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The regalia was heavier than she expected.
Brienne’s memories of her father in his formal court dress were rather hazy, it was true. Selwyn Tarth had not made regular visits to the capital, and had not brought his family when he did. Her older brother had made the trip several times before his unfortunate death, but Brienne had been deemed too young, and perhaps too ungainly, to benefit from the exposure.
So the full extent -- and heft - of the stiff tunic, the lined cloak, the sash and the belt, the rod of office and formal dagger and the rest were unexpected. The costume dragged at her shoulders and pinched her waist, and itched, scratching the back of her neck and catching under the arms and driving her to distraction. There was a pin in a seam someplace near her bosom where the seamstresses had made a last minute alteration to account for the fact that this Evenstar had breasts, however small in comparison to her height.
She stuffed a small kerchief into the front of her cotehardie, wriggling it between the offending seam and the soft flesh over her ribs. The attendants around her, still busy lacing her surcote and hooking the cloak of her office onto her shoulders, slapped her hands away from her own front.
“My lady, be still,” her lead attendant hissed at her. “We’re nearly done, and you don’t want us to have to start again.” Another woman flicked the cloth back out of her tunic front and smoothed the fabric down, firmly pushing Brienne’s breasts back into alignment with the row of buttons and back into contact with the sharp bit inside her clothes.
She sighed, and dropped her hands, and let the women dress her like a very large, ungainly, doll. They only wanted her to look well for the court, to be a leader that the men with her were proud to follow and to swear to.
She was standing obediently with her arms out, surrounded by the hum of her dressers and the mutter of the clerks rehashing the finer points of the ceremony, when the Royal Hand entered her rooms without invitation or announcement.
“Lady Brienne!” Tyrion intoned. “You look … “ he paused to cough, and theatrically craned his neck up, and then down, “stately, as always! You look ready to take your place among the leaders of the great, at last. Of course, I always thought...”
She spoke over his new cough, interrupting to ask for the news she truly wanted. “Is he here? Have they arrived?”
He dabbed a cloth at his mouth, stopping mid-sentence. “I’m sorry. He was not yet here when I went to bed last night, which was rather early this morning. The trip is long, and he doesn’t travel lightly these days. I’ve had no word that you have not heard yourself.”
She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes in frustration. This was not a day she’d expected to face alone.
It had been four months - or more? - since she’d left Jaime and their older children at Casterly Rock, to ride as fast as could be managed with only a small group of household guards in the hope of reaching her father’s bedside before his passing. They’d made the trip in a nearly unbelievable time, stopping only to change horses, eat, and sleep enough to be able to ride again. She had seen her father, had been by his side for his last few weeks of life, and held his hand as he drew his last breath. She’d stood vigil and buried him, and made the actions official that she’d had to take in his name in these last few years as his memory had begun to fail. Closer to five months, now that she counted the weeks, and some moments, It felt like no time at all had passed, for she’d been in constant motion since the raven had arrived at the Rock to plead for her return. But most of the time it felt like years, whole days and weeks stretching out in which she’d barely spoken except to issue orders and heard nothing except for reviews of inventories and accounts.
She’d forgotten, in her years of marriage, the ache of being lonely in a crowd of people.
Her husband was to have followed her back to Tarth, at a more reasonable speed, with the rest of their personal household. But the news of Selwyn’s death was followed by an order from King’s Landing: The new Evenstar must come to court to have her titles confirmed and receive the Crown’s blessing in person. The decimation of Westeros’ noble houses meant Brienne was the highest ranking and best trusted of the Stormlands lords, and that trust would now be affirmed by investing in her the position of Lady Paramount of the Stormlands.
Which would make Jaime even more firmly her vassal and not her equal. He would not just be the husband of the Evenstar, with no title of his own, but he would be the Consort to the Paramount. Brienne was not ignorant of the whispers about that among certain factions at court - what sort of man would accept that? And Perhaps he thinks to remain at Casterly with the child, where he can rule in all but name? And the old favorite Did they take his cock along with the hand, and did she catch it for herself when they threw it to the dogs?
