Chapter Text
Brienne knew that when Renly asked her to come in before lunch service, sit at the bar, maybe have a drink, he was usually about to ruin her day. Typically, it was something unavoidable—some important politician was coming in with ten other people for their birthday, or there was a recall on the eight crates of broccoli they had ordered due to E. coli. And sure, the next food service would be like juggling knives, but Brienne was a head chef in an up and coming restaurant in Storm's End. If nothing else, she knew her way around a knife.
But that was for normal things, little bites of chaos that could be laughed away over a few beers once it was over. Not for Renly telling her that was bringing in Jaime Lannister to jouge up her kitchen.
"Jouge," Brienne repeated, the word like a lava rock on her tongue, tearing at the roof of her mouth. "You jouge places that are boring or in need of help."
"This isn't a condemnation on you," Renly said quickly. "I love the kitchen, it's a great team you've put together, and the food is amazing. We get rave reviews and the dining room is packed every week, I'm not blowing smoke."
"But it needs jouge."
"It doesn't need anything," Renly amended. He was probably regretting not letting Brienne finish her wine before bringing it up. "This is just a fun extra thing to put us over the top—confetti. Sprinkles."
"Jaime Lannister is practically a celebrity chef," she said, contempt bleeding through her voice as she thought of the ad blocks and magazine covers smeared with his face. They loved to have him hold things like halved avocadoes or bundles of arugula to accent the bright green of his eyes.
"Celebrity chefs can cook, that's kind of how they became famous in the first place. And he's not that bad, he got a book deal and a miniseries, so what? It's hardly like he did it for the money," Renly said, waving a hand like he literally had to bat the Lannister fortune from the conversation.
"I don't want him dragging camera crews around my kitchen," Brienne said, face growing hot. "I don't want the Stag to be some freakshow pity project for the golden son of Westeros."
"There won't be cameras," Renly said. "He'll just be here for two weeks, he'll share whatever he's learned, he's had some very exciting work in Pentos—"
"So, it's official. You already arranged it with him."
Brienne did not point out what an insult it was to bring in a new chef without consulting her. She didn't express her hurt or remind him that they had worked together for the last four years and known each other for almost six prior to that. She didn't even remind him that, yes, while Jaime the very impressive chef was Renly's brother-in-law, Brienne was the one that had actually worked with him for any period of time and it had ended about as well as a grease fire, so she would really appreciate it if he got his head out of his ass and listened to her. Cooking might have been all about passion, but it wasn't helpful to become emotional about the business of food. Inevitably, someone would make a choice that would gut close friends and once-trusted allies at the dinner table, and they would all move on because it was just business, after all.
Still, she was surprised Renly would take such a risk for such potentially short-lived rewards. Restaurants didn't become renowned because some pretentious chef swanned in for a couple of weeks; that was due to hard work, elbow grease, and a fantastic fucking crew working the kitchen. Jaime might certainly be able to bring attention to the Stag, share some tips, put that well-desired confetti all over the place. He might also chew through the staff like a cougar in a chicken coop because he was a Lannister, and they thought blood sport was the best solution for boredom.
"Brienne, look." Renly sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I'm gonna be honest. It's looking like Robert might divorce Cersei any day, now, and I would like to make the most of the Lannister connection while I can. And if that means I can create a little friendly press by being the first place this side of the Narrow Sea that Jaime has cooked in the last, what, five years, all by encouraging Cersei to bully her brother into being my sous chef for two weeks..." He waved his hands in a circular motion, like this was some beautiful bit of mechanical engineering, and not him personally fucking over her life.
"You're making him a sous chef."
"Just a chef. A cook," Renly quickly amended. "Look, I've had to say a lot of things to a lot of people to get this to work. Cersei wouldn't drag her brother over here if she didn't think it would make her look good. You know how that family is."
Brienne worked very hard not to grind her teeth. He was a good restaurateur and he had taken a gamble on Brienne when everyone else viewed her as poison. She knew he only took bets he thought he could win, and probably had assumed that since Brienne and Jaime had worked together, he could step in as her second in command. It was that sort of bright idealism that made her like him. It also made her want to dunk her head in a vat of boiling water.
"So, what, Jaime plays at being a line cook, except for when you want to trot him out in front of journalists?"
"Something like that," Renly said.
"It's a recipe for disaster," she said, voice flat. "There's nothing he can do for journalists here that he can't for journalists wherever the hell he is. Less, probably, if he doesn't have control over the final edit of whatever he's doing."
"Jaime isn't a bad cook."
"No. But he's not all he's hyped up to be, which is what you're relying on."
It was a mean and misleading thing to say. Jaime was, on all accounts, a talented and dedicated chef that genuinely cared about food. He also was an arrogant shithead that valued himself and his goals over every other damned thing on the continent. Which was true of many famous chefs, but they tended not to have been raised to step on other people's throats. If she had to bend the truth and her feelings a little to keep someone like him from re-entering her life, so be it.
