Maiden Mother

by LibKat

Summary:

Just fired from her job at Lannister and Sons department store, Brienne Tarth finds a whole new life when she picks up a bundle left on a doorstep.

Notes:

This fic is based on two movie adaptations of the same story: the wonderful “Bachelor Mother” starring David Niven and Ginger Rogers and the less wonderful “Bundle of Joy” with Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher. I’ve made some alterations to suit the essentials of who Brienne and Jaime are at their cores. I’m hoping they won’t be too OOC.

This story is set in a New York City-esque Kings Landing ca. the 1930s during Winterfest, a seven-day celebration mirroring Christmas and New Years.

Disclaimer: A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones and these characters belong to a whole bunch of people who are not me. I will return them undamaged when I am finished playing with them.

Chapter 1: And A Very Happy Holiday To You, Mr. Lannister

Chapter One

And A Very Happy Holiday To You, Mr. Lannister

Brienne Tarth fiddled with the display of scarves and mittens that she had managed to jumble with an errant elbow for the second time that morning.  Lannister and Sons Department Store, located in the heart of Kings Landing’s shopping district, had many different departments.  Accessories was the seventh area she had been assigned to in her four weeks as a Winterfest season hire.

The Accessories department was so crowded, the tables so close and overloaded with items meant to catch the eyes of shoppers desperate to complete their Winterfest gift list.  Every time Brienne turned around, she was in danger of knocking something over.  She was already going to lose much of her week’s pay packet replacing the dented display sign that had been yesterday’s disaster.

If only she could work in Sporting Goods, as she’d practically begged Mr. Tarly when she was hired.

Still, Accessories was better than her miserable week in Ladies Lingerie.  The nasty, gossipy salesgirls had been more than happy to point out her every deficiency, and not a single customer had been willing to have her massive hands measuring them for foundation garments.

Much of her pay packet that week had gone to buying two bras that met the standards of the formidable Head Buyer for Ladies Wear, Mrs. Tyrell. 

And now her shoulders were uncomfortable from overly tight straps of her AA purchase from the “Mademoiselle’s First Brassiere” collection.  At least Brienne had been able to put her foot down when padding her minuscule bosoms had been mentioned.  Convincing Mrs. Tyrell that Brienne had nothing and wanted nothing to “lift and separate” had been a special kind of humiliation, kind as the older woman had tried to be during her fitting.

And let us not even speak of the Toy Department, where she’d spent a horrible afternoon sweating in faux direwolf furs as Lord Snow’s tallest child of the forest. 

Brienne heaved another sigh as she waited and hoped that she’d make at least one decent-sized sale before the lunch break.  She leaned as inconspicuously as possible against the counter, trying to relieve her aching feet in the thin-soled pumps that should have been replaced at least six months ago.

If she were in Sporting Goods, she might be allowed to wear sensible brogues rather than these silly heels that were older than the secretarial diploma that she had wasted her modest inheritance from her father to obtain.

As if any man wanted an over six-foot, desperately homely secretary in his outer office.  What had she been thinking?

Getting the holiday season job at Lannister’s had been the very best that had been offered in three long months of hunting.

Sighing again, Brienne straightened up as Mr. Tarly, the head of the floor managers, and his cohort of dark-suited, white carnationed assistants came through to take one last look at the displays before the main doors were opened to the day’s customers.  He stopped to sneer at the counter Brienne had just finished straightening.  His slavish group of followers echoed his expression.

“Miss Tarth,” Tarly barked, “what is the meaning of this?  Is this a display you feel is worthy of Lannister and Sons?  Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.  Redo it.  Immediately!”

As Tarly moved on to the next cowering salesclerk, his crew of acolytes tut-tutted as each passed Brienne.  Brienne barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes to the heavens as she once again began refolding the scarves and mittens into hopefully Lannister’s worthy piles.

‘Boy, Tarly sure has it in for you, huh, Stretch?”  Hyle Hunt, the stock boy who delivered the merchandise to the ground floor of Lannister’s, leaned against the display counter, getting fingerprints on the glass that Brienne had already spent ten minutes cleaning.

Holding onto her patience with both hands, Brienne frowned down at the shorter man.  “I don’t know what I could have done to anger him so badly.”

“Nobody has to do anything to anger old man Tarly.  He was just born mean.”  Hyle frowned at Brienne’s hands as they tried to make perfect squares out of the long woolen scarves on her countertop.

“Here, Stretch, let me do that.  If you make a hash out of it, Tarly will not be happy.”

“Thanks, Hyle.  My hands just aren’t made for this fiddly work.  I wish I could repay you.”

“I know how you can.  Come to Clegane’s with me tonight.  There’s a pool tournament, and between the two of us, we’ll be unbeatable.  The prize is a cool fifty dragons.”

“Fifty dragons!?”  Her half of that prize would pay off the cost of the display sign and still leave plenty for Brienne to buy groceries this week rather than scrounging out of the employee cafeteria.

But the last place a “Lannister’s Girl” should be seen was a low-rent pool hall like Clegane’s.  If Tarly got even a whiff that Brienne had gone there, he’d fire her for moral turpitude faster than she could chalk up a cue.

Brienne glanced around to ensure no one was paying any attention to their conversation. “I can’t take the chance, Hyle.  Going there once was a bad idea, even if we didn’t see anyone from the store.  With that kind of prize money on the line, there’s sure to be a big crowd.  I’d be asking for trouble.”

“But listen, Stretch, I have a perfect plan.  You can dress up as a man.  Nobody would expect that you would do a thing like that, all prim and proper as you are.”

“It’s too big a risk.  I must do well here.  I have to get hired on after the Winterfest season.”

“You keep hoping for that, Stretch.  But … oh, here come the hordes.”  The doors to Lannister’s opened promptly at nine o’clock.  Hyle finished folding one last scarf and then turned to leave.

But then he stopped. 

“Well, would you look at who it is.  The golden prince himself.”

Ambling through the great, gilt doors of Lannister’s main entrance came a tall, ridiculously good-looking man, dressed incongruously in a cashmere evening coat, open to show a tuxedo beneath.  His golden hair was mussed, a beard shadow marred his diamond-sharp jaw, and dark glasses covered his eyes.

“If any of us dared to show up this late for work, we’d be out on our ears,” Brienne muttered.  Resentment snaked up her spine, and her shoulders and neck muscles tightened.   

It must be nice to be born with a silver spoon and not have to comply with any of the rules of Lannister and Sons.

“That’s the difference between being a wage slave and the boss’s son, Stretch.”

Brienne sneered at the scion of Lannister and Sons for a moment before schooling her expression into something more agreeable as she crossed her fingers below the counter that at least one of the customers streaming through the doors in his wake would need something from her department.

***

Jaime leaned his aching head against the cold metal of the elevator wall as the box slowly ascended to the executive floor at the top of the Lannister and Sons building.  With his rampant hangover, the noisy crowd on the main floor had been a particular brand of the hells. 

He shared a glance with old Davos, the elevator operator who’d been at Lannister’s for as long as Jaime could remember.

“Rough night, son?” The old man smiled at him.

Jaime tried to smile at the man who’d kept a pocketful of sweets for a little boy bored while visiting Father’s office, but the corners of his lips refused to lift.  “I’m getting too old for this, Davos.”

“More than time for you to be settling down, Mr. Jaime.”

“Oh, not you, too.  You sound like my father.”

“Man reaches an age where all he wants is to take it easy and dandle a few grandbabies on his knee, son.  Your da ain’t so different from the rest of us.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Near thirty-five years this Winterfest season.”

“And after all that time, you can think that my father is anything like a normal man with a normal man’s desires.  You are either mad or a perpetual optimist, Davos.”

The elevator car arrived at its destination, and Davos leaned past Jaime to open the gate.  “An eternal optimist, I hope, ser.  Now you go and get a shave and a change of clothes before your da sees you.”

“Have a good shift, Davos.  I hope all the unruly children choose Boros’s elevator.”

“Ah, the wee ones are just excited for Lord Snow.”

The elevator began its descent as Jaime wended his way to his office.  He held a finger to his lips as he tiptoed past the partially open, massive wooden double doors of his father’s sanctum sanctorum.  Thankfully, Tywin’s secretary liked Jaime and would not rat him out.

He was almost home free when his father’s voice called out one word in a tone as dry as the Red Waste.

“Jaime.”

How did he do that?  Tywin Lannister had a supernatural sense for catching his only child in embarrassing situations.

“Yes, Dad,” Jaime answered, his shoulders drooping.  This was not going to do his hangover any good.