“It’s time, my lady,” her Master of Arms said softly, leaning in. Brienne looked up and realized that she was surrounded, now, by her retinue, all in their own ceremonial finery. She had left her castellan at Evenfall to handle daily business, and most of the Tarth Guard to supervise the port and patrol for pirates. But today’s events required that she make a good showing, and that the houses that supported hers were seen to be with her at this moment. The heads of the major families of Tarth, or their heirs, were here to watch her back and take their own oaths.
“They’re all supposed to be part of this,” she started. “They’ll need to witness and sign….”
“It needs to be done today while all the representatives from Dorne and the North are still here,” Tyrion interrupted. “The legalities will be covered, Brienne, I promise.” He paused, looked at her for a long moment, and continued, “It will be fine this way, and it will be done, and you can go home.”
Home. A home that was hers, and would be her older son’s - but Tyron’s slowly failing heart meant that her second son would soon enough be required to live in the castle he was heir to, with his father to teach him his own family history.
At Tyrion’s gesture, an aide opened the door, and she followed Tyrion out of her room and down the narrow hallway, her master of arms following at her right shoulder and her warden of exchequer at her left. She heard, more than saw, the rest of her men fall into line behind them, while a somewhat alarming number of royal pages had stepped up to walk in the space between her and Tyrion.
It was stately. It was courtly. It was something she’d dreamed of as a girl - taking her place in the world, fulfilling her father’s need for a strong heir, being acknowledged by the men she worked with as not just an equal, but a leader. And a wave of discomfort washed over her, a physical sensation so strong she almost laughed. She felt ridiculous, sewn into her itchy, heavy, robes so she wouldn’t trip over the hems. She felt like a little girl dressed in her father’s uniform, totally unsuited for the position she was about to take up.
If Jaime were here, he would have laughed, and perhaps made a jest, and they would have shared a look that promised more laughter at Tyrion’s particolored cloak of office or the plumes on the page’s hats, and the pomp would have been less overwhelming. But it was only her, trying to move gracefully in her hastily-altered robes, leading these good men to make promises to her in exchange for her protection. Not for the first time, she wished she could look more like the leaders in the tales, for them and for their families.
To her honest surprise, the people of Tarth had welcomed her gladly on her return in the spring that followed the Long Night. They’d acknowledged her as her father’s obvious successor even before he’d made her status official, and they had accepted her marriage to a man whose family had wrought many of the worst events of the war. She knew they sang songs about the Blue Knight’s deeds in the Last Battle, and she had heard they met any mockery of their Lady Warmheart with more than just angry words. For them, she must put on the vestments, and appear before the great lords, and say any words that were asked, without hesitating or stammering or blushing.
She followed Tyrion and his pages, and yet more officials, as they turned into wider corridors and descended decorative staircases into halls nearer the center of the keep. They passed groups of courtiers who stood back to watch them pass. Some bowed, some made other courtesies, some women who were further back turned to whisper to their neighbors and she thought of what they might be saying about how little the finery could improve the ungainly new Evenstar. She wished she might have let one of the dressers try to paint over the worst of her scars. She wished, very much, that she wasn’t by herself in this crowd of near-strangers.
Soon -- too soon -- their procession came up against a large wooden door, where Tyrion stopped them. He waited while the young man who must be his own personal secretary counted up the Tarth party to ensure they’d all arrived, and then tapped the shoulder of the captain of the guard who stood nearby. The guard took a large mallet from a hook by the door, pounded three times, and pulled the door open.
Tyrion stepped through ahead of her, walking slowly down the long aisle toward the dais at the end and his own place in the Hand’s seat. Brienne, obedient to the instructions she’d been rehearsing in her head all morning, waited. Alone at the head of her house’s procession, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and waited for the words that would launch the next stage of her life.
From behind, a herald called out, “Brienne, Heir of Tarth, comes to affirm her fealty and receive her estates of the Crown.”
From somewhere at the front of the crowd another voice replied: “Let the Heir of Tarth come and be received.”
Brienne had practiced the words and actions so many times that now she was able to do what was expected as easily as she could move through the first exercises with her sword. Walk forward, kneel, say her words, listen to royal words, repeat more words. Receive even more regalia and be dressed in it by a group of pages. Kiss the cincture of the high septon and have the diadem of her new office placed on her head.