Renly tilted his head, considering her. "If you're so worried about it, we can solve this the old-fashioned way."
"What, you want us to punch it out until only one is standing?"
"Tempting, but no. Why not test the two of you?"
"Test."
"Yep. We'll keep it real simple. The two of you get the same time, same ingredients, and we'll see who cooks the best meal. If he wins, cool, we get him doing us a favor. If he loses, cool, we don't have to deal with a blowhard in the kitchen. Fair?"
Brienne's mouth remained pursed.
"Listen," Renly said, clearly sensing that he needed some sort of capitulation before he condemned himself to weeks of icy silence. "If he's a dick to you, and I mean at all, I'll pull the plug. You tell me the moment he acts up and it's over, I was wrong, you get to harass me about it for years. Remember that one time I was dumb enough to think I could have Jaime Lannister in my kitchen unscathed."
Brienne let out a long breath. Clearly, Renly was going to have Jaime in the restaurant one way or another, and this way she at least had a chance of sending Jaime packing on the first day. But, that also meant going head to head with him in front of the whole restaurant. She had improved by leagues over the last four years, yes, but she doubted Jaime had been sitting on his hands the whole time. She could skip the competition and just lie on the first day, get Jaime kicked nice and early, but the thought alone made her stomach twist. No, she wasn't going to lie about Jaime, and Renly knew it. Really, her choices were either take this lying down or try to fight it the only way she could.
Renly's cunning, she supposed, giving a stiff nod, was what made him such a good restauranteur.
Jaime turned up at the Stag on time. He wore a plain white button down and black slacks that were obnoxious for how subdued they were. It made him look less douchey than usual, and Brienne hated it instantly.
She let Renly handle the pleasantries, only shaking Jaime's hand because good manners and the dining room of her staff watching them demanded it. His grip was firm and impersonal, but his gaze was like being manhandled by a presumptuous tourist, searching out all her details and secrets. Gods, she wasn't looking forward to being visually frisked every time he was in the room.
They had thirty minutes to make their dish. Renly, showman that he was, made it feel like a sports competition or an event at a carnival. He managed to hide Brienne's icy contempt by hyping up both their accomplishments, catering to the crowd by making Jaime sound like an outsider trying to prove his worth.
Brienne didn't look at Jaime as Renly spoke. She stared at her ingredients and thought about how exactly she would kick Jaime out the door.
They both made halibut, to keep the playing field even. They were beautiful cuts, caught fresh that morning. She added a splash of live oil to her skillet, set it to heat, put on water to boil, then added salt to the halibut, a touch of pepper—don't look at Jaime don't worry about him focus on your food—put the halibut in the skillet, the oil crackling happily as the fish began to cook. She crushed garlic, chopped potatoes, checked the sear on her fish—don't worry about him he's not thinking about you you're cooking for you not him—add butter, garlic, thyme, capers, slice lemons, the brightness of citrus cutting through the heady scent of browning butter—don't look at him don't look at Jaime don't think about his dish you'll beat him fish was always his weak point—set potatoes to boil, add salt, pull halibut off to rest—stop caring about him stop caring about him Others take you you said you had stopped caring about him—plate potatoes, plate the fish, pour sauce—you think he'll apologize because your fish is good fuck is your fish even good what did he make could you have done anything better could you have changed things if you had been better—
"Time!" Renly called. "You two, come around here. Let's get a look at this, shall we?"
Brienne stood with her hands behind her back, striving to stay calm, breath even, unaffected. Jaime explained his dish—herb-crusted halibut with sautéed mushrooms that looked like it had been clipped from a food magazine—and she explained hers, hand aching from clenching it into a fist. Then they all had forks in hand and she sank hers into Jaime's fish, the flakiness perfect, the steam rolling off it in appealing waves, the smell warm and savory, thyme and butter and something she couldn't name.
It was, of course, delicious, with a depth of flavor and subtlety that made her want to launch her skillet through a wall. Her lemon and capers were laughably simple by comparison, boring. She didn't even look at Renly as the compliments poured in and people admitted that, well, fancy boy could cook. He had proven his merit, and Brienne could not in good conscience throw him out with the bins. Which had been the point of this whole stupid competition. Brienne wasn't sure if she was more angry that she had happily made a noose out of the rope Renly gave her, or if she was embarrassed that he knew she couldn't beat Jaime in the first place. If she could, then she would be the one with the books and TV show and the travels to the culinary epicenters of the world.