“Come in, son,” the voice of doom ordered, “and shut the door behind you.”

Pretty, deceitful little Pia gave Jaime a sympathetic glance as she shrugged her shoulders and removed her hand from the intercom button.

“Tarly called up as soon as you entered the building,” Pia whispered.  “I had to let him know.”

Bloody Tarly! The man could not get over the fact that he would never rise any higher in the company since his last name wasn’t Lannister.  And he took it out on every employee except for Tywin.

Jaime ran a hand through his hair, hoping to bring it into some semblance of order, then he walked through the doors and greeted his father with all the nonchalance he could muster.

“Morning, Dad.  Happy start of Winterfest week.”  The sennight of the holidays were the most profitable days of the year for the store.  Jaime hoped reminding his father of all the lovely coins coming his way would distract dear old dad.

No luck.  Jaime’s father looked him over with a gimlet eye.

“What do you mean coming in at this hour of, looking like you haven’t even been to bed?  What kind of example are you setting for our employees with this kind of behavior?”

“An example of someone who knows how to have some fun in their life?”  Jaime tried out the sheepish expression and puppy dog eyes that had gotten him out of almost any trouble since he was in short pants.  Unfortunately, they rarely worked on his father, particularly when his eyes were bloodshot and gritty with exhaustion.

Before Jaime could sit down, his father stretched a long bony finger at the sideboard that held his coffee urn and cups.  A glass filled with a poisonous-looking concoction in a muddy rust color sat there.  Jaime gulped when he saw it.  Dad’s hangover remedy would either cure you or kill you, and you were never sure which you wanted while you tried to choke it down.

“Every drop, Jaime.”

Stone.  How did his father make his voice sound harder than the granite of Casterly Rock?  Nobody argued with Tywin Lannister when he used that tone.

“Yes, ser,” Jaime sighed.  He took a deep breath as he picked up the glass and then chugged it down as quickly as he could.

For a few horrible seconds, Jaime thought his insides just might become his outsides.  Dad must have doubled up on the horseradish and cayenne pepper.  Jaime swallowed and swallowed against his rising gorge.  Tears dripped from his eyes and onto the limp collar of his pleated tuxedo shirt.  He dug into his trouser pocket, hoping against hope that he had a handkerchief.  He didn’t wish to give his father the satisfaction of seeing him dry his eyes on his shirt sleeve.

“Once you have recovered, you may pour yourself a cup of coffee.”  The granite left his father’s voice.  Tywin always enjoyed the spectacle of delivering comeuppance.

Once Jaime was sure that his hands had stopped trembling, he filled a china cup with the rich, dark coffee Tywin preferred and settled himself in one of the guest chairs in front of his father’s desk.

Tywin had turned his attention to one of the two piles of papers that were always on his desk, one to do and one completed.  A single sheet sat in the middle of the blotter and was the focus of his father’s gaze.  Tywin would pay no more attention to his son until he had completed the task at hand.

Jaime sipped at his coffee and prepared his exhausted and booze-addled brain for one of his dad’s lectures on the dignity owed to the Lannister name.

After several idle moments cataloging the décor of his father’s office for the millionth time, Jaime sat to attention when Tywin cleared his throat.

“I’m ready to hear your explanation of your behavior now, Jaime.”

That was a new one.  Jaime usually sat silent for at least twenty minutes before his father made Jaime try to justify whatever actions he was being called on the carpet for.

“Ummmm,” Jaime knew he looked like a deer caught in headlights.  Damn Dad for wrongfooting him like this.

“I would have thought your costly education would have left you slightly more articulate, son.”  His father almost cracked a smile.

“Ummmmm.”  What was going on here?

“Shall I start for you?  You were out all night with that pushy Castamere girl.  She convinced you that drinking and dancing were more important than getting to work on time and meeting your family obligations. And …” 

Tywin’s voice trailed off.  Jaime rushed to fill the gap, just as his father expected. 

“I don’t understand why you dislike Cersei so much, Dad.  She’s exactly the type of girl you say you want for me.  Heiress of a wealthy family, good Westerlands stock, the most beautiful woman anyone has seen in years.  I think you’d be over the moon that we’re seeing each other.  If we were to marry, it would join the two largest department stores in all of Westeros.”

“She’s a Castamere, Jaime.  That family is not to be trusted, and I certainly don’t want any of them getting their grubby fingers anywhere near Lannisters!  If that’s what she’s angling for, you can tell her to forget about it right now.  I wonder how long she might stick around after.”

“You’ve never gotten over that takeover old man Castamere tried on Grandfather.  You may let it cloud your judgment, but it won’t cloud mine.  I lo … I like Cersei very much, and I will keep seeing her for as long as she’ll have me!”

“You are my son, and you will do as I say!  Lannister’s will be yours one day, young man.  It’s time you started paying more attention to the business and less attention to the social scene.  I won’t be around forever, you know.  And you are getting too old to be running around every night like some silly Tyrell.  By the time I was your age, your mother and I were married, and you were already walking and talking.  I’ve given you too much rope, Jaime.  I have to rein you in before you hang yourself.”

“Mixed metaphors aside, Dad,” Jaime smirked at his use of his costly education there, “if you won’t let loose the reins of the store, how can I do anything but come along for the ride?”

“Your Uncle Kevan has decided to retire.”  Tywin delivered this news with a hard stare straight into Jaime’s green eyes.

And Jaime heard the death knell of his carefree existence.  Kevan was Tywin’s right hand, first mate to the captain of the Lannister’s ship.  He dealt with everything from what was served in the employee cafeteria to when to change out the summer for the winter stock.  Tywin took care of the big picture, but Kevan was the details man.

“I see you appreciate the impact of his decision.  You will spend the next six months taking over Kevan’s duties.  And since you made me wait this morning to tell you about this, you will start with the most unpleasant one.  The temporary staff needs to be let go at the end of the week.  Each of them will receive a pink slip in their pay packet.  You will be the one who distributes the packets.  You will listen to all the complaints and stand strong before all the tears and pleas.  You will not offer permanent employment to anyone who tells you about their sick mother or children who need shoes.  Do you understand?”

Jaime hated this.  He was beloved by the staff.  He was sure of it.  He was the fun, handsome jokester who shared a quip with the stock boys and flustered the salesgirls with his smile.  But nobody liked the guy who delivered the pink slips.  Dropping the hammer on the seasonal staff would make Jaime the least popular man in the building (after his father) until well after the new year.

Still, Father was the boss.  Father still controlled Jaime’s trust fund and would until he either married or reached his thirty-fifth name day.  He had six more          years until five and thirty.  Since he couldn’t make himself say that he loved Cersei, even to his father, much less to her, marriage was probably a good way off as well.

As long as Dad held the purse strings, Jaime followed orders.  He sent Tywin an insouciant salute, just to show that he might be down but not out, placed his coffee cup on the edge of the pristine desk out of spite, and made his way to the doors.

“Oh, there is a termination to take care of today.  According to Tarly, it can’t wait until the end of the week.  The girl is a walking disaster.  He insists that she must be gone before the afternoon crowd of shoppers arrives, or the Accessories Department will be far below its expected sales.  You will take care of that as soon as you have cleaned yourself up and dressed appropriately for the work-day.”

“Yes, my lord.  All shall be as you say, my lord.”  Jaime muttered under his breath as he closed the door behind him.

Pia sent him another sympathetic look as he leaned back against the wood and collected himself.

“You couldn’t have warned me?” Jaime inquired.

“I was under strict orders, Mr. Jaime.  And you know your father when his orders aren’t obeyed.”

“Yes, I do.”  Jaime rubbed his forehead at the return of his headache.  And not because of a night of drinking, dancing, and dallying with the most beautiful woman in town.  It seemed like Tywin Lannister had decided it was finally time for his heir to grow up.

“Would you have the cafeteria send me up a full breakfast, Pia, with extra bacon and fried potatoes?  I’m going to need fortification to get through the day.  Is my dry-cleaning in my office?”  Jaime smiled as the secretary nodded her head.  He wouldn’t have to resort to an off-the-rack suit and dress shirt today.  “Give me twenty, no, forty minutes, then send up the poor girl Tarly had taken such a dislike to.”

“Of course, Mr. Jaime.  Right away.”

***

Brienne waited anxiously outside the office door inscribed “Mr. Jaime Lannister” in gold leaf.  She was surprised to receive the summons to the executive floor and even more that it was the son, not Kevan Lannister, who asked for her.  Mr. Kevan, as he was called by the staff (only the big boss was called Mr. Lannister), usually gave the good news when a temporary staff member was given a permanent position.  And there was no other reason for Brienne to be called up to the top of the building.  All the temporary staff knew that they would be given their notice in their pay packets at the end of the week.  That was the way it was always done at Lannister and Sons.  And the company held to tradition as though it was their religion.

