Chapter Text
The Summer Isle; sweltering heat, scantily clad flesh baked with mosquito bites. Renly’s brilliant idea of a destination wedding just had to involve everyone sweating from every nook and cranny of their bodies. What seems to be a wonderful idea on paper and the planning board is now costing all the guests close to a third of a true Valyrian steel sword.
Brienne is cutting it slim herself despite her- well her father’s fortune from the Tarth Resort and Spa and she didn’t even want to be here in the first place. A very pushy and over the top request from the Tyrell’s mixed with a drop of poisonous guilt tripping, has Brienne blocking an entire week for her ex-boyfriend’s wedding to her- now friend, Loras.
It was a long time ago, something Brienne always say when everyone questions her why, oh why is she still friends with her ex who didn’t even wait a whole day to get with his much younger co-worker and is now marrying said co-worker with Brienne present to see the holy matrimony.
Truly, a part of Brienne is a sadist. She must have a taste of the angst. For what is life without it. Brienne lives a quite and sometimes lonely life and heartbreak is no stranger to her, in fact in this case, she welcomes it. What better way to finally put a full-stop to her story with Renly then to watch him march down the aisle to organ music.
Brienne joins the wedding party a day late. In a flimsy attempt to appear aloof perhaps. She stays to the back of the party and interacts with Tyrells, latching herself to a flute of cool champagne at all times. Not a drinker herself, but if one must endure the Tyrells, the Baratheons, the Freys, the Tarlys and oh my god, the Lannisters, one must drink and drink and drink.
She spies her eyes on two golden blonde heads in the corner caught in a what can only be described as a bitch fight waiting to happen. Ah must be the Lannisters. The blonde women had pulled herself up with haughty disdain at the man and poured her drink onto his white shirt. Brienne snorted from behind her own glass.
At times the rich and famous are entertaining in their out-of-this-world conduct. Their usual decorum can be thwarted with the right amount of potent liquor.
So potent in fact Brienne feels a little drunk and woozy herself.
She moves past a giggling group of young beautiful harpies who spluttered at the sight of Brienne. She let that reaction slide of her shoulders and makes her way to an open door and oh fresh air. A little walk in the gardens might return her equilibrium.
A retching sound came from a nearby bush and Brienne automatically went into a defensive stance which was proving hard, in the tight slinky dark blue dress Margaery Tyrell stuck her into earlier that evening. She realised someone was vomiting.
Jaime’s entire body content must have been emptied onto the bush. So much so he feels extremely wrung out and the dry heaving is not helping. He feels a light stroking on his back and wonders if its Cersei. The most beautiful heinous woman he has ever met who is also his step-sister slash ex-lover who couldn’t squeeze a drop of empathy from her cold, cold heart.
So, no it can’t be Cersei.
“There, there,” the hand spoke. A deep feminine voice.
Bent over with only the dark green of the leaves in his immediate view, he could see the tail end of a shimmering dark blue dress.
Jaime continues to retch. How terrible. He has flirted with every single woman in the vicinity to spite Cersei and cajole her to finally accept his proposal. The only way to turn on his charm to anyone not Cersei was to get plastered with champagne. Maybe he took one step too far considering his current predicament.
Stop this, Jaime. She doesn’t love you the way you love her, Tyrion would say if he saw how pathetic Jaime is right at this moment. But no, Tyrion is not the witness to this downfall, instead a steady present soothing his back and murmuring nonsense placating him is here to help wipe the drool of his face. Okay maybe not to that extent but he hopes she could help him to his room. He would surely drop face first into the dirt without help.
He reaches for a steady hold and clasps his hand around warm, callused fingers.
“Help,” he croaked, his throat dry as a bone.
“O-okay,” she pulls him gently away from the bush and sits him down on a stone bench nearby, “I’ll get you some water and you, you just stay here.”
He immediately slumps on the chair, face on the cool stone.
The woman returns with a tall glass of cold water, crouches down to face him and pokes his cheek.
He cracks open his eyes to find wide arresting blue ones filled with pity. She pulls him up with one hand and gives him the glass. She straightens her posture and his eyes follow up, up, up to the wispy white blond hair. He sees her face. God, she’s ugly. A scowl formed on her unfortunate face. Did he say that out loud? He drinks his water still looking up at her.
His eyes threaten to close again and the glass slips from his hand. Quick reflexes from the tall, imposing woman avoids them from picking up glass all night under the moonlight.
“I think its time you head back to your room, sir.” Her tone clipped.
With his eyes closed, “Can you help?”
A long suffering sigh escapes her and she jerks him up.
“God, you’re built like a bull aren’t you.”
She swings him like a rag doll so he faces the way back to the guests quarters. He feels weirdly thrilled to be man handled. Must be his drunken brain.
“One more word from you, and you are sleeping under the staircase.”