The ritual took less time to complete than she’d spent preparing for it, and soon there was only the final part.
“Brienne of Tarth, Evenstar and Paramount,” the septon intoned, “Who stands next in your line of succession and what promises will they make to the Crown?”
She stumbled over an answer. They’d rehearsed this as it should be done, with her heir and consort at her side to make their own oaths to her and to the crown. In her nervousness earlier she had not asked Tyrion what happened now.
“My heir in Tarth is my trueborn son” she began, “But he and his father are not yet here.” She stopped, unsure of how she should continue, but Tyrion, at that moment, smiled widely, rose from his seat, and called out, “The consort of Tarth and the heirs have just arrived, your graces, and can come forward.”
The crowd began to murmur and she heard the creak of wooden benches as people shifted to see what was happening behind them. Brienne turned her head away from the dais, all thought of the dignity of the ritual lost, and saw her husband and two oldest children coming at her down the aisle. Jaime’s hand was firmly on their son’s shoulder, while their daughter was holding onto his false hand and toddling at his side. Brienne’s heart pounded traitorously hard, so that she felt it in her throat, and her blood rushed in her ears. She knew her face must be flushing violently, and as Jaime stepped up to the front of the assembly, she opened her mouth but was unable to form words.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “there were some unavoidable delays, but we would not miss this.”
And then, as though he had not just made a last-minute entrance at a solemn royal occasion, dressed in riding leathers and smelling of horse, he fell to one knee beside her, pulling the children down next to him. Unprompted, he took her hand in his own and swore the consort’s oath. At his nod, their son spoke his own vows softly, but with accuracy that told of many guided recitations.
Brienne was still so off-balance that Tyrion, now at her side, had to prompt her next action. She offered a shaking hand to Jaime, pulling him to his feet at her side for the final words of investiture, to receive the kiss of peace from their sovereigns and hear her title proclaimed over the assembly. To her surprise, the crowd erupted with cheers and applause. Behind them, her bannermen turned and waited for their lady and her family to pass them on their way back out of the hall. But she was frozen in place, gripping Jaime’s hand between hers, all her senses drawn tightly to the feel of his thumb making gentle circles on the back of her hand, to the sudden contact of her little girl’s arms around her leg and her son’s hand against her elbow.
“You came,” she whispered. “I had thought …”
“We came,” he answered, and she realized she was smiling the smile of an idiot at a mummer’s play. “We came,” he repeated, “and now I think we must leave before they have us removed.” He freed his hand from between hers and moved it to her waist, turning her towards the exit, walking them together back the way she’d come alone. She could feel the warmth of it through all her ridiculous layers of under and over and outer robes, and she leaned towards him, into the heat of him.
In the outer hall, their orderly line dissolved, as her household members were offered cups of wine. Brienne realized she’d stopped in the center of the room as the celebrations began around them, and then all the wind was knocked out of her as Jaime turned to face her fully and wrapped both arms tightly around her, his hand behind her head to hold her face next to his own. She felt his breath warm and ragged in her ear, against her neck, and knew hers must be likewise. She shut her eyes tightly and pressed her forehead against his shoulder, breathing deeply to keep her tears at bay, and the feel of his fingers combing through the hair at her nape seemed to spread down her back and through her body, warm and calming.
When she pulled her face away from his shoulder, Jaime kissed her chastely on the forehead and then murmured in her ear, “I am sorry about your father, wife, but I look forward to seeing you rule.”
She tried to discreetly wipe her nose against his shoulder, and he laughed. “You thought me embarrassed at being outranked by my wife and petulant about the ceremony, did you?”
“I wondered if you’d decided Casterly was a more comfortable place after all?”
He wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her even closer, pressing the full length of himself flush against her. “Don’t be ridiculous. My comfort is being as close to you as possible.”
She sighed again into his neck. Soon enough, they’d have to face their new reality: she would need to remain close to Tarth and soon make a formal progress through the Stormlands, while Tyrion’s noticeable ill health meant Jaime would soon be called on to serve their second child as regent for the Rock. They’d had more uninterrupted time together than many noble couples were granted, and when she was clearer headed she was grateful for that.
That was the future, though, and right now she was in Jaime’s arms, their children at their feet. She was safe, she was loved. She was home.