Brienne could hear the clinking of cutlery against fine porcelain and smelled a whiff of bacon in the air.  She hoped her stomach wouldn’t growl during her meeting with Jaime Lannister.  The free lunch in the cafeteria was the only full meal she was getting these days, and it was still hours before her break.  She didn’t want to make a poor impression on one of her new bosses, especially one she felt at such a disadvantage with.

Jaime Lannister was a staple of the gossip pages and the employee rumor mill.  Even from a distance several times, and obviously under the weather like this morning, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.  As much as she had resented the privileges that came with his last name, she could not deny his attractiveness.

Brienne had always had a weakness for pretty men, though they’d never reciprocated.

Please, Lord Snow, don’t let me blush and stammer in front of him.  I’m not asking for anything else for Winterfest, just not looking like a fool.

Brienne heard a groan of satisfaction.   Dishes rattled like a tray was being moved out of the way.  She quickly turned, pretending to be engrossed with the portrait of the founder of the company.  “Lann” Lannister was the clever fellow who had turned a cartload of goods from Essos into a mercantile empire.

The door opened behind her.

“Miss Tarth?”

The voice started out smooth as honey, with just a touch of masculine roughness, but had risen an octave when it finished.  Brienne knew most people were startled the first time they saw her six-foot-plus, broad, muscular frame.  She hoped Mr. Jaime’s surprise didn’t bode ill for this meeting.

She put on her best, closed-lip smile as she turned around.  She didn’t need to add her crooked, too large teeth to the impression until it was unavoidable.

“Yes, Mr. Lannister, I’m Brienne Tarth.”

The boss’s son rocked back on his heels as he had to look up to meet her eyes.  He wasn’t much shorter than she, three inches or so with her mandatory high heels on. 

Brienne wondered if he’d ever had to look up to a woman.

“Please come in, Miss Tarth.”  Lannister led the way into his office and waved her towards a chair in front of his desk.

Brienne’s feet sank into the plush Tyroshi carpet.  The painted walls gleamed white, and wood trim and furniture glowed from polishing.  Besides the usual office furniture, there was a sofa, and a sideboard with a drinks set-up and the discarded serving tray.  Not plastic with the heavy, durable ceramic dishes and stainless-steel cutlery used by the staff.  The tray was almost certainly rosewood, the china was boldly ringed with crimson and gold, and the silverware was etched with a stylized lion at the top of each piece.

The rich really were different.  If this was the kind of service the son got, what did old Tywin insist on?

Jaime Lannister cleared his throat to claim her wandering attention.  He looked a bit shamefaced, as though he had noticed her noticing all his luxuries.

“Well, Miss Tarth, you’ve been with Lannister and Sons for …” his voice trailed off as he tried to page through her admittedly large file for a temporary employee.

“I’ve been at Lannister’s for four weeks, ser.”

“And you’ve been in seven departments?”

“Yes, ser.  I think I may have found my place in Accessories, ser.  Though I still would like to work in Sporting Goods if possible.”

“We don’t allow Lannister’s Girls to work in Sporting Goods, Miss Tarth.”

Brienne sighed.  She had hoped that the young Mr. Lannister would be broader-minded than Mr. Tarly was.

“And I’m afraid that there is no question of you changing departments, Miss Tarth.”

Oh, well, if she stayed in Accessories, maybe she’d finally learn how to fold a scarf.

Lannister looked very uncomfortable.  He fidgeted with something on his desk — an envelope.

Oh no.  This wasn’t an offer of permanent employment after all.

“I’m afraid that this is your last day at Lannister’s, Miss Tarth.  You may gather your things and leave as soon as we are finished here.  You will be paid for the entire day, but we will need you to depart the store immediately.”

Not even the free lunch.  Brienne’s chin wobbled for a moment.

Lannister looked terrified at that.

If she were a different kind of woman, a dainty woman who cried delicate, crystal tears, could she have changed his mind?  But she wasn’t that kind of woman.  When she cried, her face got red, and her nose dripped like a faucet.  She gulped and hiccoughed and wheezed.  Even if it had not been dishonorable to try to manipulate him, she would never have succeeded.

“I did notice that there had been some breakage in the department this week that you were responsible for.  I told payroll not to charge you for that.  You should be receiving your full salary.”

Said Prince Bountiful to the peasant maid.

But Brienne had been raised to be gracious, even if her deportment lessons had never quite stuck.

“Thank you, Mr. Lannister.” Her jaw ached as she forced the words through her gritted teeth.  She rose to take the envelope from his outstretched hand.

Her fingers brushed his for a moment.  A tiny jolt flashed through her.

She must have shuffled her feet on the carpet.

“I realize that this is a challenging thing for you, Miss Tarth, but please accept my wishes for a happy Winterfest and prosperous New Year.

A lonely, miserable holiday awaited her now.  Her head ducked, and her shoulders slumped for a moment.  Then she remembered.  She wasn’t a Lannister’s Girl anymore.  She didn’t have to measure up to any ridiculous standards of femininity that she could never reach.  She needed to find Hyle before one of the floorwalkers escorted her out of the building.

Brienne stood tall.  Kings Landing would not defeat her.  Lannister and Sons would not defeat her.  She glared at the man-child who could roll into work stinking of whisky and cigarette smoke and face zero consequences.

Looking down her nose, she put as much venom in her voice as she could manage.  “And a very happy holiday to you too, Mr. Lannister.  I hope you enjoy all the unearned luxuries and delicacies that you have by the sweat of our brows!” 

Performing a perfect about-face, Brienne stalked to the door.  Those heavy wooden slabs made quite a crash when slammed with authority.

Chapter 2: Never Pick Up A Bundle of Rags

Summary:

As Brienne wanders the city after her firing, she learns no good deed goes unpunished.

Notes:

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it. I hope you and your loved ones are having a joyous and healthy holiday season.

Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos. I appreciate every bit of encouragement.

Chapter Two

Never Pick Up A Bundle Of Rags

Her feet hurt.

Pain pulled Brienne from her dazed wanderings.  How far had she gone?  It might have been blocks or miles.  She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to try and get her bearings.   Searching for a street sign, she limped forward, not looking in the direction she was going.

The collision barely rocked Brienne back onto her heels, but the thin, elderly woman who had run into her was in danger of falling.  Brienne reached out and grasped the old lady's arm with more strength than courtesy.

"Take your hands off me, you great hulking beast!  How dare you!  You men, you always … Gods be good, you're a woman."

"I'm terribly sorry, ma'am," Brienne let go of the woman's sleeve as soon as she was sure that the danger of a fall was over.  Brienne tried to smile as she bent her knees to look directly into the older woman's face.

"And so you should be!  An unnatural creature like you should take more care rather than less." Narrowed eyes measured Brienne from top to toes and her lips curled down in disgust.  Then the old woman turned to throw a glance back in the direction she had come from.

"Do you need help, ma'am?" Brienne was raised to offer a hand to anyone, even as unpleasant a pinch-faced harpy as this woman seemed.

"No!  Just get out of my way and let me pass."

And with that, the old lady slid her bony form between Brienne's bulk and the wall beside them and raced away.

You'd think I was going to chase her down the street or something.

Brienne scanned the surroundings just to be sure that no one was pursuing the old lady's rapidly moving form.

What was that?

On the doorstep of a building was a pile of rags.  Brienne was quite sure that was where the old lady had come from.  And the rags were … moving and about to fall right off the step.

Despite her aching feet, Brienne was over there in three long strides and caught whatever was in the bundle just as it began to fall.

It was surprisingly heavy.  She juggled it for a second to get a secure grip, and that's when the cooing started.

What the …?

Brienne peeled back the blanket and was met with two big, blue eyes, chubby pink cheeks, and a perfect little rosebud of a mouth.

A baby?  That old lady had dropped a baby on a doorstep and then hightailed it out of there.

Brienne looked around frantically.  She caught sight of the small sign on the door.

Seven-Pointed Star Foundling Home.

Oh. 

Brienne could hardly just plunk the baby back on the step and walk away.  It might roll off again.  Settling the child securely in one arm, Brienne raised her hand to knock on the door, but before she could, it opened, and Brienne was subjected to yet another disapproving once over.

"Well, I guess you best come in."

