At least he doesn't pretend that the Dornish red he puts in his basket is for Myrcella or Tommen. 

She manages to leave the golden bitch behind before she gets to the till, and when she's back in her car, she feels safe at last.

For two minutes, more or less, then a grin cuts through the window. "It's the battery, wench. You left the lights on, no wonder this ridiculous cart won't move."

Happy or not, she's forced to accept a ride in his lavish car and is surprised to find there's enough room for her legs. It's very comfortable indeed, and the leather interior is elegant, if not for the color, the usual Lannister crimson. She's crimson too, and she averts her eyes when Mr Lannister looks at her as if to say that, after all, she's not much taller than him, so it's obvious that his car fits her like a glove.

The rain falls on the glass window on the roof of the car, and there's a little rainbow on his bicep as the car starts to move. Brienne silently thanks the Gods that her house is not too far away, and she formally thanks Mr Lannister, because her house is still a bit too far away for a walk through the puddles with all the bags of food.

He smiles and gives her another long look. He should be looking at the road instead.

"I don't mind, wench. I'm renting Mrs. Stokeworth's cottage, so we're neighbors now." She can hardly believe it. Mrs Stokeworth's brick cottage has two windows that look directly into her garden. A murderer living so close to her house. Well, in truth, she's sitting next to him now - the car is roomy, but they're both tall, and she can feel the heat coming off the bare skin of his arm, God help her. The killer, however, has decided to be kind. "It is I who must thank you, wench, for what you're doing to Joff. I... I confess that you impressed me on the very first day we met, though I must admit that I was too angry at the time to realize it, and finally, well, I was taken aback by your... the latest turn of events, well, you know."

Her nails are a little chewed and she doesn't answer. A lump has settled in her throat by the time the car finally stops. The gate is open, and it's her gate. Home. She's home. Goodbye, Mr Lannister, she has to say, and then go. It's easy. Not so easy when you're drunk on words and emeralds.

He turns again. "Your words were... astonishing, I said. In truth, I was completely shocked because of the way you looked at me, the way you look at me now, frowning, but I don't mean that it... displeased me, Brienne. May I call you Brienne, wench?"

No, you can’t, she’d want to say. You can’t look at me like that.

She holds her breath as he removes one of her locks from Hyle's blue hairband, and then his fingers brush the bruise on her face, both his hands suddenly on her cheeks. Then he leans in.

The rain falls over them, muffling every sound, and the world is very far away now. Only his lips are there, and she tastes a hint of chocolate on her tongue. A little more than a peck - a very sweet kiss for a first kiss, and maybe she's not completely clumsy. She doesn't know, she can't know.    

She can’t even look at him when they part. He’s Jaime Lannister and she has absolutely to ignore his hand on her thigh, and the throb in her groins.

“I’m not good at writing messages, wench,” he chuckles, and she doesn’t like his cockiness, now. “I rather prefer the traditional way of communicating to WhatsApp.”

Communicate. Messages.

"What messages?" she hears herself ask, but she already knows the answer lies in her missing mobile phone. Jaime's face drops as she stammers something, snatches his expensive smartphone, and reads the latest messages. Legs wrapped around Jaime's neck, and some other proposals that Wench has written to Mr Lannister - and that Brienne doesn't want to see.

A trap, it was all just a trap for freaks. Sending messages is a lot easier than digging.

"Joffrey," she cries, staggering out of the car, a shambling, huge beast that can barely find the path and then the door of her own house.

***

"Honeybee."

"Please, Tormund. Not now."

"Honeybee. He's gone now, and the boy's gone with him. The first Lannister to dare show his ugly face..."

"Mr. Tyrion," Brienne stammers, remembering, "he... he has to come and meet Daenerys."

"The dwarf? Okay, little man, honeybee, I know dwarf is not a kind word. But he doesn't count as a Lannister. Jon's aunt has tamed him, literally, but don't worry, all the children were out for a long run in the rain with Meera, so they didn't see Dany riding her new dragon. He was gagged, but you could hear him moaning even from the harness. Now they're both asleep on the carpet in the living room, hugging each other. No one has the heart to wake them.

"Th-they were supposed to meet at 4."

"It's 8 p.m., honeybee, and you should come downstairs and eat something."

She keeps staring at her big hands.

"I'm afraid I'm not that hungry, Tormund, and I'm afraid... well, they'll notice..."

"That you've been crying for hours? Listen to me, honeybee, no one deserves your tears or your fasting. Now we're going to empty this bottle together, which will prove to you the existence of the northern gods, and we're going to go downstairs well drunk and laughing, I grant you. When you laugh and drink a lot, it's normal to have the eyes of a bloated fish, not that you have the eyes of a bloody fish now, my lady, your eyes are always a miracle, but... it can help, can't it?"

Her stomach rumbles and Tormund smiles.

"Thank you, Tor," she says, taking the first sip and going on fire.

“You’re welcome, honeybee. You can’t choose the ones you love, you know, but you can choose to put your trust in some good friends.”

His voice is a bit hoarse, and she feels guilty, and she’d like to assure him that she has not fallen for anyone… but lying to a good friend of yours is like lying to yourself, and only cowards lie to themselves.

She sighs.

For all her faults, Brienne Tarth is no coward and she confesses to herself that she has more than a crush on the worst man who ever lived.

Tormund

Chapter Text

At nearly a hundred years old, Professor Aemon is the most lucid man she's ever met, so when he asks Sam what's wrong at the end of their meeting, Brienne finally opens her eyes and sees what the blind professor has already seen.

Samwell looks lost as if his father has just tried to drown him. Mr. Randyll Tarly is the classic man who wants his son to be another perfect asshole - puritan, sexist, and racist - like himself, but, thank the gods, Samwell has his mother's sensitivity and a brain that works. A big brain, in fact, and one day he will make an excellent professor, so Brienne is honored that he has chosen her to be his tutor. Not that Sam needs a tutor, he's far too smart, and he'll probably graduate before he's twenty, breaking the record Brienne set at KL's university.

"I might have to find a new place to stay, but I'm a bit short on money," the boy confesses with a shrug.

"If you don't mind sharing a bathroom with a bunch of savages, you can stay with me for a while," she says.

"I thought you were having trouble with all your guests, Miss Tarth. One of them in particular," Professor Aemon suggests quietly, and Brienne feels her guts churn. She wonders if Joffrey has come back to the university on the pretext of returning the damned phone. He can keep it, she has already bought a new one and changed her number. If she could, she would have changed her face and the universe.

"Any building renovation involves a bit of stress, but I can manage, thank you," she collects her papers and nods to a smiling Samwell. "Ready, Sam?"

***

As they cross the garden, Samwell elbows her, almost dropping the heavy tomes he has brought with him - because he may have forgotten a decent jacket, but he would never forget his favorite books, or the giant-screened Mac Brienne is carrying.

"Sorry, Brie, but there's a man on the other side of the fence trying to get your attention."

"Just an annoying neighbor. Ignore him."

"But he does look very Lannister."

"Maybe he looks like a Lannister because he's a Lannister, Sam."

"You shouldn't ignore a Lannister, Brie. Lannisters are not people who like to be ignored."

"It's just a stupid legend from the past when people settled their differences with swords and morningstars."

"Terrible times."

"You're wrong, Sam. They were glorious times," she replies. And they were, indeed - formidable times, when a girl as strong as Brienne could stick a blade in a man's throat and then perhaps forget the kiss she shouldn't have given him - "weren't they, Smalljon?"

The Smalljon shouts back in agreement and begins to guffaw before returning to what he was doing. His last date must have been a good one.

Small... Jon?" says Sam, coyly. "Is there a big Jon too?"

"Of course, the one who is working on the roof, with Jon." She raises a hand to wave at them, but they don't see it. They're focused on the job, and at a good point, it seems - in two weeks, or even less, the house will be magnificent.

"Oh. A third Jon, I see. Why is he wearing a black t-shirt with long sleeves under this burning sun?"

"Because he's stubborn. He only dresses in black and his half-sister Arya imitates him, you'll see when she comes back from school with Missy and Hot-Pie. Jon isn't much taller than Tyrion, but he's the one who commands the team of workers".

