Chapter Text
The penthouse suite of Red Keep Towers was exactly what Brienne would have pictured, if she had pictured anything at all; ostentatious and impersonal, and teeming with glittering people and false smiles. It was not at all like the lived-in elegance of Evenfall Hall, no centuries of history to ground you. She kept her posture straight, her shoulders squared; she did not choose this world, but it was not entirely foreign either and she would not shy away.
“It was so good of you to join my brother here this evening, Ms Tarth.”
Brienne glanced across the room to where Jaime was in conversation with a guest and just as quickly looked away, turning to face the source of the voice. She’d never met Cersei Lannister before, but even without her comments Brienne would have recognised her easily enough—the golden hair and green eyes were obvious, though it was a twist of her lips that cemented the resemblance. But where there was often mirth in Jaime’s expression, there was only a cold blankness in his sister.
“I was happy to be invited,” she said, stiff and polite. Not that Jaime had intended to come, until he’d heard Baelish was meant to attend; one telephone call and a hasty RSVP mid-afternoon and… well, they were here now. “He always speaks well of you.”
“Hmm,” Cersei said. “I’m afraid he doesn’t speak of you much at all.”
The words were sweet as sugar, delivered with a smile, but Brienne felt the barb beneath as Cersei had no doubt intended. She won’t like you, Jaime had said, earlier that afternoon. She doesn’t like anyone without the Lannister name and a bank account to match. Try not to let it bother you, she can sniff blood in the water.
Brienne inclined her head slightly. “Police work does not make great dinner conversation, I suppose.”
“No, certainly not.” Cersei’s nose wrinkled in disgust, before her expression smoothed once more. “Still, it was kind of you to join your partner—”
“We’re not partners,” Brienne said, too hurriedly. “I’ve been fortunate enough to work with him, but we are based in different precincts. He is…” her fingers worried the cuff of her shirt, “very good at his job.”
“Hmm,” Cersei said, and even her shrug was elegant. “I suppose those medals for bravery must be worth something, though I’m not convinced they aren’t just meant to flatter my father.”
Brienne bristled, then breathed deeply. “I wouldn’t know about that, but I do know I would not be here this evening without him. He has saved my life, more than once.”
“Strange, he’s never mentioned that.” Cersei arched a brow. “I can’t imagine there are many police officers in such dire circumstances regularly.”
“No. Most of us will never have to draw our guns,” Brienne said, placid now, not adding that she had a reputation for taking on the impossible cases—it had been punishment, at first, Tarly’s response to the audacity of a woman in his station, but it had stuck because she was good. She knew she was good. She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t good, wouldn’t be facing….
Silence fell for a moment, and Brienne found herself looking towards Jaime once more; he’d finished his conversation, only to be drawn into another, two flutes of champagne in his hand. Cersei smiled again, laying one perfectly manicured hand on Brienne’s forearm.
“Your outfit is very… unusual, Ms Tarth.”
Brienne flicked her eyes down, taking in Jaime’s pleated white shirt opened at the neck, the thin scarf, the long silk skirt beneath. They’d only had a few hours notice, but it was correct, if not particularly fashionable.
Cersei sighed, all careful theatrics, and gave a commiserating smile. “My brother… he doesn’t understand how these things work, for women. I imagine he sprung this on you so late you had no chance of finding something more appropriate. Or seek a manicure.”
Brienne kept her nails short, neat, buffed. Practical. Unremarkable, except for now.
“As you say.”
“Really, he’s so careless,” Cersei continued. “Tell me, were you his second choice, or his third? There are so many women who would be happy to accompany him, but he’s always so determined to spite our father. Showing up with a police officer from a family of no consequence....”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Cersei tapped one long finger against the moue of her blood red lips. Across the room, Jaime turned from his conversation long enough to smile at Brienne, his eyes widening when he saw who stood beside her. Brienne shook her head slightly; It’s fine, she hoped to convey, keep talking.
“Those are interesting cufflinks.”
Brienne glanced down at the twin swords that fastened her sleeves, her skin burning at the memory of Jaime securing them, his thumbs sweeping against the pulse at her wrists, lifting them up to press a kiss against each.
“Your brother lent them to me,” she managed to say, certain her face betrayed all the things her voice did not.
Cersei gave a sharp laugh. “Oh dear,” she said. “You’re in love with him. How droll. Does he know, do you think?”
No. They didn’t, couldn’t—
Her gaze sought out Jaime again, all charm and poise in his tux as he spoke with the cousin of a friend of their suspect in the Stark case. Baelish had been a no-show, but Jaime had kept working, had felt the ticking of time as keenly as she did.
“A bit of friendly advice,” Cersei said, leaning in with a conspiratorial gleam. “He’s fickle, Jaime. You might be a novelty for a while, and you’re certainly useful in his spiting plans, but when it comes down to it… Jaime always chooses his family. You might have him now, but you can’t keep him.”
Brienne couldn’t. She knew that. She’d known it that afternoon when she’d answered her phone, when Jaime had told her they would have a chance to speak with Baelish outside the station, when they’d fallen into bed and he’d buried himself deep inside with her legs around his hips and she’d said it as he went to pull away, Jaime, Jaime, not yet. She knew it, and yet to hear it…
“Excuse me,” she said. “It was lovely to meet you.”