Chapter Text
Nobody had warned her that the Kingslayer's brother was a dwarf.
Nobody had warned her that the Kingslayer was like that. God-like.
Nobody had warned her that she would have to wed him. The god, not the dwarf.
Somehow, from the way the Lord of Tarth was clutching his elegant fingers around the slender goblet, almost wanting to smash its delicate silver reliefs, it seemed to Brienne that either her father had been warned, if not in the last few hours.
It was surely a wrong assumption, another one of those silly thoughts birthed by her restless mind.
And yet.
Her eyes drifted to the table. The tablecloth was embroidered in gold with stars and suns, but it was poorly ironed and was clearly not one from Princess Daella's dowry. Nor was the tableware the finest Evenfall Hall had to offer. A huge chiseled tray of roast pigeons and ducks, comically stuffed with oranges and pepper and cinnamon in the manner of Pentoshi, was placed between her and her betrothed - and Brienne heard him sneer for the umpteenth time that evening. He was not pleased, of course. Not a hint of a quail, a mallard, a pheasant, or a partridge, as if there had been no time to hunt. Everything spoke of haste, of tension, of sloppiness.
It was definitely not an appropriate dinner to welcome the Queen's brothers.
Not an adequate betrothal dinner.
Brienne herself was harnessed in the pink-and-cream brocade gown she used for the Sept, a plain dress, compared to the one she had worn for her meeting with Ronnett Connington... She regretted thinking of Connington and his damned rose again, as she felt her neck go on flame, in the usual, splotchy, hideous way, and then the cheeks and the pale skin beneath the voile that Septa Roella had given the girl to cover her already chaste neckline - as if Brienne at sixteen could boast anything worthy of a man's interest.
She froze and stopped tormenting her lower lip as the Kingslayer leaned against her.
"My lady, you don't look entirely at ease." His breath was fresh, good-smelling, not stale and torturous like Wagstaff's when she had thrown him into the dust, but the thought of being kissed by this stranger almost made her vomit and her disgust showed. It showed violently. "Ah. I see," the Kingslayer said flatly. "Well, if you intend to challenge me as you did your last betrothed, I suggest you reconsider." He drew closer so that she could almost feel the whiteness and boldness of his sharp smile on her skin. "I'm not a decrepit castellan, I'm a... I was a chosen one of the Kingsguard." His voice had suddenly gone dark, all the mirth gone from it. Angry as he was, he was still damnably handsome. How a person could be so shockingly attractive while madly stripping off a meager pigeon's thigh was beyond Brienne's comprehension.
She tried to distract herself by recalling the perfect line of Lord Renly's jaw, but the barbarian at her side sprawled back in the chair, his muscular leg resting on hers, and Renly was gone. And she couldn't go away, nor make herself small, for she wasn't that kind of girl - slender-waisted, graceful, delicate.
Eyes down at the large purple stain on the tablecloth she had clumsily made at the very start of the meal, she began to move her thigh lightly but firmly, forcing the intruder to retreat, and she got it, he moved his leg away - only to remove his hand from the empty goblet and place it on the calloused palms she had hidden in her lap. "Take it easy, wench," the scum gave her another ironic grin, "there's something my brother has yet to tell you, something you might even find... interesting."
Interesting. The word slipped down Brienne's spine like cold, chilling sweat.
It was then that Lord Tyrion began to clink a silver knife against the goblet to attract the attention of the half-empty hall, causing the harpist and flutist to break off their song.
"My honored guests," the little man began, rising and remaining absurdly short, " no word is fit to describe the delight I feel to be here on such a pleasant and moving occasion. Probably my happiness is second only to that of my brother, who is obviously deeply taken by Lady Brienne's kindness and grace..." the people muttered, and one idiot raised a hesitant toast as the chuckling, golden-haired scum lifted one of Brienne's hands to plant a courteous kiss on her knuckles, "...and this urges me to request an immediate, private audience with His Lordship, the Evenstar. To discuss the terms of the wedding."
She hastily withdrew her hand, on the verge of shouting. Of wiping out that leonine grin with a smack.
Her father looked like a statue, still, beautiful and unreadable. He waved his hand, and the hall echoed with the footsteps of people leaving in amazement. Septa Roelle was the only one who turned, pale, to send her a desolate look from the threshold.
The gleam in the dwarf's eyes was mid-green and mid-black, very self-confident. A discomfiting look and the Lannister man was aware of it. Surely he used it with the same ease he used his father's gold to get what he wanted. Now he seemed to be looking at Brienne and her father at the same time, but the Evenstar, despite his proverbial laziness and good temper, was no easy prey. The blood of the Storm Kings ran strong in him, Brienne hoped - and feared. Tarth couldn't dare defy the King again, and the island was a small thing compared to the power of Casterly Rock.
"Very well," Lord Tyrion cleared his throat and started to pace, a flagon of wine in one hand and a goblet in the other. "Let's put some sense into this ordeal." The Kingslayer rolled his eyes, annoyed or amused, it wasn't easy to decipher the spark in the cutting gaze he reserved for her. "The terms are quite simple and unfortunately non-negotiable. The first two healthy sons are for the Rock, and so are the first two daughters, the rest can inherit Tarth. Since that sounds like a lot of work, I think the wedding can take place tonight, and may the gods bless the bride with fecundity and the groom with wisdom."
At this, the groom burst into a strangled laugh, stopping as the Lord of Tarth jerked to his feet with a dragon's roar, to take Brienne and shove her away just before the Evenstar knocked over the majestic oak table with a single blow. In the clattering confusion, from the curled position on the floor the girl was forced to maintain by the Kingslayer's grip on her, Lord Selwyn looked very much like his great-grandfather, King Maekar, whose portrait hung in the left-wing gallery: silver-haired, imposing and bloodthirsty.
Any other man would have grabbed a weapon or fled, but Lord Tyrion stood imperturbable, intent on pouring wine into his goblet, and Brienne's mind was crossed by the ridiculous thought that the dwarf's only concern was for the goblet he had saved from the Evenstar's wrath as if everyone else in the room were no more than puppets pulled by his strings.
"Jaime, you owe me a hundred dragons," said Lord Tyrion, deadly calm, sipping his red Dornish with a cautious umm of appreciation. "Whereas I owe you a whole table of delicacies, my Lord Tarth, and even a table, it seems. It will be a pleasure to repay your Lordship if your Lordship has the patience to listen to my entire proposal and the intelligence to leave both of Lord Tywin Lannister's sons alive and unharmed."
The name of the Castameres' doom still echoed beneath the great painted vaults of the banquet hall as a dozen guards, most of them wearing crimson cloaks, peered from the door. Lord Tyrion dismissed them with a curt nod, and Brienne's father did the same with the spare knights from the household of Evenfall Hall. Then, only then, Lord Selwyn looked down at her and she blinked twice, uselessly, her throat dry, the golden stranger's arm still pressed against her waist while the other evil Lannister waited for an answer - his crooked, deformed shadow, taller than the one cast by the Evenstar, almost touching her.
She didn't want it touching her, as she didn't want the Kingslayer touching her anymore. She shuddered and the pressure on her waist increased slightly - why, whether to block her or protect her, she couldn't say.