"A commander, cool." Sam eagerly follows her inside, careful not to leave any muddy footsteps on the shiny new tiles, "Even this kitchen is cool. Who's Tyrion?"

"Another Lannister. Watch out for him, he likes jokes, like our lovely Bronn, here," She nods at the black-haired scum sitting at the table. "Good morning, Bronn," she says, finally putting down the Mac.

"Hi, Legs," Bronn replies, yawning. He seems to have woken only a few minutes ago. "Another one of your strays? This time you'll need a very sturdy bed for our Miss Piggy."

"Never listen to Bronn, Sam. He's an arsehole, but he's recently lost his job, so..." she shrugs and starts tidying the kitchen table. Is it Thormund's turn to clean up today, or has he swapped places with Arya? It's getting a bit too confusing.

"It's the dwarf's fault I lost my job," the dark-haired man complains. "He can't resist a pretty face, and he snores too. I should move upstairs, Legs."

"Bronn, I'm desolate, but upstairs is off-limits to anyone over 17. You will continue to share Tyrion's chamber. Even Tyrion lost his job, but at least he gained a girlfriend," Brienne tells Sam with a stifled sigh, thinking of the poor living room carpet. The former living room carpet. "Luckily Dany doesn't live here, otherwise she and Tyrion would have already destroyed what's left of my mother's poor house."

Bronn sneers. "Lucky for the girls. If Daenerys could see the way Sansa and Margaery dress for school..."

"Sansa? Margaery?" Sam breaks in, puzzled.

"Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell," Brienne points out, filling three glasses of orange juice. "The latter is a sweet rose, but call her Margaret, or Marge, or Maggie, and you'll enjoy her thorns. She and Sansa arrived a week ago, officially because they had to spend at least one night in the stupid blue house by the river to be accepted into the Queen's sisterhood. The truth is that Sansa is Arya's sister, and Sansa has missed Arya as much as Arya has missed Sansa, but apparently, they're still pretending otherwise, because while Margaery has no trouble at all with her brothers, she's here to write some juicy articles for her blog. She wants to be a writer or an influencer or both."

"Oh my, Brie. Does your mother know you're hosting all these people?"

She lowers her eyes and Bronn whistles. "Congratulations, Miss Piggy. Before you say anything else embarrassing, note that she inherits this shack from her mother, and no, she has no siblings, because her sisters were babies when they died, and her brother drowned in the river you can see from the front window. Anyone over the age of twenty-five remembers the incident, it was in the media for days".

"Bronn, you're such a..." she has to interrupt herself to pat Sam on the back because he's stuck on the cookie he's stolen from the pale porcelain jar that someone else left open.

"Why? Because I tried to be nice and protect you from that cookie-slayer? He should at least have washed his greasy hands before he touched Hot Pie's delicatessen."

She feels her fingers twitch, but she doesn't have time to argue with Bronn, since the bell is announcing someone, and that someone might be Hyle - and she doesn't want Hyle to be disturbed by Bronn. Somehow Bronn is convinced that she should have agreed to see Mr. Jaime Lannister again - and coincidentally Tyrion is of the same opinion, but at least he's clever enough not to say it out loud.

***

It's just Sansa and Margaery, with a friend of theirs, a pretty brown-haired girl with big eyes the color of Nutella. They giggle in unison as Sam stares at them as if they were some sort of angels, without wings but with very short skirts and glittery Vans.

"Is there somewhere we can talk, Brienne?" asks Margaery, and Brienne smells the anxiety beneath the good scent of rose water from the conditioner the pretty blogger uses to sweeten her curls. 

Five minutes later, Brienne is pleased to see that Gilly - that's Sansa and Margaery's classmate's name - has brought her sleeping bag, because she's not here for a cup of tea or some light gossip. She's here because her violent father is about to return home after ten years in prison, and Brienne doesn't need to know any more about it. Gilly can stay, in the girls' room. 

Still standing in the foyer, Sam looks like he is about to explode from embarrassment and confusion. 

Brienne can’t blame him: her house resembles more and more of a camp. A noisy and dusty camp, yet no one hints at finding a better place, and Daenerys is calling Brienne's new number with a frequency

 that can only mean she has a new orphan to settle. When Hyle finally arrives, Samwell tries to organize his thoughts and start an intelligent conversation.

He fails miserably. "So you're Brienne's fiancé, Hyle, I'm so glad to meet you," Sam says, and both Sansa and Margaery clear their throats.

Brienne just looks away.

"Fiancé? Not yet," Hyle repeats, and Brienne wishes he would stop looking at her so smugly. She has had her share of bad experiences with smug, self-centered people.

“Well, I guessed that you and Brienne, you know, well, with Red Ronnett’s speaking of your kiss and then saying shit about Brie. I was told you hit him very hard in the mall’s parking, you have to care a lot about a girl to knock another person down, I suppose.” Samwell glances at Gilly, and she nods, approvingly.

Brienne is so stiff that if she tried to move her neck, it would break and her head would roll on the cardboard the Smalljon had laid down to protect the studio's recently restored wooden floor.

"No, it wasn't me who kissed Brienne, it happened and she told me about it, so it's all right," Hyle replies, squeezing her gelid hand. "And no, I'm not in the habit of knocking people down in a car park, but if it was about a lady's honor, well, I'd be happy to plead guilty at the risk of spending a few days in house arrest." Hyle smiles at her, but Brienne sees another smile.

"Wench," he called her, and the word burned under her skin, flowing through her veins like liquid fire. He smiled as she turned, collecting all her courage. A sad smile, but it was more beautiful than she could remember. It was the sun - when he's crowned by sunlight, he looks younger, almost innocent.

"Brienne," she replied, and she shouldn't have. She should have been calling Thormund, Jon and the whole anti-Lannister team, instead.

"Brienne. It's okay, I like your name Brienne. Will you call me Jaime?"

She recoiled instinctively, and he understood. "OK, you won't. I think we should talk, though."

She recoiled a little more. "Don't go over the fence though."

"I couldn't even if I wanted to, Brienne." His smile widened into a sarcastic grin as he drew back and lifted his leg with an agility that showed how perfectly sculpted and very well well-trained his body was. But there was something about his right ankle that she had never seen before, if not in action films. "Not with that nice bracelet the government gave me."

She was stunned. "You're under house arrest."

"I thought Tyrion had already told you. It was just a scuffle, Brienne, nothing serious, and I was provoked."

She looked down at the scratches on his knuckles and frowned. She could recognize the signs of a barehanded strike. Not even Bronn would have been such a brute. "Ah. Just a scuffle." She thought of Joffrey struggling with his never-ending restlessness and felt the anger rise like a tide in her chest. "Well done, Mr Lannister. The bracelet suits you, its tiny light is such a lovely red. Almost crimson, I'd say. Have a nice evening," she concluded and left, putting on the headphones to immerse herself in some comforting vibes.

Maybe she shouldn't have left. She should have asked him a few questions, perhaps, and now she'd be calm and reassured that it was all just a coincidence.

It wasn't Jaime who hit Red Ronnett, for sure.

Red Ronnett is just a stupid guy who hates everyone because he's too ambitious for his own merits, so no wonder he'd come across someone who kicked him in the ass - and Red Ronnets hates Brienne more than anyone since they were children playing on the beaches of the Tarth and their fathers wanted them to befriend and have plenty of children with his red hair and her freckles, so again no wonder he'd kept up his lovely habit of talking shit about her.

"Brie, is everything all right?" Samwell suddenly asks, and she realizes that the girls are gone and it's probably not the first time he's tried to get an answer from her.

"Of course, Brienne's all fine, doesn't she look gorgeous now that she's by my side? You should put on the hairband I gave you, darling, to match your eyes," Hyle says, and she agrees, even though she's cringing because she loathes being called "darling" and mainly because Hyle's hairband ended up in the dustbin with the clothes she wore on the damned day she kissed Jaime Lannister and put her life in the hands of some deranged God.