Never mind Jaime Lannister had been born with the world quite literally on a plate. Never mind Brienne had had to punch her way to where she was, to fight to be taken seriously, to not be viewed as some charming oddity, the giant woman that had taught herself to cook. Never mind he had stabbed her in the back just when she thought she was finally getting ahead—
Someone touched her arm, Pod, maybe, there to console her, but when she turned, she was staring into the jade eyes of Jaime himself. She set her shoulders, enjoying the height she had over him. Jaime found it difficult to gloat when he couldn't actually look down his nose at someone.
"Your fish is good," he said, then gave that half smile and shrug like he didn't care about the words he said, even as they fell from his tongue. "Honest."
"At least I have that going for me," she said.
"At least there's that," he agreed, like this was all one big fucking game. Four years had passed and he had turned her heartache into a game.
Brienne shook her head and stepped back. He wore a different cologne than she remembered, and the fact that made her feel regret rattled Brienne more than anything else.
It was the first service with Jaime on the line. She put him on the meat station because there, ideally, he wouldn't have time to say much more than delivery times on steaks.
He was, of course, perfect. Brienne scrutinized his chicken breasts and filet mignons with a vicious eye, craving something to call him on, but he was, as always, a very good chef. He had to be, if he was going to create such a dog and pony show about his food.
Brienne told herself to stop thinking about the book deals he had signed, the news segments, that one time she had watched him give a phone interview, waving his hands enthusiastically even as he rolled his eyes, because he knew it was all glamorized bullshit for people that would never understand the hotbox of a professional kitchen.
She was running a dinner service, not thinking about him. She was marshalling her kitchen, keeping up quality, coordinating her team, making sure she had her damn chicken breast because her six top was dying in the window and why the fuck hadn't someone put it in her hand already?
"Lannister, where is that chicken breast?" she snapped.
"Ready in thirty," he said, eyes fixed on his work. "It'll be ready to walk with the parsnip mash."
"I have the parsnips," she said, and the petty, mean part of her couldn't help but preen. Finally, a mistake. Jaime may have known how to cook, but too many press ops had made him forget how to work in a real kitchen.
His alarmed glance up was all the sweeter, those clever, green eyes thrown off balance as he looked around the kitchen. He almost seemed to be checking who had witnessed his mistake.
She wanted him to fight back. She wanted him to argue that he would never mess up the timing like that, start throwing his weight around in true Lannister style so she had a good reason to lay into him, tear him apart and then punt him out the door, prove that she was worth more than he—
"Yes, chef. Chicken's here."
She accepted the chicken breast, mouth tightening, plated it, sent the table on its way. Jaime moved back to his station, shoulders straight. He hadn't been happy, but he had kept his mouth shut and she didn't know what to do with that. Jaime never backed down from a good fight, and by all the gods, she would have given it to him.
Service bustled on, appetizers flying out of the kitchen, entrees coming together beautifully, nothing but praise coming back to the kitchen. She was proud of her team, proud that they were putting on the best, showing this outsider how well they worked, how well Brienne had thrived. She had done well for herself, even with the odds against her, even when Jaime had looked at her with those capricious green eyes and said there wasn't much worth continuing on, like her hick background from Tarth made her unworthy company for Lannisport's best.
Her cooks called out their times as they went, a chaotic, cohesive rhythm, two minutes on salmon, thirty seconds on veg, dropping pasta now, heard, another order of—
"Filet, walking," Jaime called, approaching the pass.
"What—I said I still had two minutes left on the asparagus!"
Jaime's step hitched, mouth tightening as his eyes flew to Hyle, who was working the veg station. Then his eyes went back to Brienne, and she saw the briefest flash of doubt, understanding, annoyance, and then blank nothing. He didn't break her gaze. One thing that could be said for Jaime Lannister—he was no coward.
"Hunt, how long does it take to cook asparagus?" she asked, voice sharp. She could tell they were balanced on a knife point, and if Brienne didn't handle this quickly, Jaime would take matters into his own hands.
Gods help Hyle.
"Two minutes, chef. Lannister's not communicating—"
"Hyle, outside," she hissed, stalking across the kitchen like a cold front. She barked at Pod to step in, stabbing her finger at the back door. Hyle, for his part, looked stunned but scooted to the back door before Brienne could drag him out by the arm.
The alley was cold, the night spring air a relief after the hot kitchen. She almost didn't feel it. Rage and alarm boiled inside her, threatening to spill out as bile. Hyle looked at her, wounded and pathetic, hands out as though to prove his innocence.
"Chef, what—"
"Don't you dare 'chef' me after you lie to me in my own kitchen," she snarled, stabbing a finger at him.
"Wha—but I didn—"
"Shut up," she hissed, waving her hand to cut off his protests. She did not hurl abuse in her kitchen, did not swear and threaten and make a mess. Brienne had seen enough antics in her day, she didn't need to get results by contributing to them. "I heard you call out your time, so don't play the victim. I do not take sabotage in my kitchen, I don't care who it's directed toward. If you try to play games with me or anyone in my kitchen again, you're finished."