Brienne vigorously shook her head. "There's no need for that, Sister.  Somebody just left this baby on your doorstep." Brienne tried to hand the child off, but the septa was not having it. "She was an older woman, so I don't think it is her baby.  I can run in the direction she went to see if I can find her if you want me to."

Somehow, Brienne had moved from the front door and into the foundling home's foyer.  Nuns really were able to hypnotize you when you weren't looking.

"The stories you girls tell, they get worse every day," the sister muttered.  Then she turned and looked Brienne straight in the eye, almost as tall as Brienne herself. "You can tell Father all about it, Miss.  Now come with me."

Brienne settled the baby more securely in her arms since no one was taking it from her and followed the septa into an office.

An austere-looking man was sitting behind a large desk.  His black suit and white septon's collar were immaculate.  He turned a cold eye on Brienne.

"What do we have here, Sister Unella?"

"She claims she found the baby on the doorstep, Father Sparrow."

"I don't claim anything," Brienne protested. "I was walking along, minding my own business, when an old lady barreled right into me.  She was hurrying away from your door.  Then, I saw that whatever she left was about to roll right off the step, so I went to catch it.  And it turned out to be this baby." Brienne held up the baby as if that would prove she was telling the truth.

"And what were you doing on our street in the middle of the day, Miss …" the septon's voice trailed off suggestively.

"Tarth, Father.  Brienne Tarth.  I wasn't doing anything in particular.  I was just wandering.  I was let go from my job at Lannister's Department Store this morning, and I guess I was trying to figure out what I'm going to do next."

"And the baby's father?  Is he out of work as well?"

"I don't know who the baby's father is," Brienne said and then stopped at the sneer she received from the nun. "I mean, how would I know anything about the father when I've never met him.  This isn't my baby!"

"No better than you ought to be and a liar to boot," the nun's gaze would have frozen a White Walker.

"Now, Sister Unella, it's not for us to judge.  The gods see all and measure each accordingly," the septon's words might have been pious, but his gaze was even colder than the nun's. "Tell me, Miss Tarth, if you still had your job at Lannister and Sons, would you still want to give up your child?"

"I'm telling you, Father.  I swear on the Seven, and the Old Gods, and the Drowned God even, this is not my baby." Brienne thrust the child out and into the old man's arms.

"How can you deny it, my girl?  This baby looks just like you."

Somehow Brienne had wandered into an asylum masquerading as a foundling home.  The baby might have blue eyes and a few freckles, but that was where any resemblance ended.  It was a beautiful child with golden curls and a tiny button nose —nothing like Brienne's mishmash of oversize features.

The baby began to wail.  Little arms waved up and down in Brienne's direction.

 "Look at this poor, little soul, Miss Tarth!  How can you stand there and deny your own baby?  This child belongs with its mother."

Brienne put her hands behind her back as the septon tried to force the baby back on her. "That baby does belong with its mother, and that mother is not me!" With that, Brienne muscled her way past the disapproving septa and fled from the house.

***

Faint queasiness still roiled in Jaime's stomach.  It must be the hangover.  It certainly wasn't firing Miss Tarth, not after her rude parting shot.

She slammed the door so hard the floor shook.  Gods, she must be strong.  I wonder if I could …

Shaking away that train of thought, Jaime returned his attention to the chaotic work schedule that Kevan had dumped on him before leaving early to begin enjoying the perks of being almost retired.

I'd give anything for a distraction, any distraction.  Maybe I should have Pia call Cersei for me.  She does this sort of thing at Castamere's.  And she's always asking how we manage stuff at Lannister's.

Jaime's hand was reaching towards the intercom when it buzzed.

"Yes, Pia?" Jaime didn't care what Pia wanted if it meant he didn't have to try to apportion hours fairly after the holiday rush was over.

"Jaime, um, there's someone here to see you.  About a problem with one of our employees, he says." 

It was odd.  Pia was usually so vibrant, but her tone was tentative.  But no matter if it got him out of the drudge work, he was interested.

"Send him in, Pia." Jaime went to the door and was surprised to find … a septon?  What could have happened to cause a septon to visit about one of the staff?

"Mr. Lannister? I'm Father Sparrow.  Thank you for seeing me."

"Of course, Father, come in.  I understand there is an issue with one of our staff?"

"To be truthful, it is one of your former staff, Mr. Lannister," the septon breezed past Jaime and made himself comfortable in one of the seats in front of Jaime's desk.

Do they teach them that at septon school?  Always make it hard to get the bum's rush out of a room.

"I'm afraid there isn't much that Lannister's can do about our former staff, Father.  If they are causing you some kind of trouble …"

"Not even if having been terminated has ruined a young woman's life, ser?  Not even if it has caused her to make the most terrible choice that any woman can make?"

Jaime blinked once or twice at the septon's passion.  Jaime would have bet cash money that this old stick didn't have a passionate bone in his body.

"If you could have seen Miss Tarth, Mr. Lannister, I'm sure your heart would have broken for her."

The big, judgmental blonde from this morning ran to a septon for aid?  I'd have wagered she'd have torn the building off its foundation before asking for help.

"Has something happened to Miss Tarth, Father?  She took her dismissal quite calmly."

 Even the insult she sent his way was delivered with remarkable sang froid.

"She might have been in shock, Mr. Lannister.  Only the most desperate of circumstances could have caused her to give up her baby."

"Baby?  The giant … Miss Tarth has a baby?" Jaime's memory churned. There'd been nothing about children on her personnel forms. 

"If you could have seen her, Mr. Lannister, standing in our foundling home and denying that her child belonged to her.  It would have moved you to tears, ser, surely." The septon dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.

"We are a poor order, Mr. Lannister, and with these troubled times, we have too many babies to care for already.  Taking on another little child, when we know who the mother is, just isn't possible.  I was hoping that, if you were aware of Miss Tarth's circumstances, you might see your way clear to giving her job back to her.  For her child's sake."

"I … I don't… I'm just flabbergasted, Father.  We at Lannister and Sons had no idea that Miss Tarth had a child and that her dismissal would lead to such terrible consequences.  Of course, we'll take her back.  Lannister and Sons doesn't abandon its own."

"The baby was well cared for, but the clothes, the blankets, were so worn, ser.  Miss Tarth may need some assistance with providing for the little one.  We have nothing to spare at the foundling home to give her.  Our resources are stretched so thinly." The septon's eyes gleamed as he looked at Jaime.

"Of course.  Lannister and Sons will provide Miss Tarth with everything she could want to look after her child.  And for your assistance in righting this terrible wrong that we, no, I did to one of the Lannister's family, I would be happy to contribute a hundred…"

Staring directly into Jaime's eyes, the septon's chin rose just slightly. 

"… five hundred dragons, and I'll send the foundling home a duplicate of every item we provide for Miss Tarth."

"How very generous of you, Mr. Lannister.  I knew we could count on such a venerable company to open its heart to such a vulnerable young woman."

"Come with me, Father. You can oversee the selection of everything for Miss Tarth, and then my driver will take you to her home to give her baby back to her."

Chapter 3: Surprise!

Summary:

A telegram sends Brienne back to Jaime's office at Lannister and Sons.

 Chapter Three

Surprise!

Brienne returned to her apartment house.  A WesterUnion messenger stood, a foot wedging the front door open as he argued with the landlady, Mrs. Hodor.

“There she is.  Dearie, you have a telegram.”  Mrs. Hodor’s sweet, wrinkled face broke into the smile she always had for Brienne.  “Well, give it to her, young man.  You’ve been keeping me from my radio program for the last five minutes, trying to make me take it.”

As soon as the messenger moved out of the way, Mrs. Hodor came out onto the stoop.

Who could be sending me a telegram?

The young man handed Brienne a small clipboard.  “Sign here, ma’am.”

She scrawled her name, then tore open the small envelope he handed her.

            Mistake made <STOP> 

            Please return to Lannister’s as soon as you receive this <STOP>

            Come to my office with all possible speed <STOP>

            Jaime Lannister <STOP>

A mistake?  Oh, thank the gods.  It’s a Winterfest miracle.

Brienne smiled toothily at the messenger, who continued to stand before her.

“Oh!  Of course,” Brienne reached into her purse and pulled out a shiny silver stag.  She could afford it now.  Permanent staff at Lannister’s were well paid.  “Here you go, young man.  Have a happy Winterfest.”

The messenger’s eyes widened at the size of his tip.  “Thank you, ma’am.  And a happy Winterfest to you, too.”

He trundled off down the sidewalk on his WesterUnion bicycle, his black coat flapping behind him.  Staring after him, Brienne took a moment to appreciate the sudden change in her fortunes.