Fortunately, the phone rings, and Dany's voice congratulates her on being so generous with Pod, who is a good, clever boy, just a bit shy. When the call ends, Brienne has another guest and a good excuse to postpone her dinner with Hyle. She's too messy to go out with him, she's already told Hyle, and she tells him again as she accompanies him to his car - but he's so sweet and insistent. She says I will. Sunday is ok. 

Sansa helps her choose a dress for the new date, a black one to take the edge off her frame, or a dark blue one.

Even blue is a good color on Brienne.

Podrick

Chapter Text

She tried to avoid him.

In vain, it seems.

Now the choice is to throw him in the river or face him. Brienne's hands twitch, but he's seventeen and she can't push a beardless boy into the water just because he sent those messages. 

Wait, she surely should do it, and save the world from Joffrey.

So instead, she towers over him - just a little, she doesn't use her height to intimidate him, she doesn't have to use any tricks, she repeats herself - and says the only thing she can say.  

"No, Joffrey."

"What? Have you lost even that tiny spark of wit the Gods gave you?"

"No, and I'm not going to change my mind."

"Why?"

"Why? Why is Sweetrobin crying right now? Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you who's shoveling it?" she snarls, feeling like she's in one of those witch and wizard TV shows that Arya and Missandei like to watch with the Greatjon, ignoring the time on the great pendulum clock. "The broken glasses, the toxic spray, the messages, and now... targeting two innocent children."

His eyes are green and a little golden. Like his grandfather's. Not that Brienne wants to dwell on the few minutes she spent with Lord Tywin Lannister. Not the greatest time of her life, but far, far better than the awkward glances between her and the man who spends practically all his time in the garden next to hers, what the hell. Her stomach grinds every time she thinks about the softness of his lips, and how the hell is she supposed not to think about the good killer next door when he's so close she can smell his scent in the air?

The boy in front of her is not helping.

"Calm down, freak, and learn how to count." Joffrey has the arrogance to reply, stroking the fuzz on his chin the way Professor Pycelle used to stroke his beard before he was expelled from the university for unworthiness. "I spoke to one child, not two. I said nothing to ... my cousin? Is Shireen still my cousin? I don't know. But you should congratulate me, freak, for not giving in to the temptation to say anything to the daughter of Stannis the Mannis, when both her parents are involved in the worst scandal of all time. Sex, drugs, and shadowbenders with double-D cups - and did you notice the birthmark on Shireen's cheek? I never make fun of it"

"Shireen is the sweetest girl..."

"...the sweetest and the ugliest if it weren't for you. Please don't interfere with my speech, I find it so rude. As for Shireen's snotty pal, he's the one who's importuning me, not the other way round. I just answered his question, because I'm a gentle person who answers even idiotic questions from children, and I just told the truth, should I blame myself for telling the truth?

She shakes her head, but Joffrey is not looking at her.

He's staring at the house, blue and tormented like the heroine of a song. Today it's the studio that's given in to Jon and his workmen-let's call them workmen because they're actually working, sweating and soiling their clothes faster than Brienne's old washing machine, but unfortunately, their output is inversely proportional to the number of beer cans tossed into the big recycling bin outside their cottage's kitchen. And the house won't be ready until Stranger's Day.

"Again, am I to blame if Jon Arryn's wife tried to murder him because he wanted a divorce?" the boy continues.  "To be honest, Jon Arryn is so old and sour-breathed that he should have been gallant enough to turn a blind eye to his wife's betrayal, even if... Littlefinger. For fucking sake, how can a woman choose as a lover a moron whose nickname is Littlefinger? Argh, Mrs. Arryn must be completely mad, maybe they'll send her to rehab with Stannis and Mum."

"Joff..."

"Oh, don't worry, freak. Mum loves spas and rehab alike, and she really overdid it when she found out her golden twin was under arrest and couldn't claim self-defense like he did when he got rid of Mad Aerys. Or maybe it was the bastards and their claims to the Baratheon fortune that drove her mad. Joffrey sneers and runs a hand over his scalp, a little perplexed, as if he doesn't remember shaving his hair. "It would appear that the drunkard has never been taught what a condom is. Fifteen between sons and daughters, from fifteen different women, as far as I know. The good thing is that Mum won't insist on me having the DNA test now that I have to share the drunkard's money with all these strays, so I'm thinking about doing it. What do you think? Should I do it? Not that I care what you think, you freak, after the kissing thing".

She jerks as if the guy has hit her. "Get off my property, Joffrey. Now."

"Oh, no. Not without pleasing you with my point of view," he hisses, leaning dangerously off the dock to spit into the river. "Nobody cares about Joffrey's point of view, but then when I light a little bonfire just to warm up a bit, it's all a What have you done Joffrey, that's not the way Joffrey, I wish you had never existed Joffrey... I honored you, freak. With my art, with my presence, and gratis. Do you have any idea how much those spray cans cost?"

"Joffrey, of course, I do, since you used my credit card to buy them," Brienne says, but she's not sure it's the right thing to say right now.

Paradoxically, he seems satisfied with the answer, waving his hand in a way that reminds her a little of Laurence Olivier's Richard III and a little of Jack Sparrow - minus Johnny Depp and the wig.

"I meant costly poetically...think of the artist's struggle to separate from his works...Even the messages I wrote for you were a gift, and yet. You disappointed me very much, Freak. Really. I wasn't sure if I wanted to give you another chance, but considering how desperate you are without me, I came back, willing to not even mention the fact that you kissed the walking shit that is probably my biological father, regardless of my mental health. But obviously, you don't understand, as is always the case on your fucking island, where babies are weaned on milk and dumbness, and you insist on talking about these stupid messages."

"Joffrey, I grant you, I have no intention of talking about them." 

"Too late, you freak. Always spoiling my talent. Think of me when I see your phone on the table without a fucking password to protect your privacy. Think of my concern when I see how helpless you are without me watching over you all the time. Of course, I said to myself, time for your daily good deed, Joff, let's do the freak a favor, let's teach her the importance of being careful in this world full of creepy bad people, and there it was. The message you sent him. The proof that you were a spy, in cahoots with the enemy."

His eyes are shining now as if he's agitated. And upset. Brienne pinches herself, but she's awake, and the surface of the river shimmers faintly, as it does every day. Another day of ordinary madness and Arya's teacher is still waiting for her, Brienne, to talk about Arya's behavior at school, as if Arya doesn't have two parents to answer to for the girl's wildness, may the gods be merciful.

"I texted him once, just once, he was worried about you," she replies, trying to relax the muscles in her face, not knowing why she has to bother. Surely it would be better for both of them to drag that skinhead Joffrey into the water.

"Once," you say. Once, because you must have met him somewhere. Otherwise, why did he woo you with all those other messages, I saved them, here they are..." and he pulls out his mobile phone like a magician pulling out a rabbit from a cylinder, "... so much honeyed rubbish. Listen. Should I thank you, wench? Go to hell, I'd rather die than thank you. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but people are never so kind for free. I wonder if you're really kind or just an idiot. I'm not used to friendly people. I wish we'd met some other way, though, so maybe you'd talk to me. Curse me or kill me, but answer me, stupid wench, and I won't go on, because we need positivity in our lives, not disgusting, teeth-rotting fluff.

Brienne recalls the phone buzzing, and she also recollects that she's never opened any of Jaime's messages except the first one, she hurts, and she really, really doesn't want to hear another word about it. She starts to walk and Joffrey grabs her jacket.

"Still, I've kept some doubts, because you're always so unbearably honest that even the whitest lily feels inadequate compared to you. So I responded to the golden shit's messages with a little spice. Nothing too original, I fear, just some of the torrid fantasies Tormund posts on his Insta stories and waited".

Brienne doesn't want to stay, she needs something to eat and calm the burning in her stomach because in the morning she was in too much of a hurry to tell Lord Tywin Lannister what she thought of his medieval need for revenge to have breakfast.

And yet she stays.

"I trusted you, freak," Joffrey yells, "you were supposed to kick him in the ass, make him spit out every damn tooth, reduce his perfect grin to a poultice, avenge me, Tommen and Myrcella. You oughtn't to be worshipping him as if he were some kind of god.