Brienne turned back to the door, almost shaking with anger. One service. All it took was one service for Jaime to rip up the efficiency of her kitchen.
"You don't even like him," Hyle said, and there it was—that petty cruel streak she usually overlooked because Hyle was talented and usually too gutless to make trouble. "Everyone in the kitchen can see that you hate the guy, and I don't blame you! He's arrogant, he's entitled, and he thinks he can come in here to our kitchen—"
"No, you don't get to do that, you don't get to act like you're protecting the sanctity of food," she snarled, whirling back to look at Hyle. He blinked and flinched back, only seeming to recognize the danger he was in when her shadow swallowed him. "This isn't your kitchen, and it certainly isn't your name on the line. You don't get to make decisions here, Hunt, you do as I say and when I tell you to work with one of the best chefs you're likely to ever see, you're going to turn out the best damn service of your life or you are gone. If I ever catch you trying to play games in my kitchen again, even if they're to the most pathetic lowlife possible, it will be my personal mission to make sure you don't so much as serve ice cream this side of the Neck. Do you understand me?"
Hyle blinked at her, too stunned to do much more than nod. Brienne turned back to the kitchen, jaw aching with anger.
She was fuming that she hadn't stomped this out much sooner, but she was also so angry that Jaime had seen this lapse in her staff. She couldn't exactly claim the high ground when she let in the exact same snakes that had nearly ruined her.
The rest of service finished well enough. Hyle sulked the entire night but didn't cause any more mishaps. Once they had finished cleaning up for the day, he slipped out on a wave of self-pity. Pod rolled his eyes at her in sympathy, but no one else acknowledged what had happened. Not in front of her, at least. That was for chatter around the break room or talk over drinks.
She bided her time, counting the seconds until it seemed like she wasn't slinking back to her office in shame. She busied herself with ledgers, bills, notes she had written to herself and had yet to follow up on. The kitchen slowly emptied as people went off to find food or entertainment. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Thirteen more days of this.
"Hey."
Thirteen days and they couldn't fucking come soon enough.
Brienne straightened in her chair to find Jaime lurking in her doorway. The low lamplight suited him, because of course it did. Even after a long service, Jaime Lannister still had his good looks and instinctual swagger.
He tilted his head, looking her up and down. Brienne waited, uninterested in his verdict but also refusing to break the silence. Jaime gave a half smile, shook his head.
"Thank you, is all."
"It shouldn't have happened," she said, words crisp. "I don't tolerate egos or sabotage in my kitchen."
He gave something between a shrug and a nod, as though to say he understood and was completely unsurprised. Brienne considered him, remembering the flash of annoyance in his face before she dragged Hyle outside.
"I...appreciate you not making a scene," she said, the words rigid in her mouth. "I'm guessing Hyle was out of line long before I said something."
Jaime shrugged like it didn't matter, because precious little did to him. "Young bloods get territorial and want to show off. If he wasn't trying to show me up, he would have found something else to be stupid about."
Brienne bit the inside of her cheek. He made it sound so obvious, like she should have known better.
She kept thinking about the alarm on his face, though, the briefest flash of dread. It wasn't that he was thrown by Hyle pulling a stunt, not this far along in his career, just...that Brienne had seen. For one heartbeat, he had doubted whether Brienne would check what happened, or just blame him.
Heat flooded her face, but this time she couldn't label the reason why.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, almost offended.
"What, go running to the head chef because one of the cooks wanted a little fun?" Jaime asked, making a face like she had asked him to eat worms. "I'd never have a moment's rest."
"But it was wrong," she ground out. "I don't play favorites and I certainly don't play games. I keep everything above board, and he knows that."
"I'll be on my best behavior, then," he said, voice low, meant only for her despite the fact that they were completely alone. Brienne blinked because she hadn't meant it as a threat, how did he always turn her words on their head, blinked again, wondered how he could make something sound so intimate just by lowering his voice—no, wait, that was not what she was thinking at all—
Jaime pushed away from the door frame, rapping his knuckle on the jamb in a gesture that made her heart ache with familiarity.
"I'd hate it if my ego made me miss this opportunity."
He was gone by the time Brienne remembered how to speak.
What the hell did that mean? Opportunity, what opportunity? Was this some kind of sick joke? What could happen in her kitchen that he hadn't already seen the world over?
She thought about it as she packed up her things. She told herself not to think about it as she drove home. She completely failed not to think about it as she took a shower, brushed her teeth, climbed into bed. And then, when she lay there in the dark, she thought about how big her bed was, how empty, and how all that space had once been taken up by Jaime.
He used to touch her after a long day. There had been no urgency, no expectation for more, it was just Jaime reacquainting himself with her body like he had forgotten her details in the hours they had been apart.
"Don't let me go," he had whispered once. "I might not find my way back home."
Thirteen more days of this. She was so fucked.