“A whole stag?  You must have gotten good news, Dearie?  No ‘Dark wings, dark words,’ then?”  Mrs. Hodor came down the steps to stand beside Brienne.

Brienne beamed down at her tiny landlady.  “The very best news.  I have a real job!  Oh, I’ll be able to have a real First Night dinner and maybe buy myself some new shoes.”  Brienne reached out and took Mrs. Hodor’s hand.  “I’ll be able to repay you for all the kindness you’ve shown me, the ‘leftovers’ you’ve brought me, the newspapers and magazines you’ve given me.”

“Now, none of that, Dearie, there’s nothing to repay.  I was happy to have your company these last months.  Not many young girls are willing to spend their Saturday nights listening to the radio with an old woman.”

“I’m happy to have your company, too, Mrs. Hodor.  My Saturday nights would have been lonely without you.”  Brienne patted her landlady’s hand, then dropped it abruptly.  “Oh, I must dash.  I must get back to Lannister’s.  He wanted me to come in right away.”

“Then go on, Dearie.  You don’t want to make your employers think you’re unreliable.”  Mrs. Hodor made a shooing motion with her hand as Brienne turned to run towards the streetcar stop.

I hope I still have some ten-copper pieces.  I may have given my fare to the messenger.

***

Brienne sat in front of Jaime Lannister’s desk again.  She tried her best to remain professional, barely suppressing the feelings bubbling up inside her.

But first things first.

“I apologize for my rude remark this morning, Mr. Lannister.  I …”

“Water under the bridge, Miss Tarth.  You were under indescribable pressure.  I know that now.  I’m hoping that, by joining the Lannister and Sons family, you will be able to relax and enjoy the special times ahead of you.”

Brow wrinkling at the avuncular tone, so at odds with Jaime Lannister’s youth and beauty, Brienne answered, “I hope so as well.  What department will I be working in, Mr. Lannister?  Am I going back to Accessories?”

A musical, baritone chuckle teased along her nerves, soothing her disquiet. 

“No, Miss Tarth.  I cannot believe so little attention was paid to your application when you first joined us here in the store.  Wasting you on the sales floor was ridiculous.  You graduated from the Stark Secretarial College at the top of your class.  My Uncle Kevan would have given his eye teeth to have someone with your qualifications in his office.  Now that I will be taking over my uncle’s responsibilities, I cannot continue to share Pia’s time with my father.  I need a secretary of my own, Miss Tarth.  Would you be willing to accept that position rather than a sales job?”

Gripping the arms of the chair to keep from leaping into the air with joy, Brienne took in a deep breath, counted to ten, and forced herself to be practical.  “What would be the responsibilities of the position, Mr. Lannister?”

Lannister blinked as though he had not expected to be questioned.  “Well, you would do secretary things.  Answer my phone, type my correspondence, keep track of my calendar — the usual stuff.  You might have to learn to concoct my father’s secret hangover recipe and get me clean clothes from Menswear if I stay out too late at a party, but that shouldn’t be required frequently.  I’ll have too much to do filling my uncle’s shoes to enjoy the nightlife I’ve been used to.”

Another little chuckle caressed Brienne’s senses.

Professionalism, Brienne.  He’s your boss now.

“The hours would be regular office hours.  There won’t be nights or weekends required except under extraordinary circumstances.  Nothing that should disrupt your schedule at home.  Establishing a schedule is an important thing, or so I’m told by my friends in your situation.”

What situation?

As Brienne opened her mouth to ask for clarification, Jaime Lannister spoke right over her. 

“Your starting salary will be fifty-five dragons per week, with an advance of two weeks pay.  I hope that will meet your needs.”

“Fifty-five?  Did you say fifty-five?  Fifty-five dragons?”  Blood rushed to Brienne’s head.  Fifty-five dragons a week was almost twice what she’d made on the sales floor.  With fifty-five dragons and an advance, there would be no more choosing between paying her rent on time or eating three meals a day.  The store discount for permanent staff meant that Brienne could afford more than new shoes.  She could buy a whole wardrobe befitting an executive’s secretary.  When it was pouring down rain, she could take a taxi instead of the streetcar. 

She could treat Mrs. Hodor to a meal or the cinema to thank her for her kindness. 

All doubts and questions flew right out of Brienne’s head.

“As a permanent employee, you can use the nursing station for your medical needs.  We have a doctor in twice a week if there is something the nurse can’t handle.  Unfortunately, this is only for you.  It does not extend to family members.  There are several other benefits to being taken on as executive floor staff.  Pia can explain them better than I.  She is waiting to give you a brief introduction to our offices.  Once she is done, you may go home.  Since tomorrow is First Night, the store will be closed, and all permanent staff has a paid day off.  You will also be paid when we are closed for Seventh Night.” 

Mr. Lannister stood, and Brienne rose with him. Coming around the desk, he offered his hand, and Brienne reached for it, eager to show her gratitude.  “Thank you, Mr. Lannister.  You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Instead of shaking her hand, Lannister took it in both of his and gave it a pat.  “I believe I have an inkling, Miss Tarth,” and he winked one of his green eyes.  “You can consider this the first of several Winterfest gifts from Lannister and Sons.”

***

Brienne hurried home from the streetcar stop.  The sun was setting as the city prepared for First Night, the beginning of the long nights of the Winterfest holidays.  She’d had a million questions for Mr. Tywin Lannister’s secretary, and Pia had been happy to provide answers.  Brienne was hopeful she might even find a friend in the other young woman. 

Brienne had tried to find Hyle as she left the store.  After her firing, she’d agreed to go with him to Clegane’s Pool Parlor to try to win the fifty-dragon prize.  Now, she would be making more than that every week.  But Hyle had disappeared to wherever the stockboys hid when they needed a smoke break.  To search for him might have brought his absence to Mr. Tarly’s attention.

Mr. Tarly, who has no say over my employment anymore!  I hope I see his face when he learns I’m now Jaime Lannister’s executive secretary.

Brienne had debated on the trip home if she should cancel on teaming up with Hyle.  She had made a commitment, and she never broke her word.  She wasn’t a “Lannister’s Girl” anymore.  Only the salesgirls who worked the floor were subjected to the rigid requirements that came with being an exemplar of the Lannister and Sons’ standards of decorum.  If somehow Jaime Lannister were to find out that Brienne had taken part in a competition playing pool, he was unlikely to fire her.  He’d been in far worse contretemps with much larger audiences. 

Brienne would chance it.  Poor Hyle was a mediocre player at best, and he was always strapped for cash.  He had no hope of winning without her as his partner.  Brienne started playing with her father as soon as she was old enough to hold a cue.

She barreled through the front door to her building and began to run up the stairs.  Mrs. Hodor called out to her, but Brienne put her off, saying, “I’m running late, Mrs. Hodor.  Can I talk to you tomorrow morning?”

Why was her apartment door ajar?  Brienne was always careful to lock up whenever she left. 

Mrs. Hodor puffed up the stairs after her.

“I’m sorry, Dearie.  He was so insistent, and they just kept bringing things in.”

Brienne pushed the door open, and her jaw dropped.  Where had all this stuff come from?  What was it for?

A gigantic stuffed lion sat in the corner, crowding her potted philodendron.  It was only one of several oversized stuffed toys that had invaded her home.  There was a pile of smaller ones as well, resting on a small dresser that was painted with suns and moons.  Her gaze traveled around her, then came to a screeching halt at the small, spare man who sat on her divan, next to a wicker bassinet.

“Father Sparrow?”

Chapter 4: That's NOT My Baby!

Summary:

Won't someone believe Brienne?

Chapter Four

That’s NOT My Baby

 

Brienne pulled at her hair as she said yet again, “that’s not my baby!”

Father Sparrow’s eyes had gone from glowing with satisfaction to burning with anger in the five minutes since Brienne had found her apartment’s door ajar.

“It is impossible to believe that you would continue to deny your child this way, Miss Tarth.  That baby could not be more obviously yours if it were wearing a sign around its neck.”

Brienne opened her mouth to answer, but the septon raised his hand to silence her.

“I will not stand here and debate this with you any further, young lady.  You will live up to your responsibilities.  Mr. Lannister will be very displeased to hear how you have repaid his generosity.”  The septon tugged his hat down firmly on his head and barked at the other occupant in the room, “Come along, Sister Unella.”

The nun brushed against Brienne as she made her way to the door.  “No better than you should be,” she hissed.  “I’ll be praying for that poor child.  Shame!” the nun said, turning her head to keep her eyes on Brienne, “shame!”