A god. Gold like the sun, and like the sun he's always in sight, usually at the worst moments. For a moment, Brienne gazes at Jamie-he's pale, his hands on the fence - and then turns to the blue house. It looks like an oasis in the Red Waste.

"You shouldn't have made out with him and banished me. It's unfair, and to restore justice to the world, you must give me my room back, along with the cans Uncle Tyrion gifted me," Joffrey concludes, his features altered by the brightness of the river, or the sun, or both. "Please, freak."

Please is such a nice word, she has thought once. An overrated word, she thinks now.

And yet.

"You can't have your old bedroom back, Joff," she decides, "but you can share Galladon's chamber with Podrick."

"Downstairs or upstairs?" are his words.

"Upstairs."

"Ok. I forgive you, this time," he dares to say, grinning as he walks back to the front porch, arm-in-arm with Brienne. "Let's have a smoothie and talk about this Pod. I mean, is this Pod a real person or a ghost like your drowned brother? Not that I have anything against spirits, it was my grandmother's ghost who taught me how to paint and also how to make delicious veg smoothies. I adore ghosts and the Stranger’s Day, we’re going to celebrate it in the coolest way possible, you’ll see. The essential is that your Pod doesn’t snore or talk about himself all the time, as some arrogant, egocentric, despicable people do. Does he talk too much, my dear freak?”

“No. Pod doesn’t talk at all. He stammers, some rare times.”

"He stammers," Joffrey sighs, dramatically loud. "My sensitivity will drive me to an early death, but I'll never leave you alone, my dear freak, never again. How could I? A stutterer, a desperate dwarf and his cynical bodyguard, a perverted wildling who'd like to impregnate you with baby wildlings, a psyco schoolgirl and her bastard brother, a couple of drunks from the end of the world, three nymphs and a glutton who always stares at the less interesting of the trio, and I won't say a word about the children because you're so fond of innocents and losers, but in truth, admit it, is there a normal person among your beloved guests? "

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, the Dragon Kings ruled over the Seven Kingdoms, and burned down the castles opposing to them. 

Till Bran the Broken came, at the end of the longest war - the first King ever voted by an assembly of his pairs, and democracy, somehow, was born.

Brienne reflects on it and feels a bit ashamed, and guilty. Her teacher in Tart, good Mr Godwyn, wouldn't probably approve of her current thoughts. "Well, I suppose it'll be easy in the end," Brienne says, gazing at the slice of apple pie Hot-Pie has brought her. "The results are clear enough."

Oddly, Willas Tyrell shares a strange look with his grandmother, while Margaery's grin widens. Sansa just looks away, down at her phone.

"As the girls have just told you, the vote was unanimous," Jon nods, a little hesitantly. Ashamed, that's the right word. "Well, unanimous, if not for Tor's condition."

"A conditioned vote? Is it regular?" Brienne asks thoughtfully.

"Honeybee," Tormund begins, "I know you're not happy about banishing the boy from the house, so for me, he can stay, if only..."

"If only?"

"Well, if you let me sleep upstairs. For your safety, just for that, honeybee. Not necessarily in your bed, I mean, I like sleeping on the wooden floor - no carpets, just the hard parquet and..."

"...with a nice pair of handcuffs or a pretty rope," she concludes, and the red-haired worker transforms into a giant heart-eyed emoji. "No thanks, Thormund." Brienne turns back to her dark-clothed friend. "Now, Jon, there's one thing I still don't understand. Has everyone voted? I mean, the children..."

It's Margaery who takes the word again. It comes so naturally to her. She's going to make a very skillful president of her college sorority one day. "Shireen and Robert are too green to vote. Tyrion is somewhere with Joffrey, but he should have abstained himself because of his paradigmatic conflict of interest, while Missandei has refused to vote because voting against Joffrey might jeopardize her karma now that she has reached a compromise with the boy's lunacy. Arya has also refused to vote for the opposite reason; she says she believes in anarchy and that "democracy sucks".

"The truth is that Arya wants to deal with Joffrey personally after he convinced Sansa to pose for the famous portrait. No offense, Jon," Tormund affirms.

Sansa turns a violent shade of pink and Mrs Tyrell's tiny body appears to be imploding, shaken by the laughter. "Please forgive me, my dears. It's the Titanic thing, you know, it's too amusing."

"Granny, this is a house, not a ship," Willas Tyrell replies quietly. He's much like his sister, but his big chestnut eyes have the wisdom of a man nearing thirty. "A very nice house, I might add," he concludes, and Brienne blushes, flattered by the compliment. Any compliment about her mother's house means a lot to her, especially now that she has almost run out of money for its never-ending restoration.

"No, and Sansa certainly doesn't have the fabulous breasts of the Titanic actress, but the girl was happy to pose with just a sapphire necklace, wasn't she?" says the terrible old woman in her caressing Reacher accent. "I wonder if she and Joffrey are, well, still fucking or...?"

"No!" cries Sansa, palm facing.

"Granny!" Margaery's voice sounds shocked and angry. She's grey-faced like Jon, currently.

"Come on, Margaery," Mrs Olenna Tyrell replies, wrinkled and cheerful, "you're grown up enough to know that a couple of quickies never consummated any boy, and now it's clear Sansa no longer wants Joffrey to be her friend with benefits, is that what the young call it now? If you want him, make him; the boy is attractive and clever enough, like any other Lannister. Just don't try to use one of those pouty faces of yours on me, I invented them, darling. And close your mouth now, love of my life, you're practically identical to your father, who is identical to that strange fish... what's the name of that fish that puffs its cheeks, Willas?"

"Pufferfish, Granny." Willas looks at Brienne, showing a deeply ingrained nonchalance even as Bronn holds his stomach and rolls on the floor of the brand-new kitchen - and it's not just a way of saying it. "I was wondering if you'd found your mother's necklace, Brienne."

"Not yet," she responds to the only friendly Tyrell, swallowing a bite of cake. Sugar is a great antidote to stress, she has discovered of late. "But Joff didn't lose the necklace, just the big sapphire pendant."

"All the more reason to get him out of here, as we've voted," Margaery breaks in with an uncharacteristic haste. "Unanimously."

"Unanimously. Including you, Sam? Gilly?" They both nod in agreement at Brienne's question, red-faced. "Greatjon? I thought Joff was being helpful lately." Brienne's eyes fix both Umbers in their chairs.

"Well, the boy tried to do... something, but he wasn't born to work, I'm afraid," the Smalljon complains, scratching the skin of his right leg, just under the edge of his rather new cast. "And it was he who told Asha that I'd had a relapse with Alysane, my first wife."

"Yes, but it was Asha who broke your leg, not Joffrey, you bear-fucker," Broon laughs, seemingly on the verge of collapsing again onto the blue and white tiles of the floor. "Still, I want that Lannister pyromaniac far away from my ass.”

“It was Asha with Alysane, and Alysane is strong like Brienne”, says the Greatjon in defense of his pup.

How interesting, Brienne thinks. The Smalljon's prowess has brought a historical truce between Greyjoys and Mormons. “And what has Hot Pie voted? And Pod?”, she finally asks, and enjoys seeing Margaery wrinkling her nose, Sansa biting her lips, and Tormund adjusting the crotch of his jeans. 

“Well, honeybee, the voting committee has decided that Hot Pie shouldn't be admitted to vote until he'd have said his true name, whilst Pod, we forgot about Pod.”

“Pod is always so silent”, Margaery explains, smiling a charming, apologetic smile. “But one missing vote doesn't change the results.”

“The vote is invalid”, states Jon, and seems relieved. Brienne squeezes his hand, fondly.

“Nonsense. Joffrey must be expelled.”

“We can vote again.”

“Pod will vote for Joffrey, that's sure.”

When Brienne clears her throat, everybody shuts up, who knows why? She's smiling, isn't she? It seems they're expecting her to give a speech, Olenna, and Willas Tyrell for first, so she has to say something, in the end - might ol' good teacher Goodwin forgive her.