Brienne plopped down on her sofa and stared down at the baby in its wicker carry basket.  Somehow it had managed to remain asleep despite all the uproar around it.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” Brienne asked as though the baby would answer.  “And what has Mr. Lannister to do with this?”  Brienne rubbed her palm over her face, then jumped up.  “Is that what he meant?  ‘The first of several Winterfest gifts from Lannister and Sons.’”

That giant, cuddly lion was a dead giveaway.  Only Lannister’s stocked that stuffed animal.  What didn’t have a Lannister’s label was wrapped in crimson tissue paper or spilling from a golden shopping bag.

“Well, we’ll just see about that!” Brienne cried.  She grabbed the handles of the baby’s basket and rushed out the door and down the stairs.  Mrs. Hodor called, “Dearie!” as she pulled the door to her building closed behind her, but Brienne was too angry to stop.

“Taxi!” Brienne called out, grateful for the cash she’d been given as an advance as a car pulled up.  She swung the basket in the back seat as the now awake child giggled and cooed at being flung and jounced about.  Brienne piled in herself and told the driver, “Casterly House, as fast as you can.  Then wait for me.  I won’t be stopping for long.”

***

The commotion began just as Jaime was inserting a cufflink into the sleeve of his dress shirt.

“No, I do not wish to wait!” The voice echoed up from the front hall as Jaime came through the door of his bedroom, shrugging on his dinner jacket as he went.

Pycelle was usually good at dealing with whoever showed up at the front door of the Lannister family manse.  But somebody downstairs was getting the better of the old stick.

“You give this to him and tell him to take it back to where he found it!”  The front door slammed shut as a baby began to wail.

As Jaime ran down the stairs, Pycelle turned to him. 

“Mr. Jaime, a parcel has been left for you.”

Pycelle’s normally stooped shoulders straightened as he held a wicker basket at arm’s length.

Shocked, Jaime tried to absorb the scene before him.  Through the windows next to the front door, a tall figure was getting into a taxi.  Pale blonde hair shone in the car’s light.  Jaime had personally chosen that wicker basket for his secretary’s child, with its yellow ribbons and blue and yellow blanket.  Inside the basket, a small face was turning purple as it hiccoughed between ear-splitting cries.

This could not stand.  If that woman would not voluntarily take care of her child, Jaime would make her.  And give her a piece of his mind while he was at it.

Jaime pulled his car key from his front trouser pocket.  “Come on, Pycelle, we can’t lose her!”

His Cadillac Roadster was sitting just outside the front door where he’d left it after his workday.  He ran around to the driver’s side and folded himself in while Pycelle stood glaring at the sporty car.

“Mr. Jaime, I don’t believe…”

“I don’t care what you believe or don’t believe, Pycelle.  Get in the car.  And hold that basket tight.  I don’t want the baby to go flying out if I take a corner too fast.”

Jaime kept the taxi in sight for quite a few blocks, though enough traffic lights were against him that he couldn’t catch up.  At last, the car pulled over, and its passenger exited, handing the driver the fare.

I’ll bet that’s some of the advance I gave her that she’s using to abandon her baby again!

Now to find a safe place to park his car. 

“Did you see which building she went into, Pycelle?” he asked.

“Indeed, Mr. Jaime.  The sign said Clegane’s Pool Hall.”  Pycelle’s voice could have frozen the Night King where he stood.

Clegane’s Pool Hall.  Where have I heard that name?  Is that the place the stock boys were talking about when I went down to check with the foreman?

“A damned pool tournament?!  She’s here to play pool.”

Jaime’s opinion of the woman could not get any lower.

He found a parking space below a streetlight and threw a silver stag to a teenager sitting on a stoop.  “See that no one messes with my car, and there’s a dragon in it for you when I finish my business.”

Not waiting for a reply, Jaime ordered Pycelle to follow him and marched back up the street.

Jaime pushed into the pool hall and stopped short.  Miss Tarth was standing tall, her shoulders thrown back, her neck extended swanlike, as she chalked up a pool cue.  She gave a small smile to the drab, vaguely familiar, young man beside her, then bent over the table. 

Her skirt blatantly outlined the shape of Miss Tarth’s posterior.

The laundry must have shrunk this shirt’s collar.

There was a mighty crack as the cue ball broke the rack, and the multi-color balls scattered across the table.  It was an excellent shot.  Too bad Jaime would have to break things up.

“Miss Tarth?” he said as he walked up to her, Pycelle trailing him carrying the basket and the still wailing baby.

“Who’d bring a baby in here?”

“What’cha doin’, buddy?  This ain’t no place for a wee one.”

“What the hells?” Miss Tarth’s companion said.  “Mr. Lannister, what are you doing here?”

“I need to have words with this young lady,” Jaime said, taking Miss Tarth’s arm in his hand.  He leaned over and whispered to her, “These aren’t the kind of men who’d take kindly to a mother who abandons her child.  Come outside with me at once.”

Miss Tarth’s eyes darted about.  Narrowed eyes and clenching fists met her look.  The mood in the pool hall was turning hostile as the baby continued to cry, and the anger was centering on Jaime and Miss Tarth.

“All right,” she said quietly.  Miss Tarth handed her pool cue to her companion.  “I’ve left a good table for you, Hyle.  Take your time, and you should score well.”

“But Brienne,” the drab fellow whined, “you promised you’d help me.”

Jaime didn’t give her time to answer.  He marched her out to the sidewalk and across the street.  Pulling the basket from Pycelle, he pushed it towards Miss Tarth.

“I never thought I’d see something as disreputable as a mother abandoning her child to play pool, of all things,” Jaime huffed.

“You are wrong, Mr. Lannister.  This is not my baby.  I never saw it before today.”

“And I suppose that why it’s stopped crying for the first time since you left it?  Because it doesn’t know you at all?”

In the basket, the baby’s face was covered in tears and snot.

“You just left it like this?” Miss Tarth’s voice rose.  “Give me your handkerchief immediately.”

“So, you do care about this baby.”  Vindication rang in Jaime’s voice as he handed over a large, white linen square from his pocket.

“I don’t have to be its mother to be concerned that its face is wet and its nose dripping,” she said as she mopped the baby’s cheeks and nose.  The little one cooed and tried to grab her fingers.

“Are you telling me that Father Sparrow was lying when he came begging me to give you back your job?  That a man of the cloth pulled your name and circumstances out of thin air?”

“It wasn’t out of thin air.  I found the … Wait, did you say that Father Sparrow got my job back for me?”

“Indeed, he did.  It was only out of concern for your poor, abandoned child that Lannister and Sons rehired you, Miss Tarth.  You were a terrible salesgirl.  Mr. Tarly has never given anyone lower evaluations than you had.  Fortunately, you have a secretarial degree or the only job I could have given you would have been in the cafeteria.”

Some rough-looking fellows had followed them out of the pool hall and were watching them closely.  Things could get ugly if this went on much longer.

Miss Tarth sighed, “I don’t suppose there is anything I could say to shake your belief that this is my baby?”

“Not one word,” Jaime answered.

“Very well.  I’ll be on my way.  But I will find a way to make you see the truth, Mr. Lannister.  I swear it.” 

***

Another taxi pulled up to the stoop of her building.  At least Mr. Lannister had paid her fare this time.  Exhaustion weighed down her limbs as she carted the baby in its basket up the stairs.

“What I’m going to do with you, little one?  I don’t know the first thing about babies.  You’ll probably be crying to be taken back to the foundling home before the night is over.”

The baby waved its arms at her and laughed as a bit of drool trickled down its chin. 

“You think that’s funny, do you?” Brienne said as she unlocked her apartment door.  “And how am I going to sort out all this stuff that came with you ….” 

The clutter in her living room had been organized.  The bags of clothing and toys were emptied, and the contents were bulging out of the small chest of drawers, the excess neatly piled on the dining table.

Mrs. Hodor sat dozing on the sofa.

Brienne quietly placed the basket on the floor while she took off her coat and slipped out of her shoes.  She must have made some noise because her landlady startled awake.

“Oh, Dearie, you’re home.  I was worried when you went rushing out of here like your tail was on fire.”

Before Brienne could answer, the baby made its presence known in the worst possible way.

“Good gods, what is that smell?”  Brienne leaned down towards the basket.  “How can something so small create such a stink?”

“Babies are good at getting your attention in a whole host of ways.  Thank goodness there were plenty of diapers in with all the useless things that septon brought.”  Mrs. Hodor bustled over and picked up the basket containing the odiferous baby.  “Have you ever changed a diaper, Dearie?”

Mrs. Hodor chuckled at Brienne’s emphatic head shaking.  “Well, you can watch me this time.”  She took the baby from the basket and laid it down on a small table covered with a cloth.  “We’ll get little … What’s the baby’s name, Dearie?”

“Ummmm, Jonah,” Brienne said quickly, pulling a name from the air.

Mrs. Hodor unpinned the diaper and frowned for a moment. 

“Joanna!  That’s a lovely name.  Now you’d best tell me how Joanna came to be here with you.”

“You don’t think it’s … she’s mine?” Brienne asked, a plea in her voice.

“Of course not, Dearie.  This little one must be six or seven months old.  You couldn’t have kept her hidden all this time.”

Sighing in relief, Brienne told the story of running into the woman on the street, picking the baby up off the step, and everything that had happened since.

“And Mr. Lannister was clear that you have to keep the baby to keep your job.”

“Yes.  But I swore I would convince him that this wasn’t my baby.”

“Well, there’s only one thing to do, then.  We’ll have to find the baby’s real mother.”

“The real mother?” Brienne parroted.

Of course!  The baby’s real mother would solve everything.

“No one else will convince that awful septon that Joanna isn’t your baby.  And your Mr. Lannister won’t be convinced unless the septon is convinced.  Men are so stubborn when they get an idea in their heads.”

“But what will we do with the baby in the meantime?” Brienne’s heart pounded as she waited for the answer.

“She’ll have to stay here.  I’m sure that nasty nun will be coming around to check up on you, and she’ll run right to the septon if she suspects anything wrong.”

“But I don’t know anything about taking care of a baby!” Brienne whined.

“I’ll help you take care of little Joanna and watch her while you are at work.  It’s been a long time since I’ve had a baby around to love on.  And you’re an intelligent young woman, educated and all.  You’ll pick it up in no time.  She’s already happy to be in your company.  Everything after that will be a snap.”

Chapter 5: Motherhood Isn't For The Fainthearted

Summary:

Brienne adjusts to Joanna's presence in her home life and Jaime's in her work life.

Chapter Five

Motherhood Isn't For The Fainthearted

Brienne sat at her new desk on the executive floor of Lannister and Son furiously typing away at a letter given to her by Mr. Kevan.  She'd needed something to do, as her boss, Mr. Silver-Spoon, Golden Boy Jaime Lannister, hadn't bothered to show his face yet.  And it was ten o'clock in the morning!

She’d somehow managed to be on time.  Why couldn’t he?

While she had shared a celebratory First Night dinner with Mrs. Hodor and her very large grandson, Brienne was warned that getting ready for the day with a baby in the house would take much longer than getting just herself ready.

And how right that was.

After dragging herself out of bed a full hour early, while it was still dark out, Brienne's teeth had only been half-brushed when Joanna announced her wakeful state to the world.  There had been a diaper change, followed by a bottle, followed by a bit of mushy cereal.  Joanna's face and hands needed a thorough cleaning before Brienne changed the gruel-stained sleeper for a romper.  Not five minutes later, she removed that romper, did another, messier diaper change, and put the baby in a fresh romper. 

Thank the gods Mrs. Hodor's son had gifted her with one of those new clothes washing machines.  Without her landlady generously offering Brienne the use of it, she had no idea how she would have kept up with the baby's laundry.

Somewhere in between the first and second diaper change, Brienne had found time to gulp a cup of coffee, run a brush through her short hair and get dressed for her first day as an executive secretary.

There had also been some games of peek-a-boo and little piggies, but the baby's laughter and tiny toes had just been irresistible.

As Brienne finished the wholly unnecessary letter Mr. Kevan had provided for her to look busy, she ran her tongue over her teeth.  Had she ever finished brushing them?

The outer door opened, and Jaime Lannister slouched in, looking much the worse for wear.

"I'm afraid I cannot concoct your father's hangover recipe for you, Mr. Lannister.  He was not in a mood to share it when he arrived two hours ago." Teeth gritted to keep any other comments from slipping out, Brienne rose to follow her new boss into his office.

"Blinds, Miss Tarth.  Close those bloody blinds." Jaime Lannister sat at his desk and laid his head on the blotter.

As she pulled the shades closed to block out the weak winter sun, Brienne asked, "What else might you require, Mr. Lannister?  You appear to be appropriately dressed for the workday, so I surmise a trip to the Menswear department will not be necessary.  Your uncle wishes to see you as soon as, and I quote, 'the boy can hold his head upright for more than a minute without casting up his accounts.'  Shall I tell Mr. Kevan that you will be available sometime this afternoon?"

"Coffee.  Dark and hot as the seven hells.  Bring me that, and I'll overlook the fact that you are as sarcastic as my Aunt Genna when the High Septon drops in for tea and tithes.  After the coffee is in my hand, call down to the cafeteria to deliver a full breakfast.  I should be ready to go after I've eaten something."

"Of course, Mr. Lannister.  And you should have this." Brienne reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a bottle of aspirin.

"Angel!  The sarcasm and open blinds are forgiven.  Tell Uncle Kevan that I'll be ready to see him in an hour."

There was a timid knock on the office door.

"Mr. Jaime, your father would like to see you right away," Pia whispered from the doorway.

"Oh gods, I'm done for.  It was nice knowing you, Pia.  Less nice knowing you, Miss Tarth, but I think we might have made progress if it weren't for my untimely death."

"Buck up, Mr. Lannister," Brienne said as she handed her boss a glass of water.  He bolted down four aspirin and shuddered as if the water and pills were trying to make a reappearance.  "I'm sure you've survived dozens such meetings with your father and will survive dozens more.  I'll have the cafeteria send up breakfast for you in ten minutes."

"Ten minutes!  You are an optimist, Miss Tarth.  Who would have guessed?  Make it thirty, and if I'm never heard from again, you can enjoy my bacon and eggs with my blessing."

"Don't think I won't, ser," Brienne said to his back as he plodded, shoulders hunched and head hanging down, to his father's office door and knocked.

A commanding voice called "Enter," and Jaime Lannister turned to grimace before closing the door behind him.

"That Castamere girl is going to be the death of him," Pia said.

"Surely this can't all be Miss Castamere's fault.  He's a grown man, though you wouldn't know it from his behavior," Brienne remarked.

"He wasn't like this before her.  Oh, he liked a good time now and then and was always joking about with the staff, but it wasn't every night like it is now.  She isn't good for him," Pia shook her head, the corners of her mouth downturned as she continued to look at Mr. Lannister Senior's doorway.  "And she's a nasty cat when Mister Jaime's not around.  Snaps her fingers at the sales staff and insults everyone and everything at Lannister's.  Says it's not near as nice as Castamere and Co.  I don't know why she comes here to shop if her family's store is so superior.  As if it could be!  Everyone knows that Lannister and Sons is the finest store in the city."

"Perhaps she comes here to try and spy on the competition," Brienne joked as she went back to her desk.

Pia took her at her word.  "That's what I think, too.  But Mr. Jaime wouldn't believe it.  He's beguiled, and that's a fact.  It's too bad.  A nice man like him caught by a witch like her.  And by witch, I mean …"

"I understand what you meant, Pia.  But if he won't hear anything against her and keeps following her around even when he knows he shouldn't, there's nothing a secretary can do." Delivering this judgment, Brienne picked up the phone to call the cafeteria.  At least they must be used to late breakfast orders from the younger Mr. Lannister's office.

***

The day had been a long one.  Mr. Lannister had left his father's office almost thirty minutes to the second after he'd slunk in like a pouty toddler.  Brienne was just putting his breakfast on the table in his office when he returned with the same attitude.

When her stomach growled at the smell of the food, he'd insisted that she take some toast and bacon, so no one would say he was a slavedriver to his new secretary.

Brienne finished typing up the notes from the hours-long meeting with Mr. Kevan.  Mr. Lannister's uncle was anxious to offload as many of his responsibilities as quickly as possible so he could get on with being retired.  In the morning, she would set up meetings with the buyers and department heads to show that "Mr. Jaime" was now second in command of Lannister and Sons.

Brienne rolled her shoulders and flexed her fingers.  She had been away from a typewriter for too long.  The clock on the wall read almost 5:30, past her agreed upon quitting time.  She had warned Mrs. Hodor that, until she got into a routine in the office, she might be late coming home.  At this time of the evening, the streetcar trip might take an hour to get to her apartment.

Would Joanna still be awake at 6:30?  Brienne knew so little about babies.  On her lunch break, instead of shopping for executive floor appropriate clothing, she's spent half an hour in the book department browsing every title on childcare that she could find.  Three of them were stashed in her desk drawer.  The bag would be making the trip home with her that evening.