“If you'd like my opinion on the matter...”, she begins, and they all cheer and want her opinion, so she becomes very, very red. Speeches aren't Brienne's strong point. “I'm not a lawyer or a jurist, yet I'd say your vote is null and void, my friends. Or even worse, I fear, it belongs to the category of non-existent things, and as the enlightened tyrant that I am, I won't merely forget and forgive it, but I will deny its existence on this plane of reality, in the same way, I deny and I'll always deny any fucking democratic right under my fucking roof.”Silence is such a nice thing, and Willas Tyrell is unexpectedly handsome when he smiles. “Coming now to serious matters... Jon?”

“Yes, Brienne?”

“I expect the works to be ended in time for the Stranger's Day, as promised.”

“Of course, Brienne.”

“Perfect. Margaery?”

Margaery tilts her chin. The doe-eyed girl has lost her tongue, apparently.

“I name you the head of the committee for the party we'll have on the occasion of the Stranger's Day. Just remember to include everyone in the preparations.”

“It will be a great party. Skeletons, pumpkins, everything. The children will love it, I'll swear it Brienne.”

“Fabulous. Another slice of cake, Mrs Tyrell?”

“No, thank you, my darling, I'm sated”, the wrinkled woman replies. “I wonder if I can ask you another courtesy, instead. I'd like to stay here for a night or two, the time for that oaf of my son and his wife to breathe. You'd hardly believe it, but I can be a bit thorny, sometimes.”

“You're welcome, the studio upstairs has a large sofa bed, Mrs. Tyrell. But you'll help Sansa to tidy the kitchen after breakfast, on the morrow.”

“Your roof, your rules”, the crone's smile is as wide and white as her grandson's. “And I'm already adoring your rules, darling.”

Triumph has the taste of a delicious apple cake, Brienne thinks, bringing to her mouth another precious bite and finding, finally, the lost sapphire pendant of her mother's necklace.

It costs her only half a wisdom tooth - triumphs are such an ephemera thing, in truth.

***

Tyrion is tall, taller than her.

Brienne tells it to him, and he looks at her with concern. He shouldn’t be concerned, though - Brienne can get up all by herself and walk. And laugh. The anesthesia has made her so light and happy.

It’s like a birthday party, here’s at the clinic where Willas and Olenna Tyrell have brought her – there’s Tyrion, there’s Dany, hello Joffrey, hello doctor, ah, the girl isn’t a doctor, she’s a nurse and she’s really pretty with those startling blue eyes of hers. Brienne compliments her, then denies being lesbian or bi. It’s only that Mya the nurse is so much like Renly, and wasn’t Renly delicious in the college calendar?

He was phenomenal, he was a hottie! The hottest student ever! Dany's wrong, who cares if Renly’s gay or straight, you can dream of his solid ass however, and no, Brienne must confess to Mrs Tyrell that she didn’t know that Renly was married to Margaery and Willas’ brother. That’s cute, that’s all so cute, now that she’s no more in pain.

Of course, she is ready to get up.

Ready. Right.

Now.

Ok, if everybody does insist on it so gently, she can wait on the dental chair for a while. The lamp is so brilliant, like Jaime’s eyes when he stares at her. Oh, that’s a wonder. There’s Jaime, too. Staring at her, again.

Mr. Lannister, pardon.

Brienne has to call him Mr. Lannister, and she must call the police because he has evaded Mrs Tanda’s garden. It’s not fair, someone has stolen her mobile, again, and it can’t be Joffrey because he’s flirting with the blue-eyed nurse, who’s almost 21-22 yo like Brienne. Hey, can somebody tell the nurse that Joff is a minor, and can the nurse be so kind as to tell Tyrion that she needs her mobile back, to call the police? No matter if Jaime is no more under house arrest, and the fact that the green-eyed monster is there to accompany Joffrey to make that famous DNA test is irrelevant, either.

Because it is known, Mr. Jaime Lannister is bad, very bad. A murderer, isn’t he, Dany? Dany? Where’s Dany, now? Ask Dany and she’ll tell every Westerosi that Jaime-golden-hair-Lannister shouldn’t be let free, since he’s dangerous, with a propensity to smile too brightly and kiss idiotic wenches who have never been kissed before and who miss a tooth, now.

You can walk even if you lack a wisdom tooth, in every case, so Brienne struggles to understand why Mrs. Tyrell and her limping, but fascinating, grand-son are both pressing their hands on her shoulders to keep her lying on the chair. For the Sevens’ sake, she has said fascinating to Willas, loudly enough that even Jaime has heard it. Why is he still there - Jaime, not Willas.

Willas is nice and can stay, he’s also Renly’s good brother.

Is Renly a Baratheon, truly? Robert and Stannis’ brother? The world is so small, wow. Wow. Wow. Even Olenna is so small, a tiny dried prune, maybe she’s somehow related to Hyle - Hyle’s short, but good, like her. The crone denies both things, she’s not good and she’s not Hyle’s kin, and when Mrs Tyrell wrinkles her nose in that odd way Brienne guffaws and realizes that she has to hurry, or she will be late to her first true date with Hyle. Today's Sunday? No? Brienne would have sworn it was Sunday. 

And what Joffrey shouts about Hyle is unfair, and she’s not a freak, or better she is a freak but he doesn’t have to call her a freak during such a nice party, so she shoves the boy's hand off. What the fuck. He stole her nail paint again. 

She doesn’t need Joffrey’s help, and decisively she can’t accept Willas’ arm, not after she has said that she finds him fascinating. It wouldn’t be correct, now she's dating Hyle, she has already kissed Jaime with Hyle’s hairband on her head, so it would be quite queer, inappropriate, even Mya the nurse agrees about that - and Brienne can walk splendidly, all by herself.

See, Mr. Lannister? LORD Lannister, pardon. How dare the bald man say that she’s drunk? Brienne is not drunk, And, thank you Mr Jaime Lannister, but she can defend herself by herself, and it’s blatant for every person who has some wits that is the clinic which is moving a bit too quickly under her feet. It’s a fact, it’s a terrible Lannister clinic, and Lord Tywin is a terrible Lord, too, and she’s not afraid of repeating all the things she has already told him, that day, about Joff, and Shireen, and Sweetrobin, and Tyrion, and Jaime. Dear Joffrey - the boy's so naïf, and can’t understand that even adults can suffer because of a father so… so… Mrs Tyrell has chosen the right word, and Briennewouldn't add anything more.

Even because her gums are numb, and bleeding.

Just a bit. Ok, a bit more than a bit.

But she’s not in pain, no more. Only cold. Dr Qyburn’s sedation is surely the best sedation ever – ah, funny, Dr. Qyburn is not a true oral surgeon, according to what Dany has googled out and Tyrion looks more and more concerned. Why? Brienne has never felt lighter, she’s a feather in Jaime’s arms, but ok, she's going to every room they want her to go, doesn’t need to be escorted by an army of Lannisters and Tyrells and Targaryens. Dany’s brother looks a bit off, indeed - the younger one, she means, not the older one, well, Rhaegar’s gorgeous, even if not as gorgeous as Jaime.

She tells it to fucking Lord Tywin Lannister and pats him on his dark suit when she adds what her father has always told her: older men are better, baby.   

Chapter Text

The bear is black and her sword is just a wooden toy. She’s already bleeding - she’s going to die in a few moments. Then he lands just before her, armed with a sharp smile, a stump, and a human bone, lighted up with shining black maggots, and doesn’t listen to any of her words, as usual.

But the worst happens when they’re far from the blackened walls of the castle, ahorse, probably safe. The worst is when he tells her he has dreamed of her. You can’t tell a girl you’ve dreamed of her with that voice and then smile, that way. It’s… it’s the very moment she realizes it’s everything upside down, and it’s her who’s dreaming.

Brienne blinks, her eyes struggling to see amidst the fog. She’s shrouded in green cotton sheets, two annoying short tubes in her nostrils, the horse smell coming not from a horse but from the man seated in a small chair, at her bedside. He’d need a bath, but he has still both his hands.

“Wench,” he says - and doesn’t retreat his hand. In this life, he has still his right hand and it holds hers, like it’s natural for him to be holding her hand.