"Still here, Miss Tarth?  You didn't need to stay past your agreed time." Mr. Lannister was shrugging on his overcoat.

"I've just finished.  I'll be ready to start making appointments for you first thing tomorrow morning."

"Just don't schedule Tarly before lunch.  His sour puss would put me off my food.  Maybe at the end of the day, so I can have a drink afterward to wash the taste of him away."

Brienne tried not to snicker.  Randall Tarly was the most disliked man at Lannister and Sons, including old Tywin himself.

"If you're ready to leave, why don't I give you a ride home, Miss Tarth?  It would save you some time, and I can meet your child in a calmer environment.  I'd like to see how the baby is doing."

If I want to keep this job, do I have any choice?

Playing it safe, Brienne answered, "That's kind of you to offer, Mr. Lannister.  If it doesn't take you too far out of your way, I accept."

"Not at all.  I'm meeting my lady friend at a jazz club near your address for drinks and some music."

"So, I shouldn't set any appointments for you tomorrow before the late morning, ser?" Brienne asked as she gathered her belongings and joined him as the elevator door opened.

"Cheeky!  Did you hear that, Davos?" Mr. Lannister asked the elevator operator.

"Just what you need if you ask me, Mr. Jaime," Davos answered as the elevator began its descent.  "Miss Tarth might just be able to keep you in line, ser.  She did a good job with the stock boys while she was on the sales floor."

Eyebrows raised, Mr. Lannister turned to her, "Did you now?  Is there a story there?"

Brienne cringed at the memory of how some of the stock boys had mocked her when she first started work at Lannister's.  It had taken striking out three of them in a row at the lunchtime stickball game to shut them up.  And working up a sweat led to her being transferred out of the Fragrance and Perfumes department the same afternoon.

"No story, Mr. Lannister.  Just a bit of interpersonal tension."

Davos grimaced at her answer.  "I'm just happy that Miss Tarth has found a place at Lannister's where she can shine," he said as they reached the ground floor and the doors opened.  "Have a pleasant night, Mr. Jaime, Miss Tarth."

"See you tomorrow, Davos," Mr. Lannister answered with a smile, then turned to Brienne.  "Why don't you wait at the side door while I get my car.  I can swing around and pick you up."  He loped off before Brienne had time to answer.

As she stood at the employees' entrance, Hyle sidled up beside her. 

"What's all this about, Brienne?  First, you desert me at the pool hall for Lannister, and now he's giving you a?"

"It’s nothing important, Hyle.  I shouldn't have been at the pool hall.  It could have cost me my new job if the wrong person had seen me.  You know they are much more conservative about the female staff." Brienne breathed slowly to calm herself.  She didn't want any gossip circulating about her.  And Hyle was one of the worst gossips in the store.  "Mr. Lannister is giving me a ride home because I had to stay late to finish up some work."

The red Cadillac roadster roared up and screeched to a stop.  "C'mon, Tarth," Jaime Lannister said.  "Time's a-wastin'."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Hyle," Brienne said.  Cool, calm, unaffected by anything.  That was the way to scotch any undue interest Hyle was taking in her personal business.

***

Miss Tarth's building was an old-fashioned, blocky brick structure on the Street of Steel.  Though the concrete steps were patched and the roof sagging in places, someone did work to take care of it.  There were flowerpots on the cleanly swept stoop, and the front door had a fresh coat of paint.  Jaime surveyed the neighborhood as Miss Tarth fumbled in her purse for her key.  It was safe enough, he supposed, solid working-class people going about their lives.  He didn't have to worry that his secretary and her baby would be in any danger from their neighbors.  Hard to imagine that just a short drive led to the Street of Silk, with its nightclubs, dancehalls, and bars.

Had Miss Tarth ever set foot in one of them?

Don't forget where you found her just two nights ago.  Clegane's isn't a ladies' auxiliary tea shop.  You are here to make sure that the baby is well cared for.

Which Miss Tarth was the real one -- the shirker at the pool hall or the prickly but forthright woman who'd kept his nose to the grindstone at work today?

Where was the baby's father?  What kind of man would abandon a woman like Miss Tarth and their child?  There was a story there; just there was a story about her and the stockboys.  What would it take for Miss Tarth to open up about it all?

"Finally!" Miss Tarth exclaimed, extracting a set of keys from her capacious handbag.  "I'm not normally so disorganized with my belongings, but this morning was rather hectic.  It will take me a few days to get a routine down with the baby."

She opened the front door and led Jaime up two flights of stairs.  A ruckus came from apartment 2A.

"Oh, dear," Miss Tarth exclaimed, fumbling with the knob, "I hope Joanna hasn't been crying all day.  Poor Mrs. Hodor."

The door swung open, and an elderly but spry woman was calmly bouncing the wailing baby in her arms as she walked around the floor of the tiny parlor. 

"See now, sweetling, here's your mama.  No need to be so upset," the old lady said, turning the baby to face the front door.

The baby's… Joanna's little arms extended to Miss Tarth, her fingers opening and closing, desperate to get to her mother.

Miss Tarth's purse hit the floor with a thud.  She rushed to hold her baby.  Joanna's cries had stopped the second she had seen Miss Tarth.  She gave a couple of small whimpers as she buried her curly, golden head against her mother's shoulder.

Miss Tarth rubbed the baby's back as she said to the old lady, "I hope she hasn't been like this all day, Mrs. Hodor."

"Not at all, Brienne.  She only started a little bit ago.  It was like she knew when you were supposed to be home and got upset when you were late.  Until then, she'd been good as gold."

Miss Tarth turned a skeptical eye toward the lady she called Mrs. Hodor.  "Really?  Good as gold?"

"Well, there were a few bumps in the road, just like there always are with babies.  She definitely wants her little lion with her when she naps.  None of the other stuffed animals would do.  And pureed carrots were not her favorite at lunchtime.  The applesauce was quite a hit, just like you said."

Miss Tarth nuzzled her nose to the baby's curly head and breathed in deeply.  The little girl seemed tranquil in her mother's arms.

Had he ever felt that way, so protected that he could just let all his troubles go?  It must be nice to have that and be that for someone else.

"Where are my manners?" Miss Tarth exclaimed.  "Please come in, Mr. Lannister, and meet my landlady, lifesaver, and friend, Mrs. Hodor.  She's graciously volunteered to watch Joanna while I'm at work."

"Well, aren't you a handsome fellow?" the landlady eyed Jaime in a way he was used to getting from women, just not ones of Mrs. Hodor's maturity.  "And so kind to see our Brienne home."

"Mr. Lannister is meeting his lady friend nearby," Miss Tarth and Mrs. Hodor shared one of those unfathomable female looks that conveyed a conversation worth's of information in a glance.

"Perhaps Mr. Lannister would stay for just a minute more, so we can go downstairs to get the laundry from this morning?" the landlady looked up at Jaime through her sparse eyelashes.

If he didn't know better, he'd swear the old lady was flirting with him.

"I'm sure Mr. Lannister doesn't have time.  He only wanted to assure himself that Joanna was well cared for.  I'll bring the laundry up after I see him out."

His secretary, though, was practically giving him the bum's rush. 

Jaime smiled at both women.  "I'm not in any great hurry, Miss Tarth.  I can stay a bit longer."

The giant blonde huffed out a bit of air and then approached him with the baby in her arms.  "Take Joanna then, ser.  We'll only be a couple of minutes."

"Take the baby?" Jaime backed up a step and put his hands behind his back.

"Yes, I can't carry her and a laundry basket, now, can I?" His secretary's lips pursed as her large blue eyes danced a bit.  "You held her the other night."

"I held her basket the other night."

"There's nothing hard about it, young man," Mrs. Hodor assured him as she took his arms and positioned them in a certain way.  "You support her head here and her bottom here.  If she starts to cry, give a little bounce and walk her around the room."

"Cry?  Why would she cry … I don’t …," Jaime said as a warm, wriggling weight was settled in his arms.

"We'll be right back, ser."

Another pair of big, blue eyes stared at Jaime.  The little girl didn't seem sure what to make of him.  Her brows wrinkled for a moment, and she reached up a little hand and made an awkward grab for his tie.  Jaime juggled her about, repositioning her so that her head rested on his shoulder.  He leaned his head against hers and whispered, "Looks like it's you and me, kiddo.”

Notes:

I'm afraid posting will be slowing down. I've finished all my prepared chapters. I still hope to post at least a couple times a week until the story is done.