“Kingslayer?”

“Jaime. I'm Jaime.” His thumb strokes her wrist, slowly. “Don’t worry, wench, if you feel dazed. It’s normal, they say, they had to make you sleep, a while, just a while. Not a hundred years”, he smiles, that smile, again, “or your father would have changed into Maleficent and killed mine.”

“M-my father?”

“He came as soon as my father called him. Don’t know why, but he has been conserving Selwyn Tarth’s number for more than two decades, it seems.” Jaime leans towards a monitor, to press the call button. “They were college roommates or something like that, then things must have gone to rot between them, judging from the way they jumped at each other’s throat. Now, they’re both calm, however, they have to be, since they’re both under house arrest for disturbing the peace, fighting, and resisting arrest.” He looks at her, hesitant, beautiful. “At your place. I know it sounds crazy, but Joffrey still refuses to go to the Rock and your father accepted Tywin's presence, and Judge Catelyn Stark found it a perfect solution… Wonder of wonder, it’s working. Maybe it's Mrs Tyrell. She's short but strong-willed. Jon says the blue house has never been that clean and tidy.”

She smiles, because it's funny notwithstanding all, and Jaime’s eyes go incredibly green.

The green of a leaf kissed by dew.

“Jon was here half an hour ago, with Tarly’s son and a sort of rugged giant who was complaining about another giant stuck at home because of a broken leg. The girls came visiting, too, with the most ridiculous ginger-head I’ve ever seen. Sorry, wench, I shouldn’t speak like that about a friend of yours, but that idiot annoyed me, dunno why. Do you mind if I call you wench? It’s stronger than me, I call you wench even when I…” He stiffens and stops caressing her, the room becoming suddenly aseptic with its pale mint walls. “I-I was saying that everybody came, Brienne. Everybody.”

“Yes, unfortunately, we’ve suffered a very colorful invasion of strays, thanks to you miss Tarth.” Dr Targaryen comes in, with his very unsettling, very scornful, lilac eyes. Someone might find him handsome, but not Brienne, not with that voice. He seems chewing a glass every time he opens his mouth to mutter a word. “Nurse Pya had her trouble getting rid of those two absurd jerks who claimed to be, respectively, your brother and your sister, as if they hadn’t the Lannister and the Stark marks.” The white coat wrinkles his nose as he glances at Jaime. “You can stay, Lannister, or you can go washing yourself. The second option is highly recommended. In every case be silent: I detest being bothered by the blah blah blah of caregivers while I'm visiting a patient.”

Jaime's nostrils flare, but he doesn't leave, and Brienne feels relieved. “Now, miss Tarth, here we are.” Dr. Targaryen sits and stares at her, still as a statue of ivory and silver. Something is strange in his gaze, something is... dead. “I suppose you're wondering why you're here after having come for a banal dentist visit.” She nods, managing to get seated, a quick glimpse at the golden shadow leaning on the wall to be sure Jaime's still there. “Nothing of special. Dr Qyburn wasn't an anesthetist but a sort of scientist pursuing unauthorized studies on the effects of methamphetamine on young, athletic bodies. A moron, he underrated the fact you're a woman, despite your corporal mass, and caused you a nice hypertensive crisis, soon resolved by my brother, Dr. Rhaegar Targaryen, who boasts a deep, personal knowledge of drugs, since the day Lyanna Stark dumped him and his dornish wife didn't reclaim him back.”

“A hypertensive crisis?”

The man snaps impatiently his fingers close to Brienne's ear. “Miss Tarth. I'm not the kind of doctor who enjoys mingling with patients or repeating a hundred times the same notion, so keep concentrated. A hypertensive crisis, yes, your blood pressure spiked up but you started bleeding from your nose and gums like a slaughtered pig and that probably saved you from an aneurysm. Now, I'm the best oculist in all Westeros and I'm here to exclude other pleasant complications. Look at me and tell me what you see.”

A silver-haired robot, Brienne would like to answer, but this man is still Dany's brother and she's fascinated by the strange fixity of his gaze - until she understands. She's mirroring herself in a glass eye, a piece of art, a perfect imitation of a real one.

“Someone hurt you”, it's all she manages to say, getting rid of the oxygen tubes.

The man smiles a satisfied, tested smile. “Not someone, Aerys, the king of our lovely home. First, he hit me with a poker, and then he made me thank him because he had left me one good eye. Aerys was such a thoughtful father and husband. My mother cried for a week when your cuddly pet, here, cut his throat.” Brienne starts and the man's smile sharpens. “Tears of joy, for sure. I've finished. I'll examine you better in my office, with all the instruments, but it seems your sight hasn't been damaged, miss Tarth. I'd have hated it, it would have been such a waste and you can trust me, about that.” The good eye shines, wickedly, lustily. “I'm quite ...fond of eyes. I'm a fervent admirer of them, a fetishist someone may say, and yours are quite extraordinary, Brienne.”

“Miss Tarth, for you, Vyseris”, growls a lion in the background.

The slender man stands up lazily and fluidly like a water snake, his lilac, hypnotic gaze fixed on Jaime, now. “Well, Lannister, you should recall it was my testimony to get you acquitted from all charges. I lied more than willingly, yet. Even Targaryens pay their debts, whenever they feel like it.” The doctor stops on the threshold, licking his lips. “Just between us, pretty boy, I love also green eyes and a nice threesome, occasionally. Just let me know when and where and how I've to dress.”

“Piss off, Vyseris.”

“Ok, ok, no need of being rude, I'm leaving. Just think about it, lovebirds, I can be very obliging, from time to time.”

The door closes and Brienne feels immediately better. She reads tension and discomfort also in the way Jaime's shoulders are set as if he's ready to snap at the first sideways glance.

“It's time for me to go home, wench”, he says, in the end, and picks up his leather jacket.

“Would you give me a ride?”, she blurts, surprised by herself. Jaime freezes, an unreadable expression softening his features, quickly emptying the space between them as she hints at leaving the bed. “I mean, I don't want to spend a minute more in this madhouse”, she explains, troubled by his silence and, more, by his sudden closeness. “If it doesn't change too much your plans or ...other. After all, we're neighbors.”

“Neighbors.” His is a hard smile, or maybe he's only tired. Very tired. “Sure, wench.”

***

A ton of signatures and papers later, they leave behind them the smell of disinfectant and the skeptical, angry look of Dr Robin Ryger who wastes all the arrows of his eloquence to convince them not to quit the clinic. The car is the same, red and lavish, but today it's sunny. A gorgeous day of mid-autumn and she's quite drunk of colors, of beauty, of life – and when they pass the old bridge she'd swear she has already passed it with Jaime, while jogging together, the carpet of leaves crunching under their running shoes.

“Stop. Stop here, please,” she says, as she spots the place.

The car halts with no sound, and she climbs out, the breeze amazingly tepid on her cheeks.

“Brienne”, Jaime follows her among the trees, “what's wrong?” Did I...”

“Nothing's wrong”, her steps are a bit uncertain, now. She's still a bit dumb, maybe she won't find it again. Then, here it is, the weeping willow with its twisted branches. One of them is fallen into the glittering water, for the rest it's all identical to what she has been treasuring for years in her memory. “I just want you to see a thing.”

Swallowing, a lump closing her throat, Brienne points at the low branch where two children tied a small star of silver plastic, now become of a queer yellowish white, more or less the same stupid shade of her hair. “We used to come here, my brother Galladon and I, pretending this was our throne. I was four, when he and mother died, drowning in this same river, not far from here, and my father brought me back to Tarth, letting the blue house almost crumble on itself. But it's my mother's house and Gal's and mine, not only his.”

It's warm, uncommonly warm and many insects have been deceived by the fake summer. With a swift move, Jaime catches a gnat before it can bite her scarlet neck. “I was seven when my mother, Johanna, went to the hospital for birthing Tyrion and never came back. Something went wrong during the C-section and they managed to save the babe, but not her. I was so angry and Cersei was even angrier.” His voice is low but so harsh that Brienne has to support herself to the trunk. “I had only Cersei at that time, and she had only me. It began like that, sharing a bed, comforting each other, then it became... other. It didn't feel wrong, at all. Even now, I'm not repented and I'm not going to apologize about it. Or about anything else, and I've no clue of the reason I'm here wasting my time with an absurdly tall child when I'm in dramatic need of a bath and of a dozen hours of sleep.”

The absurdly tall child swirls around the angry-eyed gentleman and gets rid of her hoodie. The sneakers follow it soon on the stony shore. It's so hot.

“Wench, what the...?”

“I need a bath, me too, and I'll bet my chamber and my bathroom are occupied, by my father or by yours or by the both of them, for all I know.”

One of the band-aids on her arm is mulish like a Tarth and yields only after a good minute or two. She frowns when she notices that Jaime is still there, underneath the willow. Not that there's so much to be seen, on her, so jeans and a t-shirt are hastily left beside stockings and shoes before her feet feel the smooth slickness of pebbles and sweet coolness of the water. In a few strides, the river grows deep and green, allowing her to swim, finally.

Free.

For a while, at least.

“Never known someone stupid and stubborn like you, wench”, he hisses from a handful of inches, a drop falling from his brow just to get entrapped by the hairs of his cheek. Brienne's tempted to reach out a hand and help it join its brothers, below the grumpy surface of the river. “You've just left your hospital bed, you foolish, pampered, and touchy...”

She plunges, paying no attention to his muscled legs, to resurface behind him. That drives Jaime crazy, judging from the number of curses he dedicates to blind girls who should only thank the Gods for being still alive instead of being great, but a great, pain in a poor man's ass.

A very tonic ass, even better than Renly's and Renly's a underwear model, Brienne thinks, gaining rapidly the opposite shore, glad that the pretty bottomed man can't see her tomato cheeks or insubstantial tits, under the useless pink bra.

“Wench, wait...” he spurts out. “Brie!” Jaime gurgles, struggling to keep his head above the water, and her body reacts before she can even think of reacting. Her strokes are efficient enough to make her reach him in the middle of the river before he can drink too much, and she's strong enough to hold him, wrapping her arm around his chest and resting his head on her shoulder.

“Cramps”, he wheezes, as he recovers a bit of his breath.

“Ush, Jaime, it's ok, trust me, just breathe and try to be less rigid. Like that, good. Trust me.”

***

The river murmurs, telling Brienne the sun is slowly disappearing in the west and soon they'll be cold – still, she hesitates before waking him.

He needed badly to rest, and he had practically fallen asleep while she was still massaging his thigh muscle to impede the cramps from coming back. She hadn't slept a minute, instead, covering him at the best of their possibilities with her hoodie and his jacket, trying to ignore the sensations caused by the contact of her goose-prickled skin with his bare torso, when she curled herself on him, because he was trembling, notwithstanding the warm day. He was really tired - exhausted, and not only because he had been at her bedside for two long days and two long nights.

The things Jaime has murmured to her about Aerys storm in her mind and she hurts, feeling so hollow inside. He was only seventeen. The same age as Joff, the same inquietude the same fits of anger, and Dr. Aerys Targaryen, the heading light in the field of psychology, suggested the teen cleanse himself with a curative... pyre. His family, for a start - the entire city, in the future, together, like a monarch and his sworn man.

She watches Jaime, lingering on every detail she can steal from the weird position she has assumed and he's so impossibly beautiful and quiet while asleep, as if they have just spoken of the weather, of their favorite pizza or color... it all seems even more absurd, and far, and she'd never want to break the spell. The willow says something stupid, urges her to get on her feet, and, in protest, Brienne closes her eyes for a heartbeat, no more, and he's dressed in white and gold, his beard longer, inviting her to come closer, telling her that blue is good on her.

It's Jaime to wake up for first, in the end, her hand still tangled in his hair - shame and guilt hitting her with such a sudden strength that she's barely able to breathe and utter a few monosyllables before greeting him.

The moon is pale and small in the sky when Brienne arrives - afoot, alone - at the gate of her too-big and too-enlightened home.

Chapter Text

Mother Rhoyne is happy, she has no worries: she flows, sweetly,  making no sound, without leaving her bed, she leads towards the sea, in her beautiful green robe.

Cradled by the soft waves, her body hers again, strong and relaxed as never before, Brienne spies the sleeping form lying beside her, warm and slightly sweaty, finally comfortable in her skin, blessed with that special satisfaction that comes from making the right choice.

***

 

"... so that's why it can't work between us." Her neck was stiff, her temples throbbing. "I accepted your invitation only to tell you that we must stop seeing each other. Tonight."

The smile in front of Brienne didn't fade - in fact, it widened. "I love you when you're so brutally honest." His left hand squeezed hers affectionately. The right fumbled suspiciously in his pocket instead. "I love you. Period." A very tiny packet stained the tablecloth Tiffany blue. "Marry me, Brienne."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"I've never been so lucid in all my life. You and me, Brienne, riding through the forest like two hedge knights of old, whether your father disinherits you or not." Her mouth opened and closed, seeking oxygen like a fish on the deck of a ship. "Yes, I've asked your father for your hand. I won't repeat his exact words, nor the threats I received from his whiskered sidekick, because this is too magical a night and we won't let a few irrelevant details ruin it."

"It's not a detail that I don't love you, Hyle."

"Oh, my darling, that's perfectly all right, you'll change your mind in due time and so your father will. I didn't love you to begin with." The kiss he left on her knuckles was a little too wet for Brienne's taste. "I even thought you were completely unattractive, but I was tired of working as a gardener every afternoon and Mrs Baratheon's money was all I needed to finish my studies in peace."

"Mrs... Cersei Lannister Baratheon?"

A little stunned, he nodded. "Didn't that psychopath of a son of hers tell you everything?"

"He has a name, it's Joffrey."

Hyle shrugged and waved to a passing waitress. "Champagne, please." He turned back to her, his grin unshakable. "Open the box, Brienne, don't waste any more time on rich, problematic people like the Lannisters or the Baratheons. The lady only wanted a few juicy pictures of you for a considerable, well absurdly high amount of dragons, but then you looked so lost at the mall,  your hair a mess and your chin trembling, and the only thing I've thought since then is that your lips are made for kissing."

"All lips are made for kissing." She let go of his hand and jerked to her feet, leaving enough money on the table to pay for the champagne and the food they hadn't even ordered yet. "Goodbye Hyle."

"Goodbye?" The brazen man followed her out of the restaurant with his ridiculous Tiffany box and his even more ridiculous mop of brown hair. "I love you, darling. Let's talk about it."

"No, thank you."

"Let me at least take you home."

"The freak doesn't need a ride," said a voice Brienne knew all too well. "Not from you, mister Cunt." Joffrey detached himself from the wall of the restaurant entrance and took a few steps in their direction, towering over Hyle. He had grown lately and was now four or five inches taller than his mother's former gardener, but he looked even taller in the high-heeled studded boots he wore. "I'll walk her home."

Hyle started to laugh, and the tiger on the back of Joffrey's hand showed its fangs as the boy clenched it into a fist, but Brienne started to move, dragging the young Visigoth away, wondering what she had to do with this mangy, hissing cat of seventeen and all the unauthorized tattoos he had collected while she was in hospital.

*

The house was dusty. Noisy. Arya was owling, again, and it was midday. And Brienne was 50% pleased and 100% terrified to ask Podrick why he and Joff were smiling like twins separated at birth. Then Pod left. 

And she couldn't leave Sweetrobin's side until their game was over. Jon passed by, smelling of oil and with a satisfied face that wasn't his. She wondered if she had renewed her life insurance - all her insurance.

*

He smiled at her and it hurt. He was too much like Jaime, sometimes. "You must come with me."

"No way," she replied. "I'm still angry with you."

"For Hyle? Nay. You're not." Joffrey replied, and he was right, damn it. 

"Where?" 

"How much will you pay me if I tell you?"

"Zero-point-zero dragons"

"Then you'll have zero-point-zero answers."

*

Joffrey sneered and pedaled, pedaled and sneered, to the bus station. Incredibly, the pink and blue bicycle withstood their weight, and even more incredibly, they made it to the airport in time. He kept refusing to tell Brienne where they were going.

"My birthday, my rules," the boy said with the same nonchalance with which he had told her how he had managed to escape the surveillance of Selwyn and Tywin. "Pod's already inside. Bronn and Tor even helped us get our passports in record time, but the money for the trip is mine, some idiot gave me a ton of dragons for two of my sketches after what I did in the tube."

She stared at the passport in disbelief. The document looked normal, and she was a monster, too worried about what Joffrey might have done in the tube to be ashamed of not knowing such an important date.

"I don't have a gift for you, sorry."

"You're the gift, freak," the boy gave her a queer look from behind long lashes heavy with pink glittered mascara. "I can't leave knowing that you're here, helpless, battered, and a bloody fool. If it wasn't for me, you'd soon be Mrs Cunt, argh." She made a spurt that was half a laugh, glancing uncertainly at the enlightened boards. "Come on, I've already bought the tickets, Sam's promised to talk to Prof Aemon while Auntie looks after the house and children."

"Auntie? Not Dany, I hope."

"For God's sake, freak, I have a conscience, I won't leave a cat in the hands of Dany and Uncle Ty. Aunt Genna is my grandfather's sister, she was eager to help, even more so after the Greatjon burped a few compliments in her direction without even taking his eyes off her bosom. The Greatjon, what the fuck! Women are a mystery. So, are you coming or not?"

"Okay," she replied quietly. She had nothing with her. But her clothes were almost all gone, recycled by Joff, and she could buy a toothbrush anywhere. She didn't need bags. Instead, a break was damn necessary.

After all, who was Brienne to stop a lovely lioness from turning her house into her hunting preserve? And she had returned to work too soon after the hospital, and she was so tired of the recurring headaches, of the never-ending work, of all her beloved guests asking, asking, asking, and getting into trouble, even if the kids were far better than her father telling her how to run her life, or Tywin and Tyrion's allusions to the pretty boy next door.

A boy? Jaime was certainly not a boy.

Jaime.

"Let's get to the bloody plane, Joff."

*

Podrick had drifted off, snoring softly like...

The airplane seat was suddenly uncomfortable.

"Joff, have you told your... well, have you told Jaime that we're going to Essos?"

The boy blinked, the tiny heart tattooed under his right eye staring at her enigmatically as he re-fastened the seatbelt, which Brienne didn't remember unfastening.

"No, freak, but you can call him when we land. You already have his number, don't you? The daily calls you never answer."

*

Just one call. Five minutes. She was thousands of miles away. She could do that.

"Jaime?"

"Brienne? Is that you?" she heard him inhale sharply, hard, louder than her heart, and her heart was drumming at 146 beats per minute, at minimum. "Wait... just a moment." He closed a door and shifted a rolling chair. He was probably in his office. "Ok, I'm alone, woman. Brienne. I mean. How... how are you?"

"I'm fine, Jaime."

"What's that noise? A loudspeaker?"

"We're at Penthos Airport, Joffrey, Pod, and I." A muffled sound, nothing more, from the other side of the sea. "Listen, Brienne, I can be there in a couple of hours, just..."

"No, no, it's all right, Joffrey's booked a boat trip on the Rhoyne."

"A cruise." Jaime paused and she didn't know what to say. But it was good to hear him breathing. "You left the clinic only a week ago, Brienne, and you never returned my calls. Tell me you're 100% okay. Tell me you don't want me to get on the first plane."

Fuck, she almost burst into tears right then and there. Because of the song coming from the shiny speakers. Because of the words that Jaime had chosen, because of his voice, hoarse but sweet, curling the tips of her toes. Because she wanted him in Penthos, right now, but not for the rescue of a helpless girl.

"I need a break," she said, echoing Joff, and it was true. She needed to get away from everything. First of all, from Jaime.

"Oh, sure." Another pause, bittersweet, as long as a guitar solo. He exhaled. "Brienne?"

"Jaime?"

Another pause. Longer.

Wandering & wandering

What place to rest the search

The mighty arms of Atlas

Hold the heavens from the earth

"Tell Joffrey to take care and call or text me sometimes. I won't bother him or you, I promise." There was a strange noise as if he were swallowing. Several times. "Take care, you too, and if you want, a call, a text, anything, well, I'll be waiting." A crunch of leather, on the other end of the line, perhaps Jaime adjusting his chair. "Not that I want to force you to call or... you know what I want, Brienne. I'll be waiting, alright?"

 

***

 

The light floods into the small cabin of the old pole boat, converted by Mr Connington to meet the needs of tourists and tells the Maid of Tarth that it's time to reach Arianne for breakfast. She stretches her legs, cautiously.

Not gingerly enough.

"Hey, sweetheart, good morning," the voice is raspy, the eyes bright. A hand reaches for Brienne's hip, gentle and possessive at the same time, but all Brienne feels is a tickle that makes her laugh, an absurdly shallow laugh.

"Come on, Tyene. A no is a no."

Disappointment makes dimples appear on the Dornish girl's face. "In Tarth, maybe, but it's different here," Tyene purrs, lazily pawing at the sheets like a cat while Brienne searches for her swimsuit. "And no is the saddest experience you'll ever know."

"Stop quoting songs and movies where it rains frogs, and hurry if you don't want to miss Ny Sar and its ruins!" replies Brienne, who is already on the narrow stairs leading to the hold, to the glittering majesty of the Rhoyne.

She arrives just in time to defend Ysilla's pancakes from the onslaught of the boys of the twin mast boat, captained, as usual, by Griff, a sort of Joffrey with blue hair who speaks tons of languages. The boys lose, as usual, and to regain their freedom they have to do the dishes, it is known.

***

"Pod's snorkeling with... giant turtles? I don't know, Brie, it sounds dangerous."

"Jon! Dear Gods, you were sixteen in the wild, in the Frostfangs."

"But I was there to save his ass, honeybee."

"Is that Tor? Hi gingerhead, how about giving up that creepy habit of listening to other people's conversations?", she chuckles, pleased to see him. The quality of the video is so bad that Tormund's beard appears to be tied in bright green, old-fashioned Tyroshi style.

"Honeybee, how about coming back? I miss you."

"Yes, we all miss you, miss."

"Who was that?" With both Joff and Nym pressing down on her arm to poke their noses into her life, Brienne has lost all contact with the screen of her phone. "The Smalljon?

"It's me, Hot Pie."

"Hot Pie?" Nymeria says nothing, stoic, Joffrey grunts instead as Brienne elbows them to get her phone back and see her boy. "So happy to hear your voice, Hot Pie." Her heart is three times the size it was in the morning, and in the morning it had already grown to astonishing proportions thanks to the turtles.

The boy scratches his head and shrugs his shoulders before the line drops. Pity. Brienne bites her lower lip, but if the connection is too weak for a video call, she might be able to send a text. To Hot Pie, via Jon. Maybe a few other texts. To Missy, Arya, and all the girls and boys. Just for them. Her thumb lingers on the send button, too long.

"Who is this Jaime?" Tyene's question turns Brienne's skin into a field of red blotches and goosebumps.

"My uncle and presumably also my father," Joffrey replies unperturbed, continuing to nibble at his chili.

"You see, Griff, you're not the one with the most fucked up family," Arianne interjects piquantly.

The boy scratches his head and shrugs his shoulders before the line drops. Pity. Brienne bites her lower lip, but if the connection is too weak for a video call, she might be able to send a text. To Hot Pie, via Jon. Maybe a few other texts. To Missy, Arya, and all the girls and boys. Just for them. Her thumb lingers on the send button, too long.

"Who is this Jaime?" Tyene's question turns Brienne's skin into a field of red blotches and goosebumps.

"My uncle and presumably also my father," Joffrey replies unperturbed, continuing to nibble at his chili.

"You see, Griff, you're not the one with the most fucked up family," Arianne interjects piquantly.
Griff's reply is swallowed by the river as Brienne dives in to reach Podrick in the water again. She is not there to think about Joff's family. Of Jaime.

But the water is green all around her.